Digging through my computer I found some reviews that I must not have ever posted. They're all reviews of old albums (like from beginning of this year) and there's also one from a show––The Blow––that I went to in February.
Enjoy.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Hold Steady, Boys And Girls In America, Vagrant, 2006
Us kids, we love our music. Though, very often that music has nothing to do with us kids. That doesn’t mean that it’s bad music, completely foreign or inaccessible, it’s just not all about the kids. Craig Finn, the Hold Steady’s lovably goofy frontman, borrows inspiration from his younger years, giving us some of the most relatable, observant and well-written rock n’ roll music of the decade.
Teenage angst, love, drugs and general partying are not new subjects in the wide genre of music known as rock, what is new is the Hold Steady’s approach to teenage angst, love, drugs and general partying; he enlists honesty and authenticity in a way that has us exclaiming “that is so true!” at least once per song, often four or five times. In Boys And Girls In America, the Hold’s third album, the songs get less specific but no less observant.
On the first two albums, Finn used the names of specific people and places quite often––especially on the second album, Separation Sunday, with closely follows three characters––making the songs slightly more alienating, yet his startling observations still rang true. The songs’ getting less specific make them even more relevant, which, in turn, makes it easier for the listener to situate himself squarely inside of the narratives. The “that is so true!” factor also increases.
In Boys And Girls’ epic opener, “Stuck Between Stations,” Finn heaves a line right out of Kerouac’s On The Road with his cry of how, on some nights, he thinks Sal Paradise was right when he said “boys and girls in America have such a sad time together.” He then dives even deeper into his uncanny knowledge of youth and lists, bullet point style, how boys and girls in America do, indeed, have such a sad time together: “Making sure their makeup’s straight/Crushing one another with colossal expectations/Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.” How does he know all of this?
Each track on Boys And Girls features a story line revolving around a party, a girl, dating, or, in the case of “Chillout Tent” a pair of teens who go to a music festival, do too many drugs and find themselves hooking up in the paramedic tent. The song is sung with such straightforwardness and attention to detail that it’s as if Finn is sitting in the bar telling his buddies about something that happened last weekend, metaphors be damned.
Finn’s lyrics are beautiful in their directness and accessibility and the same can be said for how he sings them. His blunt half-singing/half-talking delivery works for what he is saying; anything closer to proper singing would ruin the effect. When the words are nearly spoken over music it becomes really, really easy to sing along, and with goose bump-inducingly poignant lines like “we kissed in your car and we drank from your purse” you will be singing along.
In fact, goose bump-inducing poignancy is one of the Hold Steady’s most powerful weapons, and one that Finn wields with outstanding authority and precision. Also the music, which by no means suffers by the commanding presence of the lyrics, is not a something to trifle with. The four other members of the band keep it all together with their timeless I-think-I’ve-heard-this-before guitar riffs and powerful drums. While Finn isn’t singing, his band is jamming behind him, launching solos and continuing their classic melodies.
Great music is that way because of its accessibility and subject matter that relates, somehow, to your own life. The Hold Steady must have written the book on this matter, or at least found a really good copy; any good band could write the lyric “I love this girl,” but only Craig Finn would think to add “but I can’t tell when she’s having a good time.” The second half of the line instantly catapults the entire song from a run-of-the-mill piece of rock music to a hyperaware explanation of how anyone who’s ever liked someone feels.
The Hold Steady appeal very much to both adults and kids because their subject matter is totally rooted in youth. While adults want desperately to remember the great times they had in their younger days, much like Finn must, us kids want to know that those experiences are just and that everyone has them, and we want to have those events occur in our own lives so that we could, someday, write descriptive, reminiscent songs about them ourselves.
-February 10th, 2007
Teenage angst, love, drugs and general partying are not new subjects in the wide genre of music known as rock, what is new is the Hold Steady’s approach to teenage angst, love, drugs and general partying; he enlists honesty and authenticity in a way that has us exclaiming “that is so true!” at least once per song, often four or five times. In Boys And Girls In America, the Hold’s third album, the songs get less specific but no less observant.
On the first two albums, Finn used the names of specific people and places quite often––especially on the second album, Separation Sunday, with closely follows three characters––making the songs slightly more alienating, yet his startling observations still rang true. The songs’ getting less specific make them even more relevant, which, in turn, makes it easier for the listener to situate himself squarely inside of the narratives. The “that is so true!” factor also increases.
In Boys And Girls’ epic opener, “Stuck Between Stations,” Finn heaves a line right out of Kerouac’s On The Road with his cry of how, on some nights, he thinks Sal Paradise was right when he said “boys and girls in America have such a sad time together.” He then dives even deeper into his uncanny knowledge of youth and lists, bullet point style, how boys and girls in America do, indeed, have such a sad time together: “Making sure their makeup’s straight/Crushing one another with colossal expectations/Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.” How does he know all of this?
Each track on Boys And Girls features a story line revolving around a party, a girl, dating, or, in the case of “Chillout Tent” a pair of teens who go to a music festival, do too many drugs and find themselves hooking up in the paramedic tent. The song is sung with such straightforwardness and attention to detail that it’s as if Finn is sitting in the bar telling his buddies about something that happened last weekend, metaphors be damned.
Finn’s lyrics are beautiful in their directness and accessibility and the same can be said for how he sings them. His blunt half-singing/half-talking delivery works for what he is saying; anything closer to proper singing would ruin the effect. When the words are nearly spoken over music it becomes really, really easy to sing along, and with goose bump-inducingly poignant lines like “we kissed in your car and we drank from your purse” you will be singing along.
In fact, goose bump-inducing poignancy is one of the Hold Steady’s most powerful weapons, and one that Finn wields with outstanding authority and precision. Also the music, which by no means suffers by the commanding presence of the lyrics, is not a something to trifle with. The four other members of the band keep it all together with their timeless I-think-I’ve-heard-this-before guitar riffs and powerful drums. While Finn isn’t singing, his band is jamming behind him, launching solos and continuing their classic melodies.
Great music is that way because of its accessibility and subject matter that relates, somehow, to your own life. The Hold Steady must have written the book on this matter, or at least found a really good copy; any good band could write the lyric “I love this girl,” but only Craig Finn would think to add “but I can’t tell when she’s having a good time.” The second half of the line instantly catapults the entire song from a run-of-the-mill piece of rock music to a hyperaware explanation of how anyone who’s ever liked someone feels.
The Hold Steady appeal very much to both adults and kids because their subject matter is totally rooted in youth. While adults want desperately to remember the great times they had in their younger days, much like Finn must, us kids want to know that those experiences are just and that everyone has them, and we want to have those events occur in our own lives so that we could, someday, write descriptive, reminiscent songs about them ourselves.
-February 10th, 2007
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Some Loud Thunder, Self-released, 2007
I had just heard them live. This was a year or so ago and I was going in with no idea who they were and coming out with self-induced "Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's" scrawled all over my arm and hand, as if the words were the numbers of the most beautiful girls I had ever met; I definitely did not want to forget them. Turns out I wasn’t alone in my excitement. At all. Everyone––specifically indie rock tastemakers typing away on influential blogs like Pitchfork.com––was going head-over-tattered Converse for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah’s catchy, powerful indie pop.
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah was self-titled, self-produced, self-released, yet entirely un-self-hyped and came complete with twelve solid tracks featuring warm melodies, fuzzy guitars and captivatingly odd lyrics sung in a is-that-really-how-he-sings voice by Alec Ounsworth, the band’s frontman. The striking yellow album also came with an equally solid 9.0 of 10 rating from the aforementioned blog. This helped the out-of-nowhere group sell over 90,000 copies of their debut and still remain unsigned.
With these facts in mind, it is no wonder that Clap’s second album had quite a bit more pre-release hype surrounding it than their first. Still, the band remained unsigned, although they opted to splurge on one important detail. They recruited Dave Fridmann, best known for his work with the Flaming Lips, to produce Some Loud Thunder.
Some Loud Thunder differs greatly from the CYHSY’s first record, which was sunny and full of thick, creamy melodies. Thunder still has thick and creamy down, mostly, but much of the sun is no longer visible. Considering the album is named after stormy weather, the lack of warmth does make sense. In fact, the ideal environment for listening to this album would be next to a rain-streaked window, under a wool blanket with a headful of languorous decisions to make.
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah was chock full of dense, driving and sometimes synthesized instrumentation that sounded incredible in headphones. The melodies were so worn in and well crafted that you could not help but turn up the volume and listen to every single tiny guitar riff and drum thump. Over and over and over.
Thunder’s music is just as sophisticated and there is a lot to listen to. Much more than initially meets the ears. The album announces itself, somewhat disappointingly, with its title track. “Some Loud Thunder” is steeped in so much distortion that is makes it sound less like music and more like someone scraped you’re new CD over your gravel walkway while you weren’t looking. Near the end of the song, though, it becomes evident that you’re disc is fine and it starts sounding better, although a little less distortion wouldn’t hurt anyone. Piano is prominent on a couple of songs, too, and distorted, electronic beeps and blips are used to build up and maintain the beat of the frantic guitar and kick drum-driven “Satan Said Dance.”
The songs are much less succinct than those of the first album, opting instead for a more atmospheric and swirling quality, due largely to Fridmann’s being on the payroll. Though, like the first album, almost every song has a lovable, if not off-kilter, melody that keeps you bobbing your head in time. Some songs disguise it better than others. In “Emily Jean Stock” the beauty becomes evident about 50 seconds in, with a sweep of guitar and short, coughing drums. Then, near the end of the song, you discover one of Clap’s great anti-choruses (continual yelps of “it is a radio tells me so”) and more of those quick, addicting drums. In “Underwater (You and Me)” the tambourine and bass-heavy tune moves up and down, in no hurry to be anywhere, like waves splashing calmly over a beach.
Lyrics also play a remarkable role in CYHSY songs. Since Ounsworth’s voice is an instrument in and of itself, you find yourself listening only to the sounds he’s making rather than the words he’s singing. Still, after repeated listens you want to know what he is actually saying, which is not nothing. The songwriting takes advantage of the odd vocals and deals with vague love stories, political observations, and more awkward love. Ounsworth will latch on to a certain line and repeat it with such emotion that it becomes the most important thing he has ever had to say in his life. The line is either so profound, so casual, or both at the same time, that it really is the most important thing ever. And don’t worry; you will find yourself singing––or wailing––along.
The songs on Some Loud Thunder do take a bit longer to wrap yourself around than those of the first album, and not every single song is one of the best songs you’ve ever heard, as is the case with the debut. However, once you’re wrapped up in and familiar with Thunder, you find that it is the perfect follow-up album to the perfect album. After all, you wouldn’t want it to be better than that brightly packaged album you first discovered while browsing concert calendars online, eavesdropping on the record store’s brutally hip clientele or rocking out in the busy bright sunset last summer with some of your best friends, would you?
-February 3th, 2007
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah was self-titled, self-produced, self-released, yet entirely un-self-hyped and came complete with twelve solid tracks featuring warm melodies, fuzzy guitars and captivatingly odd lyrics sung in a is-that-really-how-he-sings voice by Alec Ounsworth, the band’s frontman. The striking yellow album also came with an equally solid 9.0 of 10 rating from the aforementioned blog. This helped the out-of-nowhere group sell over 90,000 copies of their debut and still remain unsigned.
With these facts in mind, it is no wonder that Clap’s second album had quite a bit more pre-release hype surrounding it than their first. Still, the band remained unsigned, although they opted to splurge on one important detail. They recruited Dave Fridmann, best known for his work with the Flaming Lips, to produce Some Loud Thunder.
Some Loud Thunder differs greatly from the CYHSY’s first record, which was sunny and full of thick, creamy melodies. Thunder still has thick and creamy down, mostly, but much of the sun is no longer visible. Considering the album is named after stormy weather, the lack of warmth does make sense. In fact, the ideal environment for listening to this album would be next to a rain-streaked window, under a wool blanket with a headful of languorous decisions to make.
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah was chock full of dense, driving and sometimes synthesized instrumentation that sounded incredible in headphones. The melodies were so worn in and well crafted that you could not help but turn up the volume and listen to every single tiny guitar riff and drum thump. Over and over and over.
Thunder’s music is just as sophisticated and there is a lot to listen to. Much more than initially meets the ears. The album announces itself, somewhat disappointingly, with its title track. “Some Loud Thunder” is steeped in so much distortion that is makes it sound less like music and more like someone scraped you’re new CD over your gravel walkway while you weren’t looking. Near the end of the song, though, it becomes evident that you’re disc is fine and it starts sounding better, although a little less distortion wouldn’t hurt anyone. Piano is prominent on a couple of songs, too, and distorted, electronic beeps and blips are used to build up and maintain the beat of the frantic guitar and kick drum-driven “Satan Said Dance.”
The songs are much less succinct than those of the first album, opting instead for a more atmospheric and swirling quality, due largely to Fridmann’s being on the payroll. Though, like the first album, almost every song has a lovable, if not off-kilter, melody that keeps you bobbing your head in time. Some songs disguise it better than others. In “Emily Jean Stock” the beauty becomes evident about 50 seconds in, with a sweep of guitar and short, coughing drums. Then, near the end of the song, you discover one of Clap’s great anti-choruses (continual yelps of “it is a radio tells me so”) and more of those quick, addicting drums. In “Underwater (You and Me)” the tambourine and bass-heavy tune moves up and down, in no hurry to be anywhere, like waves splashing calmly over a beach.
Lyrics also play a remarkable role in CYHSY songs. Since Ounsworth’s voice is an instrument in and of itself, you find yourself listening only to the sounds he’s making rather than the words he’s singing. Still, after repeated listens you want to know what he is actually saying, which is not nothing. The songwriting takes advantage of the odd vocals and deals with vague love stories, political observations, and more awkward love. Ounsworth will latch on to a certain line and repeat it with such emotion that it becomes the most important thing he has ever had to say in his life. The line is either so profound, so casual, or both at the same time, that it really is the most important thing ever. And don’t worry; you will find yourself singing––or wailing––along.
The songs on Some Loud Thunder do take a bit longer to wrap yourself around than those of the first album, and not every single song is one of the best songs you’ve ever heard, as is the case with the debut. However, once you’re wrapped up in and familiar with Thunder, you find that it is the perfect follow-up album to the perfect album. After all, you wouldn’t want it to be better than that brightly packaged album you first discovered while browsing concert calendars online, eavesdropping on the record store’s brutally hip clientele or rocking out in the busy bright sunset last summer with some of your best friends, would you?
-February 3th, 2007
The Postal Service, Give Up, Sub Pop, 2003
Ben Gibbard is a superhero. He has multiple identities and his super power is the ability to write articulate, striking, metaphor-filled song after articulate, striking, metaphor-filled song without having any of them sound pretentious or wholly the same. He even has an instantly recognizable superhero costume made up of soft-hued sweaters, worn-in blazers and so-nerdy-they’re-cool black plastic glasses.
You, the average music-loving citizen of Metropolis, are familiar with Ben Gibbard because of Death Cab for Cutie and their low-key, mood-setting brand of northwest indie rock, but you may not be as in-the-know when the conversation turns to the Postal Service and their brand of indie-tronic pop music.
After hearing “Such Great Heights” or “We Will Become Silhouettes” (Give Up’s lead singles) a few times, you will find yourself trying to place the singer’s gentle voice and the way his stories of breakup and other such disaster unravel. You soon realize that the Postal Service is Ben Gibbard’s creation. It’s his Clark Kent to Death Cab’s Superman.
Formed in 2001, the Postal Service spent the subsequent year or so before Give Up was released pairing high-tech, sterile electronic beats, courtesy of the band’s second member, Jimmy Tamborello of the electronic group, Dntel, with oddly complementing and completely human lyrics and stories, courtesy of Ben Gibbard himself. Several tracks also feature additional vocals performed warmly by the Wonder Woman of indie pop, Jenny Lewis.
On opener “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight” Gibbard describes how an ex seems “so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex” over a series of quick back-and-forth electronic clanks and snaps. The song sets the mood for the entire album: largely gloomy lyrics balanced with optimistic-sounding, synthesized melodies. The album goes by far faster than you’re expecting it to, although the last third chugs along noticeably slower than beginning and middle.
Each song is the proud owner of its very own articulately heartfelt story and a catchy melody made up of electronic whirrs and claps. The standouts include “Such Great Heights,” “We Will Become Silhouettes” and “Nothing Better,” with all its medical metaphors (rhyming “future” with “sutures” just might be the definition of brilliance) and call-and-answer vocals revolving around an undying love.
Give Up has balance. At times its songs seem larger-than-life, with soaring proclamations of “everything looks perfect from far away” or “I want life in every word to the extent that it's absurd” but then, there are those pedestrian and utterly tangible lyrics, too, and often in the same song as the extraordinary. It is this integration of beauty and mundane occurrences that makes Give Up so easy to listen to. Clark Kent obviously knows as much about ordinary life as he does out-of-the-ordinary life.
-February 11th, 2007
You, the average music-loving citizen of Metropolis, are familiar with Ben Gibbard because of Death Cab for Cutie and their low-key, mood-setting brand of northwest indie rock, but you may not be as in-the-know when the conversation turns to the Postal Service and their brand of indie-tronic pop music.
After hearing “Such Great Heights” or “We Will Become Silhouettes” (Give Up’s lead singles) a few times, you will find yourself trying to place the singer’s gentle voice and the way his stories of breakup and other such disaster unravel. You soon realize that the Postal Service is Ben Gibbard’s creation. It’s his Clark Kent to Death Cab’s Superman.
Formed in 2001, the Postal Service spent the subsequent year or so before Give Up was released pairing high-tech, sterile electronic beats, courtesy of the band’s second member, Jimmy Tamborello of the electronic group, Dntel, with oddly complementing and completely human lyrics and stories, courtesy of Ben Gibbard himself. Several tracks also feature additional vocals performed warmly by the Wonder Woman of indie pop, Jenny Lewis.
On opener “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight” Gibbard describes how an ex seems “so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex” over a series of quick back-and-forth electronic clanks and snaps. The song sets the mood for the entire album: largely gloomy lyrics balanced with optimistic-sounding, synthesized melodies. The album goes by far faster than you’re expecting it to, although the last third chugs along noticeably slower than beginning and middle.
Each song is the proud owner of its very own articulately heartfelt story and a catchy melody made up of electronic whirrs and claps. The standouts include “Such Great Heights,” “We Will Become Silhouettes” and “Nothing Better,” with all its medical metaphors (rhyming “future” with “sutures” just might be the definition of brilliance) and call-and-answer vocals revolving around an undying love.
Give Up has balance. At times its songs seem larger-than-life, with soaring proclamations of “everything looks perfect from far away” or “I want life in every word to the extent that it's absurd” but then, there are those pedestrian and utterly tangible lyrics, too, and often in the same song as the extraordinary. It is this integration of beauty and mundane occurrences that makes Give Up so easy to listen to. Clark Kent obviously knows as much about ordinary life as he does out-of-the-ordinary life.
-February 11th, 2007
The Kingdom, K1, Arena Rock Records, 2006
What do lo-fi yet up-beat indie rock songs and snowmobile racing have in common? They’re both featured on the Kingdom’s full-length debut, apparently. K1 recounts, in 11 songs, the longest of which is just over 3 minutes, an epic transportation-filled cross-country race. The concept here is strong and executed far better than that of their first EP, which followed the life of NFL hall-of-famer Johnny Unitas as he navigated the solar system, complete with pretentious 20-second tracks with names like “Gamma 68 Yard Line” and all.
The whole racing thing does get a bit tedious, however. Charles Westmoreland, the band’s strangely-enunciating vocalist, sings about every form of transportation he can think of––motorcycles, hydrofoils, snowmobiles, spaceships, police cars, planes and even motorcades––and you soon find yourself growing very curious about where all of this motor sport influence is coming from. Songs with names like “Driver,” “Motorcading,” “Motorcycling,” “Polaris,” “Racer” and “Pilot,” make up about half of the album, yet the rest of seems to have nothing to do with racing, driving or piloting at all.
“Love Is My Nation,” the second track on the album, is a fast-paced, agitated pop song with synthesizers and a blasting chorus. It’s also the first time you notice how fascinating Westmoreland’s singing voice actually is. Him singing “With black and gold all over” sounds more like “I’m block! And go! I’ll owe her!” It’s as if he’s singing with his tongue shoved into his cheek while still enunciating every word as clearly as possible. It’s interesting to listen to, and adds several layers of texture to the songs.
The music is also happy as can be, and happy, in this case, tends to equal catchy. Almost military drumbeats and soaring but concise guitars never let up, save for the 3-minute piano ballad “Polaris,” with its strange chorus, consisting of the line “your leather snowmobile jacket fits like a dream.” The beginning, middle and ending songs, “Driver,” “Racer” and “Pilot,” respectively, are also quieter and recycle much of the same melody––and lyrics––building up to the terrific marching band finale and an image of a pilot who will “be walking down the concourse with my helmet stained with stars.”
K1 sounds good, and if you’re willing to overlook or embrace the oddly frequent transportation references you’ve got yourself a catchy, fun-loving and surprisingly solid listen. Additionally, there is a deeper side to this record that is up for interpretation, if you want it to be, because, seriously, there has got to be some reason for all of the motorcycles.
-February 9th, 2007
The whole racing thing does get a bit tedious, however. Charles Westmoreland, the band’s strangely-enunciating vocalist, sings about every form of transportation he can think of––motorcycles, hydrofoils, snowmobiles, spaceships, police cars, planes and even motorcades––and you soon find yourself growing very curious about where all of this motor sport influence is coming from. Songs with names like “Driver,” “Motorcading,” “Motorcycling,” “Polaris,” “Racer” and “Pilot,” make up about half of the album, yet the rest of seems to have nothing to do with racing, driving or piloting at all.
“Love Is My Nation,” the second track on the album, is a fast-paced, agitated pop song with synthesizers and a blasting chorus. It’s also the first time you notice how fascinating Westmoreland’s singing voice actually is. Him singing “With black and gold all over” sounds more like “I’m block! And go! I’ll owe her!” It’s as if he’s singing with his tongue shoved into his cheek while still enunciating every word as clearly as possible. It’s interesting to listen to, and adds several layers of texture to the songs.
The music is also happy as can be, and happy, in this case, tends to equal catchy. Almost military drumbeats and soaring but concise guitars never let up, save for the 3-minute piano ballad “Polaris,” with its strange chorus, consisting of the line “your leather snowmobile jacket fits like a dream.” The beginning, middle and ending songs, “Driver,” “Racer” and “Pilot,” respectively, are also quieter and recycle much of the same melody––and lyrics––building up to the terrific marching band finale and an image of a pilot who will “be walking down the concourse with my helmet stained with stars.”
K1 sounds good, and if you’re willing to overlook or embrace the oddly frequent transportation references you’ve got yourself a catchy, fun-loving and surprisingly solid listen. Additionally, there is a deeper side to this record that is up for interpretation, if you want it to be, because, seriously, there has got to be some reason for all of the motorcycles.
-February 9th, 2007
The Blow, Live At The Showbox, Seattle, February 9, 2007
“Just how naked are we gonna get, just exactly how naked are we gonna get?” whispers Seattle native-cum-Portlander Khaela Maricich––who calls to mind a younger, hipper, way more musically talented Ellen Degeneres––as she nervously takes the stage. There is no instrumentation yet, and she keeps a beat merely by taping the microphone with her finger. Everyone standing in the audience assumed this a cappella performance was just a mic check, but as the song continues, with no abrupt mic checking end in sight, it becomes evident this is the Blow, and the audience is now fully captivated.
Of course, for the rest of the set there is music. Those addictive, plucky, body-rocking beats created by Jona Bechtolt, the Blow’s second member, are played underneath Khaela’s beautifully clean and startlingly sincere singing. The music is not live, though. Jona is nowhere to be found on stage; Kheala is up there all by herself with just a microphone and her awkward yet forceful white-girl-can-dance dance moves performed in time with the music. Plus, the solo performance makes the already heartfelt songs seem even more personal.
“You know those songs, where it’s just like ‘ugh, I want you!’?” she asks a few songs into her set, “well, those are the most interesting.” She then proceeds to tell the audience, who, as a whole, is still not at all sure what to expect from their evening, how she felt there weren’t enough songs like that out there and how she decided to write some more.
This explanation truly does explain everything: if you are at all familiar with the Blow’s album, Paper Television, you are sure to have asked yourself why are all of the songs are about some girl who constantly doubts herself (with lyrics like “I would consider myself lucky to be right in on your threesome,” “I guess I’m on the long list of girls who love the shit out of you,” or “you really wanna hold my hand?” it’s hard to focus on any other theme) and can never completely get that guy?
Well, the short answer is that the woman who wrote them thinks they’re more interesting and fun to sing. But, the long, more correct answer, is the woman who wrote them is very aware of how many people feel the same way about themselves and how difficult and awkward loving, or even just liking someone is.
It is evident that she is very, very adamant about this revelation, and, between songs, continues to talk in an animated and excited way, almost like a stand-up comic, about how strange love is. The beat keeps thumping as she tells us about this “guy who works at my work who yells at girls,” or good advice to use “if you’re out with someone and you’re not sure how things are gonna turn out.” That advice turned out to be the honest and precisely-sung chorus of the pounding, metaphor-y “Pardon Me”––“I’ve felt a heart before/And I’m learning what a heart is for/I believe. A heart. Is made to feel. The things that lay in front of it”.
The Showbox was packed with people confidently singing along with Kaehla and moving in-step with the music. The venue was also a good choice for an outfit like the Blow because somewhere bigger wouldn’t have allowed the dance club beats, intimate lyrics and delicate singing to be heard as clearly or thoughtfully. As she finished her last song and cheerfully left the stage, the whole club was filled with a feeling of contentment and silent vows made to love on your own terms could almost be heard over the applause.
-February 10, 2007
Of course, for the rest of the set there is music. Those addictive, plucky, body-rocking beats created by Jona Bechtolt, the Blow’s second member, are played underneath Khaela’s beautifully clean and startlingly sincere singing. The music is not live, though. Jona is nowhere to be found on stage; Kheala is up there all by herself with just a microphone and her awkward yet forceful white-girl-can-dance dance moves performed in time with the music. Plus, the solo performance makes the already heartfelt songs seem even more personal.
“You know those songs, where it’s just like ‘ugh, I want you!’?” she asks a few songs into her set, “well, those are the most interesting.” She then proceeds to tell the audience, who, as a whole, is still not at all sure what to expect from their evening, how she felt there weren’t enough songs like that out there and how she decided to write some more.
This explanation truly does explain everything: if you are at all familiar with the Blow’s album, Paper Television, you are sure to have asked yourself why are all of the songs are about some girl who constantly doubts herself (with lyrics like “I would consider myself lucky to be right in on your threesome,” “I guess I’m on the long list of girls who love the shit out of you,” or “you really wanna hold my hand?” it’s hard to focus on any other theme) and can never completely get that guy?
Well, the short answer is that the woman who wrote them thinks they’re more interesting and fun to sing. But, the long, more correct answer, is the woman who wrote them is very aware of how many people feel the same way about themselves and how difficult and awkward loving, or even just liking someone is.
It is evident that she is very, very adamant about this revelation, and, between songs, continues to talk in an animated and excited way, almost like a stand-up comic, about how strange love is. The beat keeps thumping as she tells us about this “guy who works at my work who yells at girls,” or good advice to use “if you’re out with someone and you’re not sure how things are gonna turn out.” That advice turned out to be the honest and precisely-sung chorus of the pounding, metaphor-y “Pardon Me”––“I’ve felt a heart before/And I’m learning what a heart is for/I believe. A heart. Is made to feel. The things that lay in front of it”.
The Showbox was packed with people confidently singing along with Kaehla and moving in-step with the music. The venue was also a good choice for an outfit like the Blow because somewhere bigger wouldn’t have allowed the dance club beats, intimate lyrics and delicate singing to be heard as clearly or thoughtfully. As she finished her last song and cheerfully left the stage, the whole club was filled with a feeling of contentment and silent vows made to love on your own terms could almost be heard over the applause.
-February 10, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
The Summer of 2007
Here we are at the Official End of Summer. School is back in session for just about everybody. This summer went fast. Much faster than any other summer I can remember. Summers seem to speed up as you grow up; how you spend your time during your summer also changes. The things you do, the people you see, the trips you do or do not go on, the music you listen to, the places you listen to it, the food you eat and the clothes you wear are all very different this summer than they were just one year ago. So now I'm going to look back on and review this above-decent, mostly fun-filled and occasionally crappy summer, the summer that was, of course, The Summer of 2007.
Let's start with that all-important element of any summer, music.
Best Musical Discovery:
Dandelion Gum by Black Moth Super Rainbow. The perfect summer album. It's full of sugary synthesizers, disembodied vocals and very summer-y song titles like "The Afternoon Turns Pink" and "Lost, Picking Flowers In The Woods."
Top Chill-Out Songs:
"Rollerdisco" by Black Moth Super Rainbow
"Ego Tripping (Ego In Acceleration Jason Bentley Remix)" by The Flaming Lips
"That's The Way" by Led Zeppelin
"Ramblin' Man" by Lemon Jelly
"Hallogallo" by Neu!
"The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth" by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
"Like A Rolling Stone" by Bob Dylan
"Strawberry Fields Forever" by The Beatles
"Stevie Nix" by The Hold Steady
"Comfy In Nautica" by Panda Bear
"5 Years" by Björk
"We're Always Waiting" by Yacht
"Second Hand News" by Fleetwood Mac
"Small Stakes" by Spoon
"Justin" by Against Me!
"Memory of a Free Festival" by David Bowie
Most Partied-To Songs:
"Buy U A Drank (Shawty Snappin')" by T-Pain
"Umbrella" by Rihanna
"Waters of Nazareth" by Justice
"Stronger" by Kanye West
"I Want To Love You" by Akon
"The Way I Are" by Timbaland
"Massive Nights" by The Hold Steady
"Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses
"Easy Love" by MSTRKRFT
"International Rock Stars" by The Punk Group
A tie between "Summer Love" and "LoveStoned/I Think That She Knows (Interlude)" by Justin Timberlake
"Eagle Eyez" by Mr. Flash
Worst Thing Ever/Second Best Musical Discovery:
Night Ripper by Girl Talk. For just over two weeks at the beginning of the summer this album was the best thing anyone had never heard. Then everyone heard it. Then it was all that got played. Now it's awful.
Best Song Titles (these don't nessacarily have to do with summer, but they're good names for songs):
"Let's See If Any Ghosts Are In Here, Yeah?" by Fuck Buttons
"Sleater Kinney Sucks" by The Punk Group
"Spinning Cotton Candy In A Shack Made Of Shingles" by Black Moth Super Rainbow
"Moonage Daydream" by David Bowie
"Jealous Guy" by Art Brut
Best/Cheapest Musical Find:
Rock Off And Fuck On by The Punk Group. With songs called "My Space" (about how it's easy to find someone to have sex with on MySpace), "I'm Not Wearing A Tie" (about, um, not wearing a tie) and "F-U-C-K-Y-O-U" (about the possibility of you fucking off) all sung as straightforward-ly as possible and set to so-crappy-they-rock synth refrains and guitar riffs, this album was well worth the 99 cents I paid for it at Easy Street.
Best New Release:
† by Justice
Most Looked-Forward Release of the Fall:
Graduation by Kanye West (out 9/11 on Roc-A-Fella)
I think that pretty much sums up the music portion of the summer, now let's look back on TV, books, movies and all of that pop culture.
Best/Funniest/Most-Quotable Summer Movie:
Superbad.
Essential Summer Phrase:
"I am McLovin."
Runners-Up:
The Bourne Ultimatum, The Simpsons Movie, Knocked Up
Most Intense Movie I Saw This Summer:
High Tension. From the very same French hipsters that brought us The Hills Have Eyes comes this violent, lesbian-ist thriller. It's creepy-good!
Awesomest YouTube Video:
"Chocolate Rain"
Best New TV Shows:
Rock of Love with Bret Michaels on VH1
The Hills on MTV
Best Shows To Just Chill and Watch:
Family Guy on fucking douche-y Adult Swim
Seinfeld on every channel ever
Entourage on DVD
I Love The [insert decade]'s on VH1
Best Week Ever on Friday night on VH1
Best Late-Night Music Video Source:
Nocturnal State on VH1
Best Late-Night Bad Rap Music Video Source:
MTV2. They premiered Yung Berg's "Sexy Lady"!
Best Overall Summer Channel:
VH1. No question about it.
Worst New Summer Show:
Newport Harbour: The Real Orange County. "The people, the locations, the drama...Are all centered around Chrissy's strict parents!?" No thanks.
Biggest Item of the Summer:
Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows by some crazy English woman
Best Read:
Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman
Classiest Read:
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I want to live in the 1920s and be an alcoholic.
Number of Books Read By Me:
8
That covers all of the things we read, listened to, bought and watched this summer. Next comes the stuff we created ourselves. And the stuff that we said. And the stuff that happened to us.
The New Thing to Call Bobby Morris Field:
"Cal Anderson"
Most Facebook Albums About One Weekend Made By One Person:
3
The Top Three Types of Parties That Did Not Happen Enough:
1. House
2. Beach
3. Dinner
Best Rediscovered Food:
Domino's Pizza
Days Spent Working:
Too many
Hold Steady Songs That We Recreated In Real Life:
"Stevie Nix"
"Party Pit"
Best Words/Phrases/Quotes:
"Bro"
"Chill"
"I dun even know, I'm just tryna get zooted"
"Zooted"
"Are we seriously listening to Girl Talk?"
Anything Bret Micheals says on Rock of Love
Number Of Things I Did On My Summer List:
9
Number Of Things I Didn't Do On My Summer List:
12
Well, there you are, The Summer of 2007 pretty much summed up. Kind of. So much more happened that I can't really remember but it was certainly not a bad summer. It was not quite what I was expecting and it was definitely a little strange but it sure had its moments.
Let's start with that all-important element of any summer, music.
Best Musical Discovery:
Dandelion Gum by Black Moth Super Rainbow. The perfect summer album. It's full of sugary synthesizers, disembodied vocals and very summer-y song titles like "The Afternoon Turns Pink" and "Lost, Picking Flowers In The Woods."
Top Chill-Out Songs:
"Rollerdisco" by Black Moth Super Rainbow
"Ego Tripping (Ego In Acceleration Jason Bentley Remix)" by The Flaming Lips
"That's The Way" by Led Zeppelin
"Ramblin' Man" by Lemon Jelly
"Hallogallo" by Neu!
"The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth" by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
"Like A Rolling Stone" by Bob Dylan
"Strawberry Fields Forever" by The Beatles
"Stevie Nix" by The Hold Steady
"Comfy In Nautica" by Panda Bear
"5 Years" by Björk
"We're Always Waiting" by Yacht
"Second Hand News" by Fleetwood Mac
"Small Stakes" by Spoon
"Justin" by Against Me!
"Memory of a Free Festival" by David Bowie
Most Partied-To Songs:
"Buy U A Drank (Shawty Snappin')" by T-Pain
"Umbrella" by Rihanna
"Waters of Nazareth" by Justice
"Stronger" by Kanye West
"I Want To Love You" by Akon
"The Way I Are" by Timbaland
"Massive Nights" by The Hold Steady
"Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses
"Easy Love" by MSTRKRFT
"International Rock Stars" by The Punk Group
A tie between "Summer Love" and "LoveStoned/I Think That She Knows (Interlude)" by Justin Timberlake
"Eagle Eyez" by Mr. Flash
Worst Thing Ever/Second Best Musical Discovery:
Night Ripper by Girl Talk. For just over two weeks at the beginning of the summer this album was the best thing anyone had never heard. Then everyone heard it. Then it was all that got played. Now it's awful.
Best Song Titles (these don't nessacarily have to do with summer, but they're good names for songs):
"Let's See If Any Ghosts Are In Here, Yeah?" by Fuck Buttons
"Sleater Kinney Sucks" by The Punk Group
"Spinning Cotton Candy In A Shack Made Of Shingles" by Black Moth Super Rainbow
"Moonage Daydream" by David Bowie
"Jealous Guy" by Art Brut
Best/Cheapest Musical Find:
Rock Off And Fuck On by The Punk Group. With songs called "My Space" (about how it's easy to find someone to have sex with on MySpace), "I'm Not Wearing A Tie" (about, um, not wearing a tie) and "F-U-C-K-Y-O-U" (about the possibility of you fucking off) all sung as straightforward-ly as possible and set to so-crappy-they-rock synth refrains and guitar riffs, this album was well worth the 99 cents I paid for it at Easy Street.
Best New Release:
† by Justice
Most Looked-Forward Release of the Fall:
Graduation by Kanye West (out 9/11 on Roc-A-Fella)
I think that pretty much sums up the music portion of the summer, now let's look back on TV, books, movies and all of that pop culture.
Best/Funniest/Most-Quotable Summer Movie:
Superbad.
Essential Summer Phrase:
"I am McLovin."
Runners-Up:
The Bourne Ultimatum, The Simpsons Movie, Knocked Up
Most Intense Movie I Saw This Summer:
High Tension. From the very same French hipsters that brought us The Hills Have Eyes comes this violent, lesbian-ist thriller. It's creepy-good!
Awesomest YouTube Video:
"Chocolate Rain"
Best New TV Shows:
Rock of Love with Bret Michaels on VH1
The Hills on MTV
Best Shows To Just Chill and Watch:
Family Guy on fucking douche-y Adult Swim
Seinfeld on every channel ever
Entourage on DVD
I Love The [insert decade]'s on VH1
Best Week Ever on Friday night on VH1
Best Late-Night Music Video Source:
Nocturnal State on VH1
Best Late-Night Bad Rap Music Video Source:
MTV2. They premiered Yung Berg's "Sexy Lady"!
Best Overall Summer Channel:
VH1. No question about it.
Worst New Summer Show:
Newport Harbour: The Real Orange County. "The people, the locations, the drama...Are all centered around Chrissy's strict parents!?" No thanks.
Biggest Item of the Summer:
Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows by some crazy English woman
Best Read:
Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman
Classiest Read:
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I want to live in the 1920s and be an alcoholic.
Number of Books Read By Me:
8
That covers all of the things we read, listened to, bought and watched this summer. Next comes the stuff we created ourselves. And the stuff that we said. And the stuff that happened to us.
The New Thing to Call Bobby Morris Field:
"Cal Anderson"
Most Facebook Albums About One Weekend Made By One Person:
3
The Top Three Types of Parties That Did Not Happen Enough:
1. House
2. Beach
3. Dinner
Best Rediscovered Food:
Domino's Pizza
Days Spent Working:
Too many
Hold Steady Songs That We Recreated In Real Life:
"Stevie Nix"
"Party Pit"
Best Words/Phrases/Quotes:
"Bro"
"Chill"
"I dun even know, I'm just tryna get zooted"
"Zooted"
"Are we seriously listening to Girl Talk?"
Anything Bret Micheals says on Rock of Love
Number Of Things I Did On My Summer List:
9
Number Of Things I Didn't Do On My Summer List:
12
Well, there you are, The Summer of 2007 pretty much summed up. Kind of. So much more happened that I can't really remember but it was certainly not a bad summer. It was not quite what I was expecting and it was definitely a little strange but it sure had its moments.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
ALL ELECTRONIC MUSIC COMES FROM A DUO?!?!!!
Daft Punk
Air
Justice
MSTRKRFT
The Knife
Datarock
Goldfrapp
Junior Boys
Chromeo
The Pinker Tones
Simian Mobile Disco
The Blow
Motor
Eurythmics
Chemical Brothers
Ratatat
The Postal Service
Yaz
Thievery Corporation
The Crystal Method
What do all of the above groups have in commom? They are all made up of a mere two people and they all produce electronic music of some sort in some capacity. Most of the duos are 100% men, some are 50/50 (Yaz, The Blow, Eurythmics, The Knife) and the woman sings in each one of the 50/50s. Does she do anything else? I don't know. Probably. Hmmm. I don't really know what this all proves, I don't really think it proves anything except that duos must be conducive to producing good electronic, ambient, house, trip hop, techno, and dance music. It must be the perfect balance of creativity and control. The ideas are coming from two people as opposed to one or five; the correct amount of restraint and input. I'm not sure, but pretty much every single one of the above duos are really good, so something must be working.
Air
Justice
MSTRKRFT
The Knife
Datarock
Goldfrapp
Junior Boys
Chromeo
The Pinker Tones
Simian Mobile Disco
The Blow
Motor
Eurythmics
Chemical Brothers
Ratatat
The Postal Service
Yaz
Thievery Corporation
The Crystal Method
What do all of the above groups have in commom? They are all made up of a mere two people and they all produce electronic music of some sort in some capacity. Most of the duos are 100% men, some are 50/50 (Yaz, The Blow, Eurythmics, The Knife) and the woman sings in each one of the 50/50s. Does she do anything else? I don't know. Probably. Hmmm. I don't really know what this all proves, I don't really think it proves anything except that duos must be conducive to producing good electronic, ambient, house, trip hop, techno, and dance music. It must be the perfect balance of creativity and control. The ideas are coming from two people as opposed to one or five; the correct amount of restraint and input. I'm not sure, but pretty much every single one of the above duos are really good, so something must be working.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The Metro Life
Recently I became an employee at my local highish-end grocery store, Metropolitan Market. The job is not difficult by any stretch of the imagination. I am a courtesy clerk (read: that guy who asks “paper or plastic?” and then puts the food in whichever bag the customer chooses and then asks if he can carry those bags out to the customer’s car and then, if they say “no, I don’t want help,” insist, insist and beg until they let you take their groceries out, because there is a “100% carry-out policy in effect…) and the pay is not at all terrible considering the ease of the job. The schedule changes from week to week, which is simply a nuisance but it’s fairly flexible and I like most of my fellow co-workers. With four exceptions.
Firstly, there is the jaded, angry courtesy clerk. He’s about sixteen, working at a classy supermarket a handful of days a week: the whole cynical, tired thing doesn’t really cut it in this case. During one of my first days on the job, he was showing me the ropes and I was thrown into the following conversation:
“Gawd, the manager’s such a dick,” he said as soon as we were far enough away for the “dick” not to hear.
“Really,” I asked just to make conversation. I was well aware that the manager was a perfectly nice guy.
“Well, if you get on his bad side. I’m on his bad side.”
“Gotcha,” I replied. I thought, That makes sense.
Then, again completely unprovoked, came: “You smoke? I dunno if you do but if you’re on your break, don’t smoke in the parking lot. I learned that the hard way.” He related this information to me in almost a whisper as we walked down the cat food aisle with a broom and an enormous dustpan. This entire conversation seemed to be engineered by my co-worker to let me know just how badass he was: He smokes, he learns things the hard way and in some unexplained way he is now sitting comfortably on the perfectly personable manager’s bad side. Cool, bro.
People, especially this type of people, seem to think learning things “the hard way” somehow earns them cred. Other people, especially smarter people, know that learning things “the hard way” is exactly what it sounds like––hard. It would be far less trouble to have simply asked someone more knowledgeable if you could smoke in the parking lot. That way you wouldn’t have to learn anything the hard way and, more importantly, people would still know that you smoke cigarettes.
Then there are the customers. These customers somehow seem to think that they run the store, which in a way I suppose they do, but in actuality they don’t know shit.
Some of the best interactions I have had so far:
A woman approaches the check stand. As the checker begins to ring her up and I begin my courtesy clerking duties, the shopper begins to talk to us:
“Can I make a suggestion?” This is not a good start. The checker and I glance at each other. “If you put two things of sanitizer wipes on either side out there I think that would help a lot.” Outside, next to where the carts are kept, there is a small plastic canister full of sanitizer wipes to clean off the carts’ handles. It is completely optional to use them and most people don’t bother. In short, they are not in high demand, at all.
“Yeah,” the checker says. “I think one is enough, but if that one is empty we would be happy to go get more.”
I finish bagging her groceries and hand them to her. “Have a great day,” I say. She walks out of the store.
An elderly woman carrying a container of fresh-made soup and a large box of saltines is in line. Now it’s her turn to pay. Before I even get a chance to ask her bag preference she holds up the box of saltines, which is quite damaged, and asks us if we have any other, less-smashed up boxes of tasteless crackers. The checker calls up the grocery manager, who quickly checks and lets us know that there are no more boxes in the store. The checker tells the woman this.
“Okay, well is it okay if I just open this box and see if they are really broken?” She asks.
“Sure, that’s fine.”
She opens the box and pulls out the tubes of crackers. Each tube is about 20% dust; the crackers are broken up sorta badly.
It occurs to me that the only other item she bought is soup. The crackers are obviously for the soup.
“You know, we have little packets of saltine over by the soup for free,” I say.
“I don’t like that flavor,” she retorts, as if it was the most obvious thing in the entire world and there was nothing unusual about holding up the checkout line to examine a box of crackers. I look closer at the box. She’s right, or more accurately, she’s oh-so-wrong; the saltine crackers she has in her hand are unsalted. What?! In fact, the more I thought about it, as I stood there looking at the line forming behind her, the more flaws I found within her entire issue.
“Could you just, like, give me these two?” The woman says, holding up two of the least-crunched tubes of saltines. The checker and I look at each other again.
“No, I can’t do that,” the checker says, somewhat taken aback.
“Well, I just don’t see why I should have to pay for them.”
I fight the urge to tell her all of the things wrong with this argument: Because you’re buying groceries; The crackers are just going to be broken up into the soup, what does it matter if they’re half-broken all ready?; Who the fuck buys unsalted saltines?; and finally the pièce de résistance that I already told her about: WE HAVE FREE SALTINES NEXT TO THE SOUP.
Of course, I don’t say any of this and instead the woman asks me how long her soup will stay hot for because she wants to go to another store to look for the crackers. The checker and I look at each other once again. “About an hour,” I say.
“I don’t know…” the woman says again, seemingly expecting us to make up her insane mind for her. “I think I’ll go home first. Then go out again,” she tells me as we make our way to her Toyota.
“Sounds like a plan,” I tell her, turning to leave.
There are a few not-crazy customers, too though. One day, for instance, Susan Hutchison of local news “fame” bought me a hamburger. That was awesome.
Basically, it is a pretty fine job. It provides me with laughs, some money and a bunch of cool people to talk to in order to balance out all the really not-cool people I don’t want to talk to.
Firstly, there is the jaded, angry courtesy clerk. He’s about sixteen, working at a classy supermarket a handful of days a week: the whole cynical, tired thing doesn’t really cut it in this case. During one of my first days on the job, he was showing me the ropes and I was thrown into the following conversation:
“Gawd, the manager’s such a dick,” he said as soon as we were far enough away for the “dick” not to hear.
“Really,” I asked just to make conversation. I was well aware that the manager was a perfectly nice guy.
“Well, if you get on his bad side. I’m on his bad side.”
“Gotcha,” I replied. I thought, That makes sense.
Then, again completely unprovoked, came: “You smoke? I dunno if you do but if you’re on your break, don’t smoke in the parking lot. I learned that the hard way.” He related this information to me in almost a whisper as we walked down the cat food aisle with a broom and an enormous dustpan. This entire conversation seemed to be engineered by my co-worker to let me know just how badass he was: He smokes, he learns things the hard way and in some unexplained way he is now sitting comfortably on the perfectly personable manager’s bad side. Cool, bro.
People, especially this type of people, seem to think learning things “the hard way” somehow earns them cred. Other people, especially smarter people, know that learning things “the hard way” is exactly what it sounds like––hard. It would be far less trouble to have simply asked someone more knowledgeable if you could smoke in the parking lot. That way you wouldn’t have to learn anything the hard way and, more importantly, people would still know that you smoke cigarettes.
Then there are the customers. These customers somehow seem to think that they run the store, which in a way I suppose they do, but in actuality they don’t know shit.
Some of the best interactions I have had so far:
A woman approaches the check stand. As the checker begins to ring her up and I begin my courtesy clerking duties, the shopper begins to talk to us:
“Can I make a suggestion?” This is not a good start. The checker and I glance at each other. “If you put two things of sanitizer wipes on either side out there I think that would help a lot.” Outside, next to where the carts are kept, there is a small plastic canister full of sanitizer wipes to clean off the carts’ handles. It is completely optional to use them and most people don’t bother. In short, they are not in high demand, at all.
“Yeah,” the checker says. “I think one is enough, but if that one is empty we would be happy to go get more.”
I finish bagging her groceries and hand them to her. “Have a great day,” I say. She walks out of the store.
An elderly woman carrying a container of fresh-made soup and a large box of saltines is in line. Now it’s her turn to pay. Before I even get a chance to ask her bag preference she holds up the box of saltines, which is quite damaged, and asks us if we have any other, less-smashed up boxes of tasteless crackers. The checker calls up the grocery manager, who quickly checks and lets us know that there are no more boxes in the store. The checker tells the woman this.
“Okay, well is it okay if I just open this box and see if they are really broken?” She asks.
“Sure, that’s fine.”
She opens the box and pulls out the tubes of crackers. Each tube is about 20% dust; the crackers are broken up sorta badly.
It occurs to me that the only other item she bought is soup. The crackers are obviously for the soup.
“You know, we have little packets of saltine over by the soup for free,” I say.
“I don’t like that flavor,” she retorts, as if it was the most obvious thing in the entire world and there was nothing unusual about holding up the checkout line to examine a box of crackers. I look closer at the box. She’s right, or more accurately, she’s oh-so-wrong; the saltine crackers she has in her hand are unsalted. What?! In fact, the more I thought about it, as I stood there looking at the line forming behind her, the more flaws I found within her entire issue.
“Could you just, like, give me these two?” The woman says, holding up two of the least-crunched tubes of saltines. The checker and I look at each other again.
“No, I can’t do that,” the checker says, somewhat taken aback.
“Well, I just don’t see why I should have to pay for them.”
I fight the urge to tell her all of the things wrong with this argument: Because you’re buying groceries; The crackers are just going to be broken up into the soup, what does it matter if they’re half-broken all ready?; Who the fuck buys unsalted saltines?; and finally the pièce de résistance that I already told her about: WE HAVE FREE SALTINES NEXT TO THE SOUP.
Of course, I don’t say any of this and instead the woman asks me how long her soup will stay hot for because she wants to go to another store to look for the crackers. The checker and I look at each other once again. “About an hour,” I say.
“I don’t know…” the woman says again, seemingly expecting us to make up her insane mind for her. “I think I’ll go home first. Then go out again,” she tells me as we make our way to her Toyota.
“Sounds like a plan,” I tell her, turning to leave.
There are a few not-crazy customers, too though. One day, for instance, Susan Hutchison of local news “fame” bought me a hamburger. That was awesome.
Basically, it is a pretty fine job. It provides me with laughs, some money and a bunch of cool people to talk to in order to balance out all the really not-cool people I don’t want to talk to.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Summer Update
So, here we are, a few weeks into summer. Anything good happen yet?
'I’m having an awfully strange summer, all things considered. I used to have strange summers semi-annually, but strange summers tend to dissipate as you get older. In 1991, I lived with two guys, one of whom was a collegiate pole-vaulter; we had pole-vaulting poles lying across the floor of our living room for three months, and we tripped over them constantly. I played video games all night and never had any money. There was a Mexican guy in our apartment complex who worked on his van 11 hours a day, and we referred to him as “Van Guy.” We would play Skid Row on maximum volume at 2 A.M., and nobody complained. This was the kinds of housing development where nobody complained about anything, ever. Van Guy would actually ask us to turn our stereo up if we happened to be playing “Monkey Business.” One night, a drunk girl broke into our apartment while I was sleeping on the couch, but it turned out she was simply confused (she thought she was breaking into her ex-boyfriend’s apartment). I fell in love with one out our neighbors; her name was Heather, and he would rush over to our apartment every time MTV showed the Alice in Chains video for “Man in the Box,” coquettishly claiming that the video’s imagery terrified her. We went to see Point Break together, but nothing happened. That, obviously, was a weird summer.'
–Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live.
'I’m having an awfully strange summer, all things considered. I used to have strange summers semi-annually, but strange summers tend to dissipate as you get older. In 1991, I lived with two guys, one of whom was a collegiate pole-vaulter; we had pole-vaulting poles lying across the floor of our living room for three months, and we tripped over them constantly. I played video games all night and never had any money. There was a Mexican guy in our apartment complex who worked on his van 11 hours a day, and we referred to him as “Van Guy.” We would play Skid Row on maximum volume at 2 A.M., and nobody complained. This was the kinds of housing development where nobody complained about anything, ever. Van Guy would actually ask us to turn our stereo up if we happened to be playing “Monkey Business.” One night, a drunk girl broke into our apartment while I was sleeping on the couch, but it turned out she was simply confused (she thought she was breaking into her ex-boyfriend’s apartment). I fell in love with one out our neighbors; her name was Heather, and he would rush over to our apartment every time MTV showed the Alice in Chains video for “Man in the Box,” coquettishly claiming that the video’s imagery terrified her. We went to see Point Break together, but nothing happened. That, obviously, was a weird summer.'
–Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Sometimes I Wish I Was Part of a Weird Bus Couple
Weird bus couples. I think I see one every time I ride the bus. You know the ones I mean; they get on the bus talking very loudly. They have no regard for anyone else, they are audibly making fun of the people sitting in front of them and not giving one ounce of a shit about it. They will probably start making out before you get off of the bus. There are probably teeth missing from both parties. At least one of them will be wearing a cracking leather jacket. They are probably much younger than you think; you ballpark them at around 50, maybe 40. That figure is probably closer to 30, but that many cigarettes and who-knows-what else doesn’t do wonders for ones appearance. There is certainly a mullet involved. Probably a WalkMan, too. So why, why would I ever want to be a part of a grubby couple like this?
Simply because, underneath the missing teeth, questionable fashion choices and way-dated cell phones, they seem happy. They have a simple, fun-loving, compatible relationship: they don’t care what anyone thinks, they are obviously not very concerned with very many material things and they can have fun––I assume––anywhere they are. I mean, I’m not saying I would want to grow a mullet, wear black New Balances and knock out a few of my teeth just to get into a relationship of this caliber, no, but the attitude behind a relationship like this is definitely appealing––when applied to your own life.
Think about it. You are dating someone you don’t have to constantly worry about impressing; you are comfortable enough to talk about anything you want (I guess you could wear anything you want, too) and the both of you do not care at all what your friends––or random strangers––think about your relationship because you know it’s a good one. I dunno, but that sounds pretty damn good to me. Plus, you can be a total douchebag on any mode of public transportation you find yourself riding and nobody will say anything to you. And if they do, they’re just jealous. Or really offended. Or both. But forget ‘em, because you’ve got your woman at your side and as soon as you pull that cord thing and request a stop and you’re off the bus you can make fun of that guy for the rest of the afternoon. Hell, you could even make fun of him while he’s still sitting two seats away from you, what do you care? You’re a weird bus couple now.
Simply because, underneath the missing teeth, questionable fashion choices and way-dated cell phones, they seem happy. They have a simple, fun-loving, compatible relationship: they don’t care what anyone thinks, they are obviously not very concerned with very many material things and they can have fun––I assume––anywhere they are. I mean, I’m not saying I would want to grow a mullet, wear black New Balances and knock out a few of my teeth just to get into a relationship of this caliber, no, but the attitude behind a relationship like this is definitely appealing––when applied to your own life.
Think about it. You are dating someone you don’t have to constantly worry about impressing; you are comfortable enough to talk about anything you want (I guess you could wear anything you want, too) and the both of you do not care at all what your friends––or random strangers––think about your relationship because you know it’s a good one. I dunno, but that sounds pretty damn good to me. Plus, you can be a total douchebag on any mode of public transportation you find yourself riding and nobody will say anything to you. And if they do, they’re just jealous. Or really offended. Or both. But forget ‘em, because you’ve got your woman at your side and as soon as you pull that cord thing and request a stop and you’re off the bus you can make fun of that guy for the rest of the afternoon. Hell, you could even make fun of him while he’s still sitting two seats away from you, what do you care? You’re a weird bus couple now.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Summer Is Here!
Alright, so it really is summer now and we know we all need good summer lists. Here's mine. And don't even think about stealing any of the things off of this list. Just don't even.
(Click it to make it bigger.)
(Click it to make it bigger.)
Monday, June 4, 2007
How Does It All Happen?
After having a somewhat debauched evening the other night, some friends and I decided to go get on a bus and head downtown to drink coffee, iced tea, chai tea and imported Mexican Coca-Cola (it tastes better, so shut up!) at a stylish place that was strangely crowded for being 10:30 at night. Okay, simple enough. Things got interesting, if not a little cosmic, though, when we walked up to the bus, which was stopped at the stop for a layover, or something, asked how long we’d have to wait (10 minutes) and then sat back down on the stone wall, which, also somewhat strangely, surrounded a cemetery. The five of us were sitting for a few moments before the bus driver leaned out of the bus and asked us what we were up to that night. We told him we were just at the park, etc. He pointed to the cemetery and asked if went there. We said we didn’t. At this, he got off the bus, stood in the street and began talking to us about coincidence; launching into this obviously preferred conversation topic by using the cemetery’s proximity to the park and the fact that that proximity was clearly “no incident” as a segue. He had a thick, relaxing Eastern European accent and we were eager to listen.
“Do you, you believe in destiny?” He asked each one of us, going down the line. We were transfixed. It was evident that he was a strong believer in this destiny business, and to illustrate this belief, he told us a story. I am fairly hazy on that story’s actual plotline, details and conclusion, but I remember that it was some 2,000 years old, took place in Arabia or something and vaguely proved the theory of destiny. The “destiny” (the belief that your life will unwaveringly follow a predetermined path) versus “free will” (the belief that you have explicit control over your actions and decisions) discussion is an old one, and a very interesting one to have every now and then––especially with a bus driver who has a soothing accent late at night outside a cemetery. I believe in a final destiny, but I think how we arrive at that endpoint is pretty much up to us. I told the bus driver this. He seemed to agree, although he believed that someone else dictates our individual actions to make us aware of the fact that we are not in complete control. Ever. He has a painfully good point; a brain-hurtingly good point. “When have you ever planned something that turned out exactly like you planned it?” was his next question. We all answered honestly: Never.
It’s true; nothing you yourself plan ever can possibly turn out exactly how you plan it. Although, you’re never going to plan every single detail of something––you just plan the big picture––and however that plan changes is just what happens, right? For example, you’ve got a big party coming up. Sure, you plan the theme, you invite who you want, you decide what music to play, you decide what catering company to use…but any number of things can––and will––occur that you could never have ever planned. Like two of your guests will have a conversation. That conversation will be about the new Gwen Stefani album. You would have never possibly have been able to conceive that. And you have no control over it. Except you hosted the party where the conversation took place. Would that exact same conversation have happened anywhere else? I don’t think so. But it happened at your party. Is that destiny? Let’s see: (a) You planned the party; (b) People come to it; (c) Person 1 and Person 2 both happen to be standing next to the buffet at the same time; (d) “Wind It Up” starts playing; (e) Person 1 says that she really likes that song. And there you have it, the conversation has begun.
You have no control over this. No one does––not even the people talking, really. So who decided that these to people would spend four minutes of their night talking about the way less good follow-up to Love.Angel.Music.Baby? Is this destiny? Because it can’t really be free will, I don’t think. Or is it just something totally different? Is it human nature? It’s human nature to just talk about shit and roll with a conversation, sure, but why did that conversation take place to begin with? Furthermore, if those exact two same people were standing in a different place at the party, the song was playing, and they were talking to each other, would the same conversation still happen? That shit can’t be planned out by anyone, yet stuff like this happens every minute of every day. Do we actually have any control over our actions?
Think about it. Yeah, I told you it was cosmic.
We all exchange looks of awe and excitement. Come to think of it, is randomly meeting and talking to this guy destiny? It sort of has to be, right? How could any of us ever imagined and planned out that later that night we would linger on a corner, cross the street, sit on a cement wall and have a philosophical discussion with an Eastern European bus driver? That’s not the kind of night I’m “planning” yet it happened like that. It just fucking happened. Everything just fucking happens.
It’s been ten minutes. We climb into the bus; the he’s still talking to us. We’re, obviously, the only people there. We try to pay. He waves his hands and tells us not to worry about it. We genuinely thank him and then take seats at the front in order to easily continue our conversation. Now it’s our turn to ask the questions. First we want a name. He tells us his name is Lola. He tells us he’s from Ex-Yugoslavia, he used to be a chemistry and biology teacher there, he’s been a bus driver in Seattle for three years and he has a son graduating from the University of Washington this year, and another in his sophomore year. Think about that. What could have possibly led him from Yugoslavia to Seattle? From a chemistry teacher to a bus driver? From sitting on the bus alone 15 minutes ago to talking to the five kids he is now? Sure, he made all of those decisions, in the earthly sense: He decided Yugoslavia was too _________ (Dangerous? Maybe.) and had to leave, he bought the plane tickets to Seattle because he heard it was _________ (Amazing? Yes.), he applied for the job as a bus driver because it would _________ (Be a good opportunity to read a lot? Of course.), he decided to get off the bus and talk to us because he was _________ (Bored? Probably.). Yeah, that’s how it all goes. We all know we make our own decisions, and we know why. But why?
Destiny? Probably.
More people eventually got on the bus and we had to stop talking to Lola; he had other people to deal with, though he didn’t say anything to them; he just stopped talking to us. We came to our stop near the trendy coffee shop, got off, thanked Lola and wished his sons good luck in college. What a night.
Similarly, yesterday I went to a small taco stand for lunch. There was an extremely not-Mexican guy sitting in there reading a book on Italy. It was a large coffee table-style book; lot’s of aerial pictures, very few words. As soon as I entered the place this man stood up and sauntered behind the counter to take my order. He worked there. I told him I wanted three shredded chicken soft tacos. “With cheese, sour cream, guacamole?” He asked, in some sort of European accent––French, or possibly Italian. How immensely interesting, although it probably wouldn’t have struck me as such if I hadn’t met Lola one night before. And of course I wanted cheese, sour cream and guacamole. As soon as he gave my order to the very-Mexican woman in the kitchen, he lifted up the removable piece in the counter and came back out to read his book on Italy. I asked him if he was going to go to Italy. “Yes, yes, I always go to Italy.” He said he grew up in France but his mother was Italian so they spent every summer in Italy. This prompted me to make him aware that I went to Italy last summer. He asked me whereabouts in Italy. “Florence, Rome, Sorrento, around Tuscany; Assisi,” I replied. He looked happy, he told me that he always goes to Venice and how beautiful the ocean is, etc. I told him I was in Sorrento the night that Italy won the World Cup. He found this very, very cool and went on to say how Italy hadn’t really been playing soccer at all. “There was no finesse, it was violence.” This is probably true. I really couldn’t give less of a shit about soccer, but my new French-borne taco stand worker friend seemed to love it (and a lot of my actual friends do too, actually) so I continued the conversation by telling him that I went to the soccer game at Qwest Field last year. He knew exactly which one I was talking about. “It was okay, not too exciting,” I said. “Yeah, they’re fine. It was an exhibition game,” he offered. “If you want to see real soccer, go to Brazil or Africa.” We talked for a little bit longer about the merits of young African players (“Everyone over there is young, if you get too old, you die,” he insight-ed. I have to say, I agree.) before my tacos were ready and I waved good-bye and headed out. Granted, this conversation was not nearly as profound––or random––as the one I had the previous night with a certain chemistry teacher-cum-bus driver, but I still found it strange and intriguing. Just the fact that this French man who visited Italy every summer and played lots of soccer in his youth––and still visits to this day and would play soccer, if he hadn’t “hurt my knees when I was twenty”––now works at a hole-in-wall taco stand in Seattle astounds me for some reason.
I think this is why: (1) I am in a very destiny-y mood because of that aforementioned late-night encounter. (2) I do find all of that stuff really interesting and I want to know what made him change his life so drastically. Why the hell is he now living in Seattle and selling tacos? Doesn’t that sort of have to be destiny? (3) The whole phenomenon of just plain old starting conversations with strangers––and having them be meaningful, deep conversations, no less––never ceases to amaze me. (4) This phenomenon seems to happen a lot; too, in just one weekend I had two such conversations with people I will never––most likely––see again. (5) How everything works together = motherfucking mind-blowing.
All of this, of course, ties back into my topic du jour, destiny. I mean, why did I decide to go to that taco stand? I wanted some chicken tacos. Okay. Why did I start talking to the guy reading the book on Italy? I dunno, I felt like it. Fine. But really, is it all total coincidence? I went to Italy last year; I had something to talk to him about. Something actual to talk to this guy about. What are the fucking chances of that? What if I had ordered beef tacos? Would I still have had the same soccer conversation? Would my entire day be the same as it was with the chicken tacos? Would my entire life change if I ordered beef tacos? Would I have gotten in a car wreck on the way home, because I ordered beef tacos. I mean, I ordered chicken and I got home perfectly safely, but would beef have changed that? Whew.
Life really is amazing. Honestly, it is. Forgetting about this whole destiny thing for a moment, life itself is an incredible thing, no matter how it’s controlled. Is it all a web of completely unrelated things that, because they are all happening at once, occasionally turn out to be connected? Or is everything actually connected? So connected, in fact, that most things appear to be totally disconnected? It’s pretty much impossible to say for sure, but it’s overwhelming to think about.
“Do you, you believe in destiny?” He asked each one of us, going down the line. We were transfixed. It was evident that he was a strong believer in this destiny business, and to illustrate this belief, he told us a story. I am fairly hazy on that story’s actual plotline, details and conclusion, but I remember that it was some 2,000 years old, took place in Arabia or something and vaguely proved the theory of destiny. The “destiny” (the belief that your life will unwaveringly follow a predetermined path) versus “free will” (the belief that you have explicit control over your actions and decisions) discussion is an old one, and a very interesting one to have every now and then––especially with a bus driver who has a soothing accent late at night outside a cemetery. I believe in a final destiny, but I think how we arrive at that endpoint is pretty much up to us. I told the bus driver this. He seemed to agree, although he believed that someone else dictates our individual actions to make us aware of the fact that we are not in complete control. Ever. He has a painfully good point; a brain-hurtingly good point. “When have you ever planned something that turned out exactly like you planned it?” was his next question. We all answered honestly: Never.
It’s true; nothing you yourself plan ever can possibly turn out exactly how you plan it. Although, you’re never going to plan every single detail of something––you just plan the big picture––and however that plan changes is just what happens, right? For example, you’ve got a big party coming up. Sure, you plan the theme, you invite who you want, you decide what music to play, you decide what catering company to use…but any number of things can––and will––occur that you could never have ever planned. Like two of your guests will have a conversation. That conversation will be about the new Gwen Stefani album. You would have never possibly have been able to conceive that. And you have no control over it. Except you hosted the party where the conversation took place. Would that exact same conversation have happened anywhere else? I don’t think so. But it happened at your party. Is that destiny? Let’s see: (a) You planned the party; (b) People come to it; (c) Person 1 and Person 2 both happen to be standing next to the buffet at the same time; (d) “Wind It Up” starts playing; (e) Person 1 says that she really likes that song. And there you have it, the conversation has begun.
You have no control over this. No one does––not even the people talking, really. So who decided that these to people would spend four minutes of their night talking about the way less good follow-up to Love.Angel.Music.Baby? Is this destiny? Because it can’t really be free will, I don’t think. Or is it just something totally different? Is it human nature? It’s human nature to just talk about shit and roll with a conversation, sure, but why did that conversation take place to begin with? Furthermore, if those exact two same people were standing in a different place at the party, the song was playing, and they were talking to each other, would the same conversation still happen? That shit can’t be planned out by anyone, yet stuff like this happens every minute of every day. Do we actually have any control over our actions?
Think about it. Yeah, I told you it was cosmic.
We all exchange looks of awe and excitement. Come to think of it, is randomly meeting and talking to this guy destiny? It sort of has to be, right? How could any of us ever imagined and planned out that later that night we would linger on a corner, cross the street, sit on a cement wall and have a philosophical discussion with an Eastern European bus driver? That’s not the kind of night I’m “planning” yet it happened like that. It just fucking happened. Everything just fucking happens.
It’s been ten minutes. We climb into the bus; the he’s still talking to us. We’re, obviously, the only people there. We try to pay. He waves his hands and tells us not to worry about it. We genuinely thank him and then take seats at the front in order to easily continue our conversation. Now it’s our turn to ask the questions. First we want a name. He tells us his name is Lola. He tells us he’s from Ex-Yugoslavia, he used to be a chemistry and biology teacher there, he’s been a bus driver in Seattle for three years and he has a son graduating from the University of Washington this year, and another in his sophomore year. Think about that. What could have possibly led him from Yugoslavia to Seattle? From a chemistry teacher to a bus driver? From sitting on the bus alone 15 minutes ago to talking to the five kids he is now? Sure, he made all of those decisions, in the earthly sense: He decided Yugoslavia was too _________ (Dangerous? Maybe.) and had to leave, he bought the plane tickets to Seattle because he heard it was _________ (Amazing? Yes.), he applied for the job as a bus driver because it would _________ (Be a good opportunity to read a lot? Of course.), he decided to get off the bus and talk to us because he was _________ (Bored? Probably.). Yeah, that’s how it all goes. We all know we make our own decisions, and we know why. But why?
Destiny? Probably.
More people eventually got on the bus and we had to stop talking to Lola; he had other people to deal with, though he didn’t say anything to them; he just stopped talking to us. We came to our stop near the trendy coffee shop, got off, thanked Lola and wished his sons good luck in college. What a night.
Similarly, yesterday I went to a small taco stand for lunch. There was an extremely not-Mexican guy sitting in there reading a book on Italy. It was a large coffee table-style book; lot’s of aerial pictures, very few words. As soon as I entered the place this man stood up and sauntered behind the counter to take my order. He worked there. I told him I wanted three shredded chicken soft tacos. “With cheese, sour cream, guacamole?” He asked, in some sort of European accent––French, or possibly Italian. How immensely interesting, although it probably wouldn’t have struck me as such if I hadn’t met Lola one night before. And of course I wanted cheese, sour cream and guacamole. As soon as he gave my order to the very-Mexican woman in the kitchen, he lifted up the removable piece in the counter and came back out to read his book on Italy. I asked him if he was going to go to Italy. “Yes, yes, I always go to Italy.” He said he grew up in France but his mother was Italian so they spent every summer in Italy. This prompted me to make him aware that I went to Italy last summer. He asked me whereabouts in Italy. “Florence, Rome, Sorrento, around Tuscany; Assisi,” I replied. He looked happy, he told me that he always goes to Venice and how beautiful the ocean is, etc. I told him I was in Sorrento the night that Italy won the World Cup. He found this very, very cool and went on to say how Italy hadn’t really been playing soccer at all. “There was no finesse, it was violence.” This is probably true. I really couldn’t give less of a shit about soccer, but my new French-borne taco stand worker friend seemed to love it (and a lot of my actual friends do too, actually) so I continued the conversation by telling him that I went to the soccer game at Qwest Field last year. He knew exactly which one I was talking about. “It was okay, not too exciting,” I said. “Yeah, they’re fine. It was an exhibition game,” he offered. “If you want to see real soccer, go to Brazil or Africa.” We talked for a little bit longer about the merits of young African players (“Everyone over there is young, if you get too old, you die,” he insight-ed. I have to say, I agree.) before my tacos were ready and I waved good-bye and headed out. Granted, this conversation was not nearly as profound––or random––as the one I had the previous night with a certain chemistry teacher-cum-bus driver, but I still found it strange and intriguing. Just the fact that this French man who visited Italy every summer and played lots of soccer in his youth––and still visits to this day and would play soccer, if he hadn’t “hurt my knees when I was twenty”––now works at a hole-in-wall taco stand in Seattle astounds me for some reason.
I think this is why: (1) I am in a very destiny-y mood because of that aforementioned late-night encounter. (2) I do find all of that stuff really interesting and I want to know what made him change his life so drastically. Why the hell is he now living in Seattle and selling tacos? Doesn’t that sort of have to be destiny? (3) The whole phenomenon of just plain old starting conversations with strangers––and having them be meaningful, deep conversations, no less––never ceases to amaze me. (4) This phenomenon seems to happen a lot; too, in just one weekend I had two such conversations with people I will never––most likely––see again. (5) How everything works together = motherfucking mind-blowing.
All of this, of course, ties back into my topic du jour, destiny. I mean, why did I decide to go to that taco stand? I wanted some chicken tacos. Okay. Why did I start talking to the guy reading the book on Italy? I dunno, I felt like it. Fine. But really, is it all total coincidence? I went to Italy last year; I had something to talk to him about. Something actual to talk to this guy about. What are the fucking chances of that? What if I had ordered beef tacos? Would I still have had the same soccer conversation? Would my entire day be the same as it was with the chicken tacos? Would my entire life change if I ordered beef tacos? Would I have gotten in a car wreck on the way home, because I ordered beef tacos. I mean, I ordered chicken and I got home perfectly safely, but would beef have changed that? Whew.
Life really is amazing. Honestly, it is. Forgetting about this whole destiny thing for a moment, life itself is an incredible thing, no matter how it’s controlled. Is it all a web of completely unrelated things that, because they are all happening at once, occasionally turn out to be connected? Or is everything actually connected? So connected, in fact, that most things appear to be totally disconnected? It’s pretty much impossible to say for sure, but it’s overwhelming to think about.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
This Is The New Look
Check it.
New logo.
New font.
New post title color.
New border color.
New posts soon, too!
New logo.
New font.
New post title color.
New border color.
New posts soon, too!
I ♥ Björk
So Sasquatch! was really fun this year; it was different, but fun as fuck. As some of you may––or may not––know, I was seriously considering not even going this year. My plans had changed so extremely in so little time and I was left scrambling to attach people to the unaccounted-for tickets that I now found myself with. Fortunately for me, it was not too difficult to find a couple of people willing to drive a few hours to see the likes of The Hold Steady, The Blow, Viva Voce, Arcade Fire and Björk live.
The drive went fast; the four hours seemed more like three. In fact, I think it actually was three. We made two stops a long the way. The first was at a weird rustic-themed McDonald’s in Everett, where we encountered a couple of things: (a) some bitch eating breakfast with her dad while listening to music in headphones. Is that really necessary? Fuck no, it’s not. And, (b) McDonald’s McGriddles are really, really good. And disturbingly heavy. So, yeah, that was strange. But good-strange. They were hearty, I guess. From there we got back in the car, blasted mad Belle & Sebastian (“It’d be cool if they were coming to Sasquatch.” “Yeah, well it’d be cool if the Beatles were coming to Sasquatch too, but they’re not, jackass.”), a few sweet Justice trax and, of course, some Björk and Arcade Fire just to, ya know, get us in the mood. Next stop: Rest stop. But then straight on to Sasquatch!
Sasquatch! requirements:
- a hat (mine was The North Face, and definitely helped keep the sun off.)
- lots of sunscreen
- lots of cash (a can of beer was $11, okay?)
- knowing Arcade Fire's catalogue like the back of your hand
- a late model Suburu Outback crammed with crap like tents and sleeping bags (or, if you don’t have a Suburu, you won’t look too out of place in a Prius.)
Upon arriving, we quickly sun screened-up and then––tickets in hand––proceeded to stand in line for upwards of half an hour. Then: We were in! It was Gorge-ous (pun definitely intended): the Columbia River was right in front of us, the falsetto stylings of Loney, Dear were playing as we walked past the Wookie Stage, the sun was shining and there were nothing but cool people for as far as we could see. The first band we really wanted to see was the Hold Steady; they played in a few hours, at the Mainstage. We hit that up. But before THS took the stage, we had to sit through what was possibly the worst 40-minutes of music I have ever had to endure. The band was the Saturday Knights. They are a “Seattle-based hip-hop group.” They suck. Their singer is a huge-ass white guy who happened to be wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and a trucker hat, and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the other singer-y guy was wearing a sweater, a few scarves and a beanie in the 85º+ weather. That should make you hate them already, but if you’re still interested, maybe this will kill that: One of their songs consisted of this and only this lyric: “I wear a vest/And a jacket underneath/With patches on the elbows/Patches on the elbows.” The big white guy sang these words, with no variation whatsoever, over and over and over. Thank God their set soon ended.
Now it was the Hold Steady’s turn. Their set kicked ass. They played “Stuck Between Stations” first, with no introduction––not that one was needed. They just started right in on that dun-dun-dun-da-da riff and it was obvious what was coming next.
There are nights when I think Sal Paradise was right.
Boys and Girls in America have such a sad time together.
Sucking off each other at the demonstrations
Making sure their makeup’s straight
Crushing one another with colossal expectations.
Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.
She was a really cool kisser and she wasn’t all that strict of a Christian.
She was a damn good dancer but she wasn’t all that great of a girlfriend.
She likes the warm feeling but she’s tired of all the dehydration.
Most nights are crystal clear
But tonight it’s like it’s stuck between stations
On the radio.
The devil and John Berryman
Took a walk together.
They ended up on Washington
Talking to the river.
He said “I’ve surrounded myself with doctors
And deep thinkers.
But big heads with soft bodies
Make for lousy lovers.”
There was that night that we thought John Berryman could fly.
But he didn’t
So he died.
She said “You’re pretty good with words
But words won’t save your life.”
And they didn’t.
So he died.
He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected.
He loved the Golden Gophers but he hated all the drawn out winters.
He likes the warm feeling but he’s tired of all the dehydration
Most nights were kind of fuzzy
But that last night he had total retention.
These Twin Cities kisses
Sound like clicks and hisses.
We all tumbled down and
Drowned in the Mississippi River.
We drink
We dry up
Then we crumble to dust
Next came “Chips Ahoy,” “Hot Soft Light,” (“This is a song about gettin’ cought.”), “Stevie Nix,” (with awesome intro riff-plus-abrupt-stop beginning) “Your Little Hoodrat Friend” and “First Night” (truly one of the band’s most incredible songs; after the epic piano bridge, when the “Boys and girls in America” refrain starts up, every boy and girl at the Mainstage closed their eyes and sang a long. Talk about getting goose bumps.) Plus, the way Craig Finn moves his hands when he sings was practically the best part: Poking and jabbing up and down at the air after each verse, clamping a hand over his balding head, etc.
We were hungry. It was time for $8 chicken strips and $6 Cokes accompanied by the awkward love stories and awesome beats of the Blow. This all went down in the Plaza aka the Yeti Stage. The Blow (who, when performing live, is exclusively Kheala Maricich) played several of their songs and each of them came with a long narrative about their origin. This is cool, how she explains it, up there all by herself and stuff, but in the huge open air Yeti Stage, it didn’t translate immensely well. Most of the people were walking past to buy their $12 margaritas and generally had no idea who this woman singing about how this guy never called her back was. Nevertheless, I did know who she was and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Looking at the schedule, it appeared that there wasn’t much else for a little while so we decided to go buy t-shirts. We thought the Björk shirts would be cool, but those weren’t in yet, so we asked the guy behind the counter if he knew when they would get them.
“Hey, so will you guys be getting in any Björk shirts later?”
“Who?”
“Björk. She’s headlining.”
“Um, I dunno, what we got is what we got.”
Thanks a lot, douchebag.
Generally speaking, this year the tees were not as cool as the ones last year. The Beastie Boys ones were hideous, the Hold Steady were cool but a little boring and several bands didn’t even have shirts. Oh well. Later, we checked back and they did have Björk shirts, which were the best of them all. They said “Björk” in purple over flames on a bright red American Apparel t-shirt. Works for me.
By now the heat had gotten much more bearable but we were once again thirsty. We all went in on a Coke. Let me repeat that. We all went in on a Coke. Nevermind the high cost, it was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever tasted. And we kept the cup, in case we wanted to fill it up with the cheapo hand-washing water. We also wrote all over the cup and dubbed it “The ‘Quatch Cup.”
Back to the Wookie Stage. We chilled out on the grass listening to some Electrelane, a band that I had become familiar with one day prior, while hearing one of their songs in Sonic Boom. Turns out, it was their best song. They were still cool though; the band was entirely chicks and they had very few lyrics. It was nice to just sit and listen to. After Electrelane finished their set (and didn’t play that one song, much to my disappointment, the song, by the way, is called “Tram 21.” It rocks.) Grizzly Bear took the stage. Grizzly Bear also plays largely chilled-out instrumental songs and we took this time to chat, take pictures, draw on ourselves, look for girls and people watch.
A few highlights:
Based on people watching, I concluded this very official study:
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing Converse: 90%
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing pretentious, douchey and/or ironic t-shirts: 90%
Additionally, another off-site study was also taken:
Percentage Sasquatch-goers who own a Suburu: 99%
These statistics are very real. And, actually, not very alarming. I was wearing Converse. Although I was wearing a blank white v-neck (from American Apparel, of course). Either way, I’m a tool.
Meanwhile, at the Mainstage!
This weird Mexican guy named Manu Chau––or something like that––was playing. We headed over to check it out, and, more importantly, to get into a prime Arcade Fire-watching position. Manu Chau’s songs all really sounded the same; they all stared out slowly, with some Spanish lyrics (which I assume are dirty as hell) and then quickly deteriorated into a fast-paced rock-out with a police car siren sample. Every single time. It was fun though. This was around 8pm. We would not sit down again until we got back in the car at 1:30am the next morning. This was about to be intense. After Chau finished his repetitively awesome, seemingly endless set, there was a long set change. During this time we shoved through as many people as we could to get as close as possible to that amazing collection of people known only as Arcade Fire.
As soon as Arcade Fire took the stage, it was pandemonium. It was powerful stuff. They blasted off with “No Cars Go” and then played a slew of their other great songs (basically every song they have). Highlights include: “Haiti,” “(Antichrist Television Blues),” the organ-heavy “Intervention,” “Black Mirror,” “Ocean of Noise,” “Neighborhood 1 (Tunnels),” “Black Wave/Bad Vibrations,” “Neighborhood 2 (Laika)” and then topping it all off with arguably the best 15 minutes of my life: “Neighborhood 3 (Power Out)” with the ending held out for several extra seconds, leading straight into the powerful drum beat of “Rebellion (Lies)” and then, from the last smacks of the drum, the energetic “Keep The Car Running” started up. No words really can describe the awesomeness. All 20,000 people in the gorge knew the startling chorus to “Power Out:” “I went out into the night/I went out to pick a fight with anyone.” And everyone sang a long. And jumped a long and screamed a long. All attempts at explaining the energy in the Gorge that night would be futile. “Every time you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)/Everytime you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)” To finish up his other-worldly-ly good set, Win Butler and his band of nine other musicians played “Wake Up.” I now know why Arcade Fire have been aggressively touted as “the best live act on the planet.” The energy around them is incomparable. And Arcade Fire is not a small band, either; the 10 members all contribute heavily to the sound and do so in their own way. They’re all standing on stage, just inches away from one another but in their own world, rocking out. It was an incredible show.
I thought the evening could not be any better. But I had forgotten about Björk.
We moved closer to the stage. This was possible to do because, evidently, a huge number of people had left after Arcade Fire. These leavers were presumably die hard Arcade Fire fanatics who had been on their feet all day, in front of the main stage just to get a good look at Win Butler, Régine Chassagne’s accordion playing, or the hot violinists. Whatever, Arcade Fire rocked fucking hard, but I wouldn’t have left if you paid me. Björk was about to begin!
The set change took forever and we stretched our legs and talked to a pair of Canadians who were standing behind us. We learned that they were brother and sister, the brother was trying to get his pilot’s license, they both wore Crocs and they liked tye-die shirts. A lot. Soon enough Björk stormed the stage.
Now, before this show, I was fairly familiar with Björk; I knew––and liked––many of her songs, had a few of her albums and generally just thought she was pretty cool. This has all changed since that fateful show at the Mainstage of Sasquatch.
This is why:
Björk is awesome. Period. This became extremely apparent during her set. She came out on stage (seemingly from out of nowhere) dressed in a weird banana yellow dress-like thing, silver tights and matching silver rubber boots. She opened the show with her new tribal-beat heavy single “Earth Intruders.” Next she played “Pluto” (by this point she had kicked off the boots and was performing barefoot). Near the end, when the song’s beat breaks down into strange electric noises, she shook her arms out and inward––in perfect time with the music. It was like she was controlling the sound with her hands; she was so in step with what was going on. This brings me to her band: there were at least 14 other people on stage with her. There was the 10-piece Icelandic Orchestra, the futuristic-looking drummer who kept the beat in practically every single song, the very out of place-looking piano player who appeared to be just some guy who could play the piano pretty well and finally “on electroneecs,” as Björk said in her adorable Icelandic accent, some hip guy who mixed each song live and seemed to know exactly what Björk would do next. All of these people knew why they were there: To support Björk. They did so perfectly and never took too much of the focus off of her.
At this point the set slowed down a little. She played several slower, less recognizable songs. This was not a bad thing. You could see how focused and how completely dedicated to the music she is. Björk’s voice, also, is one of her biggest draws. The way she sings is crazy, emphasizing random syllables, hitting high notes and then instantly letting her voice slide into a throaty yell and pronouncing words differently than anyone else ever has. During the end of Vespertine’s “Pagan Poetry” she repeated the refrain “I love him/I love him/I love him” and, in her awesome Björkian way, it sounded more like “I lufffhim/I lufffhim/I lufffhim.” Then, the Icelandic Orchestra picked up the backing vocals and begin their “She loves him/she loves him/she loves him” while Björk hopped and shook around the stage. The slow songs were now pretty much over, with the exception of the gorgeous “Dull Flame of Desire,” in which she tells us that she loves “your eyes, my dear/Their splendid sparkling/Fire” in her beautifully fractured style. The crowd was a little fatigued, it was now 1am and Björk was ready to rock.
The enormous sounds of the intro to “Army Of Me” kicked off the rock-out. Also, near the end of the song, lasers started up and jabbed all over the Gorge––once again, in perfect time with the beats. Speaking of the beats, the songs were a lot louder and more beat-heavy live, which was very conducive to dancing and rocking a long to them. Everyone was jumping and moving their heads to the crashing beats and perfect acoustics of the Gorge. Including Björk. She was going crazy. In “Hyper-ballad” (one of her coolest songs) the backbeat was made much louder than it normally is, and she stood in the center of the stage and ran in place, shook her black hair all over the place and moved her arms ridiculously fast. Additionally, those lasers didn’t stop. They were still blasting the night sky with penetrating green lines. The real head banging came during the intro of “Innocence.” The Timbaland-produced beat is unbeatable and makes for perfect head-turning and arm-jerking fodder. The show quickly built up momentum and by the time it’s 90-minutes was over the crowd––and Björk––were having a great, loud time. (With lasers!) Not doing an encore was pretty much out of the question. She ran back out on stage, introduced the other 14 people behind her (Yes! Another chance to hear her adorable speaking voice. "Thinks very mooch.") and then started right in with the loudly political “Declare Independence.”
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Start your own currency!
Make your own stamp
Protect your language
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Make your own flag!
Raise your flag!
(Higher, higher!)
Declare independence!
Towards the end, it seemed like the stage was going to explode; the beat was so loud and precise and awesome. The show was now over, but its power was still inside of me. Björk’s energy, her dancing, the thunderous music and the fact that it was all being performed live, 60 feet from me at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of the most beautiful outdoor venue ever was all incredible.
Plus, Björk is fucking bomb. I know she’s 42, married and has a couple of kids, I think, but she is really, really, really cute. She’s pretty much unquestionably weird, too. But that only makes her cooler––and hotter. Her adorable Icelandic accent, her intense dancing, her perfect hair, her quirkiness and her obscene amounts of creativity; it’s all right there and makes her insanely attractive.
I truly do ♥ Björk.
And I also ♥ed the whole day. It was fantastic. Perfect weather, great people, amazing music and a great time in general. Arcade Fire and Björk were definitely the highligts, but nothing was bad, even the bad things were good and made the day even more fun. I can’t wait to find out who’ll be playing next year. Hmm…maybe I should just change the name of this post to I ♥ Sasquatch! No, maybe not. Sasquatch isn’t a ridiculously cute Icelandic singer. So, yeah, no, the name’s staying the same.
The drive went fast; the four hours seemed more like three. In fact, I think it actually was three. We made two stops a long the way. The first was at a weird rustic-themed McDonald’s in Everett, where we encountered a couple of things: (a) some bitch eating breakfast with her dad while listening to music in headphones. Is that really necessary? Fuck no, it’s not. And, (b) McDonald’s McGriddles are really, really good. And disturbingly heavy. So, yeah, that was strange. But good-strange. They were hearty, I guess. From there we got back in the car, blasted mad Belle & Sebastian (“It’d be cool if they were coming to Sasquatch.” “Yeah, well it’d be cool if the Beatles were coming to Sasquatch too, but they’re not, jackass.”), a few sweet Justice trax and, of course, some Björk and Arcade Fire just to, ya know, get us in the mood. Next stop: Rest stop. But then straight on to Sasquatch!
Sasquatch! requirements:
- a hat (mine was The North Face, and definitely helped keep the sun off.)
- lots of sunscreen
- lots of cash (a can of beer was $11, okay?)
- knowing Arcade Fire's catalogue like the back of your hand
- a late model Suburu Outback crammed with crap like tents and sleeping bags (or, if you don’t have a Suburu, you won’t look too out of place in a Prius.)
Upon arriving, we quickly sun screened-up and then––tickets in hand––proceeded to stand in line for upwards of half an hour. Then: We were in! It was Gorge-ous (pun definitely intended): the Columbia River was right in front of us, the falsetto stylings of Loney, Dear were playing as we walked past the Wookie Stage, the sun was shining and there were nothing but cool people for as far as we could see. The first band we really wanted to see was the Hold Steady; they played in a few hours, at the Mainstage. We hit that up. But before THS took the stage, we had to sit through what was possibly the worst 40-minutes of music I have ever had to endure. The band was the Saturday Knights. They are a “Seattle-based hip-hop group.” They suck. Their singer is a huge-ass white guy who happened to be wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and a trucker hat, and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the other singer-y guy was wearing a sweater, a few scarves and a beanie in the 85º+ weather. That should make you hate them already, but if you’re still interested, maybe this will kill that: One of their songs consisted of this and only this lyric: “I wear a vest/And a jacket underneath/With patches on the elbows/Patches on the elbows.” The big white guy sang these words, with no variation whatsoever, over and over and over. Thank God their set soon ended.
Now it was the Hold Steady’s turn. Their set kicked ass. They played “Stuck Between Stations” first, with no introduction––not that one was needed. They just started right in on that dun-dun-dun-da-da riff and it was obvious what was coming next.
There are nights when I think Sal Paradise was right.
Boys and Girls in America have such a sad time together.
Sucking off each other at the demonstrations
Making sure their makeup’s straight
Crushing one another with colossal expectations.
Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.
She was a really cool kisser and she wasn’t all that strict of a Christian.
She was a damn good dancer but she wasn’t all that great of a girlfriend.
She likes the warm feeling but she’s tired of all the dehydration.
Most nights are crystal clear
But tonight it’s like it’s stuck between stations
On the radio.
The devil and John Berryman
Took a walk together.
They ended up on Washington
Talking to the river.
He said “I’ve surrounded myself with doctors
And deep thinkers.
But big heads with soft bodies
Make for lousy lovers.”
There was that night that we thought John Berryman could fly.
But he didn’t
So he died.
She said “You’re pretty good with words
But words won’t save your life.”
And they didn’t.
So he died.
He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected.
He loved the Golden Gophers but he hated all the drawn out winters.
He likes the warm feeling but he’s tired of all the dehydration
Most nights were kind of fuzzy
But that last night he had total retention.
These Twin Cities kisses
Sound like clicks and hisses.
We all tumbled down and
Drowned in the Mississippi River.
We drink
We dry up
Then we crumble to dust
Next came “Chips Ahoy,” “Hot Soft Light,” (“This is a song about gettin’ cought.”), “Stevie Nix,” (with awesome intro riff-plus-abrupt-stop beginning) “Your Little Hoodrat Friend” and “First Night” (truly one of the band’s most incredible songs; after the epic piano bridge, when the “Boys and girls in America” refrain starts up, every boy and girl at the Mainstage closed their eyes and sang a long. Talk about getting goose bumps.) Plus, the way Craig Finn moves his hands when he sings was practically the best part: Poking and jabbing up and down at the air after each verse, clamping a hand over his balding head, etc.
We were hungry. It was time for $8 chicken strips and $6 Cokes accompanied by the awkward love stories and awesome beats of the Blow. This all went down in the Plaza aka the Yeti Stage. The Blow (who, when performing live, is exclusively Kheala Maricich) played several of their songs and each of them came with a long narrative about their origin. This is cool, how she explains it, up there all by herself and stuff, but in the huge open air Yeti Stage, it didn’t translate immensely well. Most of the people were walking past to buy their $12 margaritas and generally had no idea who this woman singing about how this guy never called her back was. Nevertheless, I did know who she was and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Looking at the schedule, it appeared that there wasn’t much else for a little while so we decided to go buy t-shirts. We thought the Björk shirts would be cool, but those weren’t in yet, so we asked the guy behind the counter if he knew when they would get them.
“Hey, so will you guys be getting in any Björk shirts later?”
“Who?”
“Björk. She’s headlining.”
“Um, I dunno, what we got is what we got.”
Thanks a lot, douchebag.
Generally speaking, this year the tees were not as cool as the ones last year. The Beastie Boys ones were hideous, the Hold Steady were cool but a little boring and several bands didn’t even have shirts. Oh well. Later, we checked back and they did have Björk shirts, which were the best of them all. They said “Björk” in purple over flames on a bright red American Apparel t-shirt. Works for me.
By now the heat had gotten much more bearable but we were once again thirsty. We all went in on a Coke. Let me repeat that. We all went in on a Coke. Nevermind the high cost, it was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever tasted. And we kept the cup, in case we wanted to fill it up with the cheapo hand-washing water. We also wrote all over the cup and dubbed it “The ‘Quatch Cup.”
Back to the Wookie Stage. We chilled out on the grass listening to some Electrelane, a band that I had become familiar with one day prior, while hearing one of their songs in Sonic Boom. Turns out, it was their best song. They were still cool though; the band was entirely chicks and they had very few lyrics. It was nice to just sit and listen to. After Electrelane finished their set (and didn’t play that one song, much to my disappointment, the song, by the way, is called “Tram 21.” It rocks.) Grizzly Bear took the stage. Grizzly Bear also plays largely chilled-out instrumental songs and we took this time to chat, take pictures, draw on ourselves, look for girls and people watch.
A few highlights:
Based on people watching, I concluded this very official study:
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing Converse: 90%
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing pretentious, douchey and/or ironic t-shirts: 90%
Additionally, another off-site study was also taken:
Percentage Sasquatch-goers who own a Suburu: 99%
These statistics are very real. And, actually, not very alarming. I was wearing Converse. Although I was wearing a blank white v-neck (from American Apparel, of course). Either way, I’m a tool.
Meanwhile, at the Mainstage!
This weird Mexican guy named Manu Chau––or something like that––was playing. We headed over to check it out, and, more importantly, to get into a prime Arcade Fire-watching position. Manu Chau’s songs all really sounded the same; they all stared out slowly, with some Spanish lyrics (which I assume are dirty as hell) and then quickly deteriorated into a fast-paced rock-out with a police car siren sample. Every single time. It was fun though. This was around 8pm. We would not sit down again until we got back in the car at 1:30am the next morning. This was about to be intense. After Chau finished his repetitively awesome, seemingly endless set, there was a long set change. During this time we shoved through as many people as we could to get as close as possible to that amazing collection of people known only as Arcade Fire.
As soon as Arcade Fire took the stage, it was pandemonium. It was powerful stuff. They blasted off with “No Cars Go” and then played a slew of their other great songs (basically every song they have). Highlights include: “Haiti,” “(Antichrist Television Blues),” the organ-heavy “Intervention,” “Black Mirror,” “Ocean of Noise,” “Neighborhood 1 (Tunnels),” “Black Wave/Bad Vibrations,” “Neighborhood 2 (Laika)” and then topping it all off with arguably the best 15 minutes of my life: “Neighborhood 3 (Power Out)” with the ending held out for several extra seconds, leading straight into the powerful drum beat of “Rebellion (Lies)” and then, from the last smacks of the drum, the energetic “Keep The Car Running” started up. No words really can describe the awesomeness. All 20,000 people in the gorge knew the startling chorus to “Power Out:” “I went out into the night/I went out to pick a fight with anyone.” And everyone sang a long. And jumped a long and screamed a long. All attempts at explaining the energy in the Gorge that night would be futile. “Every time you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)/Everytime you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)” To finish up his other-worldly-ly good set, Win Butler and his band of nine other musicians played “Wake Up.” I now know why Arcade Fire have been aggressively touted as “the best live act on the planet.” The energy around them is incomparable. And Arcade Fire is not a small band, either; the 10 members all contribute heavily to the sound and do so in their own way. They’re all standing on stage, just inches away from one another but in their own world, rocking out. It was an incredible show.
I thought the evening could not be any better. But I had forgotten about Björk.
We moved closer to the stage. This was possible to do because, evidently, a huge number of people had left after Arcade Fire. These leavers were presumably die hard Arcade Fire fanatics who had been on their feet all day, in front of the main stage just to get a good look at Win Butler, Régine Chassagne’s accordion playing, or the hot violinists. Whatever, Arcade Fire rocked fucking hard, but I wouldn’t have left if you paid me. Björk was about to begin!
The set change took forever and we stretched our legs and talked to a pair of Canadians who were standing behind us. We learned that they were brother and sister, the brother was trying to get his pilot’s license, they both wore Crocs and they liked tye-die shirts. A lot. Soon enough Björk stormed the stage.
Now, before this show, I was fairly familiar with Björk; I knew––and liked––many of her songs, had a few of her albums and generally just thought she was pretty cool. This has all changed since that fateful show at the Mainstage of Sasquatch.
This is why:
Björk is awesome. Period. This became extremely apparent during her set. She came out on stage (seemingly from out of nowhere) dressed in a weird banana yellow dress-like thing, silver tights and matching silver rubber boots. She opened the show with her new tribal-beat heavy single “Earth Intruders.” Next she played “Pluto” (by this point she had kicked off the boots and was performing barefoot). Near the end, when the song’s beat breaks down into strange electric noises, she shook her arms out and inward––in perfect time with the music. It was like she was controlling the sound with her hands; she was so in step with what was going on. This brings me to her band: there were at least 14 other people on stage with her. There was the 10-piece Icelandic Orchestra, the futuristic-looking drummer who kept the beat in practically every single song, the very out of place-looking piano player who appeared to be just some guy who could play the piano pretty well and finally “on electroneecs,” as Björk said in her adorable Icelandic accent, some hip guy who mixed each song live and seemed to know exactly what Björk would do next. All of these people knew why they were there: To support Björk. They did so perfectly and never took too much of the focus off of her.
At this point the set slowed down a little. She played several slower, less recognizable songs. This was not a bad thing. You could see how focused and how completely dedicated to the music she is. Björk’s voice, also, is one of her biggest draws. The way she sings is crazy, emphasizing random syllables, hitting high notes and then instantly letting her voice slide into a throaty yell and pronouncing words differently than anyone else ever has. During the end of Vespertine’s “Pagan Poetry” she repeated the refrain “I love him/I love him/I love him” and, in her awesome Björkian way, it sounded more like “I lufffhim/I lufffhim/I lufffhim.” Then, the Icelandic Orchestra picked up the backing vocals and begin their “She loves him/she loves him/she loves him” while Björk hopped and shook around the stage. The slow songs were now pretty much over, with the exception of the gorgeous “Dull Flame of Desire,” in which she tells us that she loves “your eyes, my dear/Their splendid sparkling/Fire” in her beautifully fractured style. The crowd was a little fatigued, it was now 1am and Björk was ready to rock.
The enormous sounds of the intro to “Army Of Me” kicked off the rock-out. Also, near the end of the song, lasers started up and jabbed all over the Gorge––once again, in perfect time with the beats. Speaking of the beats, the songs were a lot louder and more beat-heavy live, which was very conducive to dancing and rocking a long to them. Everyone was jumping and moving their heads to the crashing beats and perfect acoustics of the Gorge. Including Björk. She was going crazy. In “Hyper-ballad” (one of her coolest songs) the backbeat was made much louder than it normally is, and she stood in the center of the stage and ran in place, shook her black hair all over the place and moved her arms ridiculously fast. Additionally, those lasers didn’t stop. They were still blasting the night sky with penetrating green lines. The real head banging came during the intro of “Innocence.” The Timbaland-produced beat is unbeatable and makes for perfect head-turning and arm-jerking fodder. The show quickly built up momentum and by the time it’s 90-minutes was over the crowd––and Björk––were having a great, loud time. (With lasers!) Not doing an encore was pretty much out of the question. She ran back out on stage, introduced the other 14 people behind her (Yes! Another chance to hear her adorable speaking voice. "Thinks very mooch.") and then started right in with the loudly political “Declare Independence.”
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Start your own currency!
Make your own stamp
Protect your language
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Make your own flag!
Raise your flag!
(Higher, higher!)
Declare independence!
Towards the end, it seemed like the stage was going to explode; the beat was so loud and precise and awesome. The show was now over, but its power was still inside of me. Björk’s energy, her dancing, the thunderous music and the fact that it was all being performed live, 60 feet from me at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of the most beautiful outdoor venue ever was all incredible.
Plus, Björk is fucking bomb. I know she’s 42, married and has a couple of kids, I think, but she is really, really, really cute. She’s pretty much unquestionably weird, too. But that only makes her cooler––and hotter. Her adorable Icelandic accent, her intense dancing, her perfect hair, her quirkiness and her obscene amounts of creativity; it’s all right there and makes her insanely attractive.
I truly do ♥ Björk.
And I also ♥ed the whole day. It was fantastic. Perfect weather, great people, amazing music and a great time in general. Arcade Fire and Björk were definitely the highligts, but nothing was bad, even the bad things were good and made the day even more fun. I can’t wait to find out who’ll be playing next year. Hmm…maybe I should just change the name of this post to I ♥ Sasquatch! No, maybe not. Sasquatch isn’t a ridiculously cute Icelandic singer. So, yeah, no, the name’s staying the same.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
DETAILS OF THE WAR
The best song ever? Yes.
Bloody sheets
Tenderly she moves me
An opera star
Dying hard for love
You say I'm hurt
I will take your word
Leather pants
Happiness
A hundred dollars
Buy success
Hanging with your fashionable whores
And I'm a wounded bird
I will take your word
You and tom (you and tom)
To the prom (to the prom)
Camel dick (camel dick)
Crucifix (crucifix)
Everyone's the same and on and on
Emerging from the football stands
Clinging to his broken hand
It's over I have seen it all before
Nakedness (nakedness)
A flying lesson
Tattered dress
Sunburned chest
You will pay for your excessive charm
With a boy who knows
Less than he thinks
Drinks up his expensive drinks
Be careful with the DETAILS OF THE WAR
Bloody sheets
Tenderly she moves me
An opera star
Dying hard for love
You say I'm hurt
I will take your word
Leather pants
Happiness
A hundred dollars
Buy success
Hanging with your fashionable whores
And I'm a wounded bird
I will take your word
You and tom (you and tom)
To the prom (to the prom)
Camel dick (camel dick)
Crucifix (crucifix)
Everyone's the same and on and on
Emerging from the football stands
Clinging to his broken hand
It's over I have seen it all before
Nakedness (nakedness)
A flying lesson
Tattered dress
Sunburned chest
You will pay for your excessive charm
With a boy who knows
Less than he thinks
Drinks up his expensive drinks
Be careful with the DETAILS OF THE WAR
Sunday, May 20, 2007
The Decemberists, Live at The Paramount, May 4, 2007
Evidently, the majority of Seattle-based Decemberists fans suck. I say “evidently” because this startling, somewhat depressing and somewhat useless fact became evident to me when I saw the Decemberists live at the Paramount at the beginning of the month.
Most everybody in the crowd, with the exception of me and my friends, was thirty or older (in most cases much older, sporting a very unimpressive grey haircut and some shoes that they certainly bought at REI), seemed to know the band and the music fairly well but felt completely un-compelled to display any of this knowledge––this could be achieved through singing, cheering or generally moving your body ever so slightly to the music. In fact, emotion wasn’t on display at all; at least any emotion besides boredom, if that is an emotion. Either way, boredom was in no short supply that evening and it was not all the fans’ fault, either.
Colin Meloy, the Decemberists' über-intellectual front man (read: trying way to hard to be Ben Gibbard), flaunted his intelligence in a number of equally exhausting ways: (1) choosing to open the set with a pre-recorded six minute song that sounded like something that was meant to be played before each Russian ambassadors’ meeting, circa 1880, (2) talking––in a very nasally voice––at length about Portland’s (the Decemberists’ appropriately artsy hometown) several merits and supposed superiority to Seattle, etc. and, (3) while talking at length, using unnecessarily large words––like “denizen”––which truly have no place in spoken conversation. Although that all-important element of any live show, simply known as “the vibe,” really could not have been any worse, the actual concert, inasmuch as the music, was not a complete loss.
Meloy and the rest of the band, although unattractive and a little stagey, do make very good music. Some of this good music was played at this concert, but much of it, somewhat perplexingly, was not. They neglected to play pretty much every single one of their “hits,” and instead chose to play a slew of obscure, back-catalog songs. This conscious reluctance to play their more popular songs seemed like another, more underhanded way of flaunting their intellect. “Yes, we only play songs from our early cassettes and worst-selling albums, because, you see, the fact that nobody knows, likes or understands them means that they are very intelligent songs. Their virtually unknown status is the only validation we need to play them for the rest of the night. Enjoy.” Yeah, cool, we get it; you’re intellectual.
Luckily, there were still some compelling moments of their just-over-an-hour set. To begin with, after that Russian anthem, the Portlander’s took the stage and launched into their epic three-piece story “The Crane Wife” (off of their excellent new album of the same name.). The song is fabulous and live it was technically tight and emotionally strong. Of course, the rest of the bored slobs in the audience seemed to have already lost interest by this point, about three minutes into the set. Their loss.
After “The Crane Wife” finished up, complete with an awesome electric-guitar-feedback-distortion ending, the lights went down and the group started right in again with their other three-part, 12-minute song, “The Island.” During this time I was singing a long and jumping up in the air and by the time both of these epic songs were over, I was totally energized and eager for the rest of the set, despite the everyone else around me. Unfortunately, this two song, sub-30 minute extravaganza was the high point of the show, and took place at the very start of it. They did play some other good songs: “O Valencia!,” “The Perfect Crime #2” and fan-favorite “The Mariner’s Revenge Song.” However, they didn’t play several of the songs that seem obligatory at any Decemberists show: “The Infanta,” “July, July,” and the marvelously anti-war “16 Military Wives.”
Though the show was actually disappointing because of its poor quality, equally disappointing, in retrospect, was the knowledge that it could easily have been much, much better if a few specific things had been done differently. The vast majority of the audience could have either been much more into the music, or just not have come, Meloy and his band could have better sensed the bored atmosphere and injected some life into the lame Seattle crowd by cutting down on their own unfunny banter and playing more well-known, sing-alongable songs.
Maybe the Decemberists’ brand of nuance-filled, hyper-literate bookstore rock doesn’t translate exceptionally well into a crowd-pleasing chorus-filled live show. Or maybe most of the people who think they like the Dememberists actually don’t like them at all. Or maybe all of the people who actively dislike the Decemberists decided to spend thirty dollars on a ticket to their tour-closing Seattle show because, hey, they all had nothing better to do on that particular Friday night. Or maybe attending concerts where the other attendees are visibly not enjoying the music and the people playing that music are visibly down-talking the aforementioned attendees––in a very nasally voice––isn’t really my thing. Maybe. And it doesn’t really matter how much I am enjoying the music, which, for the most part, I was. The vibe was killed before it was even born.
Most everybody in the crowd, with the exception of me and my friends, was thirty or older (in most cases much older, sporting a very unimpressive grey haircut and some shoes that they certainly bought at REI), seemed to know the band and the music fairly well but felt completely un-compelled to display any of this knowledge––this could be achieved through singing, cheering or generally moving your body ever so slightly to the music. In fact, emotion wasn’t on display at all; at least any emotion besides boredom, if that is an emotion. Either way, boredom was in no short supply that evening and it was not all the fans’ fault, either.
Colin Meloy, the Decemberists' über-intellectual front man (read: trying way to hard to be Ben Gibbard), flaunted his intelligence in a number of equally exhausting ways: (1) choosing to open the set with a pre-recorded six minute song that sounded like something that was meant to be played before each Russian ambassadors’ meeting, circa 1880, (2) talking––in a very nasally voice––at length about Portland’s (the Decemberists’ appropriately artsy hometown) several merits and supposed superiority to Seattle, etc. and, (3) while talking at length, using unnecessarily large words––like “denizen”––which truly have no place in spoken conversation. Although that all-important element of any live show, simply known as “the vibe,” really could not have been any worse, the actual concert, inasmuch as the music, was not a complete loss.
Meloy and the rest of the band, although unattractive and a little stagey, do make very good music. Some of this good music was played at this concert, but much of it, somewhat perplexingly, was not. They neglected to play pretty much every single one of their “hits,” and instead chose to play a slew of obscure, back-catalog songs. This conscious reluctance to play their more popular songs seemed like another, more underhanded way of flaunting their intellect. “Yes, we only play songs from our early cassettes and worst-selling albums, because, you see, the fact that nobody knows, likes or understands them means that they are very intelligent songs. Their virtually unknown status is the only validation we need to play them for the rest of the night. Enjoy.” Yeah, cool, we get it; you’re intellectual.
Luckily, there were still some compelling moments of their just-over-an-hour set. To begin with, after that Russian anthem, the Portlander’s took the stage and launched into their epic three-piece story “The Crane Wife” (off of their excellent new album of the same name.). The song is fabulous and live it was technically tight and emotionally strong. Of course, the rest of the bored slobs in the audience seemed to have already lost interest by this point, about three minutes into the set. Their loss.
After “The Crane Wife” finished up, complete with an awesome electric-guitar-feedback-distortion ending, the lights went down and the group started right in again with their other three-part, 12-minute song, “The Island.” During this time I was singing a long and jumping up in the air and by the time both of these epic songs were over, I was totally energized and eager for the rest of the set, despite the everyone else around me. Unfortunately, this two song, sub-30 minute extravaganza was the high point of the show, and took place at the very start of it. They did play some other good songs: “O Valencia!,” “The Perfect Crime #2” and fan-favorite “The Mariner’s Revenge Song.” However, they didn’t play several of the songs that seem obligatory at any Decemberists show: “The Infanta,” “July, July,” and the marvelously anti-war “16 Military Wives.”
Though the show was actually disappointing because of its poor quality, equally disappointing, in retrospect, was the knowledge that it could easily have been much, much better if a few specific things had been done differently. The vast majority of the audience could have either been much more into the music, or just not have come, Meloy and his band could have better sensed the bored atmosphere and injected some life into the lame Seattle crowd by cutting down on their own unfunny banter and playing more well-known, sing-alongable songs.
Maybe the Decemberists’ brand of nuance-filled, hyper-literate bookstore rock doesn’t translate exceptionally well into a crowd-pleasing chorus-filled live show. Or maybe most of the people who think they like the Dememberists actually don’t like them at all. Or maybe all of the people who actively dislike the Decemberists decided to spend thirty dollars on a ticket to their tour-closing Seattle show because, hey, they all had nothing better to do on that particular Friday night. Or maybe attending concerts where the other attendees are visibly not enjoying the music and the people playing that music are visibly down-talking the aforementioned attendees––in a very nasally voice––isn’t really my thing. Maybe. And it doesn’t really matter how much I am enjoying the music, which, for the most part, I was. The vibe was killed before it was even born.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
This Is The Proper Way To Capitalize
So, from now on, sentences, proper nouns, etc. will be capitalized. The all lower case way was alright, but I got sick if it.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
LCD Soundsystem with Yacht, Live at The Showbox, May 2, 2007
Seattle’s Showbox was fucking sweaty last Wednesday night. The clean, repetitive, danceable beats of James Murphy and his LCD Soundsystem opened-for by the remarkably fresh, energetic laptop pop of Jona Bechtolt and his Yacht made sure of that. I wore a sweatshirt by mistake.
Portlander Jona Bechtolt (aka Yacht and that cool guy who made all of the beats for the Blow) stood up on stage alone before a relatively empty Showbox and began rocking out to pre-recorded multilayered track after pre-recorded multilayered track. Every few songs Bechtolt––who looks something like a cross between Napoleon Dynamite and Jerry Seinfeld, only much more stylish than both––would adjust some setting on his well-loved MacBook, with “Grunge Ain’t Dead” written on the lid, and another song would instantly flare up.
The energy was very high despite the small crowd. Most people didn’t seem to be familiar with the songs––or even know who this kid was––but seemed to like it. After familiarizing yourself with the first few bars of each song, you could easily assemble the tune and bang and slide your head accordingly. Of course, the listeners’ jerky dancing was nothing compared to Bechtolt’s theatrics. He jumped high, kicked around, air-pianoed, banged his head, swung the mic and generally just really enjoyed himself. Then, a few songs in, he stopped the music and asked if anyone had any questions for him.
“No, seriously. Does anyone have any questions?” He asked, peering out into the crowd––which was an odd mix of indie kids, indie twenty-somethings and then several people who either were wearing business or ugly clothes and looked completely out of place. A few people actually did have questions. They ranged from the obvious (“How does performing make you feel?” Um, good.) to the uninformed (“Are you in the Blow?” I quit the Blow.) and then the awkward (“What was your weirdest sexual experience?” It involved a walk-in freezer.). The fact that Bechtolt took the time out of his already cramped set to answer half-a-dozen dumb-ass questions shows something. It shows that he’s in it to have fun. And you could really tell.
Besides the question-and-answer session, he also talked a little bit about the mundane things his songs are about and how he finds magic in those everyday experiences. His lyrics, his music, his dancing, his bright red pants and the name of his new record, I Believe In You. Your Magic Is Real., suggest a sense of optimism and humor, both of which made his set––and hopefully will make his album––absolutely great.
A long wait. Accompanied by a set change and some unrecognizable house music.
Finally, LCD Soundsystem takes the stage. At this point, the place has filled up considerably since Yacht and you can hardly move for the tightly-packedness. It’s getting hotter. LCD Soundsystem is James Murphy, but when LCD Soundsystem wants to perform live he does so with his five-piece band. The eight-minute “Us V Them” starts out the set and establishes the energy level of the show: Really high. Everyone within a ten-foot radius of the stage is swaying––and sometimes banging––into each other. We are just inches away from moshing. The music does lend itself to this type of sweaty, high energy rocking; it’s rock music but it’s also got the repetition and dance-ability of electronic club jams. And live the songs are even longer and louder than usual. And they do not let up. Murphy cranks it up a notch with “Daft Punk Is Playing At My House” next and then keeps it at that notch with his new single “All My Friends” and a few other persistent body-moving songs off his first record.
The crowd is now aware that they will not be able to keep up their current pace and so the smashing into one another comes to an end, but there is no less enthusiasm in the room. I took this relative stillness as and opportunity to take off my sweatshirt, which was soaked in sweat––and it was not all mine. The crowd resets the energy level this time: High. The set continues, Murphy talks to us a little but not very much; he doesn’t really need to. Even though the songs are extended when played live, they seem to go by much faster than they do when you’re just listening on your own. You can see Murphy and the rest of his band loving every moment of the show. You could tell that this was Murphy’s band and also that they were extremely in sync with each other. During a drum break, Murphy would grab at a cymbal and hold it for exactly the right amount of time––stopping the sound––then he would let go, and his drummer would whack the cymbal again––tinginginging––then, Murphy would be back, grabbing the cymbal daintily for several seconds before letting go again. It was perfect.
Also, everyone in the place seemed to know the lyrics. A fact that is somewhat astonishing since new album, Sound of Silver, came out about the month ago. Everyone screamed the words to each song at the stage, trying to match Murphy’s voice. Once the first measures of the first single off of Sound of Silver, “North American Scum,” were played the crowd instantly knew what was coming next: that gorgeous “uh-uhh-uhoh.” Everyone knew it and everyone sang it. Then the words start, and with a huge group of North Americans singing it together it becomes pretty damn special. “Oh I admit/I dunno oh where to begin/we are North Americans/and for those of you who still think we’re from England/we’re not/no.” By the time he gets to the England part, we’re all screaming. Then Murphy’s humorous and observational lyrics continue, to stating relatable facts about our country, and everyone is singing a long at the top of their voices.
During “All My Friends” the people in all different groups of friends around me start to sing less towards the stage and more towards each other. The verse “You spend the first five years trying to get with the plan/and the next five years/trying to be with your friends again” could not be more true, or more widely sung by all of the twenty- and thirty-somethings who, apparently, know all too well how important is to just be with your friends after you work so hard for all your responsibility. And us kids can relate too: Friends are it. The final refrain, “If I could see all my friends tonight?” is repeatedly sung over and over until it stops, when it does stop there is hugging among friends and widespread agreement over the lyrics.
It soon becomes very obvious: LCD Soundsystem is making much, much more than just dance music; James Murphy is making dance rock that is as thoughtful as it is danceable. He knows a lot about a lot of things. He knows how to write a song. An electronic, repetitive dance song that is also humane and completely lovely. He also knows how to make people sweat.
Portlander Jona Bechtolt (aka Yacht and that cool guy who made all of the beats for the Blow) stood up on stage alone before a relatively empty Showbox and began rocking out to pre-recorded multilayered track after pre-recorded multilayered track. Every few songs Bechtolt––who looks something like a cross between Napoleon Dynamite and Jerry Seinfeld, only much more stylish than both––would adjust some setting on his well-loved MacBook, with “Grunge Ain’t Dead” written on the lid, and another song would instantly flare up.
The energy was very high despite the small crowd. Most people didn’t seem to be familiar with the songs––or even know who this kid was––but seemed to like it. After familiarizing yourself with the first few bars of each song, you could easily assemble the tune and bang and slide your head accordingly. Of course, the listeners’ jerky dancing was nothing compared to Bechtolt’s theatrics. He jumped high, kicked around, air-pianoed, banged his head, swung the mic and generally just really enjoyed himself. Then, a few songs in, he stopped the music and asked if anyone had any questions for him.
“No, seriously. Does anyone have any questions?” He asked, peering out into the crowd––which was an odd mix of indie kids, indie twenty-somethings and then several people who either were wearing business or ugly clothes and looked completely out of place. A few people actually did have questions. They ranged from the obvious (“How does performing make you feel?” Um, good.) to the uninformed (“Are you in the Blow?” I quit the Blow.) and then the awkward (“What was your weirdest sexual experience?” It involved a walk-in freezer.). The fact that Bechtolt took the time out of his already cramped set to answer half-a-dozen dumb-ass questions shows something. It shows that he’s in it to have fun. And you could really tell.
Besides the question-and-answer session, he also talked a little bit about the mundane things his songs are about and how he finds magic in those everyday experiences. His lyrics, his music, his dancing, his bright red pants and the name of his new record, I Believe In You. Your Magic Is Real., suggest a sense of optimism and humor, both of which made his set––and hopefully will make his album––absolutely great.
A long wait. Accompanied by a set change and some unrecognizable house music.
Finally, LCD Soundsystem takes the stage. At this point, the place has filled up considerably since Yacht and you can hardly move for the tightly-packedness. It’s getting hotter. LCD Soundsystem is James Murphy, but when LCD Soundsystem wants to perform live he does so with his five-piece band. The eight-minute “Us V Them” starts out the set and establishes the energy level of the show: Really high. Everyone within a ten-foot radius of the stage is swaying––and sometimes banging––into each other. We are just inches away from moshing. The music does lend itself to this type of sweaty, high energy rocking; it’s rock music but it’s also got the repetition and dance-ability of electronic club jams. And live the songs are even longer and louder than usual. And they do not let up. Murphy cranks it up a notch with “Daft Punk Is Playing At My House” next and then keeps it at that notch with his new single “All My Friends” and a few other persistent body-moving songs off his first record.
The crowd is now aware that they will not be able to keep up their current pace and so the smashing into one another comes to an end, but there is no less enthusiasm in the room. I took this relative stillness as and opportunity to take off my sweatshirt, which was soaked in sweat––and it was not all mine. The crowd resets the energy level this time: High. The set continues, Murphy talks to us a little but not very much; he doesn’t really need to. Even though the songs are extended when played live, they seem to go by much faster than they do when you’re just listening on your own. You can see Murphy and the rest of his band loving every moment of the show. You could tell that this was Murphy’s band and also that they were extremely in sync with each other. During a drum break, Murphy would grab at a cymbal and hold it for exactly the right amount of time––stopping the sound––then he would let go, and his drummer would whack the cymbal again––tinginginging––then, Murphy would be back, grabbing the cymbal daintily for several seconds before letting go again. It was perfect.
Also, everyone in the place seemed to know the lyrics. A fact that is somewhat astonishing since new album, Sound of Silver, came out about the month ago. Everyone screamed the words to each song at the stage, trying to match Murphy’s voice. Once the first measures of the first single off of Sound of Silver, “North American Scum,” were played the crowd instantly knew what was coming next: that gorgeous “uh-uhh-uhoh.” Everyone knew it and everyone sang it. Then the words start, and with a huge group of North Americans singing it together it becomes pretty damn special. “Oh I admit/I dunno oh where to begin/we are North Americans/and for those of you who still think we’re from England/we’re not/no.” By the time he gets to the England part, we’re all screaming. Then Murphy’s humorous and observational lyrics continue, to stating relatable facts about our country, and everyone is singing a long at the top of their voices.
During “All My Friends” the people in all different groups of friends around me start to sing less towards the stage and more towards each other. The verse “You spend the first five years trying to get with the plan/and the next five years/trying to be with your friends again” could not be more true, or more widely sung by all of the twenty- and thirty-somethings who, apparently, know all too well how important is to just be with your friends after you work so hard for all your responsibility. And us kids can relate too: Friends are it. The final refrain, “If I could see all my friends tonight?” is repeatedly sung over and over until it stops, when it does stop there is hugging among friends and widespread agreement over the lyrics.
It soon becomes very obvious: LCD Soundsystem is making much, much more than just dance music; James Murphy is making dance rock that is as thoughtful as it is danceable. He knows a lot about a lot of things. He knows how to write a song. An electronic, repetitive dance song that is also humane and completely lovely. He also knows how to make people sweat.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Visualizing the Depths of "Tristan"
"By Matthew Gurewitsch, Published: April 29, 2007
Staging Wagner’s 'Tristan und Isolde' is a notoriously treacherous proposition. A man and a woman are seized by a forbidden passion, are discovered and pay with their lives. That’s it––for three long acts, running four hours, give or take. Wagner thought of his cosmic rhapsody of love that kills not as a story set to music, but as 'deeds of music made visible.'"
-from the ny times. hey, i'd see it.
Staging Wagner’s 'Tristan und Isolde' is a notoriously treacherous proposition. A man and a woman are seized by a forbidden passion, are discovered and pay with their lives. That’s it––for three long acts, running four hours, give or take. Wagner thought of his cosmic rhapsody of love that kills not as a story set to music, but as 'deeds of music made visible.'"
-from the ny times. hey, i'd see it.
Getting To Know...
More information regarding Excuse Me? Records and their bands is now available. And here it is.
The original three signees of the label––Louis and the Vuittons, Some Terror and Celsius––are all putting the final touches on their respective releases. Here's an overview of the artists and their work.
Louis and the Vuittons.
As the name implies, fashion and fun are important to LATV. The band, which consists of los angeles natives Oliver Waler and brother and sister Benjamin and Krsten Hayes, started out playing small clubs and quickly made a name for themselves by wearing astonishingly high-fashion clothing to all of their various gigs and by playing fun, crowd-pleasing, dancable rock and electronic music. In addition to la hipsters, LATV also attracted some attention from the luxe leather goods manufacturer, Louis Vuitton, from whom the band obviously borrows a likeness. This attention––and narrowly avoided lawsuit––served only as a means to get LATV even more publicity. Excuse Me? Records took note and soon signed them.
The Vuittons use keyboards, synths, drums, guitars and samples to craft lo-fi, up-tempo indie dance music that pokes fun at––while simultaniously embracing––high-fashion and the extravagant Los Angeles culture. Think the Blow meets Architecture In Helsinki plus a little Hot Chip. Kirsten does most of the singing, but is oft-accompanied by her two male counterparts for some nice harmonization on tracks like the very upbeat opener "Finding a Replica!" and "Hollywood." LATV are also familiar with the art of the instrumental; creating several wonderfully textural lyric-less tracks like "Mexican Food" and "Does." Belts, out this month, is the first full-length from Louis and the Vuittons. Here is the track list:
1. Finding a Replica!
2. Only Pants, No Belts
3. Good Style Vs. Their Style
4. Mexican Food
5. Beleive Me, There Is a Difference
6. Hollywood
7. Crowded (Interlude)
8. There Are More Than a Few Threads on White Sneakers
9. Classic
10. Does
Some Terror.
Santa Monica four-piece Some Terror are not afraid. After releasing their single, "Relax the Terror," on Myspace the band was launched into the dauntingly cut-throat world of indie rock blog music one-up-manship. We've seen this many, many times before. A band gets so top heavy from all of the hype (hype around nothing really. What? One song.) and then cannot deliver anything more. Not the case with Some Terror. After "Relax the Terror" came out as a physical 7", the band went straight back to work; hammering out a terrific album. Fabricate comes out next month, and advance copies will be available at the Excuse Me? launch party.
The four goofy, easy-going friends that make up some terror betray their mysterious band name. Bassist José Grafé, drummer Jason Reitberg, guitarist Thomas Guide and frontman/keyboardist Will Deni all graduated from Loyola Marymount University and knew from the first moment they started jamming together sophomore year that music would have to be in their future. Some Terror's sound is influenced by many unexpected acts––Interpol, Bloc Party, Sonic Youth, and, oddly, the Beach Boys. All of these influences blend into something very special. The darkness of of the instrumentation mixed with Deni's soaring, ethereal vocals is best evidenced on tracks like "Posters," "The Queen, The Queen" and, of course, the minimal and attention-grabbing "Relax the Terror." The album is precise and atmospheric at the same time. Here is Fabricate's track listing:
1. Posters
2. Suspected
3. Route Planner
4. The Sun Never Sets
5. Umpire
6. The Queen, The Queen
7. Fabricate
8. On Campus
9. Diamonds
10. Made in Turkey
11. Relax the Terror
Celsius.
By far the most mellow band signed to Excuse Me? Records at this moment, Celsius, two friends––John Herrick and Toby West––originally from Phoenix, AZ., now living in San Francisco, produce delicate, electronic pieces of music that sound like Explosions in the Sky if the members of Air joined in. Celsius puts a lot of emphasis on production, making their record, I Don't Believe What You Just Said; I Want Proof, sound incredible. It's the perfect soundtrack for a summer nights, long drives or the end portions of low-key cocktail parties when everyone has left except for the one girl you actually want to talk to. Since production is so important to Celsius, they rarely perform live, but when they do it is something that should not be missed. Herrick and west command the stage, moving around from machine to machine and from keyboard to keyboard.
Their songs are long and very, very pretty. The aptly-named opener "Catalyst" is a 7-minute shimmering piano- and bass-driven trip that cascades perfectly into the shortest and fastest song on the disc, "Too Prepared." Also, lyrics are kept to a bare minimum, and the only time you hear any actual words (there is some "oooohing" and "eeeeehing" on a few other tracks, though) is near the end of the percussion- and synth-based "Doubled" with West's repeated whispers of "We were doubled/How could this happen?How could I have not foreseen this much trouble?" Celsius's album flows wonderfully and each song can sit on its own or mesh into the tracks around it like one giant composition. I Don't Believe What You Just Said; I Want Proof:
1. Catalyst
2. Too Prepared
3. Proof
4. One-Day Rental
5. Ice
6. Doubled
7. Eighteen
There are the most recent releases off of Excuse Me? Records. There will be more soon.
The original three signees of the label––Louis and the Vuittons, Some Terror and Celsius––are all putting the final touches on their respective releases. Here's an overview of the artists and their work.
Louis and the Vuittons.
As the name implies, fashion and fun are important to LATV. The band, which consists of los angeles natives Oliver Waler and brother and sister Benjamin and Krsten Hayes, started out playing small clubs and quickly made a name for themselves by wearing astonishingly high-fashion clothing to all of their various gigs and by playing fun, crowd-pleasing, dancable rock and electronic music. In addition to la hipsters, LATV also attracted some attention from the luxe leather goods manufacturer, Louis Vuitton, from whom the band obviously borrows a likeness. This attention––and narrowly avoided lawsuit––served only as a means to get LATV even more publicity. Excuse Me? Records took note and soon signed them.
The Vuittons use keyboards, synths, drums, guitars and samples to craft lo-fi, up-tempo indie dance music that pokes fun at––while simultaniously embracing––high-fashion and the extravagant Los Angeles culture. Think the Blow meets Architecture In Helsinki plus a little Hot Chip. Kirsten does most of the singing, but is oft-accompanied by her two male counterparts for some nice harmonization on tracks like the very upbeat opener "Finding a Replica!" and "Hollywood." LATV are also familiar with the art of the instrumental; creating several wonderfully textural lyric-less tracks like "Mexican Food" and "Does." Belts, out this month, is the first full-length from Louis and the Vuittons. Here is the track list:
1. Finding a Replica!
2. Only Pants, No Belts
3. Good Style Vs. Their Style
4. Mexican Food
5. Beleive Me, There Is a Difference
6. Hollywood
7. Crowded (Interlude)
8. There Are More Than a Few Threads on White Sneakers
9. Classic
10. Does
Some Terror.
Santa Monica four-piece Some Terror are not afraid. After releasing their single, "Relax the Terror," on Myspace the band was launched into the dauntingly cut-throat world of indie rock blog music one-up-manship. We've seen this many, many times before. A band gets so top heavy from all of the hype (hype around nothing really. What? One song.) and then cannot deliver anything more. Not the case with Some Terror. After "Relax the Terror" came out as a physical 7", the band went straight back to work; hammering out a terrific album. Fabricate comes out next month, and advance copies will be available at the Excuse Me? launch party.
The four goofy, easy-going friends that make up some terror betray their mysterious band name. Bassist José Grafé, drummer Jason Reitberg, guitarist Thomas Guide and frontman/keyboardist Will Deni all graduated from Loyola Marymount University and knew from the first moment they started jamming together sophomore year that music would have to be in their future. Some Terror's sound is influenced by many unexpected acts––Interpol, Bloc Party, Sonic Youth, and, oddly, the Beach Boys. All of these influences blend into something very special. The darkness of of the instrumentation mixed with Deni's soaring, ethereal vocals is best evidenced on tracks like "Posters," "The Queen, The Queen" and, of course, the minimal and attention-grabbing "Relax the Terror." The album is precise and atmospheric at the same time. Here is Fabricate's track listing:
1. Posters
2. Suspected
3. Route Planner
4. The Sun Never Sets
5. Umpire
6. The Queen, The Queen
7. Fabricate
8. On Campus
9. Diamonds
10. Made in Turkey
11. Relax the Terror
Celsius.
By far the most mellow band signed to Excuse Me? Records at this moment, Celsius, two friends––John Herrick and Toby West––originally from Phoenix, AZ., now living in San Francisco, produce delicate, electronic pieces of music that sound like Explosions in the Sky if the members of Air joined in. Celsius puts a lot of emphasis on production, making their record, I Don't Believe What You Just Said; I Want Proof, sound incredible. It's the perfect soundtrack for a summer nights, long drives or the end portions of low-key cocktail parties when everyone has left except for the one girl you actually want to talk to. Since production is so important to Celsius, they rarely perform live, but when they do it is something that should not be missed. Herrick and west command the stage, moving around from machine to machine and from keyboard to keyboard.
Their songs are long and very, very pretty. The aptly-named opener "Catalyst" is a 7-minute shimmering piano- and bass-driven trip that cascades perfectly into the shortest and fastest song on the disc, "Too Prepared." Also, lyrics are kept to a bare minimum, and the only time you hear any actual words (there is some "oooohing" and "eeeeehing" on a few other tracks, though) is near the end of the percussion- and synth-based "Doubled" with West's repeated whispers of "We were doubled/How could this happen?How could I have not foreseen this much trouble?" Celsius's album flows wonderfully and each song can sit on its own or mesh into the tracks around it like one giant composition. I Don't Believe What You Just Said; I Want Proof:
1. Catalyst
2. Too Prepared
3. Proof
4. One-Day Rental
5. Ice
6. Doubled
7. Eighteen
There are the most recent releases off of Excuse Me? Records. There will be more soon.
Excuse Me? Records: Launch Party Next Week!
excuse me? records, my new label, is about to luanch next weekend. i've been hard at work discovering and signing hot new acts, finding office space and lining up staff. now i'm all done and to celebrate there is going to be an enormous party next friday, may 4, at 111 minna gallery in san francisco. doors are at 8pm and there are still a few tickets left, which can be purchased at the door. they are first-come, first-served so getting there early is very recommended.
the indie label already has several new acts signed to it, most of whom have albums coming out very soon. also, some terror, whose single "relax the terror" has already garnered them an enormous following on myspace, will be playing a set starting at about 10. this night is going to be do-not-miss, everybody, and i happen to know that some big-shots from P4K and Filter Magazine are on the guestlist aswell. plus, i'm always down to talk to some up-and-coming talented musicians. some terror's label mates will also be milling around and there will be no shortage of h'dourves, band merch and, since it's at the 111 minna, alcohol and terrific modern art to keep you interested, if you're, ya know, not into music.
hope to see you there! and more on the the bands and their forthcoming releases soon!
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