Nels Cline belongs in Radiohead. Somehow the best in Americana rock got lucky in the guitar draft and snagged Cline from his rightful place shredding for the UK's most alienated and that's their loss and Wilco's gain and our gain to boot.
Wilco the Album and, I'd say, to a lesser extent, Sky Blue Sky have given the band a new purchase after Yankee Hotel Foxtrot—an album that any lesser band might consider a classy, definitive statement. And Cline is the factor that has them moving forward. He's got an appealing, thrash style of soloing (displayed mightily last night at Wolf Trap) that is never jammy (this is crucial). As a composer, he writes some incredible contrapuntal lines: I find the best moments on both of Wilco's most recent records to be when Cline is playing right over Jeff Tweedy's verse. Any other guitarist would railroad the vocal; Cline makes it work.
I'm willing to believe Tweedy when he says that the band isn't all about Tweedy any more (contra what Chris concludes, in a meatier review here). I'm not sure Tweedy believes the band isn't all about Tweedy, though. In the Wilco concert DVD Ashes of American Flags, Tweedy peddles some bullshit about the band's mythology and spins the centrality of each of the players to the Wilco sound and vision—which goes to illustrate that Tweedy is the band. But I'm not sure that's the case going forward, having heard Cline absolutely tear it up on "Bull Black Nova" and "Impossible Germany" last night.
Anyway, neither of these setlists is correct, but if you add a bit of the latter to the bulk of the former you get the right idea.
And yes, Wilco started the show with "Wilco (the Song)." This is an unforgivable offense and to let them walk is better than they deserve. It reminds me of a story that Martin Amis tells in his autobiography (stop me if you've heard this one before): His pop Kingsley Amis is reading Money, one of a rare few instances (maybe the first) that Martin is aware that his father is reading one of his books. This is worrisome to Martin, for Money finds Martin introducing Martin Amis as a character in the text—a breach of manners that would have landed Martin over Kingsley's lap were he younger, I'm sure. So as Amis Sr. reads, Amis Jr. looks on secretively, paginating the moments as his father thumbs toward the pivotal point. And of course, Kingsley Amis throws the book across the room.
This is exactly the right response and I hope that those of you fortunate enough to receive a review copy of Wilco (the Album) did the same. Maybe that's why Wilco decided to livestream the album before its release?
Tonight I'm taking off for a short East Coast tour to play in the backing band for a musician who is new and now dear to me. Sixto Rodriguez is a Detroit psychedelic-folk artist whose second (and last) album was recorded in 1971; he's become something of a legend in recent years, thanks to some wily Australian DJs and the nation of South Africa, where both Cold Fact and Coming to Reality found an enthusiastic audience in the 1990s.
The good people of Harvest Records put together a short East Coast lineup for Rodriguez and formed a backing band to follow him. I'm playing tenor sax, and you might also recognize Jon and Bob of Gestures on brass detail.
Let me tell you, without question, the preferred way to be introduced to a musician's catalog is to learn it and tour it. I'm not a professional musician; this is not something I do. I don't expect this to happen ever again, so I am totally thrilled at the opportunity.
Tonight, D.C. folks can see Rodriguez at the Rock n' Roll Hotel. On Thursday, Rodriguez is playing Johnny Brenda's in Philly, and then on Friday we play the Bowery Ballroom in New York. (Sheepishly thrilled to admit that my first visit to the Bowery Ballroom will be to play onstage. That is just silly.) Tomorrow, Rodriguez is also recording some tunes at WXPN for World Cafe, which is not broadcast live (enshalla)—look for that piece to appear over the next three weeks or so.
Such are the wonders of San Francisco that Rodriguez's instore performance at Amoeba appears online in a great interview/video segment. Here are a couple of Rodriguez's recording that you might also want to know:
If you make it out to any of those shows this week, make sure to stop and say hi—I'll be the one shaking in my boots holding a saxophone.
UPDATE: The Going-Out Gurus mention the Rodriguez show opposite The Thermals tonight. Indeed, I had tickets to The Thermals myself! But priorities, people—those guys will probably play here three times this year.
MORE: Brightest Young Things and the City Paper pick up the show. I have some hope that Rodriguez will pick up some Thermals fans! Playing against the Caps game 7 is a little more daunting.
I reviewed the new Wilco concert film for the DCist. Take a look and, sure, I'll just go ahead and say, think about picking this up: You won't be disappointed.
One thing that struck me during the Q&A afterward is that Brendan Canty made a point of saying that the people who worked on this film are largely or all from the District. As if he were making a point about labor law or stimulus funding. I love that artists here care so much about this city; it's easy to forget but in my experience it's really unique.
Bob Boilen was sitting right behind me in the theater! Here is what he twittered afterward: "Is Wilco the best band in America? after seeing Ashes of American Flags, I'm sure of it. watch a clip and decide." Indeed, click click.
Gestures hit the studio a few weeks back, and we've now mixed and very nearly mastered our (title tk) album. The first two songs listed on our myspace site came out of the studio session ("Conceptual Seduction" and "Doritos").
So there's art work to be reproduced and decisions to be made about what to do with the damn thing when it's ready—disc? vinyl+mp3s?—so they won't be available before the end of this year, unless, that is, you hear us play the songs live, tonight, at the Black Cat. We're on the back stage with the luscious Edie Sedgwick and Big Gold Belt, who debuts.
Two looks at the electronic whisper mute for saxophone. I don't live in a city quite so dense (or practice so frequently, ahem) that I feel that I'm disturbing roommates and neighbors too often. So I don't exactly need this. Plus it inhibits bell tones (i.e., low notes), some users say, leaving me to to wonder how useful this even is for practice. However, it appeals to me for reasons the developer probably never considered: as a way to potentially mute the acoustic sound while still projecting an amplified sound in a live setting using the mute/case's built-in pickup. That sound could be manipulated electronically, distorted, looped, and so on, with diminished acoustic interference. Which is possible with an electronic wind instrument that offers no native acoustic sound anyway, sure; but the e-sax whisper mute can be played with a standard saxophone—ideally, this 1935 Beuscher "Aristocrat"—affording all the same effects you can get with an EWI but sacrificing none of the action or subtlety. Of course you'd rather be playing a Selmer Varitone like Eddie Harris, but let's be realistic.
Still, even if it does look cool, the thing costs about twice what it would to just buy a Barcus Berry and try to project through the pre-amp and not through the bell—know what I'm saying?
Elsewhere, a four-piece bass clarinet ensemble covers Radiohead,
This year Fort Reno needs a kick-start in the way of a few donations. If you've enjoyed free shows there in years past, give them all your monies. Gestures will be playing Fort Reno—assuming that arsenic remains low, the generosity remains high, and the rain remains on some other plains.
Speaking of: I'm playing sax every night this weekend. For The City Veins's CD release party tonight at Iota, I'm sitting in on a couple of songs (with a new friend Tim, who's playing trumpet). The horn section is your new bicycle.
Then on Saturday, Gestures is playing with The Ear, The Eye, and The Arm (that's one band) and Belltone Suicide (that's the other). We're playing at the Kansas House, a show house that's been mentioned by Buddyhead, Brightest Young Things, and Philadelphia Weekly, which makes it true. (It's also where some of Gestures lives.) Kansas House is in Arlington, but it's still kind of fantastic: 900 North Kansas Street, Arlington VA. Please don't harass my bandmates outside party hours.
This is the second time recently that we've paired up with fully electonic-y groups, ambient wizards, DJs, mixmasters, and IDM scientists. I feel so crude, humming air through curved metal!
Sunday, same same bands, this time earlier in the evening and at Big Bear Cafe. We set up the show after the Richmond stop in the other bands' tour fell through.
Come check out EEA and Gestures and enjoy live music at for-donation cost!
A reader passes on some stuff about the Urban Verbs, a band who sounded like Public Image back before there was a Public Image. They've reunited after a long absence from the scene; David Malitz enjoyed an early look at the group before its official reunion show at the 9:30 on May 24. The Urban Verbs played a preview show at Comet Ping Pong, which should come as no surprise to those who are familiar with Comet's reputation for supporting the art scene—that's painter Robin Rose on the acid synths.
Check out this incredible blurb from the band's site:
The band's first performances took place in 1978 at the Atlantis Club on F Street in Washington DC. The Verbs first practice space was in the Catacombs beneath the club and Roddy lived in a seventh floor loft there for a time. After catastrophic mismanagement by the club and building owner, the incredible Dody Di Santo took over and birthed the 9:30 Club, named for it's address at 930 F Street, NW as well as its usual opening time. The Verbs were the first DC band to play CBGBs (with the Cramps) in October of 1978. During that gig they were seen by Brian Eno, who was living in the West Village at 9 West 8th Street and recording the Talking Heads' "More Songs About Buildings and Food" at Chris and Tina's loft in Long Island City. After the Verbs second set he rushed home and typed a two page letter, replete with marginalia and beginning, "I was extremely impressed by your performance tonight. It struck me as a whole new set of ideas about how to structure sound.” He shared his thoughts about the structure of the Verbs' music and instrumentation and very generously offered to record two live Verbs sets at CBGBs the following week before leaving for Africa. "I realize this gush might surprise you somewhat (it did!!!) , but you came at a good time for me. I have been sitting in my apartment for the last three weeks, and before that in England, thinking and writing about music in a social sense: it's connection to the current state of life, if you'd like. And now to hear something which seems so very well connected is a joy."I'm sorry I'm going to miss that May 24 show, but it sounds like a band worth checking out.
Closed immediately and indefinitely, say the Going Out Gurus. Aw, man—Gestures had just got word that we were playing Fort Reno this year. Arsenic—what a bummer!
An illustration: Radiohead fans who arrive late (that is, not early enough) to Nissan Pavilion during a Biblical flood are told that the roads inside the venue are flooded. Fans wind up circling the venue for hours waiting for access (all the while, it rains even harder). In comments here, readers relate stories about watching from the lawn, where they are exposed to the elements, and falling ill afterward. Pneumonia and hours idling in the car aren't worth the price of admission!
It did all make for a laugh during "Paranoid Android" ("Rain down, rain down/Come on rain down on me"), at least under the enclosed part of the auditorium. Which is where I was—sort of up in the front. And I had a great time! Though I had some difficulty getting the personal seat warmer to work. Live Nation, if you could look into that?
One more pun, karma police: Does the fallout from yesterday's failed show mark a watershed moment? Fans and promoters have always clashed but it's never been over carbon and rarely over structural access. It's not just that the roads were flooded—fans are saying they shouldn't have to take roads. The band's saying it's irresponsible to take roads. With both bands and fans complaining bitterly about the choice of venue, how long can promoter corporations like Live Nation hold out?
Another bitter point: Ticketmaster charged every fan—who saw the show or not—a $6 parking fee. When I am king, they will be first against the wall.
Everyone ought to see this video of Prince covering Radiohead's "Creep" before Prince makes it too hard to come by—copies have already been disappeared from Youtube. You know that's what Prince does all day: Surfing the Web for unauthorized copies of his music, while attendants bathe his feet in fresh yogurt.
The most remarkable part is that Prince's voice cuts out before he can say "creep" at any point during the song. The man is constitutionally incapable of making a self-derogatory claim, so he can't actually bring himself to sing the lyrics, "I'm a creep." Loud and clear on the perfect body line, though.
I was totally won over by one of the bands who played the show with us last night: Make a Rising, which sounded live like a clarinet-driven Usaisamonster, though the recordings sound a lot less math-y. Plus, they all were wearing sparkly shirts and furry costumes.
Is that The Roches I detect sampled at the beginning of "Sneffels Yokul"? The band doesn't include any women members (sexists) and the women voices on that chorus certainly sounds like The Roches do on Phillip Glass's Songs From Liquid Days.
Improvised and scripted jazz-funeral sounds at the Velvet Lounge on U Street, tonight. We're playing with one other band, but I don't know whom or when. Ten's a safe bet. The photo's by Drew McDermott.
UPDATE: I remembered! We're playing with Philadelphia's Make a Rising.
On travel to Texas, where I'll be writing a SXSW blog for Campus Progress. More details (and a URL) soon; the festival begins Wednesday. Lykke Li, I'm looking for you.
A conversation today about art-music videos reminds me that the Wpa hasn't hosted a lecture in its Experimental Media Series in some time. I hope it's an ongoing program that will return to the Corcoran soon.
In the meantime, and acknowledging that I'm totally copping out on the lack of posts around here lately—art videos!
OCDJ!
Dan Deacon!
Videohippos!
All good things come from Baltimore. Note that if you play all these videos at the same time, it sounds like any song by your run-of-the-mill, cool-kids Baltimore DJ.
Finally, this gem:
I can't explain that one but I adore it.
Last night was my first time seeing The City Veins since they trimmed down to a three-piece and the show did not disappoint, though I disappointed myself by arriving after they'd started. Their next show is at Iota, which ought to be a good venue for them.
I understand you are planning on seeing your favorite dark-calypso combustion ensemble, Gestures, play tonight at the Velvet Lounge. This is a good plan that you have devised. It is, frankly, one of the more sensible decisions that you can make, given a primary season full of confusing candidates, inevitable disappointments, and electronic amplification. None of that is on the agenda tonight at the Velvet Lounge—and that's a promise I intend to keep.
Now I find myself in a band called Gestures. I'm playing tenor saxophone. The picture above does not feature me; nor do the songs on the Web site. You can only find me by showing up at the Velvet Lounge on Wednesday, January 9, where we're playing with Adventure (from Baltimore) and Terrior Bute and Big Fun (both from Milwaukee).
Gestures seems in this case to be the butt of a which-one-doesn't-belong joke by the booking agent, since the other acts on the bill are crisp and electronic whereas we proffer acoustic noise. But the hope is that we'll find instead that we all belong (and you, too).
I'm stealing this post whole cloth from Sadly, No!, if only to introduce it to an ever-so-slightly larger audience. It's the video for the Silver Apples' "Oscillations," from 1968's pure piece of pwnage, Silver Apples:
How much would you pay to see the Beatles play live?
All alive and in full vigor of youth, of course. Playing at a mid-sized venue (say, the 9:30 Club, whose upcoming shows include Editors, Blonde Redhead, Lupe Fiasco, for size reference).
. . . the City Paper, if it has not run its critics' lists yet, and to The Field, whose From Here We Go Sublime was worth brushing off the nonmandatory and totally arbitrary cap of ten selections—my top ten favorite albums from 2007 drum roll ba-dum-ching:
Battles, MirroredIt only goes to show how mercurial this process of assigning best-ofs is: For the list I submitted to CP I ranked the submissions, and looking at that ranking just now, I clearly didn't know what the hell I was talking about last week. So today they're in alphabetical order. And I haven't given that Panda Bear album a listen, but I think that maybe I don't like it. Look in the City Paper on Thursday for a year-end essay on District art galleries and so on.
Caribou, Andorra
Dan Deacon, Spiderman of the Rings
Deerhunter, Cryptograms
Dirty Projectors, Rise Above
Feist, The Reminder
Liars, Liars
Radiohead, In Rainbows
UGK, Underground Kingz
White Williams, Smoke
As for the Best Show in 2007 That I Barely Remember Attending, that has to be Raccoo-oo-oon, a band I like okay but loved that night. I'm pretty sure I bought one of every piece of merchandise they had to offer.
Today I filed my list of top 10 albums from 2007 for the City Paper and UGK's Underground Kingz definitely made the cut. Sad news, then, that Pimp C was found dead in L.A.. Spencer and I listened to UGK's album (and Computer World for what that's worth) for a while today, so the news seemed especially incredible.
Fine song:
Soulja Boy's report card. There is no decoding the accent used for the intro and outro of that song. Some kind of M.I.A.–style imagining of an immigrant who learned English in the UK? It strikes me that that's the voice Umberto Eco was striving for in Baudolino, but I digress.
| Subject | Grade |
|---|---|
| Math | 47 |
| English | 67 |
| Science | 14 |
That's really not very good.
I fear I'm coming down with something kind of bad right before the single most important day of the year—Halloween (Observed). I've got a review of Radiohead's In Rainbows for Campus Progress but little else to say, I'm sorry to say, so long as I'm under this weather.
Jiha Moon, Jade Cycle, 2007.
Read about that show here. And if you grab the paper that's on stands today, you can read about Nelson Vergara's "Anni" at Meat Market Gallery.
I paid £5 for In Rainbows, which was like, twice as much as my cheapskate friends put down.
The Telegraph, reporting on Radiohead's decision to allow fans to download their forthcoming album for free:
Radiohead could even benefit from those who ignore the box set and choose to pay nothing to download the album from Radiohead's online shop, where they will be required to register their details and therefore become targets for future marketing campaigns.Thom Yorke wants my private data? For marketing purposes?
Pitchfork, on Sonic Youth contributing to a Starbucks compilation:
During New York City's recent Fashion Week, [videographer Liz] Glover approached [Kim] Gordon to ask exactly why the band chose to go with Starbucks. The result is . . . Gordon's pithy, pretty awesome reply:And Thurston Moore on same: "Starbucks is the new record store, right?" The sorry thing is, I'm more sympathetic than not with the adults in both cases."They're less evil than Universal."
Since Tiny Shiny first posted "Crank Dat" I have been following Soulja Boy in the news, and it must be said that we still lack a clear understanding of his role within the Crank Squad or the goals of the Crank Squad more broadly. We know that Soulja Boy releases his training videos over the Internet. And we now know that he recently infiltrated the entire University of Texas Longhorns football squad, recruiting them to his crank-dat regime and lending Soulja Boy a militia of unparalleled strength. The ability to negotiate from the I-formation with QB under center? Consider Soulja Boy a regional authority to be reckoned with.
Soulja Boy's modular message has been adopted and transformed by other figures in the global hip-hop community who are interested in cranking dat for a variety of purposes. Using freely available p2p technology, I was able to locate instructions for cranking dat vis-a-vis a number of significant world leaders across the globe. In addition to Soulja Boy's original Crank Dat Superman, I was able to acquire:
On Campus Progress: Reviews of new stuff from Travis Morrison Hellfighters, Montag, and Stars—a veritable cornucopia of indie blather. Later today or this weekend, I'll put up a link to a piece on The American Prospect on presidential portraiture and the controversy surrounding an (un)official portrait of President Bush.
Check out this jam. Doesn't this sound as fresh as anything you'd expect to hear out there?
You'll be creeped out by how much you enjoy this song—it's a perfect dance track, recorded by a woman (!) named Q Lazzarus whose career amounts to this and little else. Would you fuck you? You'd fuck you. You'd fuck you hard.
For Campus Progress, I've got a trio of electronic rock record reviews up: Mirrored by Battles, Fancy Footwork by Chromeo, and † by Justice.
Beck's Sea Change is a album I've overlooked; I figured I was above West Coast countrypolitan dabbling, but as it turns out, it's a wonderful record and when weather and circumstances conspire, it's the only one that does the trick.
According to the New Yorker: Steve Earle will perform the opening theme for the next season of The Wire. That is all, and that is enough.
I'm on the Outer Banks with some confederates until Saturday, but nevertheless, work returns in full this week. But before we get back to the sober stuff:
Holy hell! That's Mastodon!
Did you know that Walter De Maria was the original drummer for the Velvet Underground? No joke. Courtesy of the invaluable U B U W E B, two De Maria percussion tracks:
. . . plays tonight at the Warehouse, 9:30/$8. What I didn't mention here is that no two sources list their names spelled the same way. Wtf, Usaisa.
Tonight you'll find me at the Velvet Lounge, where The City Veins are playing their first show. Charles promises that he/they don't sound like Rush, but don't take his word for it: You can catch their whole album here.
Nobody in the District stops for anything but Starbucks in the morning, whatever, whatever. A gimmick that gets people bit-torrenting Bach's "Chaconne" is a win for old-music nerds. But I must interrobang: Is there a better proper name for an instrument than the Gibson ex Huberman‽ Ben suggests the Hammer; the Cannone Guarnerius (Canon, Il Cannone, Cannone del Gesu) comes close.
(Little-known fact: In 7th grade, I dubbed my saxophone Bobby Valentine, after the manager of the Texas Rangers.)
One of the Going-Out Gurus put a song on his April mix tape that I recently put on a mix tape, too. An intersection! One that I will share with you, gratis, until someone sues the pants off me or absorbs all my awesome bandwidth. Hell, I'll put up the whole playlist. Note that almost none of these acts will be appearing in your area any time soon.
Peter, Björn, and John, "Young Folks". Confirming yet again that pop improves with latitude. Don't know whether I'm going to plink down the $20 to see the Swedes' show at the 930 Club at the end of the month—but this song alone is worth the price of the PB&J album.
The Vaselines, "Slushy". My roommates live on the bleeding edge, and not often do they get behind the vintage-bin stuff I play. But I've caught every one of them humming something or another by The Vaselines, which owes either to their catchy hooks or the fact that I won't put them away.
Stereo Total, "I Love You, Ono". Carnival music? French–German Tropicália? I don't, in fact, love Ono.
Os Mutantes, "A Minha Menina". Bona fide Tropicália. I don't want to hear about how you saw them at Pitchfork. This song appears on most any mix I make from April through September: so sunny. And Wreck sings along to this one.
The Fall, "Totally Wired". Can you believe they just released a new album? Their 26th? Jesus Christ. It's got a Merle Haggard cover on it—that sounds pretty sweet. Once, when I was a wee lad, I asked an older and wiser record store clerk I sort-of knew what really great Fall album I should check out, and his response was something like, "First one [idiot]." Thank you, Letters to a Young Rock Fan.
Love, "Alone Again". Where's the love? Here's the love. (Getting bored with this format.)
Dusty Springfield, "Some of Your Lovin'". A beautiful, confident, experienced, bittersweet song. It's absolute gold.
Harry Nilsson, "Everybody's Talkin'". Not only will Wreck sing along to this one, but on the part where Nilsson launches into his stratospheric falsetto, Wreck matches pitch, duration, tone, the whole shebang. Wreck won't let you leave his love behind.
Ris Paul Ric, "Valerie Teardrop". Picking up the pace a little, I turn to local-boy-done-good Chris Richards. This song I think of as his solo single, in part because someone else put it on a mix tape for me once, also because I remembered it well after seeing it performed live just once.
Beach House, "Saltwater". My current Baltimore sweetheart act. (I understand there's a big war between the District and Baltimore scenes? Sorry, I'm totally rooting for Baltimore. Charm City, let me know if you need any intel from the inside.)
Visitors, "I Know". These guys are friends of mine from Austin. Recently, after I'd been out playing some records with some friends, I wrote these guys a retarded, drunk message on MySpace. If that's not grounds to have my Internet taken away, I don't know what is. I'm fond of the walking-tempo, minor-key arpeggios on the organ.
The Usaisamonster, "No More Forever". I had to buy, like, three different EPs by these guys to find the copy of this song that I wanted. On some recordings, the treble falls off entirely during that blazing guitar riff. Accept no substitutes.
Marnie Stern, "Grapefruit". How great is this album? Pretty A-OK, says everyone. The combination of maximum-riffage noodling with stop-and-start metrics and layered, fussy vocals is a profitable formula. I think she could mine three albums' worth of material without tweaking her concept too much, and damnit, I want to listen to all those albums. Spencer listened to this song for the first time and observed something about the frisson of perfect pop clarity that arrives with the heavy chords. That's about right: Despite all the things he and I are saying about it, it's really accessible music.
Sentai, "Everything Change Everything". More District favorites.
Stephen Malkmus, "Jo Jo's Jacket". Every once in a while a song from Brighten the Corners will electrocute my brain. I've never been all that into Pavement; I don't feel like my behavior lumps me with the at-risk community for this affliction. This song from Malkmus's solo stuff greatly enhances the threat of guilty-pleasure aneurysm.
TV on the Radio, "Mr. Grieves". An a capella Pixies cover comprising twenty-eight (!) vocal tracks, every last one recorded to creep you right the fuck out. In Tunde Adebimpe's phrasing, a lyric like "What's that floating in the water?" takes on the sinister inflection of ghost story. He's the stuttering librarian who says that things have always been amiss in this town, the shuffling carnival hand who wouldn't ride the ferris wheel under the full moon out if he were you.
Susannah Hoffs, "I'll Keep It With Mine". I'm collecting versions of this song—Dylan, Nico, Fairport Convention, Rainer Maria. This one by Hoffs (ex-Bangles) is my favorite.
I'm someone who cares not one whit about chocolate Jesus sculptures—especially since, as you'll see below, the "Immaculate Confection" quip was claimed a long time ago—though I do appreciate the snarky e-mails about it. Don't say I never gave you anything in return!
Here's Tom Waits performing "Chocolate Jesus" on the David Letterman Show:
Last night, roommate and gal-about-town Catherine A. and I were batting around the notion of pitching a gotcha! piece on scumbags scalping tickets to the Dismemberment Plan benefit show. Nothing doing, says one diligent craigslister: The Black Cat and Ticketmaster are distributing tix only via will call to buyers with ID and credit card in hand. Sure enough, every post on the page is an ISO plea.
But check it, y'all. Ticketmaster didn't cap the number of tickets per transaction, so ostensibly, some hieroglyph-fluent prospector might have snagged 50 tickets under the assumption that he could make his heartless fortune the old-fashioned way: ripping off math-rock nerds. Fans seem to believe that more than one speculator lost his membership card to the human race—despite the fact that no such villain has yet played his hand. I wonder what happens when a mob willing to go to great lengths to acquire tickets but hell bent on preserving a price well below the intersection of the supply and demand curves spots someone outside the club pocketing bonus tickets. Wouldn't they, you know, render apart the physical person of anyone who's holding?
The Black Cat should have charged $45 for these tickets. Maximize the charity benefit, weed out the scalper, and dissuade the casual listener who bought tickets on a lark and will sell them after asking D-Plan fans to jump through silly hoops to prove their fanhood.
I have a ticket and the luxury it affords. I assure, I can assess the question with academic remove. Other narrators, however, seem less reliable:
catherine: you HAVE a ticket, don't you?
kriston: yes
catherine: i'm going to dismember you
Cache-Cache and Lexie Mountain tonight. Beach House tomorrow night. There's a lot to love about you, District of mine, and I'm determined to make this thing between us work, but my attraction to Baltimore is really sometimes quite overwhelming.
The next time I have a chance to see Marnie Stern, I'll be lucky—lucky—if I'm peering on my tip-toes around the lanky hipsters who hole up at the Black Cat. Just last week, she played to what I imagine was an intimate crowd at my favorite venue, the Warehouse (which can only really fit intimate crowds). A few days later, the District's own Chris Richards was singing Stern's praises; today the NYT's Kalefa Sanneh crowns her new album "the year's most exciting rock 'n' roll record" and, more to the point, says that a universe in which this record isn't a hit is not a good universe. Well, the universe might not be all bad after all: Pitchfork's Brandon Stosuy gives it a recommendation with caveats, a provisional thumbs-up, a lukewarm "yes, but . . ."—the surest sign so far that Stern's album lives up to the hype. If I may add to it, I haven't listened to anything but Marnie Stern all week. She nails Helium's drone (but livelier), Karen O's vocals (but tinnier), and Don Caballero's rhythms (but rawer).
Granted, In Advance of the Broken Arm has only been out now for a week. Maybe the chatter is premature, but I say, L.H.O.O.Q. out, folks—elle a chaud au album.
Spencer doesn't lie: Lombardo flopped on "South of Heaven" last night. I was sure this would prompt chaos from the crowd (panic! at the disco), but that's the advantage to a fan base that is prone to rioting. They already were! The drummer drops the drum solo and no one in the audience skips a beat: elbows fly, blood is spilled, there is much wailing & gnashing of teeth, etc., etc., etc. Live by the sword—die by the sword. Or get a pass.
A shame that I missed Marnie Stern, though. She played at Warehouse, one stop on her grueling tour, the kind that would make the angel of death whimper. But who could skip Slayer? And who knew: Outside of Royal K. Memorial Stadium in full attendance, I've never seen so many people throw up the hook 'em horns at once. Hook 'em, Slatanic Wehrmacht! Hook 'em, every last one!
Dan Flavin's permanent installation for Santa Maria Annunciata at Chiesa Rossa in Milan, 1997.
The Arcade Fire's new Neon Bible isn't kicking my ass. But I've heard enough to look forward to tapping my foot along when the band plays the album live. I was expecting something more ambitious from a sophomore effort and was willing to forgive them a misstep—but hey, they still sound like The Cure and I still like that sound, so. It doesn't surprise me to find out that the band self-produced the new album, which comes close to sounding like a live performance. The instrumentation is as spare and as crisp as on Funeral, and expansive pop songs that avoid a lot of clutter win me over. The Arcade Fire is touted for their stadium anthems; I like that they do it without a lot of to-do.
Not looking forward to fighting for tickets for this show, though.
Don Giulio Greco, priest of the Red Church in Milan, in a letter to Dan Flavin in 1996: "I'd be delighted if someone like you could help us to find an ambiance in our church. By 'ambiance,' I mean a living space, a place inhabited by the Word."
Check out Austin-based, friends-of-friends, Google-proof artists Pink Nasty and her brother, Black Nasty. If you don't like Pink Nasty's cover of "May It Always Be" by Bonnie Prince Billy, you may still not like Black Nasty's "Gimme Your Butt"—but you will have listened to two new songs.
Franz Ferdinand, "Do You Want To?"
K. tipped me off to this one. Fun for art nerds and dance-y to boot!
Stocking stuffers!
Charles Downey writes up the December concert series by the Folger Consort:
Most of the program was anchored around the reign of King Henry VIII (1509-1547), a monarch who loved music, who composed and sang as well as being a patron. Of the three selections credited to Henry in this concert, the lovely carol Green Groweth the Holly stood out from the others. The best instrumental selections were arranged for three recorders, like the anonymous Ave rex angelorum and the arrangement of Christ Church Bells, with its opening repeated note motif meant to evoke tintinnabulation. Fa la sol, arranged for two recorders and violin, was also charming, the work of William Cornysh, one of Henry VIII's best chapel musicians.Plus, the Folger Consort revives older music for new-to-you carols. Price wise, it's a more reasonable candidate than the Kennedy Center's Nutcracker Suite for an annual holiday music tradition, and I've been in the market for one of those. No threat of black snowflakes, either.
With 98 percent of precincts reporting, the City Paper has elected its top 20 music releases of 2006. I can safely report that three from my own top 10 list made the cut. If I had known that instrumental post-rock music had such a fan following at the alternative weekly—indeed, who could have guessed?—I'd've allocated those points to Cox & Combes, driving them from the hinterlands of YouTube hyperphenomena to the megalopolis that is free newsprint.
The arts writers' selections were all strong (those that were known to me), and I'll say more after that issue's released. Another thing: One very deserving local band made the cut.
Banks Violette, SunnO))) / (Repeater) Decay / Coma Mirror, 2006.SUNN O))) & Boris brought their collaboration, Altar, to the Walker in Minnie last May. For a June exhibition at Maureen Paley in London, sculptor Banks Violette cast in salt every piece of equipment that SUNN O))) uses—guitars, heads, pedals, synthesizers, enough stacks to bring down the walls of Jericho. As part of the installation, the band performed, but viewers were only permitted to watch the facsimile instruments. (Scene & Herd was there to see and hear; Joe Beres has pictures of the casting process.)
To my readers at the Hirshhorn: I would like to get in on some of this action.
In fact I think it would take special-event programming at the museum to get either of these bands here. SUNN O))) and/or Boris only ever come as close to the District as Baltimore (which is, not coincidentally, the nearest city with personality). It's not for lack of venues. The Warehouse doesn't seem to book noise acts, but I don't see why it couldn't. And though the All Souls Church doesn't seem to adhere to the traditional Unitarian practice of hosting non-mainstream musical performances, it's in the right location and brags about its large in-house music program. Unitarians, they're pushovers, of course they won't mind hosting your doom concert, they'd be thrilled.
Neither of the bands are touring now, so the point's moot, so I'll keep listening to Altar. It's a satisfying November soundtrack, especially before the gloomy weather lifted: Bill Herzog's bowed bass for the early evenings, Atsuo's cymbal rolls and scattered drums for the rain. (Kim Thayil—that Kim Thayil—plays on the record. So that explains this week's freaky spot of sunshine.)
I've been tempted to abandon showers and shaving and go for a monosludge look to match the sound, but this plan has been greeted by considerable consternation from my nearest and dearest. Possibly because I was two days into the operation when I mentioned it.
* The title shouldn't make any sense, unless, like me, you mentally pronounce "SUNN O)))" as "sun ought" (with just a little bit of reverb at the end—though when you're speaking about the band you say "sun-oh-parenthesis-parenthesis-parenthesis," because you honor the band's titling convention, even if more often than not you're interrupted before you say "parenthesis" a second time because your listener knows the band, or doesn't want to hear about it), in which case you arrive at "The Sun Ought So Rises"—and, I don't know, that's clever? Ben, Ian, someone want to help me out?
Rainer Maria calls it quits. It strikes me as more than sad that the band announced the news via Pitchfork—Yglesias and I have long maintained that that site's hegemonic sway over the market is just plain bad for music, and a genuine Internet curiosity. Show after distressingly empty show, I the declining attendance on the silly and solipsistic pans that Pitchfork's Rob Mitchum gave their latest albums Catastrophy Keeps Us Together and Long Knives Drawn. I don't think I'm knocking the guy for not sharing my tastes when I say that. These albums aren't perfect or anything—the Village Voice noted some reasonable flaws, flaws I'm willing to overlook for affection's sake. But Pitchfork treated the band to vacuous, bad-faith reviews. Pitchfork called Rainer Maria lame, and Rilo Kiley fans stayed away.
I don't take it as much comfort that even the writer who posted the news praises R|M and complains about her site's manhandling the band. It's unfair and partisan of me to assume that poor sales drove them to break up, and I'm sure a less bitter person will tell you that they outlasted the faddish genre they came up in, even if they could never quite shake the derogatory tag—that's an accomplishment beyond just surviving as creative collaborators and succeeding as musicians over several years and albums. "Atlantic" stands up as a meandering and perfectly toe-tappable pop song; "Tinfoil" is a sentimental favorite; "Artificial Light" irritated me until I decided to love it; "The Contents of Lincoln's Pockets" is a narcotic singalong. Catastrophe Keeps Us Together is the band's best album, and they have a hits album, too. But (getting into the spirit of the band, now) I'll miss them in great part—not the new music they won't make, I mean there's that, but also just knowing in the back of my mind that they're out there and playing—because a lot of their songs remind me of good times, and some sorry ones also, and these associations feel interrupted, and maybe less brilliant, for watching the band close on a down note.
I happen to know that Lily Cox-Richard feels great affection for Bruce Springsteen, so this one's for her. New media artist and bobo darling Cory Arcangel has recorded glockenspiel tracks for all the parts of Born To Run that don't already include the instrument (which is, what, maybe a minute and a half?). You can order a disc of Arcangel's "Orientalist cascades" (thanks, Pitchfork!) through Beige Records. You'll need to have your own copy of B2R to hear the addendum with the original.
Are they good live? I'm planning a trip to Charlottesville this weekend, and they're playing on Sunday night. I don't know their stuff all that well but I've heard a bit and wouldn't mind seeing them.
UPDATE: Xiu Xiu's on Monday night. Sunday's "easy listening" on the Hammond by George Melvin. So . . . probably something else.
If you're spending Labor Day doing labor—especially if you're painstakingly installing curtains over all the windows—put on a little Radiodread to make the work go by. That's OK Computer covered by dub and reggae artists off NYC's Easy Star Records. "Let Down" by Toots and the Maytals is not to be missed. (Courtesy of Sleepytalk.)
SHELLAC plays next Thursday at the Black Cat—as the bloggers say, Aaron Leitko gets it exactly right. I'm sore about missing Beirut last night at the Warehouse—when I arrived before doors' opening there was already a line around the block, and they're no Charming Hostess or anything so I wasn't inclined to wait to try my chances, but if I'd shown some patience, my latecoming friends who got inside tell me, I'd've been able to see them—but I won't be so careless about lining up for Shellac. SHEL-LAC: Invite it in through pursed lips, loll it around on your tongue, punctuate it with a guttural stop like a crash symbol.
An anecdote in response to a longstanding question about whether artists "should" listen to music while making art: I recall drawing in a studio class in college, listening to Einstürzende Neubauten on a portable CD player, when someone asked me about listening to music while working, and I wondered whether the question would arise if there were merely loud construction outside the art building. If the question is whether artists ought to resist input that could determine their work, in some sense, music is just one sort of input that is less significant than nutrition and sleep patterns, which are also voluntary. I tend to believe that we're automatons no matter what. I do try to avoid drinking too much coffee before I settle into some creative endeavor.
Since I play the saxophone and my incoming roommate Spencer plays the drums, we're obligated to start a household band: Sax, Drums, and Rock n' Roll. If it happens that among our other roommates is a mallet percussionist and . . . some sort of media artist, we'll have a side project: Sax, Vibes, and Video Tape.
OF COURSE: Sax, Lyres, and Video Tape is much better.
It's not a final Sleater-Kinney show until The DCeiver makes a joke about Axe body spray and "All Hands on the Bad One," but it's also not a final Sleater-Kinney show until . . . Sleater-Kinney plays. Which they didn't. Apparently the transformers at the 930 Club overheated (aptly evidenced by the furious black column of smoke pouring forth from the grate just outside the club), so just after the opener, the police canceled the headline.
Well, fuck. It's time to call it: This is easily the hottest summer I've spent in the four years I've lived in the District, and things are getting hairy. It's not pleasant to walk to places with AC (ignoring places without AC, for example, my bedroom), and far less to places whose units explode when you arrive. I was in Baltimore on Sunday watching a thrilling O's comeback victory against the White Sox in the 9th, and not once did the crowd even attempt the Wave. Dire times we're looking at! Human sacrifice, mass hysteria—dogs and cats, living together!
It's time to start pitching for some travel pieces due north (though, for now I'm working on finishing a few novels for reviews (which is a reason I've been out of touch)). In the meantime, if you can read this and not cry even just a few short, chortled tears, maybe it was a mistake to let you read my Web site in the first place.
New in the City Paper this week: A short item on E3, the painting symposium currently showing at Transformer, and a longer piece on the DC Free Recording Project. Excerpt:
"I'm not doing it to say, 'Hey, look at what a bunch of great fucking guys we are,'" [Ian] MacKaye says. "It's more like the Diggers," the late-'60s San Francisco guerrilla-theater group that operated a bread line. "It's just free because it's free."I managed to piss off MacKaye and the conversation quickly descended into Deadwood-ian levels of profanity. Guy could use a drink or something.
I should have some stuff on Cap Fringe this week, too, but I haven't seen the issue yet.
Even though the blog was down, life went on for your writer, sometimes even culminating in the rare productive exercise. Here are a few recent shorts for the City Paper: "Remastered" at Studio One Eight, the 48 Hour Film Project, and "Mine" by Jeff Spaulding at G Fine Art. The latter two shows have already come and gone. There's another piece (lost to the archives, it seems) about Miguel Covarrubias, whose prints and sketches are showing at the Cultural Institute of Mexico until July 7—scroll down on this page to read about it.
On the music tip, I wrote some stuff about Zodiac Mountain (Wooden Wand + Davenport Family) and Queering Sound 06.
I also appear from time to time in the WaPo Express blog under the guise of Sight Scene. It's mostly newsy stuff, but I'll point you to an item on recent noteworthy achievements by people in the vizh scene (including Jeffry Cuddlin, Gabriel Martinez, Ian Jehle, Jiha Moon, Molly Springfield, Jason Zimmerman, and others).
Oh, and I wrote a review of "Animalia" at Irvine Contemporary, an excerpt of which is in the paper edition (I think). Here's a teaser:
After a selection process that ran longer than a year, Irvine Contemporary's associate director, Heather Russell, has assembled "Animalia"—a show featuring artists who use animals as principal elements in their work. The show, which opened last Friday, brings to mind the parting lines of Puck in Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Excusing the bad behavior of he and his cohorts, Puck begs pardon for "this weak and idle theme/no more yielding but a dream." The concept behind "Animalia" is at least as simple—animals in contemporary art—and it stumbles upon similar moments of comedy, mischief and dark portent.Click click.
Did anyone go see Mogwai last night? I was dancing my tail off to Ghostland Observatory, happy to be entertained by an Austin band whose it-group status probably expired months ago. I like to dance, even though I move like Michael Stipe in the beginning of the video for "Losing My Religion": picture a hapless, seemingly injured emo-ish octopus. Anyway, G.O. frontman Aaron Behrens has a pretty good Fred Mercury thing going, and he reminded me how tight the kids wear the jeans in Austin. And Thomas Turner surely got a 5 on his Advanced Placement science exam, the way he dropped the Thomas Dolby on the electronics all night. Science!
I'd recommend that everyone go buy tickets for Pleaseeasaur tomorrow night at the Black Cat, but it's sold out. In fact, I already did recommend that you see Pleaseeasaur tomorrow night—in today's City Paper. And now the show's sold out (draw what conclusions you will). Also in the CP is my writeup on Laurel Nakadate at Adamson Gallery.
Pictured from left: Pat Thetic (drums), Chris #2 (bass & vocals), and Justin Sane (vocals & guitar) of Anti-Flag. McDermott (D-WA) appears at right ( in scarf) with three staffers.
If I were a Republican operative tasked with satisfying the grassroots depleted uranium lobby in my community, I'd push this meeting of the minds between Anti-Flag and the Democratic House Representative from Washington for all it's worth. The Hill reports that Jim "I've Got the Straight Edge" McDermott attracted a fan-following among the members of Anti-Flag with H.R. 2410, legislation proposed to study the long-term effects of exposure to depleted uranium (used in a variety of munitions and military-grade materials) on American soldiers. (The military assures that depleted uranium supports our troops.) Rep. McDermott even went so far as to lend some guest vox (I'm not kidding) to "Depleted Uranium Is a War Crime"—the last track on Anti-Flag's latest, For Blood and Empire, an album that calls attention to the central importance of family and faith in the American heartland.
Man, remember Anti-Flag? I used to be young and fuckin punk. Like Big McD.
But you'd rather hear good music than listen to me go on, so here goes. It's a version of "Come Sunday" from Duke Ellington's Black, Brown, and Beige suite, with Ray Nance (violin) sitting in for Mahelia Jackson (vox).
Well, it's in fact lagniappe available on later editions of that album, but nevertheless.
Duke Ellington ft. Ray Nance, "Come Sunday"Love those lazy, nearly late pings on the ride cymbal (I think) at 3:20, and the clarinet–horns cluster burst at around 3:35.
While searching for an MP3/non-M4A or whatever version of this song, I discovered albums like A Starbucks Collection of Unforgettable Piano Jazz, Dinner Party (Cooking in Concert), and Songs That Got Us Through WWII, the producers of which will find themselves in the same anteroom to hell with the developer who put a tanning salon on the ground floor of the Ellington Lofts, square center on Black Broadway.
I was nothing. It didn't matter to me.
Ah, there were tags all over my sleeve.
There was water outside the windows
and children in the streets [ ] rats with tags.
Ain't got a passport.
Ain't got my real name.
Ain't got a chance, sport, at fortune and fame.
And I walk these endless streets, won't you give me a lift.
A lift. A lift. On your citizen ship.
They were rioting in Chicago, movement in L.A.
Sixty-eight it broke up the yardbirds.
We were broke as well.
Took it underground, M.C. borderline, up against the wall.
The wall. The wall.
Show your papers, boy.
Citizen ship we got mem'ries.
Stateless, they got shame.
Cast adrift from the citizen ship,
lifeline denied, exiled this castaway.
Blind alley in New York City, in a foreign embrace.
If you're hungry you're not too particular about what you'll taste.
Men in uniform gave me vinegar, spoon of misery.
But what the hell, I fell, I fell.
It doesn't matter to me.
Citizen ship we got mem'ries
Citizen ship, we got pain.
Cast adrift from the citizen ship,
lifeline denied, exiled this castaway.
I was caught like a moth with its wings outta sync.
Cut the chord. Overboard. Just a refugee.
Lady liberty, lend a hand to me, I've been cast adrift.
Adrift. Adrift. Adrift. Adrift. Adrift. Adrift.
On the citizen ship we got mem'ries
Citizen ship, we got pain.
Lose your grip on the citizen ship,
you're cast, you're cast away.
On the citizen ship you got mem'ry.
Citizen ship you got pain.
Citizen ship you got identity.
A name. A name. A name. . .
What's your name, son?
What's your name? . . .
What's your name?
[ ]
Nothing. I got nothing.
[ ] Jersey.
Give me your tired, your poor
Give me your huddled masses
your wartorn [ ]
Give me your wartorn and your [ ]
Lift up your [ ] unto me.
Ah, mythology.
—Patti Smith, 1979
So some friends back in Austin are meeting some fair success with their band—preposterous, given the number of people on this Earth with friends back in Austin trying to meet success with their bands. But these guys are good! I'm pretty sure that over the years I've heard every incarnation of this/their group, and it only gets better. I'm still nodding my head. Visitors (songs here). "Back on Track" and "Need a Little" are both very listenable.
I've been picking through Ben Wolfson's old college radio playlists for new music. Those featured Scott Walker, Captain Beefheart, and Camera Obscura in heavy rotation and tons of stuff I've never heard before.
Playlists are meant to be listened to the whole way though, right? Now that Wolfson's kindly returned to school, you may, from 9:00 to midnight EST tonight—click. Playlist will be loaded here. Probably not the soundtrack for TomCat's xmas party, unf.
J.K. Rowling refused to allow Pulp's Jarvis Cocker and Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood and Phil Selway—the musicians who play the Weird Sisters in the film adaptation of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire—to release an album qua the Weird Sisters. I don't know that J.K. Rowling actually had anything to do with the decision, but the small batallion of agents meant by the designation "J.K. Rowling" wouldn't move the paperwork, saying that a product not authorized and distributed by Rowling would "confuse children." I think I get this. Clarity means buying the movie soundtrack!
But you don't care, because you prefer Harry and the Potters anyway, right?
Voldemort can't stop the rock.
And I don't care if I'm three weeks too late on this band.
Since there's obviously no Halloween without Halloween carols (and since I have three more days before this FTP client starts asking me for money), it's time for spooky sounds on G.p.
Including all or part of the Arcade Fire, Beck, R.E.M., Rilo Kiley, David Cross, Devendra Banhart, Elvira (!), Sonic Youth, Sparks, Les Savy Fav, Peaches, That Dog, Postal Service, Karen O, Wolf Parade, and a mess of others, the North American Halloween Prevention Initiative is a supergroup who are standing up and saying no! to razor blades in candy apples, no! to LCD candy wrappers, no! to childhood obesity (I'm inferring), and no! to Sugar Daddies. (On principle. Those things are disgusting.) NAHPI has a treat for you, and it's a message of hope:
North American Halloween Prevention Initiative, "Do They Know It's Halloween?"Hat tip to Tom. That's pretty clever, but I'm not sure it's, you know, sufficiently accursed to speak to the spirit of Halloween.
That distinction goes to "I Put a Spell on You," but whose version? Nick Cave and his haunted harmonica? Howlin' Wolf, whose name is already pretty Halloween? CCR? I'm going to have to go with
Screamin' Jay Hawkins, "I Put a Spell on You"I really ought to warn you that what you hear next might shock you. We're plumbing depths so satanic, so abominable—the meek and noncostumed should turn back now.
Cradle of Filth, "Castlevania"Do you know where you are, Bartolome? You are about to enter hell.
I'm doing my best impression of Charles and Modern Kicks and posting a few MP3s—just tempting fate for no good reason.
A while ago Susan sent me a song by Guy Clark and Emmylou Harris, and she said that there's a part near the end in which Waylon steps in to lend a harmony that will melt your heart. Dangerous, by prescription only:
Guy Clark, "Anyhow, I Love You"As long as I've got this thing open I'll toss up another song, one by Warren Zevon that I probably listen to four times a day or so. It's been covered by around a dozen artists, and Zevon plays a few different versions of the song—I've got a live cut he did with Jackson Browne in which he's added a verse and a half about a Samoan guy.
Warren Zevon, "Carmelita"Like that, but wish it were just a little more border and a lot more honky tonk? There's Dwight Yoakum's version with Flaco Jiminez (on accordian):
Dwight Yoakum and Flaco Jiminez, "Carmelita"Any takers?
I really haven't been keeping up with the rock at all. The last two or three times I've gone to the record store, I've walked out out with a Slint album. I still have no songs by Teh New Pr0nographers or Neko Case, an infraction that's punishable by a fine.
I missed the NYT piece about vlogger Zadi's video for Green Day's "Wake Me Up When September Ends" (reconceptualized as a commentary on Hurricane Katrina and its fallout), discovering it instead by way of Timothy Quigley. Because the NYT hates the exhange of ideas that the Internet celebrates, I guess I'll never know what Sarah Boxer had to say about it. I do like Quigs's thoughts here, so click on over.
HEY, I'M STUPID: Turns out that Boxer's article is available—you just need a cookie from NYT.com, which I didn't have. Forget what I said earlier. Now tell me: Why is Boxer's beat endlessly goofy?
I sincerely hope that The Willie Mae Rock and Roll Camp for Girls is funded by our tax dollars—I want to believe that we all had a hand in this.
"The Pink Slips." Fantastic. Eyeball Skeleton had better watch their backs.
Courtesy of Drunken Bee.
UPDATE: It is crucial that you listen to The Bookworms' "The World Is Becoming a Wasteland." More stuff here.
My friend LL Cool J stopped by the Czech Embassy last night to take in a documentary about and performance by the Plastic People of the Universe, a Czech band formed by members of pyschadelic acts such as the Primitives in response to the Soviet invasion and rollback of the Prague Spring in 1968. Cool movie and cool band, he reports, though they're getting a little long in the tooth. So all you bastards who think you're so great because you looove Gogol Bordello—well, the two bands aren't actually explicitly related. But! if they were, GB would find themselves deep in debt to PPotU's legacy, so you may want to check out PPotU at the Black Cat tonight to dispel any notions that you're a poseur Slavophile. If not for them, then to maybe get a sight of Václav Havel, who's supposed to be in house at the Red Room proper tonight.
Chock this one up as yet another telling last nail in the Soviet coffin: tonight one may see Václav Havel, a former dissident who was imprisoned for fomenting against the state before eventually becoming the first president of the independent Czech Republic, nodding his head to the Plastic Peoples of the Universe, a bunch of also-jailed dissident Captain Beefheart acolytes, at a rock hub in Washington, D.C., the capital of the United States—where, by the power of the free market, all parties involved may enjoy as many Pilsner Urquells as their hearts may desire and wallots may afford. Let that effin' eagle soar.
Burqa and cleavage? Can one singer actually manage to unite the world in infuriation?
A self-styled "suicide bomber" musician who sings in Arabic and performs in a full-length burqa is planning a "terror concert" in Britain.Let me say that the music may be the most offensive part of n.A.T.o.'s act (listen to her single, "Chor Avon" ("Black Widow"—yeah, no kidding), if you must. Courtesy of Justin Logan.). She's said to sing in Tajik, Georgian, and Farsi, but I can't exactly tell exactly what language she's singing in; I'm assuming she's not singing about making out with other teenage girls, but that is only an assumption. Potentially more offensive than her sound: Shapovalov apparently considered staging some sort of publicity event on a plane. Pravda, proving with aplomb that Russians are at best deaf to and more likely immune to extreme absurdity, notes that "[t]he performance was slated to take place in September [2004], although the show had to be cancelled on account of plane crashes in Russia."The Russian teenage singer, known only as n.A.T.o, performs with her face covered by a veil in front of screens broadcasting images from al-Jazeera, the Arab television station, interspersed with flashing words such as "al-Qaeda", "Iraq" and "Nasdaq".
Her manager, Ivan Shapovalov, who last year launched the controversial lesbian pop duo t.A.T.u, plans to give a concert in Britain in November after successfully organising a similar event in Moscow on September 11.
Though it would be doltish to be provoked by n.A.T.o. herself, doesn't Shapovalov seem worse than a huckster? Staging very young women in conceptual, ideological, or sexual roles, in which they do not seem invested and for which they do not seem prepared? The gig he is running strikes me as a fetishized American Idol. Not to say that there isn't a great deal of fetishization to American pop culture—just that American pop incorporates sex in a consensual if dumb and overstimulated way, whereas Shapovalov is using teenage sexuality to pour salt in the world's rawest wounds. A trick as old as Homer and Helen, but still, ugh, it's pretty gross.
The District is reeling from last night's Arcade Fire show—it really lived up to the hype. Easily the best show I've seen in years and more than enough to dispel the mounting anti-hype from my mind. I was sold. "Une Annee Sans Lumiere," "Laika," and "Power Out" all owned pretty hard.
Also good was the opener, Final Fantasy, the Google-proof nom de guerre of the too-fey-by-half Owen Pallett. The guy gets on stage with a violin and a necktie for a belt, professes that he's homesick for Canada ("snuggling" was cited as something he's been missing in the States), and tells uber-blue DC that paying higher taxes makes for better sex. I'm not sure whether he in fact stole every last heart in the audience, but the music was novel—he loops tracks with a foot pedal (a la math rockers Don Caballero) and thereby builds a whole violin section sound, then sings about Canada and AD&D and universal healthcare and what have you over the top. Here's a cover of Joanna Newsome's "Peach, Plum, Pear"—which is funny in itself, all these indie kids from orchestra going at it—and there's some songs online from his other band, Les Mouches, if'n you care to hear.
Since I live a block or so from the venue, I invited some folks over to pregame and christen my new charcoal smoker. Eight pounds of brisket, eight pounds of ribs: I started the fire at about 8:00 a.m. and smoked the meat until 5:00 p.m. Despite fighting with the cold to keep the fire at a solid 200 degrees (and fighting with Susan because I was losing the fight with the cold), the barbecue turned out mighty fine. I'll link to some pictures if the shutterbugs who were over last night post them.
So—if the Arcade Fire comes through your neighborhood, go see them. Try to show up early and wander around until someone offers you brisket. Watch out for Owen, who will steal your girlfriend. And be forewarned that all this Canadian fun is going to have you asking yourself why you still bother with the States
[More on the show: Matthew can't figure out how much he paid for his ticket; Susan is pleased; DCist has photo evidence.]
New blog game: The idea is to shuffle your iTunes music library and write down the first 10 songs that come up, and entertainment ensues. Just in time for payola the iShuffle!
