World's Biggest Corporation

Untimely Ript: It Makes A Mighty Crunch

2008-10-10T21:21:00.000-07:00

I had more fun at Enon's Madison show this April than I have at most this year. The songs on Grass Geysers, Carbon Clouds have a way of sounding urgent and tossed-off all at once. Sometimes it's satisfying and sometimes it feels incomplete in a way I can't really put my finger on. Ultimately, I'll come down on the side of liking it. Watching John Schmersal play guitar, twisting out such jagged sounds with such precision and rhyhtm, made the songs a lot easier to appreciate.

Anyways, Schmersal said something about "JonBenet" when he introduced the songs "Little Ghost" and "Swab The Deck," the two songs on a 7" released by Silver Rocket, which turns out to be a label based in Prague, of all things. And yep, there's the murdered child-model herself, her vacant gaze captured in soft focus, right on the sleeve. Is there something sharp and menacing behind this, or is it a spontaneous piece of nastiness? The music raises the same questions.

Stream: "Little Ghost"

Fusion: It's A Mystery

2008-10-08T23:32:00.000-07:00

Every town's got crappy prog bands. I'm not saying anyone's actually seen them, except friends, relatives, and whoever happened to be at Splunkyfart's Tavern for Midori Mondays, that night they got booked by accident. It may not even be "prog" so much as "mish mash of stuff put together in a mildly complex and/or messy/arty way." Which the band would likely sum up as "fusion" or "prog" or "North American Gregorian Folk-Jangle Opera." I guess they're harmless. They're too boring for a larger audience, too embarrassing for anyone with any taste, maybe just right for a few lost listeners who'll move on. Also, there's sometimes a whole band of guys who look like total slobs backing a female lead singer in heels, which is always hysterical. Hysterical the way that only misery can be. A treat indeed.

And hey, even bands that aren't crappy, or ambitious, or particularly unmarketable get described in terms of hybrids, if only so that derivative work (rock music, in a word) can sound fresh and energetic on paper: "What if Joni Mitchell had an all-night road rally with Def Leppard!!!" Complexity? Hybrids? Yeah, they can work, but they're just tools that should be driving something larger. It depends on the instinct behind them.

The point is, it's better to make one thing work than make six things not work at once.

Completely Irrelevant On LP And Compact Disc

2008-06-26T23:57:00.000-07:00

"Everyone's a critic, but hey, we really respect your talent."
—Against Me!, "Unprotected Sex With Multiple Partners"

"Everybody is a star and hot shit is few and far between."
—The Roots, "Star/Pointro"

Don't Say That, Johnny, Just Hear It

2008-06-23T05:46:00.000-07:00

Carlin had so many years of crusty brilliance ahead of him. He played in Madison not two years ago and still performed with that fucking scary sharpness, at times wicked, gracious, and cute, and he was still working up new material. I remember driving around with Matt listening to the Classic Gold compilation, and how things from those albums, shit I can't always remember off the top of my head, just effortlessly pops out whenever Matt and I see each other. I remember watching the You Are All Diseased special, and how my dad cringed when Carlin described a guy's armpits as smelling "like an anchovy's cunt."

"If there is a God, may he strike this audience dead."

God dammit. More on this later.

Someday, I'm Telling You, They'll Make A...

2008-06-22T10:21:00.000-07:00

"If they can make machines to save us labor,
someday they'll do our hearts the very same favor."
—The Dismemberment Plan, "Memory Machine"

"The Electric Monk was a labour-saving device, like a dishwasher or a video recorder. Dishwashers washed tedious dishes for you, thus saving you the bother of washing them yourself, video recorders watched tedious television for you, thus saving you the bother of looking at it yourself; Electric Monks believed things for you, thus saving you what was becoming an increasingly onerous task, that of believing all the things the world expected you to believe."
—Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency

And while we're at it, both of these definitely came out before Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. Take that, Michel Gondry!

Whatever It May Be...

2008-06-21T13:06:00.001-07:00

"...sure enough, we are slain by that stuff."
-Destroyer, "Streethawk I"

"Send that stuff on down to me!"
-Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds, "There She Goes, My Beautiful World"

"If you need to know it, I never really understood that stuff."
-Elton John, "This Train Don't Stop Here Anymore"

"That stuff"=rock-n-roll for "the intangible/general wackiness"?

And while we're at it:

"You gotta move to stay alive/ you do the very modern jive."
-Destroyer, "Streethawk I"

"Oh, stewardess? I speak jive."
-Airplane!

Why Do Tourists Always Wanna Get So High?

2008-04-12T23:55:00.000-07:00

Or, You Said "No No No!"

(Cloud Cult, American Music Club, and The Forms, Friday, April 11, High Noon Saloon, Madison)

I never expected to hear a phrase like "party foul!" used at an American Music Club show. It seemed about 80 percent of the crowd came only for co-headliners Cloud Cult, a band that deserves the popularity and grabs a nice chunk of the college crowd, especially here in Madison. It wasn't surprising that the Cloud Cult part of the bill seemed to be selling it a lot more than AMC, the senior band and also the one that takes a little more patience and nerdiness.

Still, maybe these fans of Craig Minowa's songs would find some sympathy in Mark Eitzel. Minowa yearns for something greater within the great tragedy of his own life. Eitzel treats all that like a sorrowful burden, though not without humor or redemption. Both of them skin the experience clean and leave it dripping with wonders and terrors, and both apparently create a fine mood for making naive miscalculations. It'll take forever to really beat this into my head, but it's true: Most people don't come to a show like this to explore, even if they've come to see something that's already unusual. (Before I get deeper into this rant, I should note that both headliners played solid sets; openers The Forms put out a decent record last year, but I think they're still fumbling for a good live sound. None of the shit I'm about the nitpick about was enough to put a damper on the general awesomeness of the show itself.)

Behaving well at a show isn't much different from behaving well anywhere else, but the people who aren't used to concerts always seem to make themselves conspicuous. Sorry if that's a snobola remark, but it's impossible not to notice that kind of thing. I am by far the most socially inept person I know, and I usually manage, so I think pretty much anyone else should be able to. I do have one theory about this: So many Americans, even modestly middle-class ones, get used to being waited upon and cleaned up after, everywhere from the five-star steakhouse to the crummy supermarket, that they've decided it's OK to act like slob-ass morons in public. Wherever they go, someone will have to smile and put up with their shitheadedry just to keep the wages and tips coming. ("Perhaps you would like me to wash your dick for you... you little shit.") Answer my dumb questions, help me find stuff I could track down myself if I wasn't such a lazy swine, tolerate my Egg McMuffin breath and irrational temper, and thank me—FUCKING THANK ME, YOU LUCKY PRODUCT OF MY EVER-FLOWING GENEROSITY WHICH HATH MADE THE EARTH BURST WITH GOODNESS—for paying your salary. I am the Customer, auditioning for the role of Caligula.

I've worked a few retail jobs (though not for very long, and my upbringing wasn't exactly blue-collar, in all honesty), and I grew up near Walt Disney World, so I'm not just laying this on college kids. This is for more or less everyone beyond puberty: Grow the fuck up, extend a little more graciousness, take more responsibility. It'll make your days a lot more satisfying. We've all been guilty of asshole-consumer behavior. Only we can redeem ourselves, and it isn't even that hard.

During Cloud Cult's set, someone did indeed party-foul us. Actually, he just spilled a drink down the bar from us, a little thing that could happen to anyone, but when someone describes it as a "party foul," he's really saying, "In retrospect, I was asking for it, broseph!" It wasn't even a particularly messy crowd, but still: Until they get the specific thing they've paid for, the thing that's already won them over, folks can often come off antsy, ungrateful, and eventually, spiteful.

Concerts are a social experience, so it's no surprise if a dozen jerks claim their spots right in front of the stage for a good view of one band and talk all through the other's set. "We're just gonna stand up here and act like dicks until the transcendental healing-rock comes up." There's always a dumbass or 50 in the crowd, so why bitch about it now? Because Cloud Cult really does seem determined to open up the best in people, against all odds and obstacles, be that war and famine or everyday chode-ness.

If some Bob Marley fans or David Bowie fans or Broken Social Scene fans or New Pornographers fans out there want to be grumpy pricks, I can live with that, but to see Cloud Cult's insane and childlike hope lost on Cloud Cult fans? That's too damn sad. Idealism in itself deserves to be treated with skepticism. Idealism coupled with results deserves to rub off. And if people don't come to Cloud Cult for that, what the hell are they getting from it? This band could likely be cashing in a lot bigger, but instead insists on self-releasing its records to ensure the CDs and packaging are made from recycled material, and keeps on following inspiration that's earnest, unsettling, abstract, and often morbid. (Not to mention that it's put out some stunningly ugly record covers.)

Not that this immediately translates into CC fans dorking out over a songwriter like Mark Eitzel. For all his rawness, he can be insular and frustrating, though I like that side of him, especially when the band starts the set with "Decibels And Little Pills," which you can stream from the Breakroom Blastbox on the right. How many people out there saw only a 49-year-old dude in a funny hat? I'm not sure, but at least one guy grumbled, "Get off the stage!" So, in effect, it's possible to go check out a group as eccentric as Cloud Cult and have absolutely no curiosity left over to spare on something else.

Month In Tunes Administration: I Will Admit I Almost Always Underestimate It

2008-04-01T20:22:00.000-07:00

In "Month In Tunes Administration," World's Biggest Corporation loads music onto USB sticks to be dropped in bulk upon villages in the developing world. Great for whittling, boiling, or experimental nutrition.

March 2008

As the year goes on, it gets slightly more exciting to have middle-of-the-road-to-mildly-odd white-guy indie-rock tastes. In all sincerity.

DeVotchKa, A Mad And Faithful Telling (Anti-): "Translit erator" wins song of the month, the blustery high point of this disc, and one where DeVotchKa gets so on top of its sounds that it gets harder to pick out the different bits. Gypsy, mariachi, romantic old movie scores may all figure in, but it's all swept together by Nick Urata, a much more powerful songwriter than I'd noticed before.

Retribution Gospel Choir, s/t (Caldo Verde): It's the band Alan Sparhawk uses to get away from Low and rock out, but the best moments are still the frail and quiet ones, the gaps in the wonderful sludge. That said, watching him wrangle a huge, messy guitar sound was pretty much the best part of a month full of awesome shows.

Sun Kil Moon, April (Caldo Verde): Maybe the best set of Mark Kozelek songs I've heard yet. But I feel like the jury will always be out on that, because his stuff has a way of blurring together, in a good way. For whatever reason, these songs do more to bring out the definition that's always under the lilt of his voice and pleasant haze of his guitar.

Jim White, Transnormal Skiperoo (Luaka Bop): Jim White comes back to that bizarre, spirit-twisting intrigue, refreshed with a blast of serenity. Instead of just getting old, he captures the feeling of a new start with the benefit of hindsight.

Make A Rising, Infinite Ellipse And Head With Open Fontanel (High Two): When you unfold the CD booklet, it expands into the most obvious candidate for album cover of the month:

During their show here, those two fish got stabbed by another fish. You could probably take it for granted now that more bands are layering on more instruments, opening up their song structures, and blending pop sweetness with weird abstraction, yet Make A Rising fills it with all these eerie crawlspaces, making for complicated music that never quite crowds out the wondrous and stretched-out hooks.

Destroyer, Trouble In Dreams (Merge): Less like Rubies, more like Streethawk, no complaints.

Random-ass discovery: Of all things The New York Times has a songwriting blog called Measure for Measure. Because songwriters are a breed of people who need yet more excuses to dwell on their own problems. At any rate, Andrew Bird's contribution is already pretty intriguing.

Shows of the month: Circles with El Valiente and The Cemetery Improvment Society; Colony Of Watts with Zebras; Jonathan Richman; The Runners-Up; The Magnetic Fields; Ladyhawk; Make A Rising; X; Retribution Gospel Choir; Black Mountain; Jens Lekman; The Weakerthans; Black Moth Super Rainbow; Phosphorescent with A Catapult Western and Vid Libert.

Like The Wind Needs The Trees

2008-03-18T09:18:00.000-07:00

I caught The Magnetic Fields in Chicago this weekend and blogged about it for A.V. Club . The show was awesome. Plus, not a week after disturbing my slumber with a dull dream, the Mekons more than made up for it, cosmically speaking, by sending Sally Timms to sit in with TMF for a fine rendition of The 6ths' "Give Me Back My Dreams."

To Sleep, Perchance To Be Bored Off My Ass

2008-03-12T07:17:00.000-07:00

A dream triggered by a Mekons song should probably be a little more fucked-up and entertaining, but here's what I got a few nights ago:

I approach a street corner and see a crowd of meek-looking grad students (in the dream, I know that they're grad students) belting out the Mekons song "The Building." In its original form, the song is just Jon Langford yelping into a mic and stomping his feet for about two minutes, and I'm never shocked to see the occasional obnoxious demonstration in Madison. (In the dream, I know I'm in Madison, I guess in the neighborhood near the office.) I figure it must be one of those "general comment on the way things are going in this country" kind of protests, like the "1984"s I occasionally see around town, scribbled on street signs by the most articulate person ever.

As the chant breaks up, I round the corner and discover a huge party spilling out of someone's house. The people there tell me it's just a party for no particular reason. It's not particularly crazy or fun. I wander into a room at the back of the house and find a few people sitting on a couch watching the Eagles on TV. Some live video from their '90s reunion. Naturally, everyone in this room looks mega-bored. I sit down for a bit and meet a nice girl. When she leaves, she refuses to give me her number, but tells me to get in touch if I want to talk about "community projects." The end, at least as far as I care to remember. Considering all the weird imagery you could get from songs like "Prince Of Darkness," "Hard To Be Human," or, say, "Ghosts Of American Astronauts," it's a bit of a letdown.

Untimely Ript: Reprises And Rescues

2008-03-08T13:25:00.000-08:00

Mack The Knife: Kurt Weill's Greatest Hits
Performed by Boston Pops; Morton Gould And His Orchestra; Boston Symphony
RCA, 1973

Musicals have always seemed so stiff and dreadfully forced to me. In fact, I tend to hate them (unless they're as funny and warped as, say, Little Shop Of Horrors), and would probably be more comfortable watching snuff films while resting my feet in a bucket of scorpions. I have never seen or heard Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht's The Threepenny Opera. On this instrumental tribute, it is a relief to hear musical-theater melodies that beg to be spun around with drunken romance and silly violence. On Side A's reprise of several Threepenny numbers, 11 members of the Boston Symphony Orchestra still make it sound, well, a bit stiff, but not forced. More importantly, it's clear the music deserves to be rescued from the context of musical theater, if only for safekeeping.

Stream/download: "Threepenny Finale"

Despite similar flaws, the Boston Pops' version of the title track preserves a mystery lost in, say, the cute-'n'-cocky Bobby Darin version. Alright, so the English-language lyrics are worth keeping around, in all their excessive talk about "a body oozin' life" and "when that shark bites." It's just a bit, you know, stiff and forced when stapled onto this elegantly tawdry tune.

Stream/download: "Mack The Knife"

Along with vinyl packaging, we seem to have lost untold amounts of banal pomposity. Not just about the music—there's plenty of that in CD liner notes, after all. On the back of an LP sleeve, there's always room to spare for the babble of corporate audiophiles:

"DYNAFLEX is the RCA trademark for a new development in record manufacturing that provides a smoother, quieter surface and improved ability to reproduce musical sound. This lightweight record also virtually eliminates warpage and turntable slippage."

Month In Tunes Administration: So Relatively Fucked

2008-03-07T18:40:00.000-08:00

In "Month In Tunes Administration," World's Biggest Corporation will sample the music used in our FDA-condemned seasonal-affective disorder experiments.

FEBRUARY 2008

A 30-degree day seems like a treat right now: Stupid people are less irritating; food tastes better; everyone's more attractive. Still, it's been hard to get excited about a whole lot of shit. In fact, the well-circulated "recorded in a lonely Wisconsin cabin" story behind Bon Iver's For Emma, For Ever Ago made it all the more tempting to retreat back into the album when Jagjaguwar formally released it this month. A mega-hyped indie record that sounds like the opposite of mindless chatter: That kind of balances out psychologically, right? So, anyways, February at least provided a few ideal records for being left the fuck alone to. Yay!

Earth, The Bees Made Honey In The Lion's Skull (Southern Lord): This post is late because I got my hands on this pretty late in the month and deserved a few good, slow listens. Seven instrumentals basking in open spaces and some amazingly patient playing. Also, album cover of the month goes to Arik Roper:

Promotional snack tie-in, anyone?

Spires That In The Sunset Rise, Curse The Traced Bird (Secret Eye): If Earth's latest recalls a gauzy sunset over a canyon, Spires That In The Sunset Rise recalls, say, a fever with a side of fleas. Ghastly, beautiful vocals scratch up against the sounds of mbira, spike fiddle, and abused banjo. Eastern-folk sounds unravel into free-flowing disorientation.

Vid Libert, A Return To Mayaguez (s/r): Vid Libert is a Madison singer-songwriter. When he pokes his head out, he's arguably the best in town. Here's the intro from my local A.V. Club feature on him:

Vid Libert’s new album, A Return To Mayaguez, dips into an isolated seam between his own little world and the real one. Following up on 2005’s Mayaguez, the Madison singer-songwriter filled his eight-track recorder with his own unassuming voice, drums, guitars, melodica, percussion, keys, toy instruments, and more, spacing it all out with a dub-inspired ear for warm layering and reverb. It’s a very good record, to borrow phrase from his song “Make No Mistake,” for getting through the day, whether Libert’s calmly philosophizing about fulfillment on “Maybe That’s Enough” or drifting through the glittery instrumental “Oh, Osho.”

Headlights, Some Racing, Some Stopping (Polyvinyl): Reviewed here.

Todd Barry, From Heaven (Comedy Central): February got a crucial Valium-powered cheer-up from Todd Barry's latest. It matched not only the pace of life, but also the graying snowbanks. "I challenge you comedically!" "No, honey! Not again! Remember when we went to that play and you wanted to challenge that actor theatrically? You got your ass handed to you!"

American Music Club, The Golden Age (Merge): February got a crucial Valium-powered cheer-up from American Music Club's latest. It matched not only the pace of life, but also the graying snowbanks. "Will there be a band? God, I hope not!" Song of the month: MP3: "All The Lost Souls Welcome You To San Francisco"

Random-ass surprise: My friend Shelby was kind enough to introduce me to the work of western-swing standby Bob Wills. Despite his talents as a bandleader, it's hard not to giggle (and improvise along) when he cheers on his bandmates in that ridiculous Mickey Mouse voice (see "Quoted"). Also, hardly random, but I didn't get around to picking up St. Vincent's 2007 album, Marry Me, until a few days ago. Same goes for Pissed Jeans' second album, Hope For Men:

Shows of the month:The Blind Shake (2/6, High Noon Saloon, Madison); The Midwest Beat and Plexi 3 (2/9, Crystal Corner Bar, Madison); Icarus Himself and Sleeping In The Aviary (2/16, Mother Fool's Coffeehouse, Madison); Say Hi (2/21, Project Lodge, Madison); Sleeping In The Aviary, The Dark Horse Project, The Scarring Party, Crochetd Machete, and The Cowboy And The Frenchman (2/23, Project Lodge, Madison);
Dub Trio (2/25, High Noon Saloon, Madison); Zebras and Czarbles (2/28, Nottingham Co-op, Madison).

Untimely Ript: Where They Pour Coca-Cola Just Like Vintage Wine

2008-02-29T14:34:00.001-08:00

"I wish that I could push a button and talk in the past and not the present tense..."

Welcome to Untimely Ript, WBC's little showcase for tunes jacked from just about any damn year. Everything will be lovingly yanked from vinyl and full of crackly goodness. I was initially planning to do this as a separate blog altogether, but then I realized I might as well put some more content on the shitty content-starved blog I already fucking have. Plus, if every annoying jackass in America started up a new blog every time he fell out of bed with some gimmicky new idea, there wouldn't be enough room on the Internet for all the world's over-enthusiastic music bloggers to share buckets of MP3s. Right?

Don't expect a great deal of recent stuff, except perhaps the occasional cool 7". It isn't that vinyl is better, or that the past was better, or any of that crap. It's that what you get in the vinyl bins, especially at thrift stores and used-record places and street fairs and whatnot, makes for so many surprises. It's mediated in a strange, arbitrary, and unpredictable way, but not by distributors.

But before getting into all that, I'll share the opening track from a record I really love, in a non-fleeting, non-kitschy way: "Brilliant Mistake," from Elvis Costello's King Of America. It is one of his best albums. I tried to explain why in this A.V. Club piece, so I'll leave it at that for now. It is also totally worth buying in non-crackly MP3 or CD format.

Unwanted Heaviness Bummers!

2008-02-24T17:01:00.001-08:00

"Every time you eat a steak, a hippie's hacky sack goes into the sewer." —Patton Oswalt

Two instances, all in a Sunday afternoon's strolling:

1. Browsing in a bookstore. There's a poetry reading going on in the middle of the place, and you kind of have to maneuver through the audience to get from section to section. Lots of middle-aged faces knotted up into dazed smiles that say, "Isn't poetry just delightful? Wow, what a wonderful world unfolds for me every time some other fellow steps up to the podium to declaim! Now if only I could track down a taste bud-sizzling bowl of farina..." Still, easy enough to ignore, until one fellow starts cranking up the discomfort, belting out some half-assed satirical rhyme about (I'm paraphrasing here) fossil fuel-burning Bush and his grand greedy schemes. Chuckles and claps after every zinger. The performance ends with a booming cry of "...American GREEEED!" So, there you have it. A little slice of intellectual life in America, and maybe a clue as to why the left seems just a little bit helpless against the reign of Fuckface. Since that encompasses half of my adolescence and all of my adult-ish life so far, I gotta wonder why I don't respond better to the blind anger and mockery it has inspired. Maybe because that shit starts to sound pretty damn dull and useless in its eighth fucking year?

2. Catching up with my pal and his girlfriend in a shop around the corner. My friend, definitely better than I am at stirring up conversations with strangers, has the clerk on a roll about her book in progress. She's got a slightly challenging idea about sexism, gender, and, in short how men have it tough these days. At first I want to lump this in with the previous experience, but it's nice to see some actual effort going on in someone's head, and maybe a bit of modesty too. And then it's time to goof off for the rest of the afternoon. Yay!

Assorted Shit

2008-02-21T21:18:00.000-08:00

Here is an Arrested Development-inspired band name: Dad Likes Leather. It is up for grabs. No need to thank me.

Hell Date: This godless piece of teleshit isn't nearly tough enough on its victims. OK, the dwarf in the little devil suit popping out to deliver the news that, yep, "You're on Hell Date!" is pretty fucked-up, but the meat of the date adds up to rather mild discomfort, at least when one considers the scope of human suffering. Seriously, has anyone on this show ever genuinely feared for his/her life? Better, more deeply fucked ideas to follow.

I'm still not entirely clear what "lumberjack chic" is, but The Walrus has compiled a gallery of expensive Canadian doo-dads. I also don't know anything about photographing expensive doo-dads, but I believe that particle-board backgrounds class up everything.

Readers of 2008, let me tell you a bit about yourselves. 45 percent of you believe in elves; at least three of you are reading this in sweaty socks that rise up too high and emphasize your calves, which is funny because your calves are flabby and do not need to be shown off or further insulated; you represent five legally recognized counties; all of you were involved in extracurricular activities and/or sports in kindergarten; and you'll all get kick-ass reader-appreciation gifts if the current season of Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew ever comes out on DVD.

Once the USB turntable is all set up at WBC headquarters, we'll commence acquisition of audio for Untimely Ript, a blog celebrating random garbage from the bog of forgotten vinyl. More crude stick-mutants and whatnot once outside logistical consultants finish work on our scanner.

Month In Tunes Administration: Now Is The Winter Of Our Psychedelic Indulgences

2008-02-01T16:55:00.000-08:00

In "Month In Tunes Administration," World's Biggest Corporation will sample the music we virally market to our own employees via disposable Zunes issued in our 2,000 break rooms across the globe.

JANUARY 2008

We at World's Biggest Corporation didn't suck up a ton of records this month, due to the unexpected clusterfuckery of daily operations, the shit-ass Wisconsin weather, deteriorating attention spans, re-allocation of resources, and that pesky competition.

Hell, at one point early in the month, this place even had some guests: Louisville, KY band People Noise got caught in a bad pileup on the way into Madison, made it to the venue that night, and played a solid set for about, oh, 20 people. They crashed here while awaiting repairs and were very friendly, then made it out in time to bolt to a gig in Minneapolis. Last year's Ordinary Ghosts is a fine debut, slathered in glistening keyboards and mega-fuzzed guitars. Currently, the band has to sample the keys live, but that somehow doesn't make things stiff or awkward.

Dead Meadow, Old Growth (Feb. 5, Matador): Who knows, maybe this one will fall to the side after a couple weeks. It's a battle between how blatantly this band reaches back to all manner of olden psychedelia and blues-rock, and how sweet and earthy it all sounds.

Which brings us to...

Black Mountain, In The Future (Jagjaguwar): I won't even pretend that I've learned my way around this one yet, but I do think singer Amber Webber is one of the main reasons this record sticks. Whether she's on backing vocals or taking the lead, as on "Queens Will Play," she's got this frightening shudder in her voice--one of a few things that keep the band fresh as it stomps and riffs through some very familiar pleasures.

Drive-By Truckers, Brighter Than Creation's Dark (New West): Another one that's gonna take a few months to sink in, or maybe all year. "Self-Destructive Zones" is gonna have to be WBC's song of the month. If it's got any competition, it's another highlight from this album, "The Righteous Path."

The Magnetic Fields, Distortion (Nonesuch): The Magnetic Fields' habit of packaging albums with gimmicks really strikes me as a form of self-deprecation. "Let's write a batch of solid pop songs and give them a vaguely country-ish feel (The Charm Of The Highway Strip), make sure they all start with 'I' (I), or just release 69 of them for no reason (69 Love Songs)." This time, the band cheeses itself up with buckets of feedback and fuzz, arbitrarily paired with songwriting that, at heart, doesn't seem much different from anything else Stephin Merritt's ever done. "Old Fools" is just a step away from Highway Strip's "I Have The Moon," both unabashedly maudlin and affectionate songs. They're those moments where Merritt isn't afraid to lay down something universal, a little less disposable. If he weren't so self-conscious, kitschy, and clever, his body of work would make people cry themselves to death. (In a good way?) Hell, I know this is beside the point, but I'd almost like to see him do a completely humorless, gimmick-free record, just for the sake of experiment. At any rate, at least two songs on Distortion--"Please Stop Dancing" and "California Girls"--are new Magnetic Fields disposable-essentials, almost up there with "A Chicken With Its Head Cut Off" and "Two Characters In Search Of A Country Song."

Protest The Hero, Fortress (Vagrant): Imagine Dillinger Escape Plan backed up by a choir of magical horseys, and the mystical glitter-dust that implies, but rammed up against the staggering tightness of super-technical post-hardcore stuff. Weirdly enough, the most tricky-sounding shit here--the operatic vocals and classical-inspired guitar flurries on "Sequoia Throne"--adds a dreamy layer of lightness to the crunch and drudgery. Plus, it's really too bad this blog doesn't have a headwear-design award:

Dub Trio, Another Sound Is Dying (Ipecac): I still think New Heavy is better and more well-rounded, but this new one is pretty gratifying, too, especially for those who favor the instrumental band's brutal, smart-assed side. Also, album cover of the month goes to Martin Kvamme:

Wow, I didn't know you could leave them in the microwave that long. I'm here all week, folks...

Future Of The Left, Curses (Too Pure): The only record I heard this month that's snotty, bratty, and scary enough to excite me on that level.

...And it turns out they're a tad boring to look at. I guess I expected someone with more visible bones, and maybe some boils.

Vampire Weekend, s/t (XL): Review here. It's pleasantly underwhelming, I guess. VW's show in Madison this summer was fun as shit. Outdoors on a warm, breezy night on campus, with sailboats in the background--can't imagine a more ridiculously appropriate venue for it.

Random-ass surprise: The utterly perplexing, primal, and enticing Japan-funk of Yamasuki, as unearthed by Soul Sides.

Shows of the month: The Black-Eyed Snakes and Decibully at the High Noon Saloon, Madison, 1/5; People Noise, High Noon Saloon, Madison, 1/6; The Walkmen and White Rabbits, 1/19 High Noon Saloon, Madison; El Valiente, 1/11, King Club, Madison; The Runners-Up and Patchwork, 1/17, High Noon Saloon, Madison; Editors, 1/29, Majestic Theatre, Madison.

Concept Restaurants Part 2

2008-01-26T13:05:00.000-08:00

(For the rest of our innovative food-service business plans, please see the first Concept Restaurants presentation.)

Escargot Escarmergency: If you can buy plastic bottles of Perrier by the dozen from Costco, life's other fine luxuries ought to catch up, eh? On the way to the yacht, swing through our drive-thru window to pick up a steamin' platter of snails. Visit us soon, and you'll get those little critters in a commemorative-edition Super Bowl XLII escargot dish (also available at participating Exxon locations). It goes without saying that once this bastard's turning a profit, we'll be rolling out the mail-order wing.
If it's your birthday: Enjoy a complimentary appetizer-sized serving of fugu poppers.

853 Woodcrest Terrace: The servers here are hardly servers at all, but nice, hospitable folks sharing the fruits of suburban life on the cusp of retirement. As they bustle about taking care of laundry and calling the kids (all grown up now), they'll occasionally turn to grab you a lemon bar or a beer from the fridge. If you're lucky, one of our hale and hearty "Pop" servers will reach into his special cabinet and share a jolt of that single malt he got for Christmas a couple years back. While the mild-mannered afternoon away with back issues of Reader's Digest, the family's photo albums, and the reassuring hum of the refrigerator (they used to call it "the ice box," you know).
If it's your birthday: It's awkward that you'd come hang with a stranger's parents on your goddamn birthday, but we'll do our best to cheer you up.

Troglodytes + Computers=This

2008-01-13T06:01:00.000-08:00

What better way to convey mankind's wonderment at technology than with an image of a woman in crosshairs, holding up a huge "@" like it's a prized golden pumpkin? This image shows up on the login page of the Baltimore airport's pay wi-fi system. And seriously, it's better than Magic Headache Elixir and Hand-Shoveled Irrigation System combined. Check this shit out, o ye mighty!

Let us now weep for America's children, and the atrocious graphic design--no, shitty old-school Paint work--that gathers to brutalize their eyes. Not to mention all the horrid beige pantsuits they'll have to wear.

Peeling Off Your Jodhpurs: Year-End Music Addenda Part II

2008-01-05T11:20:00.000-08:00

I hate making lists. It is now officially out of my system until November or so. In fact, this roundup of "other stuff I really liked in 2007" is still incomplete, and I can even name things that I've left out, but, well, fuck it.

Les Savy Fav, Let's Stay Friends (Frenchkiss): Likable, explosive, sweet, and funny from start to finish. Would've been at least an honorable mention, had I bought it sooner. Plus, who knew that horseback riding could be so sexually charged?

Wolves In The Throne Room, Two Hunters (Southern Lord): You know you're a Slate fan, and a relative metal novice, when you let that venerable web-mag tell you what metal to buy. Then again, Slate rarely disappoints me, so why the hell not? And why is black metal so improbably soothing?

The Zincs, Black Pompadour (Thrill Jockey): It feels kind of detached at first (what with song titles like "Rice Scars" and all). The songs have a way of warming up after a while, and some, especially "Head East Kaspar," turn out to be quite comforting.

Busdriver, RoadKillOvercoat (Anti): The sarcasm is going to drive some people away before they get in the door. But in any case, rap needs a brilliant spazz-clown with a sense of humor and brain-scrambling delivery.

Bear Claw, Slow Speed: Deep Owls (Sickroom): Back in high school my friend Tony and I had an idea to start a band with two bass guitars. We had no idea that at least two awesome post-punk bands (Dianogah and Bear Claw) already had this covered. We still thought Dream Theater was cool. Sigh.

Nina Nastasia And Jim White, You Follow Me (Fat Cat): If I were one to neurotically obsess over past best-of lists, I'd declare myself a toad for not including this one. A toad, I say!

Low, Drums And Guns: See above. Sinners, never forget that Alan Sparhawk ate cake for you!

Saturday Looks Good To Me, Fill Up The Room (K Records): For such a mess of a band/collective/bedroom-pop project, SLGTM has proven remarkably consistent. "Make A Plan" and "Money In The Afterlife" count among Fred Thomas' best songs.

Bat For Lashes, Fur And Gold (Caroline): The mystery wears off after a few listens, but there's solid dark pop underneath. Plus, Natasha Khan actually pulls off the whole exotic-costume thing with some dignity intact. (Take that, Juliette Lewis!) I actually watched people attempting to dance to this song at a club in Orlando recently. Good laughs.

Figurines, When The Deer Wore Blue (Control Group): Merits both sincere appreciation and genuine or sarcastic "AWWWWW!"s.

Bishop Allen, The Broken String (Dead Oceans): This album's main single isn't its best song by far. The album glimpses at the band's very solid and agreeable songwriting—sometimes enjoyable enough, and sometimes close to greatness:

Wilford Brimley Not Included

2007-12-29T13:33:00.000-08:00

John Carpenter's The Thing should eventually rank among history's finest horror movies. However, Ennio Morricone's score--a perfect companion to the movie's expanse of cold and foreboding--is a bitch to come by. Luckily, some dude has posted some of the tracks on YouTube.

Enjoy it before disputes intervene!

The Certainly-Not-Unwanted Things: Year-End Music Addenda, Part 1

2007-12-24T13:18:00.000-08:00

Doing my second best-of list for The A.V. Club made me neurotic. I stand by it and all, but it's also worth measuring a year's music by the stuff one leaves off lists like this. Case in point, my ballot includes a list of "stuff I haven't had enough time to chew on but would likely give an honorable mention if I had"--was that supposed to get past my editors? So, what the hell, here's a whole bunch of other stuff that'll be worth chewing on in the future.

Dub Trio, Cool Out And Coexist (ROIR): It's dub, swampy instrumental metal, and the surprisingly vast territory between the two.

Tinariwen, Aman Iman (World Village): If it's NPR-approved world music, it does more than just get those turtlenecks undulating and lumbar-supportive Audi seats rocking. Tinariwen, from Mali of all places, restores the blues to its primal, thumping state, yet the guitar work can also get tender and melodic.

The Long Blondes, Someone To Drive You Home (Rough Trade): This album is too fucking long--16 songs, just over an hour--but "Only Lovers Left Alive" makes it worthwhile. It matches its obnoxious howling with the kind of wit that makes me wish I hadn't been such a lame high-schooler.

The Rosebuds, Night Of The Furies (Merge): Generally consistent and lush, but the second song, "Cemetery Lawn," is so catchy it makes the rest of the album a bit frustrating by comparison.

Baroness, Red Album (Relapse): Just getting in my first proper listen as I write this. In short, a meaty, mighty metal group that broods and noodles like a fine post-punk band.

Johnathan Rice, Further North (Reprise): Different on every listen, depending on what you're looking for. At the very least, a singer-songwriter record with some flaws and a bitterly memorable opening track:

Maximo Park, Our Earthly Pleasures (Warp): A brash command of hooks and songs full of sneaky cleverness. Also, Paul Smith is a crazy dude in a hat onstage and a nice-enough, if excitable, guy in interviews.

More to follow.

"Lights, Please..."

2007-12-24T11:14:00.000-08:00

For some reason, I can't seem to find a clip of this nugget:

Peter: As we all know, Christmas is that mystical time of year when the ghost of Jesus rises from the grave to feast on the flesh of the living! So we all sing Christmas Carols to lull him back to sleep.
Bob: Outrageous, how dare he say such blasphemy. I've got to do something.
Man #1: Bob, there's nothing you can do.
Bob: Well, I guess I'll just have to develop a sense of humor.

The Bataan Death Mall

2007-12-23T11:07:00.000-08:00

Arundel Mills Mall, Hanover, MD [Baltimore suburb]

Shout it from the turrets of Medieval Times or the temple of the Egyptian-themed Muvico multiplex: In a just world, Maryland's Arundel Mills Mall would be visible from space. According to Wikipedia, it is "the first enclosed mall to feature a Medieval Times." Sounds like society's got some catching up to do, folks! You can actually enter the MT from the mall, and while you're waiting for the tournament to begin, put away a draft of mead (note: more likely Michelob Ultra or something) at the bar. MT is the mall's southern bookend; at the northern extreme, behold the Muvico Egyptian 24.

Of course, Arundel Mills isn't the largest mall in America, and for all I know, plenty of malls far exceed it. It's most notable, though, for its particularly wearying floor plan, basically a very elongated oval, divided up into five "neighborhoods." Theme-wise, it already spans continents and centuries, and walking around it two or three times gives a person the same feeling. It must take quite a few trips around to get one's memory around the place; a point you remembered on the first trip around might seem to be just in front of you once more, but is in fact a few hundred yards ahead. The trek from FYE to Dairy Queen is particularly arduous, each storefront a bayonet prodding one ahead to a destination from which he'll have to move on again soon.

Exurbcakes: A Recipe

2007-12-23T10:27:00.000-08:00

Brain Lab query: "What happens when flavor imitates life?"

INGREDIENTS
-3 sq. ft. richly tanned leather
-10 lbs. wet stucco, preferably dyed a frosting-like shade of pink or yellow
-5 lbs. Starbucks Espresso Roast ("Starbucks Coffee: Roasted over burning SUV tires!")
-1 box Franzia Vintner Select White Zinfandel
-Assorted Elton John, Barry Manilow, Kenny G, and NOW! compilation CDs
-1 pair pleated khaki shorts

PREPARATION
-Combine stucco and espresso in a large cement truck; process mixture into a viscous paste.
-Shape mixture into uniform circles (1" diameter is ideal), wrap with strips of leather.
-Remove CDs from cases--the cases may later be used for a creative presentation--and crush discs up into little shards. Sprinkle atop cakes to taste.
-Place cakes on car roof; pick a sunny day to drive around doing errands for 9 hours, using only outdoor parking options.
-Smoke over shreds of khaki shorts for extra flavor.
-Serve with energy drinks, Ensure, or any of Pepsi's "Jazz"-variety colas.

FURTHER READING
"Take A Ride To Exurbia": David Brooks, The New York Times, Nov. 9, 2004

Finely Woven Filth: Or, Horny For Presents

2007-12-16T11:29:00.001-08:00

A John Waters Christmas + Lavender Diamond: Turner Ballroom, Milwaukee, 12/12/07

[Sorry, no photos. Camera broke.]

Connie Marble: Oh, I love you Raymond. I love you more than anything in this whole world. I love you more than my own filthiness, more than my own hair color. Oh God, I love you more than the sound of bones breaking, the sound of death rattle--even more than the sound of my own shit do I love you, Raymond.

Raymond Marble: And I, Connie, also love you more than anything that I could ever imagine: more than my hair color, more than the sound of babies crying, of dogs dying--even more than the thought of original sin itself. I am yours, Connie, eternally united through an invisible core of finely woven filth, that even God himself could never ever break.

Howdy from Baltimore!

As I write this, I can't be too far from the sidewalk off which Divine ate dog shit for John Waters' camera (at the end of Pink Flamingos). Just a few days before flying out here, I caught one of B'more's finest on his Christmas tour. Beyond those amazing and transgressive films is a snappy showman who's up for riffing about anything. He's just a cool motherfucker, not merely a prankster behind a camera. As he mentions at that link, he's a big Ike and Tina Turner admirer, and arrived in Milwaukee just in time to announce Ike's death.

On his annual Christmas tour, he pops out for an hour of breathless rambles about the holidays and whatever else he gets around to, including his desire to land on the cover of Parade magazine. He never lets up, never seems the least bit unsure of himself. Phrase of the night: "I'm horny for presents."

Throughout Waters' performance, a scary fat drunk lady behind us kept yelling stuff, though not enough to really disrupt things. It's a John Waters thing, so a few mental defectives are bound to emerge. Most of what she said wasn't memorable, though I recall that at one point she called out for a Pink Flamingos musical. During the Q&A portion of Waters' set, she started raving about her support for Dennis Kucinich: "HIS WIFE... HE HAS A GREAT... RED-HEADED WIFE..." Waters smoothed right through a brief exchange and went onto the next questioner, though the dumbass kept it up until the end.

For some reason, Waters brought along the band Lavender Diamond for an opening set. For once, it was hard to blame people for talking through the songs. These are precious little morsels of quirky folk that probably sound great when it's late and quiet, but it clunked onstage. Wearing a billowing white dress, singer Becky Stark looked like a cloud trapped inside a K-Mart; the three dudes backing her had zero stage presence. Except for the drummer, who played his minimal beats with greatly exaggerated movements that made him look even more useless. Still, why not bring some surprises to a tour like this?

Though a great filmmaker, Waters should do more of this speaking stuff. There's a killing to be made on the corporate banquet circuit, eh?

Shitty Photos Of Shitty Drawings

2007-10-27T10:03:00.001-07:00

Some recent doodles for the sick fucks I know who enjoy this stuff... (Also, my scanner is not cooperating.)

Mega-Cycle Hippie, Minneapolis

The End Of The Conversation

How To Write

The Thermals, Yay

2007-10-26T07:36:00.000-07:00

Took me friggin' forever, but I finally got out to a Thermals show at Logan Square Auditorium in Chicago this week. My camera's screwed up, so no photos/video. Of course, the set included the single "No Culture Icons" (from the band's first album, More Parts Per Million), alongside a bunch of selections from last year's The Body, The Blood, The Machine--all of which are superior songs, but "No Culture Icons" is still one of the best music videos ever:

The Sub Pop stickers over their mouths are a nice touch.

Chin Up Chin Up opened with a fine set of zig-zagging, pretty melodies, and a rather humble stage presence--hey, not every band can have a Kathy Foster.

Although I Search Myself...

2007-09-25T20:44:00.000-07:00

Today I'm in line in the grocery store, and what should I hear but a song I consider a pop classic, Elton John's "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me." But it's not just any "DLTSGDOM." It's the Elton John-George Michael duet version of "DLTSGDOM."

A few things to note:

-My first exposure to pop music came through Elton. My dad loved his music long before I was born, and is still kind of obsessed. He's one of the suckers who bought The Captain And The Kid, Elton's sequel to his concept album Captain Fantastic And The Brown Dirt Cowboy.
-Elton's main songwriting collaborator, lyricist Bernie Taupin, wrote "DLTSGDOM" about the pressures of songwriting.

-Wow, has Elton John recorded some crappy songs in his time.

-Wow, has Elton John recorded some amazing, wonderful songs in his time.

-The song was one of the few redeeming moments of Caribou, an album that sorely needed redemption (other highlights: "The Bitch Is Back," and maybe the maudlin kid-on-a-rampage ballad "Ticking").

-In his duet with George Michael, Elton doesn't fucking play piano. It clearly shows another dude playing it for him, as Elton prances about in a shitty baseball cap. Hey, Elton, your retardulous fashion choices are supposed to make you more amusing, not less, remember?

-In any context, George Michael will look like an asswipe, and the asswipery will be infinitely compounded and refracted by whatever he's wearing and whatever hand/body gestures/supplementary vocals he provides.

-George Michael keeps wagging his left arm/side around as if he is paralyzed along his right side
-4:32: After many tense minutes of shared harmonies and exchanged lines, the two finally hop off their respective metal platforms and hustle toward each other across the arena's large, inhuman stage, like lovers reunited at a Hawaiian Tropic promotional event. Pause here to ready another beer/shot/bowl/syringe, as the "heavy memories" portion of tonight's post is fast approaching!

-Rewind to 5:14. What the hell kind of hat is Elton wearing? Rebar Workers' Union? Iron Cross? Knights Of Columbus? But that's nothing compared to the Crappy Elton Hat action you'll find here.

-5:30: After all this time, finally, the man-hug is consummated! Christ, I thought it'd never happen.

-When I was in fourth grade or so, one of my classmates was this total smart-ass jerk we'll call SJ. Never had any reason to talk to me, except to say something hurtful. Also, I recall that he was good at soccer, so right off the bat, fuck him. However, one day I found myself talking about "DLTSGDOM," and he overheard and snapped to life: "Oh, the one where he sings with—" "Yeah, George Michael!" Keep in mind, this was just a year or so before kids like him discovered Nirvana and kids like me started to feel pretty oblivious. So, for one fleeting, tender moment, the union of these two overripe British pop loonies brought together the little nerdy kid and the jackass. Where the hell are you, SJ, and how many Wham! singles have you since collected on vinyl?

Tags Are Too Much Fun (Or Just Sad)

2007-09-23T16:01:00.000-07:00

IMDB and allmusic never fail to help me out, say, a dozen times a day. That said, both are developing an ever-more-obsessive habit of tagging, taking this concept to the ball-dangling brink of its usefulness. Maybe this will be helpful for people who need to have a Mood Customized Optimal Entertainment Experience, and now. Need a perfect tune for staying in bed? A movie with hands in it? Nothing novel about silly tags, but they're more amusing on sites that also function as serious research tools.

Here are more.

Allmusic themes/moods:
Housework, The Sporting Life, Dinner Ambience, Pool Party, Knotty, The Creative Side, Guys Night Out ... efforts to locate "Trapped Under Car" and "Awkward Funeral" were unsuccessful.

IMDB plot keywords:
Lactation, Sunglasses, Fisticuffs, Title Spoken By Character, Vomit Scene, Wrist Watch... but even better, you can click your way around the "related keywords" field that accompanies each one until you've got just the right combination*.

*Also fits under Guys Night Out, The Creative Side, and Housework.

What A Prick I Was Back Then #1: The High Strung

2007-09-12T20:00:00.001-07:00

"What A Prick I Was Back Then": In which I rethink past remarks with the benefit of several months' hindsight, or something.

This April I wrote a calendar item on The High Strung that's still in circulation among The A.V. Club's local concert calendars:

Hooks can’t exist without repetition, as The High Strung knows almost too well. Each song on the Detroit band’s recent Get The Guests shrink-wraps a few key phrases into three-minutes-or-less packages. It can make the band’s breezy songcraft sound a little trivial, but plenty of maturity shows through even in a sound this compressed, thanks to skittering basslines, impossibly pop-perfect vocals, and charmingly dopey wordplay (“Rimbaud /Rambo” is as delirious as the title suggests).

Indeed, the hooks come pretty fucking fast and the songs are shockingly tight, thanks to THS's near-constant touring and writing. Granted, this is a kind-enough blurb, but the "almost too well" was an intended backhand. For whatever reason, I wasn't in the mood for THS frontman Josh Malerman's lean, fast tunes and subtly wanted to warn readers of the danger of hook-poisoning, or something. After a few more (voluntary) listens Get The Guests also reveals its dark humor and variety, from the frantic shuffle of "He's Got No Soul" to the badass swagger of "The Baddest Ship." "Shrink-wrapped"? "Compressed"? More accurately, it's a travel-sized artillery of solid pop.

The Saddest Sign

2007-08-24T17:49:00.001-07:00

Been noticing signs like these on public restrooms, dressing rooms, etc. lately. That's "family restroom" as in "distinct from the male and female restrooms, but absorbing the disabled bathroom while pushing the wheelchair dude to the side and making him significantly smaller in the grand scheme of bathroom symbolism."

The dad who brings his little kid into the multi-stall public restroom is one of the more unstable, insecure creatures you can observe in a public place. But I think normal bathroom-goers need to be nearby, to check his behavior—for the child's sake. Especially in places like airports, where I've most often seen this sign. Most likely, the family we're aiming for has been crammed into a single room in the Quality Inn 20 minutes from Disneyland for a week now, sharing two miserable twin beds and four shitty little plastic cups and a cracked, leaky ice bucket and a rented 1996 Tercel. This is the last group of people who should be locking themselves into a tiny room outfitted with sturdy porcelain fixtures and shiny railings. Especially if three of them have already been pushing wheelchair boy through the Space Mountain line and helping him dunk in the shitty motor-court swimming pool for several nights in a row. Yes, folks, force these people into the more-public public restrooms, where shame will restrain them from killing each other. A family that needs quality-private-bathroom time is a family that needs some fucking lithium.

Concept Restaurants

2007-07-21T09:04:00.000-07:00

Too bad I don't have $6 million to throw around. If I did, my entrepreneurship would be nigh-on on unstoppable. First, I would establish a series of concept restaurants.

Watch: Closed-circuit TV cameras and large flat-screen TVs are mounted all over the white, otherwise undecorated walls and ceiling of this very sleek restaurant. You are served generous portions of expensive gourmet food, but you can't avoid the televised sight of yourself or others eating it. People in a control booth will be able to zoom in on chosen eaters and annotate scenes with JumboTron-like humor and commentary. They can also switch on a special nutrient-imaging system that brings the most fatty parts of your meal into infrared-style relief as they dangle half-gnawed from your mouth. Think you can hide from the self-consciousness in the bathroom? Spend more than 15 minutes there, and the camera in your stall goes live. No one goes to a restaurant to watch people eat, but that's going to change, whether anyone likes it or not.
If it's your birthday: You'll be served our Giant Flourless Chocolate Surveillance Cake. A small camera placed inside it exposes your hoggery—yep, looking right up into your syrup-smeared face—as you dig further and further in. One year greedier, motherfucker!

The Meat Locker: It's kind of cold inside this restaurant. You enter through a large, insulated door, which is slammed behind you from the outside. There is barely room for a table in here, because you'll be eating your massive, bloody, choice-cut steak amid swinging sides of meat. Move your plate aside for a sec—the butcher needs some workspace.
If it's your birthday: PETA slaughterhouse footage will be projected on the walls/sides for free.

Drunken Derby: Live out your drunken-driving fantasy in bumper cars with realistic handling, safety reinforcements, and mandatory $10,000,000 insurance policies. Obstacles, precarious curves, amputee stuntmen you can hit, ice patches, storefronts to crash through, traffic signals to defy—this ain't no lonely suburban back road as your paper-bagged bottle of Early Times dribbles away down by the clutch. "Officers" pull you over to unload fresh servings of booze and gourmet nachos into your vehicle. "Sir, I'm gonna have to issue you a citation—of Wild Turkey 101 proof! No, sir, you haven't had enough—save it for the judge."
If it's your birthday: Suck down that complimentary bottle of Andre fast, get your drunkymobile up to full-speed, and put on this NASCAR-surplus firesuit we hope still works, because you've got a Flaming Birthday Baked Alaska Wall to plow into.

Vandalism?

2007-07-21T08:41:00.001-07:00

This map's on the bathroom wall at a local bar, and it appears vandalism is welcome because people draw and write shit all over it. I figured I'd add to their list of Iceland-associated artists. (Just Bjork? C'mon.) This is exactly the kind of place, though, that would attract someone who knows a bunch more obscure Icelandic stuff, yet has the dignity not to go around writing it on bathroom walls. And no, the middle finger isn't mine. In retrospect, maybe I should have included "part of Fields."

Hamell On Trial

2007-07-09T15:21:00.000-07:00

Hamell On Trial, aka the furious one-man acoustic punk storm of Ed Hamell, played Café Carpe in Ft. Atkinson (about 30 miles outside Madison) Sunday night. He mostly showcased songs and stories from The Terrorism Of Everyday Life, a performance/DVD project he's working up. Highlights: A hysterical anecdote about a friend's dead mother, smoking a dead guy, and John Lennon telling a young Hamell to fuck off. Oh, and recent favorites like "Coulter's Snatch," which surely counts as a unifying hit among his cult audience. But lest that song make you think he's some kind of novelty humor act, head to Righteous Babe Records, where you can stream his latest album, Songs For Parents Who Enjoy Drugs.

Rocking, telling stories, and just generally being awesome.

Corporate Commendation: The Championship

2007-07-06T11:18:00.000-07:00

Milwaukee band The Championship stopped at Mickey's Tavern in Madison on Thursday night and ended up playing to a very cool and appreciative crowd of about 15 people. I'd never seen the band before, but I've had its 2005 album, Dance Casador!, in pretty frequent rotation since Steve turned me on to it. The record filters the band's strong, baritone-voiced twang through dreamy electric guitar work. It's got the earthy tones you'd expect from a country record, but also a modern, sleek feel. The phrase that keeps coming to mind is: Cosmic American music for our times. (Perhaps I should send that down to WBC's thesaurus jockeys for a little fine-tuning.)

This time, the band brought along a multi-instrumentalist, who played steel (on the bar!), mandolin, harmonica, and some guitar leads. Bands playing Mickey's usually get tucked into this little corner near the door, and against all odds the bar's acoustics worked nicely, letting the room fill up with The Championship's rich, warm sound. Also, they're nice people. It looks like they're mostly playing within Wisconsin, with one Chicago date scheduled this month and a couple stops in Texarkana later on.

Jon Dee Graham And The Fighting Cocks

2007-07-03T07:11:00.000-07:00

7/2/07, Kiki's House of Righteous Music, Madison

Jon Dee Graham's an amazing guitar player, a former bandmate of Alejandro Escovedo, and a strong solo artist in his own right. So, if you get a chance to see him in someone's basement, go. The set started off with "Tie A Knot," from his lastest solo album, Full. Graham's coal-gargling voice gets him a lot of Tom Waits comparisons, but that doesn't really sum the music up.

Sorry for the blurry-demon-wraith photo quality--didn't want to flash right in their faces.

Memorable banter moments:
-"When someone comes up to you and says, 'It's all good,' they're either an idiot or a fuckin' liar."
-To bass player Harmonie Kelly: "I'm not the one drinking wine out of a Muppets glass... did you just correct me on which Muppet it is?"

Opening: Kelly Pardekooper, a Madison-based, country-centric singer-songwriter who's attracted some international airplay and tour dates over the years. His latest, Brand New Bag, is a pretty solid set of songs, and, according to a one-sheet, includes performances from John Doe, Greg Brown, Junior Brown, and Jo Dee Messina. Here, his friend and also-reliable local singer-songwriter Josh Harty backed him on guitar.

Missed Connection: Gut Reactions Show

2007-06-30T14:21:00.001-07:00

Yes, the sun did shine upon that show, but not on our chance meeting.

ME: Early 20s writer/fan hanging out at the show, minding my own business at the bar between sets.

YOU: A 30s-ish couple couple, a tad mismatched in terms of personality and attractiveness, sitting a few seats down at the bar, looking a bit out of place.

Your male half greeted me, apropos of nothing, with "GET A HAIRCUT, HIPPIE!" even though I've been keeping it short lately. It all turned out to be in good fun, and you also went on to note that I "look like a baby," yet I couldn't help but wonder why you both continued to pursue conversation with me, or why your female half bought me a beer (which was nice). Was some sort of cult and/or kidnapping scheme afoot? After getting through the standard questions about my age and origins, she explained you were there because he'd read about the headlining band "in the paper," but so far had been disappointed. (For the record, I thought all the bands were lots of fun.) "Where'd you read it?" I asked. "In The Onion," your male half replied.

"Oh, I wrote that," I said.

"Will this band rock?" he asked.

"Yes. I have seen them rock before. I have also heard them rock on record. Believe me, you will be sufficiently rocked."

Then you left two songs into the band's set, failing to partake of the very rocking that, because of me, you had sought. But I felt like we made a real connection, especially while messing with each other and trading softball insults. We brought out each other's weird sides, and I felt fireworks in my belly. Maybe I'll run into you at a Hinder show someday, should you seek to be rocked there. Would love a chance to share with you my handmade bedroom garments, crafted entirely from Fruit Roll-Ups, and creepily observe your domestic foibles.

NY Times On Icky Thump

2007-06-28T07:19:00.001-07:00

"The White Stripes’ junk cart would have spinner rims."

It's Summertime

2007-06-24T11:23:00.000-07:00

And that means time for ~~giant marshmallow cocks~~ pink handlebars. Boy, oh boy, are they swell! So foamy and grippable!

New Section

2007-06-24T10:46:00.000-07:00

If this bank mailer can co-opt hip-hop through the medium of a creepy white guy, so can I.

As if I had time to keep up a respectable blog in the first place, I've now launched another, which will function as another section of (read: will be just as neglected and semi-literate as) WBC. It's called Drop A Ambulance, and it's there to motivate and collect my thoughts on hip-hop, a genre I know little about yet have enjoyed often, especially over the past couple of years. Fun times.

Michigan Ave.

2007-06-24T10:32:00.001-07:00

Parts of this sign were clearly slapped on over old parts, so perhaps his message has evolved over time, from one crazy cut-and-paste assertion to another. It is, however, an awesome piece of trashy, comic-book-inspired art, or something like it. Ideal for your own living room.

But the real question is, can you really trust a man with socks like that?

Inspector Owl: Under-Covered, Well-Merchandised

2007-06-09T08:01:00.000-07:00

Went to bed at about 3:30 a.m., woke up around 7:30 a.m. What kept me up so late? A fine show here in Madison, whose highlight, for me, was Illinois band Inspector Owl. (I've posted about the band before.) Also there: Milwaukee's Those Royals, Madison's always tight and infectious Awesome Car Funmaker, and a newer local group, Romance Language (missed their set, unfortunately). Basically, a solid four or five hours of happy. What got me up so early? Well, perhaps a subconscious urge to start sippin' from my Inspector Owl coffee mug. The band's selling these for a thrifty $5 at its shows, and it brings some much-needed flair to my bachelor's kitchen. No idea at what point they decided it was worth having coffee mugs, but I'm glad they do. Maybe it will kick-start their marketing strategy, or something, and help their new EP and excellent shows attract the attention they're worth. Last night's show sounded a bit better than IO's last stop in Madison. Perhaps they had a better sound guy this time, but whatever it was, everything, including the violin, keys, and ocassional trumpet, came through much clearer. Appropriate, as the new EP sounds bigger and fuller than their previous records.

I've also previously mentioned Kid, You'll Move Mountains before. Corey, who sings lead and plays guitar in Inspector Owl, also plays in KYMM, and he says they're working on an actual album.

Hooray (and Boo) For Objects!

2007-06-02T17:10:00.001-07:00

Today I noticed that my toaster has a "toast cancel" button on it. Of course, this is also the toaster with a miniature egg pan attached to it, which my Mom gave me as a sort-of-joke gift. Can't you just jiggle the little toaster lever if you want to cancel your toasting? And if they must have a button for that, shouldn't they go all out and make it big and red and put the word "ABORT" on it in really big letters?

It's kind of nifty that sneakers have evolved into a fertile art form of their own, but it does bother me when that starts to dominate ordinary shoe stores. I am a boring white person, and I require boring-ass white-person sneakers. Every six months or so, when my shoes are no longer protecting my feet all that well from the elements, I like to be able to run out quickly, buy a pair of sneakers that fit comfortably and transmit nothing about my personality. This has become increasingly difficult. After giving up at the usual local place, I went to a fucking Finish Line in the mall and saw a pair that looked like this, made with what felt like a layer of protective, grandma-couch plastic. Easy to clean. Probably a spiffy option for a day shooting vomit-fetish porn--why sacrifice style? Not good for me, though. But here's my real proof that this has gone too far: It's taken over the New Balances. New Balance is, as far as I'm concerned, the sneaker for boring white males. We (I) need you, New Balance, and you fucking know it, so why did the stylish blog Flytip credit you in 2005 with "releasing some fly shit these days"? Luckily, there were still some boring-ass white-and-grey selections hidden amid this colorful shitstorm, and I shall continue to draw as little attention as possible to my feet. Because feet just aren't much to look at, no matter how you wrap 'em up. If the pickings are this iffy next time around, I'll just patch up this pair with some aborted toast.

Evolutionary Thoughts; and D-Bags in Minivans

2007-05-26T22:31:00.000-07:00

Finally saw 28 Weeks Later--Scott Tobias' review at A.V. Club is pretty spot-on, in retrospect. It's a worthy-enough follow-up to 28 Days Later, though it builds up some expectations that it doesn't quite make good on in the end. The beginning is fantastic. There's nothing like an act of complete cowardice (Robert Carlyle fleeing as his wife presumably gets ripped apart by rage-infected zombies) to inspire empathy from the very start. An unexpected act of heroism? Well, that's what we'd like to see in ourselves, but it's a safe bet many of us would just bolt and soak up the regret for the rest of our lives. Anyways, the movie's fictional rage virus, like any living organism, seeks to keep itself around for the long run. Especially through puked-up blood, which doesn't seem all that effective. But it's a shitty organism for sure, which made me wonder: Has there ever been a species that just decided to keep it concise?

"Hey, you guys are looking serious over there, with the fins and all. And shooting nails out of your heads, that's a nice touch. So you're in it for the long haul, like the rest of us biological groupings, eh?"

"Eh. Nah. We're just gonna do a good five generations, eat some lionfish, fuck, then call it a day. Maybe split our DNA up into some solo projects."

"But don't you seek to last forever, biologically speaking, and maybe try and dominate other creatures?"

"Nope. Fuck it. Five generations, no time to stagnate, make a good solid run of it."

At least one subspecies of the human race should try this approach. Specifically, douchebags who insist on yelling at people on the sidewalk from their cars. I seem to encounter this type at least three times a week. It's usually unintelligible, but that's fine. All they're really saying is: "I AM IN THIS VEHICLE AND YOU ARE OVER THERE AND I AM ABRUPTLY INTERACTING WITH YOU SO I WIN!" A few nights ago, I was out taking a walk and I crossed the street in front of a minivan at a stoplight. A moment later, one of the guys in the minivan yelled out "Faggot-ass bitch!" This to my back, and right as the van is pulling away--and his voice sounded really hesitant and shaky, as if he'd been building up to it from the moment he spotted me and wasn't sure if he could pull off this little masterpiece. No eye contact, of course. And no conviction! Come on! As impersonal as a randomly selected personal insult can be. All I can really say is, you're still the guy in the minivan. Maybe you just need the storage space for your tremendous balls.

I Believe I Will See You See You Somewhere Safe

2007-05-12T11:21:00.000-07:00

Had to skip the very worthy Madison Area Music Awards and head out of town last night. It's a long story that's got nothing to do with the actual content of the show--in fact, I was really looking forward to seeing such acts as Bob Manor and the Getaway Drivers. Yet some very good and rather odd reasons arose. Groan.

Let's just say those reasons, among other shit, made it an all-too-perfect weekend for sulking in splendor with Morrissey at the Riverside Theater in Milwaukee.

Trying to understand all our strange emotional stirrings is like trying to read the facial expressions of a jar of leeches. So we magnify them and pretty them up and distort them until they make sense in our terms. And if anyone's guilty of doing this to excess, it's Morrissey, parading his doubt, anger, and pity with all the subtlety of a vaudeville show in a strip club on D-Day. This really means that Morrissey songs are horribly, perversely accurate, and that nobody wants to admit it. What a precious, self-involved twerp, and what a perfect companion for, well, anybody who can stomach the thought that they're one as well. Oddly enough, the few memories of mine that include Morrissey or Smiths songs are all pathetically precious.

So of course:

-His shirt came off during "Let Me Kiss You," just as he reached the line, "But when you open your eyes/ you see someone you physically despise," and he threw it into the audience and promptly trotted off stage to get a new one.

-Of the dozen or people who tried to rush the stage during the encore, the last was a skinny young man with an eerily perfect, lacquered head of Morrissey-type hair.

-His five backing musicians wore matching tight pants, short-sleeved button-up shirts, and close-cropped hair. One juggled guitars, keys, trumpet, trombone, and backing vocals. And the drummer had an enormous bass drum and gong that he pounded at the end of "How Soon Is Now."

-The stage backdrop: three ceiling-height photos of James Dean.

Apparently he's been bringing back more Smiths songs on this tour, and he opened with "The Queen Is Dead." The band lent itself best to newer songs like "I Will See You In Far Off Places" and "Irish Blood, English Heart," and even originally more delicate tunes like "The Boy With The Thorn In His Side" got a loud, electric-guitar-heavy treatment. Granted, this didn't make for a ton of sonic variety, but Morrissey's voice tied it all together--just a couple of brief rough patches throughout the set, and otherwise as silky, wistful, and theatrical as ever.

The only negative, all in all, is that opener Kristeen Young was atrocious. Imagine if PJ Harvey and a donkey had a child, and that child got run over by a Mary Kay car. It was a rather hurty 45 minutes, and if there was anything redeeming about it, it was nothing that didn't seem borrowed from Harvey or Tori Amos.

Grand Forks, etc.

2007-05-06T22:26:00.000-07:00

I feel most comfortable in a city where mental patients can freely roam the streets. If the freaks aren't circulating, something must be wrong. Even in Evanston, we lived around the corner from a long-term nursing facility--basically a low-security halfway house for recovering alcoholics and the like. It somehow comforted me to know they could mingle with the people their conditions supposedly placed them below, ocassionally making a bomb threat at the nearby bank ("nearby" meaning just steps away), but mostly just smoking a lot and spouting gibberish at scared college students and yuppies. One night I saw one of the patients sitting in the middle of the road; luckily, a bouncer in a nearby bar had just ended his shift and helped me lug the guy back. We knocked on the door, waited, and met a lone night nurse so obese she could barely walk.

The big cities are really there for the part of the human race that needs to see its own turbulent image reflected back at all hours of the day. To love Chicago I first had to hate Chicago, and what a ridiculous clusterfuck it is. Madison's a great deal smaller, but also strikes a certain balance of pleasure and aggravation. That's what makes a good city for me. In short, a good city needs to be extremely perverse. It needs to make people ask themselves: "Why the fuck do I live here, again?"

So how can I react to the mythical lure of a place like North Dakota: Healthy people working hard, being happy, making steady incomes, striving in serenity--what the fuck kind of fun is that, and will the junkies be on crack or (how gauche!) meth? In two days in Grand Forks, I met at least a dozen people who just seemed to have it figured out. Bright, giving, kind, worldly people. Not that there's nothing urban or restless going on in Grand Forks or neighboring East Grand Forks, MN--at least two new restaurants should include "the aroma of our gleaming young hardwood floors, much like a handsome sheik's well-oiled chest, with a side of drycleaned business-casual" on their menus, and at least a few bars melt the mind's defenses with cruel 22-oz. pints. But most people there just seem to have their nerves under control, in a way that immediately projects warmth to the newcomer. Maybe I was just meeting the right people (for the most part--there are assholes everywhere, of course). Soon enough, I stopped itching to see other neurotic, hyper types. But now I'm back to normal.

Worth a note: An exhibition called Beyond Likeness at the North Dakota Museum of Art. I haven't been able to find many good pictures of the works online, but here are some from Lalla Essaydi, who creates mesmerizing, calligrapy-laced images of the lives of Arab females. The most memorable part, based on sheer creepiness, was Eidolon, a video by Elizabeth King. See the still? Well, it's basically 11 minutes of that mannequin just kind of staring at you, making movements that are just lifelike enough to startle.

On A Dark, Wet Night In April

2007-04-26T22:29:00.000-07:00

Not only is Ted Leo exciting as hell in general, he always seems to bring out an audience's better side. Every Ted Leo show I've been to (tonight at Club 770 in Madison was the third) has been full of people who know the lyrics better than I do, and enjoy it without shame or pickiness. By the second or third song, Leo's a sweat-and-saliva faucet, and by the show's end, he's down to two or three guitar strings. Most people there have probably already heard favorites like "Biomusicology," "Timorous Me," "Where Have All The Rude Boys Gone?" and "no, I won't play the Kelly Clarkson song" dozens of times, and they're still fresh and sharp. I'm hoping that songs tucked away on singles and EPs like the recent Mo' Living, including "Old Souls Know" and the closer, "Rappaort's Testament: I Never Gave Up," become fixtures as well.

Lucky me, lucky mud

2007-04-12T17:02:00.000-07:00

"If you make people laugh or cry about little black marks on sheets of white paper, what is that but a practical joke?"

--Kurt Vonnegut, "Self-Interview"

Assorted: Amiina, Tom Brosseau, Inspector Owl, Kid You'll Move Mountains, Ladyhawk

2007-03-28T19:38:00.000-07:00

I done tried to write real durn good all week... so here's a half-assed rundown of stuff that's caught my attention lately. Want better writing? Well, make an offer and we'll talk. It's the fucking weekend, after all.

Amiina and Tom Brosseau, 3/21

Why, gee golly shucks, folks, Tom Brosseau's 'bout the kindliest guitar-picker this side of the... No, no, it doesn't actually matter that much, but that is almost how he talks between songs, in the voice of a nervous 12-year-old. He sings that way, too, with a high voice that cracks and might even make you think he's a bit shy. Even if this is some kind of persona he puts on--and that actually seemed more and more doubtful as his set went on--it's an ideal fit for his constantly disarming songs. His new Grand Forks centers on the 1997 flood that wrecked his hometown, but starts with an optimistic lift, "I Fly Wherever I Go." And with that optimism, close to childlike innocence, he inhabits a tough and dark world. The stage at the rather small Café Montmartre in Madison was packed with Amiina's equipment, so Brosseau played his set standing in front of the stage, at floor level with the audience, just the right height for playing songs like "Plaid Lined Jacket." The song's about being homeless, and he played it right after telling us about the shitty rental car he had to drive after his flight got diverted to Milwaukee... Yes, apparently the man lives in a universe of picturesque, hopeful screwiness. He makes it sound like the most natural place to be.

Brosseau and Amiina are an unlikely match for a tour, but it works--perhaps because Brosseau puts people in docile, friendly listening mode for the delicate spectacle that is Amiina's live set. It's difficult to tell someone the facts about Amiina without making the group sound scary and bizarre and messy--it's four women in color-coordinated dresses, they're from Iceland, they play strings, glockenspiel, wine glasses, a laptop, musical saws, and on and on--and maybe people came to gawk, but this was one of the quietest and most patient audiences I've seen in a long time. And at a venue that often draws the talky-est crowd in town, no less. For the encore, all four played saw. And it was beautiful.

Inspector Owl and Kid, You'll Move Mountains
I can't talk about one of these bands without talking about the other. They share one member, and though they certainly don't sound exactly alike, they've got similar approaches--a luscious, dark, and danceable mish-mash.... Inspector Owl just put out a new EP called Life Finds A Way, and some of it is streaming here. Kid, You'll Move Mountain's just been selling a CD of a radio performance (complete with hysterical between-song banter) at their shows, and it's actually pretty good, some tracks here. They've been selling each copy with a unique Polaroid taken near the location of the sale. Both are swell live bands. At KYMM's show here, lead singer Jim Hanke talked about The Office, and at Inspector Owl's show, lead singer Corey Wills talked about Battlestar Galactica. Good form!

Ladyhawk
I was looking forward to Ladyhawk's show here as, well, the only decent option on Monday night during a slow week. A decent guitar-rock band from Vancouver? Meh, why not? And I'm still kind of on the fence about their album, even though it's decent. As a live band, Ladyhawk's much louder and a lot more fun, with a tight-yet-rugged sound--basically, a damn good road band's sound--the album doesn't really capture. So, hooray.

Nicola
I have nothing to say about this person's music, but is this not the worst use of cleavage on an album cover ever?

In your best Terry-Jones-as-female voice: "'Ello, love! 'Ave a look at me milky pillas!"

Savoring, Savaging: TV On The Radio and Subtle

2007-03-17T07:16:00.000-07:00

It was almost like being back in Chicago--a theater filled with the preciously overdressed, the out-of-towners, and the invisible in-betweens. Even once you've been to a lot of shows, you realize that this combination of heat and noise is still rare and exciting, and that you're not so different from the people who mistakenly clap when the roadies come on. TV On The Radio basically sold out the Orpheum Theatre in Madison on Friday night, and the band skipped Wisconsin, I think, on its last tour leg--the all-too-familiar Chicago-to-Minneapolis jaunt that many bands I want to see make. But TVOTR still played like a band that had just exploded out of Brooklyn, looking and sounding foreign but quickly getting familiar on a primal level.

Dave Sitek hung a set of wind chimes from the head of his guitar and dangled them over the drum mics as he and Kyp Malone scrubbed out furious chords behind Tunde Adebimpe on the opener, "Young Liars." It's a climactic song, and this is a band that can start at the climax and stay there for an entire set. During the encore, four members of Subtle, who are opening for TVOTR on this leg, came on to pound on extra percussion, making for an amazing, nearly all-percussion version of "Let The Devil In." It's one of the most exuberant songs they've ever recorded, and a perfect example of what's best about TVOTR's music--no matter how exotic it gets, it's never that far from your gut.

TVOTR's warmth was even easier to notice after Subtle's opening set, all whimsical theatrics, complete with props. If you're going to sound as unusual as Sutble, you might as well follow through and look and act strange. MC/mastermind Doseone bounced between center stage and his little bank of gadgets, warming up the crowd with assorted jokes and plastic-fork giveaways. Of course, this is a college town full of hip hop-loving white kids, so a strong flow gets a guy a long way, even if he's playing with five other guys, including a cellist. As Doseone sputtered through his blank-verse lyrics with the precision of a snide computer-talk program, it was surreal to think that he used to battle-rap against guys like Eminem. Subtle's music isn't that hard to connect with if you're willing to embrace the confusion, and it has a fantastic sense of humor--"Midas Gutz," from the group's last album, For Hero: For Fool, imagines a beauty contest in which people cut themselves open and compare intestines for the prize.

I hadn't seen Subtle before, but it is kind of sad to see the group without Dax Pierson, who was paralyzed from the chest down when the band's van crashed during a 2005 tour. He's been recovering with the support of friends and fans in the Bay Area and elsewhere. The band also got robbed of about $15,000 worth of money and equipment in Spain last year, and, at least until recently, Doseone was raising money by drawing portraits (from photos sent by fans). A friend of mine got one done and it's rather nifty.

That "Apathy" Demographic's The Trouble...

2007-02-11T09:34:00.000-08:00

The Foghorns: Thawing Out With Golden Ghosts

2007-02-10T07:26:00.000-08:00

In the middle of some frozen nowhere, a man is warming up his poor raggedy ass in a cabin, sipping whiskey and dreaming of home. He'd probably feel a lot better if he could hear The Foghorns, a band that recorded much of its album New Low after a wearying trip from its Reykjavik base to Brooklyn. Wisconsin native Bart Cameron and his Icelandic pals play bluesy, folky tunes that make reliable companions in the middle of this shitball winter. It's the kind of music that tired people play best, and these folks were indeed pretty worn out by the time they started their set Thursday night at Cafe Zoma, a cozy coffee shop/venue here in Madison. Australian violinist Marisa Allen, who has a project called Bremen Town Musician, brings yet another welcome layer of melody and warmth to the band's current U.S. tour.

Bart's got plenty of stories about his move overseas, and told some in an interview for our local edition of The A.V. Club. However, the song "Golden Ghosts" (MP3) tells it much better. That version is from Olympus, a free recording of the band's going-away show in Reykjavik last year.

Odd note: The Oshkosh Northwestern, the newspaper that inspired the mockery of The Onion, did a rather crummy story on the band. A story in the UW-Oshkosh student paper is much cooler.

Brain Lab 7

2007-02-04T08:31:00.001-08:00

A Stare-Off I'd Like to See

2007-01-31T19:50:00.000-08:00

I don't sit around trying to come up with this shit. It just occurs to me once in a while, and if I don't expel it somewhere, the goblins in my brain will use it for fuel. For the record.

As Robbie Fulks delivers the spoken intro to this song (on the Corporate Country Sucks video podcast), looking into the camera, he kind of looks and sounds like Dwight Schrute. Right? Yes.

Assorted Assortments

2007-01-20T07:13:00.000-08:00

My friend Paul is interning at NPR at the moment, and he's specifically been working on the Web-only program Open Mic. What will my ecstatic fellow music dork cull from the bins of the Great Unsigned next?

It appears the other day was "Don't Look Directly At The Camera Day" at The A.V. Club. See?

The day before that, my Mark Linkous interview was totally at the top of the page, hence Milwaukee editor Steve and I dominated, bringing a little Wisconsin-power back to AVC for one glorious day, as he pointed out. Or something. Speaking of new guys, the company's announced that it's launching a D.C. print edition soon, so if you or someone you know is an awesome entertainment writer/editor up there, bug my boss.

My other boss recently lost his oldest cat. R.I.P., Oscar Phipps. Once I watched Keith's pets for a weekend. Oscar spent most of the time posturing like a pissed-off, feline Judi Dench on the dining-room table, and indeed, as frail old cats go, he was dignified and slightly threatening. I liked his style.

I'd Use Church As An Excuse to Skip Northwestern Games*, But...

2007-01-16T17:12:00.000-08:00

I really try my hardest to forget about the inanities of life at my alma mater, but an Obscure Store posting took me back to the ridiculousness for a minute. A Muslim student group at Northwestern wants a space to pray in during home football games, and I suppose there are valid arguments both for and against that, but what really made me laugh was the response from an athletics official:

"This is a request we took seriously," he said. "We appreciate all student support, but we didn't feel there was a suitable area for prayer. There's not enough space in the arena."

It's an arena! Officially, it seats 8,117 people, and, well, it's pretty damn big and it's near another large building, if I recall.

(*If I were religious.)

Brain Lab 8

2007-01-13T17:25:00.000-08:00

I'm Back, With Post-Holiday Bargains

2007-01-12T21:23:00.000-08:00

Sometimes You Rise Above it, Sometimes You Sneak Below: My Favorite Lyrics of 2006

2006-12-10T07:49:00.000-08:00

With A.V. Club's '06 music issue coming up, I got into a best-of-the-year frame of mind, which was odd, because I've never worked on a best-of list, and I'm pretty new to the paper and to writing about entertainment professionally. I'm still glad I got to put my piece in, because I like my job and the folks I work with. Rather than pretend to speak with some kind of authority twice over, I figured I'd just pull some of my favorite lyrics from the year's releases (no ranking, though). Here goes.

Hamell On Trial, "Hey Boss," from Songs For Parents Who Enjoy Drugs

You might wonder, what's my political affiliation,
well, I consider it to be one of extreme moderation,
I'd love to ride up Pennsylvania Ave. and see the right
with all their heads mounted on poles and I'd like 'em at the same height.
(I'm a Libra, I need that balance.)

Actually, the funniest tracks on this album are two sketches called "Maddy's," in which Ed Hamell places a delivery order to Maddy's Fascist Diner. Overall, I think this album was my favorite this year.

Alejandro Escovedo, "Sacramento And Polk," from The Boxing Mirror

I never could jump from high enough
I never could jump from high enough
I never could jump from high enough
A third-story jump ain't high enough,
It's just a mess on Market Street
(Chorus) I'm under a spell her name

Palo Alto Hotal at Sacramento and Polk
The neighbors spend their days
Washing their socks and staring out the windows
In a thorazine haze
They don't know what to do with their hands
They vaguely remember some plans
But that was so long
That was so long ago
(Chorus) I'm under a spell her name

The Thermals, "An Ear For Baby," from The Body, The Blood, The Machine

So pull out your dead roots,
pull out your best suit,
you know, the one they're gonna bury you in

Good luck getting God on the phone
good luck getting even a tone
you can trust me, it's not a test
and I won't leave you in this mess
Any questions?
You, in the back

Pernice Brothers, "Cruelty To Animals," from Live A Little

In the coming years, let's try and milk a fortune off them
I think we're qualified by now

Alouette, gentille alouette,
Head to toe so thoroughly until we're both dismembered
Alouette, gentille alouette,
Naive, yes, but none the worse, spinning glue back into horses...

Todd Snider, "The Devil You Know," from The Devil You Know

Better turn on my alarm and lock myself in
helicopters over the house again

Sometimes you rise above it
sometimes you sneak below
somewhere in between believing in heaven
and facing the devil you know

Frank Black and Reid Paley, "I'm Not Dead (I'm In Pittsburgh)," from Fast Man Raider Man

It's all just one big monkey house to me
Just living ain't the same as being free
Don't stop and think about it
It'll only make you sad
Come put me out of my misery

'Cause I'm not dead (I'm in Pittsburgh)
Where a man can lose his mind
I'm not dead (I'm in Pittsburgh)
They've got me suited up for crazy time

Hate to wank my own horn here, but my favorite bit from the interview I did with Frank Black:

AVC: Are there other musicians you'd like to work with?

FB: Do you know any nice guys? Introduce me to a nice guy, and he'll probably end up on my next record.

Brain Lab 6

2006-12-02T19:37:00.000-08:00

Another Fine Dresser

2006-12-02T09:45:00.000-08:00

I did an interview with Lisa Lampanelli in advance of her show here in Madison, and she told me to come say hi afterwards. I had to get a picture of what she was wearing, because it was just so stupendous. See?

Sorry for the shitty picture quality; I was in a rush to get to the DeVotchKa show across town.

I did like Lisa's set, although I wish she'd done more of the new material she's talked about. Well, maybe some of it was new, but it sounded like the familiar race- and gay-baiting stuff. I would have laughed harder if her two openers hadn't reminded me how unfunny comedy like that can be. Of course, Lisa's attitude would probably be "Fuck you, you part-Injun faggot, they're hard-working comedians." What I want to know is, after you've been inured by Lisa's act, how many laughs can you get out of Tracy Locke and Wendell (I know nothing about them and am probably misspelling Wendell's name), who basically came on and did a more coy, undeveloped version of what Lisa did? OK, Wendell's set focused a lot more on the "Yep, I'm a big fag and may be prone to doing things gays are often thought to be prone to doing!" stuff, but frankly I've exchanged better gay jokes with my gay friends. I can't remember any of them right now, but I do remember laughing harder at them.

I'm not even saying these two were un-funny, I'm saying that there's a point where pushing it isn't really pushing it at all. Lisa is friendly to the people she picks on, and she'll eventually say that she doesn't mean the stuff she's saying, but she's convincing as a racist, bitter bitch on a tear. She makes the crudest, dumbest jokes funny because she plows right into them without any of that cut-rate, huckster-y, "ain't-I-funny?" aftertaste that so many comedians (including Tracy and Wendell) have. Hey, I fucking know when I'm at a comedy show. I don't need a comedian's personality to constantly remind me that, "HEY HEY HEY, IT'S FUNNY TIME!!!!" Of course it's fucking funny time, and of course these people are just trying to have a decent career and have fun doing it and make people laugh, and yet a lot of these people just seem to be trying too hard. I'm not sure this is even a clear distinction, but some comedians act like comedians and some comedians (most of the ones I like) just act like people who say funny stuff.

Flavor-Off!

2006-11-21T19:29:00.000-08:00

Reporting on development, local flavor, and whatnot eventually led me to question the whole idea of local flavor. I went to college in Evanston, IL, right as that city's condo struggle really started to heat up, and I decided I preferred new buildings that stuck out boldly in their neighborhoods to new buildings that stuck out blandly. The latter were always just kinda ugly and never actually looked like the neighboring older buildings anyway. So what about new things that more or less do fit in but are obviously new anyway? I was in Portland, Or., this weekend, and people there seem to pride themselves on keeping old signs on their shops and buildings. Even a Hilton downtown has light-up letters that have to be 20 years old. Then there's this.

I saw this and coined a new term: Flavor invaders. They come in from out of town and co-opt the local flavor. Flavor invaders. A few minutes later, I decided I really couldn't fault the Qwest people when I saw this over a long-established local Greek restaurant:

A Mensware Missive

2006-11-18T16:58:00.000-08:00

Here come the only two firm, absolute statements I will ever make about clothes and/or fashion.

Dear American Males:

1. Stop Wearing Khaki Pants. Khaki pants seem to be the big thing for men these days. In fact, I'm convinced that one day, ugly-ass khakis will be as essential at '00s-themed costume parties as hot-pink sweatbands are at '80s-themed costume parties now. I know that khaki pants are part of an effort to bring a bright, breezy feel to otherwise formal attire. Problem is, I've never seen one person, ever, who looks good in khakis. And, as I'm known to leave my apartment once in a while, I have seen many, many men wearing khakis. I bet some other take on the light-brown scheme might work, but khakis just over-accentuate the legs and crotch. This is why jeans and blue and black pants are still better, even if one is perceived to be too informal and the others are perceived to be too stuffy.

2. Stop Wearing Pleated Pants. Especially pleated khaki pants, but pleated pants of any color ought to be burned. One can argue that pleats make pants more comfortable around the waist/crotch/hips, which means they are for people who are too lazy to find pants that fit them comfortably. In other words, pleats don't really need to be there. Why not add little frilly borders along with them. And all this pleated shit is invading the cheap-ass stores where I tend to shop, like Marshalls, Ross, etc. Stop it. Pleats are not for cheap people like me. I'm against clothes that generall have too much stuff that they don't need to have, and excess seems to be the trend in clothes today. It's hard enough to find a fucking pair of sneakers that aren't loaded down with logos, gel compartments, massage motors and whatnot. Pleats are for people who have too much money to spend. What's worse is when I see an otherwise good-looking, trim fellow wearing pleats. What is he thinking?

"I may be 35, in good shape, and in a fine, stable job, but you're never too young to look like you have one of those fatty crotch pouches."

Dressing badly is practically in my job description, but even I have standards.

Comedy Resurgence Now Official, Except for CoC

2006-11-17T05:40:00.000-08:00

Far be it from me to criticize a trade publication for following the money, but this story in Variety smacks of "last-minute news analysis spun from the obvious." I really wanted to post something about it on the A.V. Club Newswire, but I got to it a few days late. The nut of the story is certainly something I'd like to hear more about: Stand-up comedy is on the rise. The story's main examples? Dane Fucking Cook, Dave Chappelle, Larry The Cable Guy, Comedy Central. Of course, Cook's sales are huge, but the point isn't that the entertainment world can support a few comedians of military-industrial popularity. The point is that the entertainment world can support tons of comedians at varying levels of popularity, and the story gets this, but it doesn't really delve into any of the more financially moderate success stories, or really many of the niches that comedy is starting to get into. Yes, it mentions the gay, Asian, and Latino comedy markets, but doesn't talk about, say, the people who come out to see tours like the Comedians Of Comedy, a group of comedians who for the most part are a hell of a lot funnier than Cook, and, for Christ's sake, got a documentary that aired on Showtime and Comedy Central.

Of course there's no way the CoC tour's making anywhere near what Cook is making, but they've stayed productive and they've reached picky people like me. Plus, CoC doesn't feel so goddamn cheap because it's well-rounded. A CoC date without Patton Oswalt? I could see it happening (maybe there've been a few of those; I'm honestly not sure). There'd still be Eugene Mirman, Brian Posehn, Zach Galifianakis, and/or Maria Bamford to choose from, and that would make for a pretty cool bill. A Tourgasm date without Dane Cook, but still billed as "Dane Cook's Tourgasm"? Oh, they're trying a whole bunch of those right now, and I honestly have no broad assessment of how that's going. However, I do know that a date scheduled here in Madison--a huge college town--got cancelled. (Ironically, this stop was planned for just four days after Cook's show at Madison Square Garden.) I'm also seeing cancellations in Baltimore and Portland. I really can't conclude anything from this because I don't know why. Maybe there are conflicts I don't know about, but then again it wouldn't surprise me if this ain't exactly selling out everywhere. Cook sold Tourgasm as his way of helping out other comedians who've been pounding the pavement for a long time, but let's see how long it takes any of those three guys to find the success and love that Mirman and Posehn have found independent of their tour's centerpiece. Smaller, weirder, better comedians who can succeed without piggybacking entirely on the big guy? That's news.

I hope this isn't an "other journalists should share my priorities/news judgment in their entirety" post. I just hate to see a good angle go to waste.

Dear Fellow Concert-Goers: Shut the Fuck Up Once In a While

2006-11-16T18:48:00.000-08:00

Before I get into this: What I'm about to complain about didn't stop me from enjoying the two shows in this post. They were far more good than bad. But I still like to bitch. Contradictions onward!

My friend Julia and I went to see the Decemberists in Chicago this weekend, and, this being Chicago, which has awesome rock crowds, the show sold out and the Riviera Theatre was packed pretty damn tight. Not everyone there is going to be a Decemberists fanatic or a particularly big fan (I'd say I'm a moderate fan?), but when everyone has paid more than $30 for a ticket, it's a fair bet that their main point in coming is to hear the band's set. And drink beer and maybe talk a little (I'm not above making the occasional comment during a show or movie). Maybe it's just that I grew up so close to the Orlando Area Amusement-Industrial Gulag, but when I've bought a ticket to something, my attitude is always, "GOD DAMMIT, WE ARE GOING TO HAVE EVERY MEASLY DIME'S WORTH OF FUN, LIKE IT OR NOT!"

We're doing some mild calisthenics to shake off the soporific fog of the opening act, Alasdair Roberts (I don't just mean he was boring, I mean that his set was pretty much audio-induced naptime), and a guy and his girlfriend squeeze through, saying they need to find their friends. Being nice folks, we let them. And then they plant themselves in front of us, blocking our view. "The bitch is shorter than the asshole, so why don't we switch places?" I say to Julia, who's a bit shorter than me. I'm standing two or three inches behind these fucking people, almost yelling, and they don't hear me. This is more than the crowd noise should cover up, and my intention is that they'll hear us, but they don't, which makes it even funnier. Hard heads, is all I'm saying. So we manage to squeeze to the side of them, enough that the view of the stage is a bit better, and it seems to be resolved.

A few minutes later, the Decemberists come out and start into "Leslie Anne Levine," and damned if they even get through a verse before the girl turns around to the guy and starts yapping full-bore. Not just an "I'm so excited! Colin Meloy's so dreeeeeamy!" or anything, but deliberate, prolonged windbaggery of the highest order. So I do something that can really creep people out, which is to fake a tubercular coughing fit, and because we're packed so close, I can't be blamed for coughing right at the back of her head. This seems to bug them for a minute, but then they're right back at it. And they keeps it up, through about three songs, and then we decide to find another place to stand. As we're moving out, we run into a couple who say, "Hey, we'll totally back you up, those people are assholes!" But it was frankly just easier to move. Thank you for your solidarity, Tall-ish Guy and Woman. The four of us could have stomped those two nitwits, but the show itself was just too damn good to interrupt for a brawl.

From further back, we can't hear Bitch and Asshole, but Julia can see them, and she tells me they're still talking. Who in the fuck pays $30+ to stand and fucking talk the whole time? If you've got to talk at a show, there are always lobbies, bathrooms, or the sidewalk. Places where people aren't actively listening to music, places where people will soon start finding your severed, bashed-in heads. When did this talking shit become acceptable? I'm sure there's always been a loud jerk or two at a given show, but when I read about concerts in the 70s and 60s, or listen to live albums from that period, I get the impression that crowds were generous and attentive for good sets (and this was a great set; given the chance I'd pay $30+ to see it again). I'm not saying we should all sit there like obedient little doggies, but for fuck's sake, let other people at least fucking hear the music without your mindless contamination. I'm sure I've been to shows where it's worse; most of the people in our area and closer to the stage just seemed to be singing along, dancing, etc., all of which actually make the concert fun and show the audience's gratitude to the band.

It could just be because I'm anti-social, and a lot of the social conversations I try to have end at awkward small talk. Then again, I've enjoyed of long, rambling conversations about a lot of dorky, silly stuff. I just don't believe in having them all the time, and I don't believe that running your jaw is inherently valuable. No one's above yammering about the stupid little details of his/her life or anything else, but there are times not to do it. One time: When you're watching a solo acoustic concert in a space where sound carries pretty well. Today, Chris Smither played a free concert here in Madison, and all the stray chatter in the audience reeally distracted me at times. Look, people, just can it once in a while. You probably won't miss anything important in your stream of verbal barf, and you'll actually fucking hear the music. Again: Sometimes you can't help talking a little, and that's one thing, but when you just keep talking incessantly, you're an asshole. I could almost understand if this were some crappy act, because this is one of those events people just kind of go to because it's there--like a couple of zoo concerts I wrote about this summer. But this is a guy who still writes fantastic songs, with a guitar style to match. Maybe I just happened to be near the few people who were talking. If it was important to them to have their conversations right then and there, why'd the come to a damn concert?

Alright, this is turning into a one-person PTA meeting.

I'm far too picky about some things, I know. There's just nothing worse to me than the din of dozens of people having dozens of useless conversations all at once. It's like listening to zombies feed.

Mis-trope

2006-11-08T18:28:00.000-08:00

Brain Lab 5

2006-11-05T21:04:00.000-08:00

"Shove 'Em Up There Again, Dennehy!"

2006-11-01T17:39:00.000-08:00

Patton Oswalt and the Pennsylvania Macaroni Company CD EP

I was browsing about a couple weeks ago and discovered that Chunklet is selling this limited-edition CD, which captures the last 18.5 minutes of the Comedians of Comedy tour's stop in Chicago this spring (I was there). This is the only time I've paid $18 or so for something so short. Hell, I usually won't spend that on a full-length album 'cause it's a rip. This catches three bits after Patton Oswalt's set, when Eugene Mirman, Brian Posehn, and Maria Bamford joined him onstage. At this point in the evening, all four have done pretty damn good sets on their own and people are having a good time but are exhausted.

"If you guys are wondering, 'Oh, my God, I wish I could travel in a van with these great, funny, awesome people!' No you don't," Patton says, and the group recreates some of its road-spawned in-jokes, which turn out to be funnier than most of the road stuff in the Comedians Of Comedy documentary. These jokes are ways for the comedians to torture each other and/or themselves on the road, so at this point they're perversely dragging things out for the audience. It's like having a prank played on you and enjoying and admiring it from setup to finish.

The title joke gets more and more convoluted as it goes on. Patton's tourmates force him to make up songs, in the style of Leon Redbone, about the Pennsylvania Macaroni Company, which he spotted on the road near Pittsburgh. The subjects of the songs keep getting trickier to improvise around: Does the company have any specials today? Do you have any health-code violations we should know of? Can you tell us something about the founders? And what he says keeps getting more ridiculous. He refers to the last of those as a "fucking Cormac McaCarthy novel." Then Eugene asks him to list the company's pastas in alphabetical order, and he does that pretty well, and remember, he still has to answer in the form of a Leon Redbone-style song. I don't think I'd enjoy this as much if I hadn't been there, though--it just makes it better to know that the show had already been building for a couple of hours, with Patton drinking a lot of Scotch throughout. It's great to see four comedians just riffing off each other without any of them having to, say, take a shit in a bucket.

Brain Lab 4: Here is Your Throat Back, Thanks for the Loan

2006-10-27T13:51:00.000-07:00

The Yes Man

2006-10-24T19:16:00.000-07:00

Have you seen the Yes Man? The Yes Man is that guy at the show who believes he enjoys it more thoroughly and more actively than everyone else. Sure, you see people at shows who get drunk and yell a lot and make metal fingers at the band and all that shit, but the Yes Man is up to something else entirely. He is the audience member who thinks that overdoing it is essential to enjoying music, and, I bet, life in general. I could just be making this up, but I see a guy (yes, it's almost always a male) fitting this description at most of the shows I go to. He's not just there to have a good time; he's there to enjoy and appreciate the show as doggedly and thoroughly as possible, all while projecting how proud he is to be so good at appreciating.

I ended up sitting near a table of three Yes Men when I saw Rory Block last week. Block is a pretty good songwriter in her own right and a fine keeper of the acoustic blues—which of course is full of esoteric technique and lore, or, as one of the YM referred to it during a conversation I overheard, "mythos." (The YM doesn't have to be outright pedantic, but these fellows were.) So if a YM knows anything about Robert Johnson (which in this case would be important, because Block's latest album, The Lady And Mr. Johnson, consists entirely of Johnson covers), he's got a head start. He'll catch the in-jokes, the lyrics regarded as especially poignant or significant in blues-nerd circles, and all the soulfullest guitar licks and whatnot. And, in the case of this circle's ringleader (kinda overweight, ponytail), he'll smile and let it linger a little too long, wag his head back and forth as if to say "mm-mm-mm-mm-GOOD!" and even tap his foot for a measure two after a song is over. When I first noticed this YM's behavior, I wrote in my notebook that this is the kind of guy who plays air guitar with accurate chord fingerings. And a few minutes later, he started doing just that.

See, at this show, the artist was providing everything you could reasonably ask for (she's good live!)—a fine performance with a little necessary banter and self-promotion. But for the YM, that's not the whole picture. His experience isn't complete unless he reacts just-so.

Why do I mind? It's not as if these people were keeping me from seeing or hearing or enjoying anything. I think it's because, as Matt's told me, I have a tendency to project the audience onto the performer. Which is just his fancy way of saying this: If one guy's overreacting the whole mood of the show can seem forced to me. Which gets trickier when I'm seeing a band that's always going to have an "emo" label stuck on its ass, like The Appleseed Cast. OK, that's a stupid label, but it's part of the language now, so I try to deal with it. I know they have some whiny numbers, but a lot of the whining gets covered up a lot on their latest album, Peregrine. (I think they kinda make up for it with song titles like "Ceremony," "Woodland Hunter (Part I) ," and "Woodland Hunter (Part II)," if you're into that sort of thing.) In fact, if you want to mope out, you can still enjoy it on that level, and if you don't want to mope out, you can enjoy it as the layered, well-textured, mature (maturing, maybe?) rock it is. I think it's the drums that tie it all together for me. Well, a lot of things tie it together, but hear me out. TAC's drummer kicks ass on a purely musical level, but in every measure he hits a few really emphatic beats that basically sound like headbanging instructions for emo kids: "Hey kid, do it here, and put your back into it!"

The YM at TAC's show here on Saturday followed those instructions impeccably for a solid hour. Sometimes people see a guy acting like that and figure he's just messing with the band, but after seeing him deliberately keep it up for the whole show, you realize that nobody expends that much physical energy for irony. At least not without pay. Does some powerful figure in the record industry have voodoo dolls of these people?

Then again, I'm the guy at the show fussing with my notebook so I can remember all this stuff just-so for my blog. Where does that put me?

At the World's Fair

2006-10-04T17:03:00.000-07:00

Never had he felt so close to nature—nor so far apart.

Brain Lab 3

2006-10-03T17:01:00.000-07:00

Brain Lab 2

2006-10-02T16:59:00.000-07:00

Transforming the status quo.

Brain Lab

2006-10-01T16:57:00.000-07:00

True brilliance is interminable.

Obie Trice vs. ODB

2006-09-02T18:13:00.000-07:00

(Not that I really think there's any comparison.)

Obie Trice: "I'll be damned if I let a nigger lay his hands on me,/ I'll lay his ass out and park a Grand Am on 'im..." ("Cry Now," from Second Round's On Me)

Ol' Dirty Bastard: "...I drop an ambulance on a nigga." ("You Don't Want To Fuck With Me," from Nigga Please)

So, Obie, does that Grand Am have flashing lights and a trunk full of medical supplies? Is it much heavier than your average Grand Am? I'm just saying: It appears Ol' Dirty had a little more resolve (and flair!) in the vehicular homicide department. Though you're ahead in the Cheers-inspired album art category. (Yes, I'm aware that was also the title of your first album, but in this context I do mean that TV show that went on entirely too long.)

Another show review rescued from the Stygian cache!

2006-09-02T16:37:00.000-07:00

Al Rose + Doug Hoesktra, 9/2: I write about music for the satisfaction of finding good stuff (well, and to see my bullshit in print, but I could do that in other fields, I guess), and here are two songwriters who make the search worthwhile. Rose's latest album, Gravity Of Crow, begins with a few muted guitar chords and gentle verses, then explodes into an hour of playful fascination. It must be good because it was about 1:30 am when I first put on and I stayed up for the whole thing. At Mother Fool's, Rose was accompanied by Madison songwriter/guitarist Maury Smith, yielding a crazy hour of improvised acoustic-guitar interplay. I realize a lot of guitarists can run up and down blues scales all day, but Rose and Smith play together in ecstatic bursts that technical ability alone can't produce—Rose happily bashing out the chords, Smith's guitar lines sprawling on with a surprising mix of grit and finesse. You can stream some of Al's songs here, but you won't get the full effect unless you see him live sometime. I don't think there's anyone who writes songs quite like him, or anyone who could pull off his hybrid of sturdy country/folk and shamelessly weird lyrics.

Hoekstra played a solo set and read a short story from his new book, Bothering The Coffee Drinkers. The songs I've heard from his recent Six Songs EP show his catchy acoustic-pop side (I especially recommend "The Bottomless Pit"), and during the show he focused on quieter folk numbers. For the most part it was as if he was singing to himself, displaying a confidence and restraint that seems ever more rare in today's singers. Anyone who's talked to me about music knows how picky I am about this. If the melody and lyrics are good, a singer can get his point across without whining and moaning, and that's what Hoekstra does. Instead of clubbing an audience over the head with emotion, he draws 'em in with witty narratives and imagery. I'm not at the top of my describing game today. Just give both of these guys a listen. Pleasures await those who do.

Infocalypse

2006-08-12T17:16:00.000-07:00

As I predicted, the new American remake of Pulse is a disaster. In short: Too much explanation, too much forced empathy for lousy characters, too few visual surprises. As I said, I don't think remakes have to be faithful to originals, but they should at least live up to the promise of originals. Here's why the new Pulse does not:

Original: Set in Tokyo. The unwitting protagonists get to the Tenement of Doom via bus.
Remake: Set in Columbus, Ohio, but apparently not filmed there. The unwitting protagonists get to the Tenement of Doom via a subway system, which Columbus doesn't have.

Original: What exactly the cyber-ghosties do to a person is completely vague throughout the film.
Remake: Within the first five minutes, we learn exactly what the cyber-ghosties do: Suck out your fuckin' soul! Yet these soul-suckers aren't half as cool as the one in Bubba Ho-Tep. Hey, Bubba tried to suck out JFK's soul through his asshole. Pulse's soul-suckers aren't hardcore enough for that--they just grip people's heads and suck from a distance.

Original: Clear enough on the theme of ambivalence toward technology. Computer and cell-phone use is incidental to the characters' jobs and personal lives; some characters struggle to get used to it.
Remake: The protagonists are all college students, and apparently they don't have jobs. Apart from partying and attending classes, they seem to do nothing but text-message, instant-message, make cell calls and browse the Internet. And the credit sequence is a dopey montage showing computer use, including a shot of someone typing in the URL "chatroom.com," which doesn't seem to be getting much use lately. In all, its intention seems to be to provoke this discussion among college students: "Wow, we use the Internet and cell phones so much." "Yeah. And how 'bout them chocolate-flavored condoms?" In a way the clumsy emphasis on theme reminds me of this year's Slither. It begins with a bunch of scenes in which various characters blather about evolution, not knowing that a hyper-evolved space creature is heading down to fuck them up. But that was funny and effective. This is just dumb.

Original: Not all the protagonists are tech wizards. One has to ask a woman for computer help! GASP!
Remake:All the kiddies seem to get it, and they IM in complete, grammatically impeccable sentences. LMAO at the timing.

Original: The scary parts are shocking and abrupt. Nobody ever seems to understand entirely what's happening or why.
Remake: The filmmakers douse the film in artificial dread. By the time something bad happens, the audience has been alerted about a jillion times over, with jarring music, gloom-drenched cinematography, and the characters' own explanations of events. Even so, it relies on shock. Once we've seen, several times over, just what happens when the soul-suckers approach, is it supposed to surprise us.

Original: Stunning suicide scene.
Remake: All the actual suicides happen off-screen; a news show helpfully announces a suicide epidemic.

And don't even get me started on the characters. The tedious, hackneyed, obnoxious characters...

"I'm Down Here in the Office with the Little Starving Kids": Bono as David Brent

2006-07-29T17:26:00.000-07:00

Ooh, what's more important: you, Neil, with your report, or some starving children? Oh, I dunno. Oh, what would Lenny Henry say? I think we know. Imagine him going out of the door on Comic Relief day and Dawn French is going 'Where you going, you haven't done the washing up. You haven't put the rubbish out. 'DO IT YOURSELF, I'VE GOTTA SAVE SOME AFRICANS!' (Ricky Gervais as David Brent, The Office (UK), season 2, episode 5)

I just saw Leonard Cohen — I'm Your Man and enjoyed it very much, but I can't help but feel that Bono's and Edge's commentaries in the film are superfluous. They seems, as usual, enraptured by their own voices as they find a bunch of ways to say, "Gee, Leonard Cohen's really good!" and "Wow, Leonard Cohen kinda has this spiritual quality."

David Brent and his buddy Chris Finch, on the other hand, take excessive pride in being trivia champions.

Possible rebuke: "You can't compare Bono with David Brent! One's a well-established musician, the other's a fictitious idiot!"

My reply: Yes I can, and thanks to the magic of YouTube, so can you!

The main thing they have in common: Supreme confidence, even when they're deep in their own vapidity. I must say that it's nice to see Edge without that stupid hat. I'd scalp him just to get rid of it. If you are a lawyer who's willing to help me cook up an alibi, please email me.

That said, Brent isn't quite so good at turning boring, socially conscious talk into magnificent songs.

What Shall We Do, What Shall We Do, With All this Useless Marking?

2006-06-10T17:22:00.000-07:00

I have been reading very slowly lately, which is frustrating when you're reading a long book--namely, Neal Stephenson's 900-plus-page whopper Cryptonomicon. The prologue is quintessential, kick-in-the-ass, hysterical, street-smart Stephenson, but as his plots thicken, Stephenson is bound to get into technical detail (or something like it--the entire middle of Snow Crash is pretty intricate but not what I'd strictly call technical). His explanations of the finer points of cryptology are worth reading, just not when I'm about to fall asleep. I digress!

Last night I just wanted to read some entertaining junk, so I tried Complicated Shadows: The Life and Music of Elvis Costello by Graeme Thomson, which I bought used at Amaranth Books in Evanston. For the most part it bored me (I went back to the brick-o'-Neal for a while), but the one who came before me must have been fascinated. I noticed the first few pages had been carpet-bombed in pencil--underlines and parentheses everywhere. Then I flipped around and found that EVERY FUCKING PAGE had been marked up, so much that it got difficult for me to concentrate. Example: Page 105, which I did not read to. I think I quit around page 10. You'll probably have to click on the pic and look at the large version to make all the marks out.

I'm a cheap fiend who buys a lot of used books, so I'm used to reading around college students' dutiful highlighting and margin notes, because those usually serve to emphasize a manageable number of quotes, facts, and/or ideas. But this person started marking stuff--"OK, I want to come back to this, and this, and this, and this"--until he/she ended up deciding to try and remember the whole damn thing. These aren't just the random marks of someone following the words with a pencil--notice how the underlines and parentheses always seem to cleanly mark a coherent fragment, or just one word.

I bet this dutiful Elvis tracker managed to win free tickets for tomorrow's Ravinia performance. I just now remembered to order a lawn ticket. More on that Monday. Or maybe this person brought the book to Amaranth completely embarrased by his/her obsessive actions, forgot the whole affair, went home and put on King of America and let the memory fizzle out.

Nummers!

2006-04-29T17:33:00.000-07:00

Comedians of Comedy Tour, Logan Square Auditorium 4/28/06

Well, up there's my one-word review of Patton Oswalt's mighty, Scotch-fueled set last night. I got out of bartending school at 10 and hauled ass up to Logan Square. Apparently I missed a short opening bit by Patton. I got there about 10 minutes before Maria Bamford's set ended. She makes me laugh a little, but I don't like her constantly-nervous act. I guess it brings a little variety, what with Patton, Eugene Mirman and Brian Posehn being the most casual comedians I've ever seen. I like this tour because I think a good stand-up set should resemble a conversation with my friend Matt, only with more comic refinement and less Denny's.

So next was Posehn, who talked about being married and owning a house and dogs, pretending to be a retard when telemarketers call, and the secret emotions of his stomach. Mirman did a lot of stuff I've already heard on his album, but I actually enjoyed him more live. For some reason his mannerisms just make it funnier. I'm unfortunately going to neglect these two because I don't know their stuff very well. I was on the fence about what little I'd seen and heard of them, but now I'm willing and glad to give them my money.

Nice thing about comedy shows--the acts come on one right after the other and you don't have to spend a bunch of awkward 30-minute intervals staring at show kids and sweating your ass off. So right after Mirman, Patton got up, slammed down some "funny potion" and plowed right into it.

Great Mother Fuck, I love that man. He doesn't really have a schtick--just a few trademark mannerisms--so he's always exactly as good as his writing, which is consistently awesome. He ran through some familiar bits from Feelin' Kinda Patton--patchouli oil, serial killers, the morning-after pill--but instead of pulling out bulldozer sessions like "easter eggs" and "Black Angus," he tried a bunch of what he said were new bits. He started with a tirade against the "three shittiest songs in the world," first noting his #2 song, Chicago's "Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?" The narrator of the song is wearing a watch, so, Patton said, "Does anybody really know what time it is? Fuckin' YOU DO!"

Several bits built on his hatred of the "safe Hollywood version of crazy." The third shittiest song in the world, for example, was Train's "Meet Virginia." I haven't heard this song and wouldn't want to, because I've heard two or three of Train's radio singles, and, well, if that's what people buy those albums for, I don't even want to hear the stuff that isn't a strong selling point. In fact, I haven't heard any of Patton's three shittiest songs. Patton said (paraphrasing all thru this post, too lazy to take notes when I'm exhausted) that "Meet Virginia" has the kind of lyrics the sorta-clever but mostly just annoying guy at the Jiffy Lube would write:

She only drinks coffee at midnight, when the moment is not/
Right, her timing is quite-unusual/
You see her confidence is tragic, but her intuition magic/
And the shape of her body - unusual/
Meet virginia-i can’t wait to/
Meet virginia-yea

He finished his set with a bit about the irony of old right-wingers who enjoy Cirque du Soleil--"what a tired gay French guy sees in his head," I think, was his description"--concluding with this:

"Do you mind if my partner and I wear tuxedos and kiss and pledge eternal love?"

"Fuck you, faggot!"

"Do you mind if I blow my partner on a tightrope?"

"AWESOME!"

However, my favorite of the evening was "Death Bed," which I think is going to become an epic audience favorite, right up there with "Stella d'Oro Breakfast Treats" and "Robert Evans." Studios have bought and permanently shelved four of Patton's screenplays, he says, yet somehow Death Bed: The Bed That Eats managed to get made. He imagines the life of the film, from the writer's moments of doubt to a carpenter who injures his hand making the bed--which, way back when, absorbed some demon blood and now eats people after they have sex on it--and can't play catch with his son, spoiling their relationship forever. It sounds like such a simple rant about Hollywood, but the way Patton imagines and delivers it turns it into something else altogether.

After his set, Patton got the other three up on stage to do some in-jokes the group has developed on the tour bus. These take too much explanation for me to make them even remotely funny in writing, but Jesus, they could keep this shit going forever.

In the little interlude before everybody came up, Patton recited, on a "nerd honor" bet with Posehn, Rutger Hauer's final speech from Blade Runner:

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.

See, coming from anyone else, this would have just been dumb. Maybe what makes that funny is the same mysterious force that draws a thousand people to stand up for two hours just to watch a crazy little Hobbit-man and his friends.

Smugness: Nothing a Terrible Haircut Can't Solve

2006-04-09T17:38:00.000-07:00

I have complained, when reminded of her existence, about Natalie Portman and her characters in Closer and Garden State, who were basically the same character--perky American hometown girls trying to charm us out of our skulls with endless burts of artificial quirkiness, one more of a streetwalker than the other. I really don't even care about either of those films. I just wonder if they would have been better with a more subtle actress in Portman's role, or if they were just too weak to withstand one flawed performance.

Thank You For Smoking survives Katie Holmes' overbearing smugness because all its other performances are well-rounded. Holmes just has that mischievous smirk frozen on her face the whole time, her ears like a couple of SETI satellites searching for male victims. But luckily she doesn't have that much screen time. Christopher Buckley's characters are wild caricatures but for the most part are also vulnerable and realistic; it's innocent, subdued Cameron Bright who holds the credibility together.

That's the only cure for smugness: Overwhelm it with context and better performances. How specifically to overcome Portman's particular kind of spry smug? Subjugate her to a totalitarian government and a poetry-spewing vigilante who—holy shit!—has a mischievous smirk frozen on his face for literally the entire fucking movie! And shave her head and clothe her in burlap sacks. Stick her between the comic-book hysterics of V and the dour plodding of Stephen Rea, and she basically becomes a neutral factor.

Thank You For Smoking and V for Vendetta are both insane and entertaining at the core. That's why on the whole they don't suffer from performances by actresses who usually make me cringe.

Instro-Fetishism!: The Joggers

2006-04-01T17:43:00.000-08:00

(The Joggers, Schubas, 3/31/06)

To me, bands like Bloc Party are a good example of where indie rock gets impaled on its own stainless-steel blade of misery. Silent Alarm is basically an enjoyable album, but it has this mood of urgency and these tense arrangements that tend to kill the fun. Everything is wound together very tightly and constricted by a few simple patterns. The Joggers unravel that whole model along a loose, insanely technical tangent, and the threads all snap off and wriggle away on their own delirious adventures.

I really think bands like Interpol and Bloc Party want you to clench your ass and feel their paranoia and self-loathing and whatnot. The Joggers just have a fetish for strange melodies. The emotion you get from the music is just whatever emotion you happen to bring to it. It might remind you of something you've already sensed, but you don't have to come into it wanting it to make you feel a certain way. To enjoy most Interpol songs, even the really good ones, you almost have to make a conscious decision to mope along and let the band inflict all that austere emotion on you. I didn't see the Joggers do any of that earnest cringing that bad bands do when they're trying to get feelings across. I saw them watching their hands crawl up the fretboard, immersed in instrumental foreplay.

Sample Joggers stage banter/announcement: "Somebody's Super Shifter pedal wasn't on 'octave' setting. Can you guess which setting it was on?"

This makes them sound like technical show-offs, I'm sure, and they are. What redeems them is that they memorize their elaborate riffs until they become reflexes, then make them sound freshly improvised live. "Wicked Light Sleeper" leads with the staccato chords and syncopated high-hats you'd expect to hear on any number of Bloc Party songs, then follows it up with a hook that's both infectious and too long to memorize after one hearing.

I also like this band because they don't mind looking like slobs/rapists. Murphy Kasiewicz, the lead singer/guitarist, is going bald and apparently not fighting it. Darrell Bourque, the bass player, isn't bad-looking, and he doesn't wear holsters or a custom-tailored suit, for Christ's sake. I've never been to an Interpol show, but I imagine it's a bit like having four well-dressed thugs pistol-whipping you into admiring their good taste and genuine distress. Sure, they're a good band with some awesome songs. It's just silly to get seduced by them.

The Joggers just let their music spill all over the place, into metal and roots-rock and slightly past the limit of the pop-hook attention span. It's not about how many notes they can squeeze into a measure; it's about how many peoples' sensibilities they can tickle at once--the pop purist, the guitar nerd, the experimentalist, etc.--and that's the ony kind of virtuosity that's worth admiring. You can enjoy their music and not remeber all the reasons why. That's why they're worth listening to more than once or twice, and seeing their show on top of that.

Joggers MySpace page w/2 streaming songs