When I explained the Apocalyptica concept to my girlfriend, “four cellos and a drummer doing Metallica covers and stuff,” she was a bit skeptical. “Meh,” were her exact words I think. As we drove to Ventura for the show, I tried to convince her that it was going to be awesome, unique, live music experience. She seemed more interested in visiting the Camarillo Outlet mall, going shelling at Leo Carillo, looking at cute craftsman houses in Ventura, and having me take her out to dinner.
While enjoying the latter, we discussed our expectations for the show. Would there be a mosh pit? Would we get beaten up? What exactly happens at a metal show? You see, we were both metal virgins and more than a little nervous our cherry-popping would be a loud, painful experience. And we weren’t entirely wrong.
Upon entering the aptly titled Majestic Theatre, most of our initial concerns were swept aside. We walked past elderly couples in flannel, parents toting small children, a man in a kilt, and a woman belly dancing by herself in some lonely corner of the room. The hardcore metal fans were pushed up front on the first landing in front of the stage. The older, more cautious in attendance, Christine and I included, sat in white plastic chairs well back of any potential mosh pit hot spots. The stage was dressed with two pairs of thrones, built to look like skulls, surrounding a huge drum set, all in front of a massive winged skull cello backdrop. I thought to myself, “so this is a metal show.”
After it was clear the halfway empty theatre wasn’t going to get any fuller, the house music, The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” climaxed in long, high screeching note, and then segwayed into some unholy, beastly sounds. It was a bit cheesy, but had a surprising affect. Christine dragged me down to the front landing for “the real experience” of rocking out right in front of the band.
The lights went down and Apocalyptica appeared on stage urged on by a raucous applause from the hardcore fans on the floor. Their music is dark, wonderfully layered, complex, textured strings, punctuated by machine gun fire drums. And it’s loud, really really loud, I can’t stress that enough. They began playing seated in their skull thrones, but quickly got up and began marching around the stage, cellos in hand, long Finnish hair swirling hypnotically as they began to head-bang.
The crowd was into it too, at least those who were there for a metal show. The older people in the back rows who showed up for cello quartet clapped politely after each song, but seemed a bit uneasy. During “Race” a mosh pit broke out next to Christine and I. It was probably the pussiest mosh pit in the history of metal, three teens with long hair and tight pants smashing into the crowd and one another. Like little gnats, they were easily batted aside but still quite annoying, so Christine and I moved closer to the speakers to avoid being swallowed up in a teeny-bop whirlpool of hormonal angst.
About halfway through the set, Taryn Green (of Fuel) joined the band to provide vocals on a couple of songs, including David Bowie’s “Heroes.” The less said about his time on stage, the better. His presence there not only greatly diminished my pleasure of the music, but had me wondering for the first time whether or not this was just a novelty show.
If “This is Spinal Tap” didn’t already exist, Apocalyptica would be the perfect candidate for a mocumentary. In between hardcore songs with titles like “Betrayal” and “Somewhere Around Nothing” the band adoringly addressed the crowd with sweet Finnish accents and broken English. They giggled and discussed the national sports of Finland (hockey and head-banging), the beauty of California, how much they love metal, and offered several apologies for not speaking better English. Whenever they spoke, they came across as cute. Cute like, I wanted to take them home to meet my mom and have a big bowl of matzah ball soup, cute. I can’t imagine there are many metal bands who would appreciate that type of invitation or label.
The only thing that kept them from becoming a bad SNL sketch, was the sheer quality of their music. I laughed every time they spoke, but as soon as they started playing, I was instantly nodding my head and totally into it. They combined incredible orchestration, with precise execution, and I couldn’t help but get fired up. That was, until my ears stopped working.
Christine was also suffering. Her ears were destroyed and she was getting upset, so we ventured to the back of the room to escape the speakers. From our new perch, we both enjoyed covers of “Enter Sandman,” “Nothing Else Matters,” and the epic “Hall of the Mountain King.” The later proved to be both playful and cathartic, two adjectives I would’ve thought were nearly mutually exclusive.
After a (somewhat undeserved) double encore, Christine and I returned to my car for our drive back to LA. She hates metal and instrumental music, but I managed to get her to admit, the show was not only interesting but truly impressive. The quality and complexity of the music we had witnessed was unlike anything either of us had ever seen. It was our first metal show and a pretty incredible experience. She did have a few complaints, mostly about the songs with vocals and how much her ears hurt. Fortunately, I was at the same rip-roaring, head-banging, incredibly awesome and loud show, and her complaints fell on largely deaf ears.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
The Slackers @ The El Rey
Outside the Rudeboy scene, ska music doesn’t get a whole lot of respect. The mid-nineties commercial success of bands like the Mighty Mighty Bosstones and Reel Big Fish made the entire genre feel a bit dated by the turn of the century. My friends raised more than a few eyebrows, when I mentioned that I was leaving a splendid Kentucky Derby party to go see a ska band. My girlfriend, who I dragged along, was ready to leave me when we realized I’d misread the concert info and we arrived a good two and half hours before the Slackers were going to play.
The first of two opening bands, The Chris Murray Combo, did little to sunny her disposition. It’s not just that they were so terrible, which they were, but that they were terrible in such a cliché way. The subject matter of every song seemed to be Rudeboys, skanking, and/or rocksteady. Every song featured a walking bass line, syncopated guitar riffs, and a bass drum accented EVERY third beat. It was tedious to say the least.
So I bought Christine a $9 Stella Artois and assured her that the Slackers would be worth her wait. Then something surprising happened: our conversation about how much we both hated opening bands, especially when there were two opening bands, was interrupted by the curtain and the first rip-roaring notes of Deal’s Gone Bad’s opening song. I’d never heard them before, never even heard of them, but they were good. And not just good, in the “they’re surprisingly not bad for an opener” sort of way, but good in a “I’m tempted to go the merch table and actually buy one of their albums” sort of way.
Their lead singer, Todd Hembrook, had a serious set of chops on him. He belted out lyrics about dishonest men and cheating women and had the room skanking almost immediately. Complimented by some impressive horns and a formidable rhythm section, Hembrook was able to get me out of the doghouse with my girlfriend.
And then came The Slackers. Generally considered to be the best live ska show anywhere, the Slackers didn’t disappoint. Having played together since 1991, the band is always incredibly polished, seamlessly transitioning between slower crowd favorites like “Wasted Days” and rocking up-tempo songs like “Have The Time.” They even brought out Hepcats vocalist Alex Désert for an inspired reggae version of Bill Whither’s classic “Ain’t No Sunshine.”
Little treats like Désert’s cameo always make for a unique show, but the band’s consistently excellent live performances stem from their horns and front man. Glen Pine is always a treat on trombone (and vocals) and Dave Hillyard seemed to be particularly on point with a variety of impressive solos over the course of night, but my favorite is Vic Ruggerio.
Ruggerio, wearing a variety of hats, including principle songwriter, lead vocals, keyboards, and even harmonica on a few songs, is a special musician. His most recent solo album, Something In My Blindspot, is nothing short of spectacular. I truly believe he’d be considered one of today’s best singer-songwriters if he weren’t the front man for a ska band. On this particular night, he suffered from a bit of logorrhea, subjecting the crowd to a handful of lengthy monologues about the origins of various songs, but that didn’t stop him from rocking the crowd.
And rock they did. Christine and I danced, which in itself is an impressive feat. The best (indie rock) shows we attend may result in swaying, but dancing almost never occurs. We weren’t alone. The room jostled and grooved throughout the night, and an unlikely duo, a teen and his gray haired middle-aged father standing in front of me, awkwardly bopped up and down to the music. Throughout the show, typically after a particularly passionate solo or chorus, the kid would nudge his dad like, “see, see, this band is kick-ass enough that even an old man would appreciate it?” and every time, the dad nudged his son right back, like “Holy shit, my kid might actually have some pretty good taste in music.” And you know what? They were both right.
The first of two opening bands, The Chris Murray Combo, did little to sunny her disposition. It’s not just that they were so terrible, which they were, but that they were terrible in such a cliché way. The subject matter of every song seemed to be Rudeboys, skanking, and/or rocksteady. Every song featured a walking bass line, syncopated guitar riffs, and a bass drum accented EVERY third beat. It was tedious to say the least.
So I bought Christine a $9 Stella Artois and assured her that the Slackers would be worth her wait. Then something surprising happened: our conversation about how much we both hated opening bands, especially when there were two opening bands, was interrupted by the curtain and the first rip-roaring notes of Deal’s Gone Bad’s opening song. I’d never heard them before, never even heard of them, but they were good. And not just good, in the “they’re surprisingly not bad for an opener” sort of way, but good in a “I’m tempted to go the merch table and actually buy one of their albums” sort of way.
Their lead singer, Todd Hembrook, had a serious set of chops on him. He belted out lyrics about dishonest men and cheating women and had the room skanking almost immediately. Complimented by some impressive horns and a formidable rhythm section, Hembrook was able to get me out of the doghouse with my girlfriend.
And then came The Slackers. Generally considered to be the best live ska show anywhere, the Slackers didn’t disappoint. Having played together since 1991, the band is always incredibly polished, seamlessly transitioning between slower crowd favorites like “Wasted Days” and rocking up-tempo songs like “Have The Time.” They even brought out Hepcats vocalist Alex Désert for an inspired reggae version of Bill Whither’s classic “Ain’t No Sunshine.”
Little treats like Désert’s cameo always make for a unique show, but the band’s consistently excellent live performances stem from their horns and front man. Glen Pine is always a treat on trombone (and vocals) and Dave Hillyard seemed to be particularly on point with a variety of impressive solos over the course of night, but my favorite is Vic Ruggerio.
Ruggerio, wearing a variety of hats, including principle songwriter, lead vocals, keyboards, and even harmonica on a few songs, is a special musician. His most recent solo album, Something In My Blindspot, is nothing short of spectacular. I truly believe he’d be considered one of today’s best singer-songwriters if he weren’t the front man for a ska band. On this particular night, he suffered from a bit of logorrhea, subjecting the crowd to a handful of lengthy monologues about the origins of various songs, but that didn’t stop him from rocking the crowd.
And rock they did. Christine and I danced, which in itself is an impressive feat. The best (indie rock) shows we attend may result in swaying, but dancing almost never occurs. We weren’t alone. The room jostled and grooved throughout the night, and an unlikely duo, a teen and his gray haired middle-aged father standing in front of me, awkwardly bopped up and down to the music. Throughout the show, typically after a particularly passionate solo or chorus, the kid would nudge his dad like, “see, see, this band is kick-ass enough that even an old man would appreciate it?” and every time, the dad nudged his son right back, like “Holy shit, my kid might actually have some pretty good taste in music.” And you know what? They were both right.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
The Strike
When I was a few years younger, a bit more idealistic, and substantially more naïve, footage of the WTO protests in Seattle set to a Rage Against The Machine score was enough to inspire my activism and led me to Summit of the Americas protest in Quebec City. Two years later, when my first real girlfriend broke up with me, I spent a lot of time blasting Rage’s self-titled album as I bounced around my room, heart pounding, fisticuffs flying, anger swelling, until the mental agony I was battling was replaced by a more manageable fury. A few months after I moved to LA, I watched Tom Morello lead Audioslave in “Killing In The Name Of” from the roof of the El Capitan Theatre as thousands of mosh-pitters broke through police barricades on Hollywood Blvd. and the riot police were called in order to restore order. And so it seemed fitting, that two days after I was laid off from a television job that I loved and cherished, (lead singer) Zack de la Rocha and (guitarist) Morello were once at the forefront of my pain and passion.
I worked, until this past Tuesday, as a writers’ assistant on one of television’s few quality sitcoms. I sat in a room full of some TV’s funniest writers, taking notes, doing research, editing scripts, and receiving the best education in the craft of sitcom writing one could ever hope to receive. On Tuesday, the Writers Guild of America (WGA) strike successfully resulted in the shutdown of our production and my immediate termination by the studio which employed me. I (along with every person I worked with) suddenly found myself without a job. It was terrifying.
For those unfamiliar with WGA strike, let me provide a brief (and moderately biased) synopsis: On Monday November 1st, after months of rumors, last-minute negotiations broke down between the WGA and the AMPTP (studios guild), and the writers officially went on strike. Despite what you may have heard, the most contentious issue is not DVD residuals (which the writers have been getting screwed on for years, currently getting about $.06 for every $20 DVD sold), but rather “new media.” As the Internet increasingly becomes the way in which entertainment content is delivered (iTunes, iPods, streaming video, Netflix downloads, etc.), the studios want to apply the same residual formula from DVD’s to the Internet and other new media. Residuals, payments writers, directors, and actors receive when their work is rebroadcast, currently accounts for about 30% of a writer’s total salary, but the studios hard-line on new media, means in the next ten years or so, writers will lose close to 1/3 of their current salaries. To make matters worse, studios currently (and increasingly) broadcast webisodes, mobisodes, deleted scenes and other bonus content, along with complete rebroadcasts of episodes on their websites, along with advertisements, and claim that they’re “promotion,” meaning writers/actors/directors get paid absolutely nothing. Obviously, if the studios are able to wear down the writers and strike a cheap deal with them, they stand to make billions of extra dollars from new media. So in a nutshell, the WGA strike is simply about writers trying to get paid for the work they do.
On Monday, even though I’m not a guild member, I joined the writers of my show on the picket line, refusing to go to work and demonstrating solidarity with them. The next day I was laid off by the studio. Actually, the studio claimed that since I failed to show up for work, I had effectively “quit” my job and would be unable to qualify for unemployment. As I tried to sort this out, I refrained from picketing, fearing it would further exacerbate the situation, but on Friday, I, along with some 3,500 other people rallied outside Fox Plaza on the Avenue of the Stars. It was a protest headlined by Family Guy’s Seth McFarlane, Jesse Jackson, and of course a two-song set by Zack de la Rocha and Tom Morello in the back of flatbed truck.
Writers are by nature, a neurotic bunch. Getting them to dance, sing, or cheer unironically, is seemingly more difficult than tackling a page one rewrite. Sadly, de la Rocha and Morello, outfitted with a miniscule sound-system, one which made lyrics barely audible, weren’t quite up to the task. Still, their presence at the rally, seemed to cement the WGA strike as part of some greater labor movement. Rage Against The Machine is a musical emblem of revolution. Calling on images of Che Guevara and burning monks, harnessing a raw and raucous sound, and shouting rebellious lyrics, their connection to the politically disenfranchised is a hallmark of the band.
So as I struggled to make out the lyrics of “Bulls on Parade,” I couldn’t help but reflect on everything that had taken place in the previous week. Despite losing my job, I was oddly satisfied. The WGA strike may result in me losing a few thousand dollars over the next couple of months, but will ultimately benefit me as an aspiring writer in years to come. My lost job and my sacrifice is nothing compared to what the writers are giving up in the short term and what they’re giving me in the long run. Plus, in the mean time, I suddenly have a lot more time to go to shows.
I worked, until this past Tuesday, as a writers’ assistant on one of television’s few quality sitcoms. I sat in a room full of some TV’s funniest writers, taking notes, doing research, editing scripts, and receiving the best education in the craft of sitcom writing one could ever hope to receive. On Tuesday, the Writers Guild of America (WGA) strike successfully resulted in the shutdown of our production and my immediate termination by the studio which employed me. I (along with every person I worked with) suddenly found myself without a job. It was terrifying.
For those unfamiliar with WGA strike, let me provide a brief (and moderately biased) synopsis: On Monday November 1st, after months of rumors, last-minute negotiations broke down between the WGA and the AMPTP (studios guild), and the writers officially went on strike. Despite what you may have heard, the most contentious issue is not DVD residuals (which the writers have been getting screwed on for years, currently getting about $.06 for every $20 DVD sold), but rather “new media.” As the Internet increasingly becomes the way in which entertainment content is delivered (iTunes, iPods, streaming video, Netflix downloads, etc.), the studios want to apply the same residual formula from DVD’s to the Internet and other new media. Residuals, payments writers, directors, and actors receive when their work is rebroadcast, currently accounts for about 30% of a writer’s total salary, but the studios hard-line on new media, means in the next ten years or so, writers will lose close to 1/3 of their current salaries. To make matters worse, studios currently (and increasingly) broadcast webisodes, mobisodes, deleted scenes and other bonus content, along with complete rebroadcasts of episodes on their websites, along with advertisements, and claim that they’re “promotion,” meaning writers/actors/directors get paid absolutely nothing. Obviously, if the studios are able to wear down the writers and strike a cheap deal with them, they stand to make billions of extra dollars from new media. So in a nutshell, the WGA strike is simply about writers trying to get paid for the work they do.
On Monday, even though I’m not a guild member, I joined the writers of my show on the picket line, refusing to go to work and demonstrating solidarity with them. The next day I was laid off by the studio. Actually, the studio claimed that since I failed to show up for work, I had effectively “quit” my job and would be unable to qualify for unemployment. As I tried to sort this out, I refrained from picketing, fearing it would further exacerbate the situation, but on Friday, I, along with some 3,500 other people rallied outside Fox Plaza on the Avenue of the Stars. It was a protest headlined by Family Guy’s Seth McFarlane, Jesse Jackson, and of course a two-song set by Zack de la Rocha and Tom Morello in the back of flatbed truck.
Writers are by nature, a neurotic bunch. Getting them to dance, sing, or cheer unironically, is seemingly more difficult than tackling a page one rewrite. Sadly, de la Rocha and Morello, outfitted with a miniscule sound-system, one which made lyrics barely audible, weren’t quite up to the task. Still, their presence at the rally, seemed to cement the WGA strike as part of some greater labor movement. Rage Against The Machine is a musical emblem of revolution. Calling on images of Che Guevara and burning monks, harnessing a raw and raucous sound, and shouting rebellious lyrics, their connection to the politically disenfranchised is a hallmark of the band.
So as I struggled to make out the lyrics of “Bulls on Parade,” I couldn’t help but reflect on everything that had taken place in the previous week. Despite losing my job, I was oddly satisfied. The WGA strike may result in me losing a few thousand dollars over the next couple of months, but will ultimately benefit me as an aspiring writer in years to come. My lost job and my sacrifice is nothing compared to what the writers are giving up in the short term and what they’re giving me in the long run. Plus, in the mean time, I suddenly have a lot more time to go to shows.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Beirut @ The Avalon
A quick note: Sorry for the lack of posts recently. Work has been hectic. It's weird though, I've been listening to a ton of new music and if we've talked on the phone, I'm sure I've mentioned my obsession with Neutral Milk Hotel's "In The Aeroplane Over The Sea." I guess after listening to that album compulsively for the past month or so, and being so blown away, it's been hard for me to find words to properly do the album justice. I spent so much time thinking about the album and yet I couldn't find anything to write. So I've moved on. Not from the album, but from trying to write about it.
Oh, I should also mention that I'll be posting from time to time on 52 Shows. I think this post will appear there.
I never know what to do with my body at indie rock shows. Usually I just stand around and kind of nod my head along to the music. My arms desperately wish they could find shelter in my pockets, along with my hands. I tap out the beat with my right foot, but half-way through a set my legs start to cramp up. It’s a constant problem. Turn your noses up at “jam bands” (and their concert-goers) if you wish, but all that crazy drug-induced spinning and grooving seems much more natural than the stiff swaying you’ll find at a typical indie rock show.
Fortunately, Beirut is not your typical indie rock band. Think Neutral Milk Hotel with Rufus Wainwright on vocals, playing Balkan gypsy music. Currently, an eight piece band consisting of several horns, ukuleles, a few mandolins, a cello, drums, an accordion, piano, viola, guitar, violin, clarinet, upright bass, and a glockenspiel, all switching hands from song to song—Beirut could easily be cacophonous. With twenty-one-year-old Zach Condon at the helm, they’re nothing short of harmonious.
I was fortunate to catch them on the last night of their North American Tour, at The Avalon in Hollywood. It was the perfect venue. Despite seating close to 1,500 people, the two floored room with a variety of risers, couches, balconies, bars, overhangs, and interesting little nooks and crannies, seemed to have the intimacy of a room a third of its size. Before Colleen, the second opening band played, one of the members of Beirut came on stage and requested the entire audience sit down in order to hear her (Andrew Bird-like effect sampling of the viola and clarinet) better, and sure enough, everyone in the house took a seat. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen at general admission shows with a thousand or so people in attendance.
So it was fitting that the show started with Condon walking on stage by himself with nothing but a ukulele. After some raucous cheers, Condon began strumming some happy little chords on his uke. It was the kind of personal touch that made connecting with him so easy. A minute or so later, he was joined on stage by the remainder of his band and they got down to business. Condon’s sweet crooning instantly meshed perfectly with the strings and horns that dominated his band, but it wasn’t until he unleashed the first few blaring notes from his flugelhorn that the band and crowd really settled in.
I began slowly nodding my head and tapping my feet, as is my custom. After a song or two, and much to my surprise, I noticed my hands had snuck out of my pockets and my arms were moving a bit to the music. Glancing around the crowd, everyone seemed to be in tune with the band, particularly one exuberant group near the front, dancing, jumping, swinging, and bouncing along to the music in obvious delight. In front of me, my girlfriend, as rhythmically challenged as I, was also getting down.
The sound was simply infectious. So many pieces all working together: Condon’s voice, soaring, far too mature for his age and physical appearance, horns blaring, drums pounding, strings wailing, and everyone in the house soaking it in. On songs like “Bandenburg” and “Mount Wroclai” the band’s chemistry and comfort were readily on display. Condon waving his arms, directing the band, everyone on stage and in the crowd seemingly following his commands.
The girls behind me, perhaps as impressed with Condon’s boyish good-looks as his musical abilities, kept discussing how badly they wanted to marry him and how powerful the Vicodin they took was. One of them tapped me on the back and pointed out that the tag on my shirt was sticking out. Suddenly, I became self-conscious. What the fuck were my arms doing? Was I dancing or having a seizure? Unsure what to do, I put my arms around my girlfriend and allowed her to dictate my movements. She, usually self-conscious about dancing anywhere besides the passenger seat in my car, was so enthralled with the music, she managed to lead majestically. I never thought I’d get turned on during an indie concert, but somehow the gypsy music managed to be sexy.
The show wasn’t perfect. The band tripped over one another during “Postcards From Italy” and apparently exhausted their repertoire, so they were unable to play a second encore, which the crowd was just begging for. But the combination of Condon’s voice paired with a such an impressive accompaniment of musicians rarely failed to impress. And anytime you see near a thousand people dancing at an indie rock show, you know you witnessed something special.
Oh, I should also mention that I'll be posting from time to time on 52 Shows. I think this post will appear there.
I never know what to do with my body at indie rock shows. Usually I just stand around and kind of nod my head along to the music. My arms desperately wish they could find shelter in my pockets, along with my hands. I tap out the beat with my right foot, but half-way through a set my legs start to cramp up. It’s a constant problem. Turn your noses up at “jam bands” (and their concert-goers) if you wish, but all that crazy drug-induced spinning and grooving seems much more natural than the stiff swaying you’ll find at a typical indie rock show.
Fortunately, Beirut is not your typical indie rock band. Think Neutral Milk Hotel with Rufus Wainwright on vocals, playing Balkan gypsy music. Currently, an eight piece band consisting of several horns, ukuleles, a few mandolins, a cello, drums, an accordion, piano, viola, guitar, violin, clarinet, upright bass, and a glockenspiel, all switching hands from song to song—Beirut could easily be cacophonous. With twenty-one-year-old Zach Condon at the helm, they’re nothing short of harmonious.
I was fortunate to catch them on the last night of their North American Tour, at The Avalon in Hollywood. It was the perfect venue. Despite seating close to 1,500 people, the two floored room with a variety of risers, couches, balconies, bars, overhangs, and interesting little nooks and crannies, seemed to have the intimacy of a room a third of its size. Before Colleen, the second opening band played, one of the members of Beirut came on stage and requested the entire audience sit down in order to hear her (Andrew Bird-like effect sampling of the viola and clarinet) better, and sure enough, everyone in the house took a seat. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen at general admission shows with a thousand or so people in attendance.
So it was fitting that the show started with Condon walking on stage by himself with nothing but a ukulele. After some raucous cheers, Condon began strumming some happy little chords on his uke. It was the kind of personal touch that made connecting with him so easy. A minute or so later, he was joined on stage by the remainder of his band and they got down to business. Condon’s sweet crooning instantly meshed perfectly with the strings and horns that dominated his band, but it wasn’t until he unleashed the first few blaring notes from his flugelhorn that the band and crowd really settled in.
I began slowly nodding my head and tapping my feet, as is my custom. After a song or two, and much to my surprise, I noticed my hands had snuck out of my pockets and my arms were moving a bit to the music. Glancing around the crowd, everyone seemed to be in tune with the band, particularly one exuberant group near the front, dancing, jumping, swinging, and bouncing along to the music in obvious delight. In front of me, my girlfriend, as rhythmically challenged as I, was also getting down.
The sound was simply infectious. So many pieces all working together: Condon’s voice, soaring, far too mature for his age and physical appearance, horns blaring, drums pounding, strings wailing, and everyone in the house soaking it in. On songs like “Bandenburg” and “Mount Wroclai” the band’s chemistry and comfort were readily on display. Condon waving his arms, directing the band, everyone on stage and in the crowd seemingly following his commands.
The girls behind me, perhaps as impressed with Condon’s boyish good-looks as his musical abilities, kept discussing how badly they wanted to marry him and how powerful the Vicodin they took was. One of them tapped me on the back and pointed out that the tag on my shirt was sticking out. Suddenly, I became self-conscious. What the fuck were my arms doing? Was I dancing or having a seizure? Unsure what to do, I put my arms around my girlfriend and allowed her to dictate my movements. She, usually self-conscious about dancing anywhere besides the passenger seat in my car, was so enthralled with the music, she managed to lead majestically. I never thought I’d get turned on during an indie concert, but somehow the gypsy music managed to be sexy.
The show wasn’t perfect. The band tripped over one another during “Postcards From Italy” and apparently exhausted their repertoire, so they were unable to play a second encore, which the crowd was just begging for. But the combination of Condon’s voice paired with a such an impressive accompaniment of musicians rarely failed to impress. And anytime you see near a thousand people dancing at an indie rock show, you know you witnessed something special.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Poison
I was watching “Rock of Love” last night. Awesome show. It’s like “Flavor of Love,” except instead of Flavor Flav, Bret Michaels (of Poison and Pamela Anderson fame) is the bachelor searching for true love in a round by round elimination of a bunch of strippers, groupies, sluts, psychos, and exotic dancers. Last night a mannish whore tattooed “Bret” on her neck, to convince him how “for real” she was about him. Bret was touched, felt a real connection with her.
I like Bret. He comes across as earnest, especially when he discusses why a particular would-be lover of his failed to get eliminated because of her gigantic rack or extra tight ass. As far as misogynistic rock stars go, and let me stress my lack of irony here, he’s a class act.
Then again, I think I’ve always liked Bret. Long before I discovered home videos of him nailing Pamela Anderson, I was a Poison fan. It’s not something I’m especially proud of, but it’s the truth. I even had a Poison poster hanging in my room when I was a kid. I guess even back then, I was SO comfortable with my masculinity, that I was cool with having four longhaired, makeup-wearing men on my wall. Or maybe not. I also had a poster of a man looking through binoculars… the left objective showed an attractive blonde woman in a bikini seductively lying on a red Ferrari and the right objective showed the same blond, lying on the same Ferrari, but in a different pose. So, I had not one, not two, but four images guaranteed to compensate for my pre-pubescent penis.
As hot as that Ferrari-bikini girl poster was, it was nothing compared to my Poison and Guns and Roses posters. Plural? Yes. I was into hair metal, not for the chicks, not for the drugs and booze, I didn’t know anything about that, no, I was in it for the music. The awful, ungodly music.
How did this happen? Well, it’s a prime example of the power of top 40 radio. You see, my mother didn’t listen to music. I remember one Beatles tape that she occasionally played in the old Peugeot, but after that broke down for the ninth time, Mom got a Chevy without so much as a tape player, and the radio was forever tuned to NPR. I remember grooving to the “All Things Considered” intro throughout my youth. Devoid of parental influence, I at least had an older brother that would guide me away from hair metal… until he moved in with my dad. Then it was just me and Z89.
“From the top top top of Mount Olympus…” Z89 was my connection with popular music. And popular music regrettably included Poison in the late 80’s and early 90’s. Also two Paula Abdul albums. (I don’t care what the critics said, “Spellbound” was every bit as good as “Forever Your Girl.”) Without any one to guide my musical interests, I was subjected to whatever Z89 was playing and assumed it must be good. After all, all my friends in school were listening to the same crap I was.
Therein lies the rube. As true as it was in the late 80’s and early 90’s, top 40 stations continue to poison the ears of today’s youth. This is serious stuff people. I’m sorry, I know Timbaland is catchy, but every third song on the radio should not feature him. And my god, why is Fergie played? Ever? Seriously, you don’t think in ten years, when people look back, they won’t chide each other about just how stupid they were to listen to “Fergalicious” or “London Bridges.” (At her absolute best, she’s a lowest common denominator M.I.A.) And don’t get me started on Rihanna’s “Umbrella.”
There’s hope though. For all those parents who don’t listen to top 40 and leave it on NPR constantly, there’s KCRW’s “Morning Becomes Eclectic.” At least in LA. I’m sure you fools in Boston and New York and Chicago have access to some decent daily music show on one of your public radio stations. Please do your kids a favor, don’t allow them to listen to pop garbage. Change the channel. Do you really want your little girls and boys with posters of Fergie and Timbaland on the wall? ‘Cause if you do, I’ll tell you where they just might end up… on some goddamn reality show, tattooing “Akon” on their neck as they try and convince him they’re not just into his money, they’re real for their man. And they’ll mean it.
I like Bret. He comes across as earnest, especially when he discusses why a particular would-be lover of his failed to get eliminated because of her gigantic rack or extra tight ass. As far as misogynistic rock stars go, and let me stress my lack of irony here, he’s a class act.
Then again, I think I’ve always liked Bret. Long before I discovered home videos of him nailing Pamela Anderson, I was a Poison fan. It’s not something I’m especially proud of, but it’s the truth. I even had a Poison poster hanging in my room when I was a kid. I guess even back then, I was SO comfortable with my masculinity, that I was cool with having four longhaired, makeup-wearing men on my wall. Or maybe not. I also had a poster of a man looking through binoculars… the left objective showed an attractive blonde woman in a bikini seductively lying on a red Ferrari and the right objective showed the same blond, lying on the same Ferrari, but in a different pose. So, I had not one, not two, but four images guaranteed to compensate for my pre-pubescent penis.
As hot as that Ferrari-bikini girl poster was, it was nothing compared to my Poison and Guns and Roses posters. Plural? Yes. I was into hair metal, not for the chicks, not for the drugs and booze, I didn’t know anything about that, no, I was in it for the music. The awful, ungodly music.
How did this happen? Well, it’s a prime example of the power of top 40 radio. You see, my mother didn’t listen to music. I remember one Beatles tape that she occasionally played in the old Peugeot, but after that broke down for the ninth time, Mom got a Chevy without so much as a tape player, and the radio was forever tuned to NPR. I remember grooving to the “All Things Considered” intro throughout my youth. Devoid of parental influence, I at least had an older brother that would guide me away from hair metal… until he moved in with my dad. Then it was just me and Z89.
“From the top top top of Mount Olympus…” Z89 was my connection with popular music. And popular music regrettably included Poison in the late 80’s and early 90’s. Also two Paula Abdul albums. (I don’t care what the critics said, “Spellbound” was every bit as good as “Forever Your Girl.”) Without any one to guide my musical interests, I was subjected to whatever Z89 was playing and assumed it must be good. After all, all my friends in school were listening to the same crap I was.
Therein lies the rube. As true as it was in the late 80’s and early 90’s, top 40 stations continue to poison the ears of today’s youth. This is serious stuff people. I’m sorry, I know Timbaland is catchy, but every third song on the radio should not feature him. And my god, why is Fergie played? Ever? Seriously, you don’t think in ten years, when people look back, they won’t chide each other about just how stupid they were to listen to “Fergalicious” or “London Bridges.” (At her absolute best, she’s a lowest common denominator M.I.A.) And don’t get me started on Rihanna’s “Umbrella.”
There’s hope though. For all those parents who don’t listen to top 40 and leave it on NPR constantly, there’s KCRW’s “Morning Becomes Eclectic.” At least in LA. I’m sure you fools in Boston and New York and Chicago have access to some decent daily music show on one of your public radio stations. Please do your kids a favor, don’t allow them to listen to pop garbage. Change the channel. Do you really want your little girls and boys with posters of Fergie and Timbaland on the wall? ‘Cause if you do, I’ll tell you where they just might end up… on some goddamn reality show, tattooing “Akon” on their neck as they try and convince him they’re not just into his money, they’re real for their man. And they’ll mean it.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The Gym
No matter which gym you belong to, you are undoubtedly surrounded by a handful of weirdoes. They’re everywhere: The fifty-year-old woman whose triple-D implants account for half her body weight, the ginormous Russian body-builder who does pirouettes as he moves from one weight apparatus to another, the guy in the locker room who wants to talk about just how much the Raiders suck while his penis dangles inches from your face, the elderly man who seems to jerk and hyperextend every muscle in his body as he does seated-rows, the meathead who screams and grunts way too loud after every bicep curl. I’m one of those weirdoes too.
It’s not entirely my fault. I’m not conscious of what I’m doing. It’s early. I’m surrounded by strangers. And my headphones seem to alter reality. With music blasting in my ears, I lose the casual awareness that others are around me, possibly observing me. And so I dance. Not like club dancing. There’s neither a bump nor a grind - just awkward white boy nodding of head, tapping of feet. Sometimes I look in the mirror and catch myself playing air guitar, air bass, or air drumming… obviously not at the same time. Note: I do not ever play air piano, that’s not weird, it’s borderline psychotic.
In addition to my air-playing and my body rocking, I’m prone to silently mouthing along to the lyrics. When I work out, I primarily listen to hip-hop, so singing along consists of me moving my lips very fast and taking great care to avoid mouthing the N-word. Despite my political correctness, I look like a creep. It’s not on purpose. It just happens. The noise canceling headphones have the affect that driving in your car has on your sense of privacy – well almost… you won’t find me picking my nose at the gym. That would just be silly.
And while we’re on the subject of the gym, here’s my sixty-minute workout mix.
10 Minute Warm-up:
Aphex Twin – Film (nice, easy, chill, good to start)
Crazy – Gnarls Barkley (pick up the pace, but not too much)
Queen Bee – Medeski, Martin, and Wood (chill and then it explodes in the last minute)
40 Minute Work-out:
The Rooster – Big Boi (This will wake you up)
Heavy Metal – Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (upbeat, rockin’)
Float On – Modest Mouse (upbeat, rockin’ +1)
December 4th – DJ Danger Mouse (Shift to hip-hop through the Beatles and Jay-Z)
Get By – Talib Kweli (Upbeat, awesome)
The Seed – The Roots (more upbeat, more awesomeness)
Organ Donor – DJ Shadow (I dare you not to sweat to this song)
Never Let Me Down – Kanye West (Just when you think the song is ending, Jay-Z comes back for an encore verse)
Deceptacon – Le Tigre (The peak, just when you need it)
10 Minute Warm-down:
Umi Says – Mos Def (ramp into something chill)
No Woman, No Cry – Fugees (and we’re done)
It’s not entirely my fault. I’m not conscious of what I’m doing. It’s early. I’m surrounded by strangers. And my headphones seem to alter reality. With music blasting in my ears, I lose the casual awareness that others are around me, possibly observing me. And so I dance. Not like club dancing. There’s neither a bump nor a grind - just awkward white boy nodding of head, tapping of feet. Sometimes I look in the mirror and catch myself playing air guitar, air bass, or air drumming… obviously not at the same time. Note: I do not ever play air piano, that’s not weird, it’s borderline psychotic.
In addition to my air-playing and my body rocking, I’m prone to silently mouthing along to the lyrics. When I work out, I primarily listen to hip-hop, so singing along consists of me moving my lips very fast and taking great care to avoid mouthing the N-word. Despite my political correctness, I look like a creep. It’s not on purpose. It just happens. The noise canceling headphones have the affect that driving in your car has on your sense of privacy – well almost… you won’t find me picking my nose at the gym. That would just be silly.
And while we’re on the subject of the gym, here’s my sixty-minute workout mix.
10 Minute Warm-up:
Aphex Twin – Film (nice, easy, chill, good to start)
Crazy – Gnarls Barkley (pick up the pace, but not too much)
Queen Bee – Medeski, Martin, and Wood (chill and then it explodes in the last minute)
40 Minute Work-out:
The Rooster – Big Boi (This will wake you up)
Heavy Metal – Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (upbeat, rockin’)
Float On – Modest Mouse (upbeat, rockin’ +1)
December 4th – DJ Danger Mouse (Shift to hip-hop through the Beatles and Jay-Z)
Get By – Talib Kweli (Upbeat, awesome)
The Seed – The Roots (more upbeat, more awesomeness)
Organ Donor – DJ Shadow (I dare you not to sweat to this song)
Never Let Me Down – Kanye West (Just when you think the song is ending, Jay-Z comes back for an encore verse)
Deceptacon – Le Tigre (The peak, just when you need it)
10 Minute Warm-down:
Umi Says – Mos Def (ramp into something chill)
No Woman, No Cry – Fugees (and we’re done)
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Graceland
I almost died this morning. That sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth. A block away from the office, a large white truck, one of those Suburbans or Expeditions, some massive truck that gets like eight miles to the gallon, drifted over from the oncoming traffic, bearing down on my Focus hatchback. Fortunately, I have the reflexes of a moderately athletic twenty-five-year-old man and I swerved across three lanes to avoid the truck and my almost-certain death. I assume the driver was asleep or texting or picking a grape up off the floor, because after laying on my horn, they recovered and swerved back into their own lane.
I was pretty shaken up. It’s not every day you confront your own mortality. I arrived at work a minute or so later and sat in the parking lot shaking. Paul Simon’s “Graceland” had been playing at the time of the almost-accident. At first I thought, it was an odd bit of music for the occasion; “Graceland” being one of the most beautiful, joyous albums ever created – me ruminating on what my life would be like if I somehow survived a head-on collision with truck going 45 as the Paul Simon’s sweet voice echoed in my brain. And then it hit me: if I had died, the last thing I would’ve heard, “You Can Call Me Al,” is a pretty cool song to go out on. And then it hit me again: If I was able to have that kind of thought, so shortly after a near-death experience, “Graceland” truly must be my all-time favorite album… something which I’d been debating over the past month or so.
I feel comfortable saying it’s my favorite album and not qualifying the statement. I assume anyone who’s ever listened to the album would surely understand. If for some crazy reason, you’ve never listened to “Graceland,” feel ashamed, getting caught by your mother masturbating to a JC Penny catalogue ashamed.
Simon somehow seamlessly infuses African music and musicians, with Zydeco and Tex-Mex music and musicians, then encompasses the whole sound into this beautiful little package, akin to a pop song. Is it pop music? World music? Does it matter?! It’s just perfect music, from start to finish, every song, beautiful, wonderful, complex, simple and subtle bass lines that expertly fill gaps, horns, accordions, Ladysmith Black Mumbazo, Los Lobos, The Everly Brothers, Linda Ronstadt, harmonies and rhythms as unique as they are beautiful, fucking Ladysmith Black Mumbazo for crying out loud!
It’s autobiographical, inspired, inspiring, and my god, the lyrics, the lyrics!!! And I’m not even a lyrics guy but:
There's a girl in New York City,
Who calls herself the human trampoline,
And sometimes when I'm falling flying
Or tumbling in turmoil I say
Whoa so this is what she means,
She means we're bouncing into Graceland.
And I see losing love
Is like a window in your heart,
Everybody sees you're blown apart,
Everybody feels the wind blow.
It just doesn’t get any better than that. And these feelings aren’t new, they weren’t suddenly brought on by the trauma of almost becoming a statistic this morning. “Graceland” has endured for years… dating back to my senior camper summer at Camp Seneca Lake, singing “You Can Call Me Al,” cooking with Alex and Julian this was in the background, the first record Christine played when we finished unpacking in our new apartment… it’s a part of me, seems like it always has, and always will be.
Something about that is comforting. In the face of death, I felt calm, at peace; it was the music. Immediately after I swerved away from the truck, I turned off my CD player. There was no way I was going to let something as silly as almost dying, tarnish in any way, shape, or form, an album I love so very much.
I was pretty shaken up. It’s not every day you confront your own mortality. I arrived at work a minute or so later and sat in the parking lot shaking. Paul Simon’s “Graceland” had been playing at the time of the almost-accident. At first I thought, it was an odd bit of music for the occasion; “Graceland” being one of the most beautiful, joyous albums ever created – me ruminating on what my life would be like if I somehow survived a head-on collision with truck going 45 as the Paul Simon’s sweet voice echoed in my brain. And then it hit me: if I had died, the last thing I would’ve heard, “You Can Call Me Al,” is a pretty cool song to go out on. And then it hit me again: If I was able to have that kind of thought, so shortly after a near-death experience, “Graceland” truly must be my all-time favorite album… something which I’d been debating over the past month or so.
I feel comfortable saying it’s my favorite album and not qualifying the statement. I assume anyone who’s ever listened to the album would surely understand. If for some crazy reason, you’ve never listened to “Graceland,” feel ashamed, getting caught by your mother masturbating to a JC Penny catalogue ashamed.
Simon somehow seamlessly infuses African music and musicians, with Zydeco and Tex-Mex music and musicians, then encompasses the whole sound into this beautiful little package, akin to a pop song. Is it pop music? World music? Does it matter?! It’s just perfect music, from start to finish, every song, beautiful, wonderful, complex, simple and subtle bass lines that expertly fill gaps, horns, accordions, Ladysmith Black Mumbazo, Los Lobos, The Everly Brothers, Linda Ronstadt, harmonies and rhythms as unique as they are beautiful, fucking Ladysmith Black Mumbazo for crying out loud!
It’s autobiographical, inspired, inspiring, and my god, the lyrics, the lyrics!!! And I’m not even a lyrics guy but:
There's a girl in New York City,
Who calls herself the human trampoline,
And sometimes when I'm falling flying
Or tumbling in turmoil I say
Whoa so this is what she means,
She means we're bouncing into Graceland.
And I see losing love
Is like a window in your heart,
Everybody sees you're blown apart,
Everybody feels the wind blow.
It just doesn’t get any better than that. And these feelings aren’t new, they weren’t suddenly brought on by the trauma of almost becoming a statistic this morning. “Graceland” has endured for years… dating back to my senior camper summer at Camp Seneca Lake, singing “You Can Call Me Al,” cooking with Alex and Julian this was in the background, the first record Christine played when we finished unpacking in our new apartment… it’s a part of me, seems like it always has, and always will be.
Something about that is comforting. In the face of death, I felt calm, at peace; it was the music. Immediately after I swerved away from the truck, I turned off my CD player. There was no way I was going to let something as silly as almost dying, tarnish in any way, shape, or form, an album I love so very much.
Monday, July 30, 2007
My Own Self-Satisfaction Mix
I like throwing parties for one reason and one reason alone: I get to make the playlist. I can’t begin to tell you how often I go to parties and there is virtually no thought given to the music getting played. Okay, that may be an exaggeration. I rarely get invited to parties, but often, when my neighbors throw them and I walk by, I can tell the music sucks and I’m happy they didn’t invite me, because I don’t need to go to their really fun, raucous party if they’re going to play lame music. Screw them.
Anyway, Christine and I had a little shindig this past weekend. (I won’t call it a barbeque, because my Southern friend, James, pointed out, that if I’m not smoking the meat, I’m just “grilling out.”) From what I remember, it was a pretty good time. My memory is poor though. I used a margarita recipe my friend Katie recommended: one can of frozen concentrated limeade, one can of tequila, and three light beers… originally it was two, but I had to dilute it somehow. That surprisingly tasty and obviously strong recipe, which I nicknamed “the marga-ruffie,” along with my playlist pretty much ensured that I was going to have fun even if no one else did.
The way you shape a playlist depends on the type of atmosphere you’re trying to set. If you’re having a wine and cheese Christmas party, perhaps jazz and/or bossa nova is more appropriate than hardcore rap. In the case of a late afternoon/evening bbq (fuck James, I’m not from the South), you’re looking for music chill enough that people can talk, but interesting and upbeat enough to keep people drinking and having fun. Songs longer than five minutes are automatically excluded. As are songs with long intros or outros (think Wu Tang Clan’s Method Man intro… it’s torture mother fucker if you have to listen to that at a party). Instrumental music is something I love, but another no-no for party mixes.
My bbq mix was about 40% hip-hop (The Roots, A Tribe Called Quest, Common, Kanye West, Blackstar, Jay-Z, etc.) Maybe 25% of the mix is high energy indie rock (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, The White Stripes, Modest Mouse, The Fiery Furnaces, The Arcade Fire, etc.) The remaining third of the playlist is split up evenly between ska/reggae (The Slackers, Bob Andy, Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff, etc.), classics (Bob Dylan, The Police, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, etc.) and a variety of stuff I was hoping people had never heard, but would be impressed enough to ask you about. (I’ve mentioned many of these bands in the past, but: Aberfeldy, Le Tigre, Andrew Bird, Darrel Scott, Little Brother, Ms. Dynamite, Okerrvil River, Pinback, Sergio Mendes, Vic Ruggerio, etc.) (With that setup, I could pretty much leave my iPod on shuffle and feel confident that the music would flow nicely all night.)
Whether or not anyone liked the music enough to ask me about it or just enjoyed the music at all, is unclear. Again, “marga-ruffies” lead to trouble, trouble which I have very little recollection of. But that was the goal, and whether or not anyone else enjoyed the music as much as I did, I’m fairly confident that I spent a good part of the night nodding along to the music in that way that white boys who truly lack rhythm always do. And the neighbors, who were invited, but were apparently too cool to show up, were very jealous and sad that they didn't come by… at least in my head.
Anyway, Christine and I had a little shindig this past weekend. (I won’t call it a barbeque, because my Southern friend, James, pointed out, that if I’m not smoking the meat, I’m just “grilling out.”) From what I remember, it was a pretty good time. My memory is poor though. I used a margarita recipe my friend Katie recommended: one can of frozen concentrated limeade, one can of tequila, and three light beers… originally it was two, but I had to dilute it somehow. That surprisingly tasty and obviously strong recipe, which I nicknamed “the marga-ruffie,” along with my playlist pretty much ensured that I was going to have fun even if no one else did.
The way you shape a playlist depends on the type of atmosphere you’re trying to set. If you’re having a wine and cheese Christmas party, perhaps jazz and/or bossa nova is more appropriate than hardcore rap. In the case of a late afternoon/evening bbq (fuck James, I’m not from the South), you’re looking for music chill enough that people can talk, but interesting and upbeat enough to keep people drinking and having fun. Songs longer than five minutes are automatically excluded. As are songs with long intros or outros (think Wu Tang Clan’s Method Man intro… it’s torture mother fucker if you have to listen to that at a party). Instrumental music is something I love, but another no-no for party mixes.
My bbq mix was about 40% hip-hop (The Roots, A Tribe Called Quest, Common, Kanye West, Blackstar, Jay-Z, etc.) Maybe 25% of the mix is high energy indie rock (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, The White Stripes, Modest Mouse, The Fiery Furnaces, The Arcade Fire, etc.) The remaining third of the playlist is split up evenly between ska/reggae (The Slackers, Bob Andy, Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff, etc.), classics (Bob Dylan, The Police, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, etc.) and a variety of stuff I was hoping people had never heard, but would be impressed enough to ask you about. (I’ve mentioned many of these bands in the past, but: Aberfeldy, Le Tigre, Andrew Bird, Darrel Scott, Little Brother, Ms. Dynamite, Okerrvil River, Pinback, Sergio Mendes, Vic Ruggerio, etc.) (With that setup, I could pretty much leave my iPod on shuffle and feel confident that the music would flow nicely all night.)
Whether or not anyone liked the music enough to ask me about it or just enjoyed the music at all, is unclear. Again, “marga-ruffies” lead to trouble, trouble which I have very little recollection of. But that was the goal, and whether or not anyone else enjoyed the music as much as I did, I’m fairly confident that I spent a good part of the night nodding along to the music in that way that white boys who truly lack rhythm always do. And the neighbors, who were invited, but were apparently too cool to show up, were very jealous and sad that they didn't come by… at least in my head.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
The Sweet Smell of Burnt Cocaine
Okay, this is totally late, but I don’t care. I can’t think of anything else to write about and it’s totally worth talking about.
Christine and I went to the Hollywood Bowl a few weeks ago and caught The Decemberists playing with the LA Philharmonic. And it was awesome! More on that shortly.
First, the Hollywood Bowl is the coolest place in the world to see a large, outdoor concert. This I’m convinced of, despite having only been to maybe a dozen or so outdoor concert venues. It’s so fucking cool though! We parked at Hollywood and Highland (where the Academy Awards are held), walked through the heart of tourist central Hollywood and arrived at the bowl, a veritable oasis in the heart of urban tourist sprawl. Before taking our seats, we sat with some of Christine’s friends and chatted with them at a picnic table while they drank wine and ate tasty snacks. Then we walked to our seats, opened the bottle of Chianti we brought, and dug into our picnic dinner. Apparently, if the LA Philharmonic is present, you can bring wine and beer into the Hollywood Bowl, no questions asked. And that is so fucking cool! Plus you’re in this amazing, gigantic, yet somehow intimate concert space, and there’s virtually no indication that you’re anywhere near Hollywood. It’s just hills and trees and vegetation surrounding you. You quickly forget where you are and manage to focus all your senses on tasty wine and fantastic music. I love the Hollywood Bowl. I can’t stress that enough.
A Band Of Horses was the first opener. They’re good. Christine likes them a lot. I thought the Bowl was too big of a venue for them, but they were nice. I honestly don’t have too much to say about them. They seemed good (I know I said that already), but I was focused on wine and picnic dinners and people watching and taking in the sheer beauty of the bowl. I can’t stress how cool it is there.
Next up was Andrew Bird. A guy I worked with when I first came out to LA, was kind enough to make me an incredible mix that featured a Andrew Bird song on it, so I got to be really cool, and tell everyone ahead of time how excited I was to see him, even though I’d only heard about a half-dozen of his songs. I was right though. He’s ridiculous. If you haven’t heard Andrew Bird, you should… especially if you can catch him live. He plays alongside a drummer and bass player (or at least he did on this night). Andrew Bird plays the violin (incredibly well), loops it with a foot petal, whistles , loops that with a foot petal, then picks up the guitar and plays that. Then puts down the guitar and picks back up the violin. Then he whistles some more and somewhere along the ride, he sings too. And he does it all so well. I have trouble describing his style. To say he’s a singer/songwriter who plays violin and loops samples just doesn’t seem to do him justice. To say that after seeing him perform a 45 minute set, I was convinced there was no way The Decemberists playing with the LA Philharmonic could possibly be as impressive as he was, probably is a better testament to how awesome he was. If you don’t believe me, check this out.
I was wrong by the way. The whole, ‘there’s no way The Decemeberists could be as good as Andrew Bird’ thing. Yeah, I was an idiot, because The Decemberists with the LA Philharmonic was one of the coolest things, I’ve ever seen or heard. I’m not going to go song by song and explain every nuance of the show, just a few highlights instead.
They opened with “The Crane Wife, parts 1 and 2.” From the first few notes that the Philharmonic played, I knew I was in for a treat. And moments later when I heard several string players hit a chord in unison and the big bassy French horn kick in, I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically. It’s so rare that music surprises me, tickles me, touches me. Watching an incredible band play really sophisticated songs with the help of one of the nations best symphonies is a quite simply a treat, and I wasn’t quite ready for what I was about to hear. The songs were so well-orchestrated, so layered, so pleasing to my ears, I couldn’t help but laugh and laugh; it seemed the only sensible thing to do.
My other favorite moment of the show came when the crowd greeted the band with raucous approval as they launched into “Los Angeles, I’m Yours.” For those of you not to familiar with The Decemberists, “Lose Angeles, I’m Yours” is perhaps the single most beautiful tribute to the city I call home; it also happens to be a scathing rant about everything that makes LA such a deplorable place. Christine informed me that people in LA love songs about how awful LA is. And why not? Everyone here is from somewhere else, there’s no attachment to this city, no hometown pride; it’s cool to turn up our collective noses at a city a renowned for neon dreams, materialism, and greed. On this night, some 17,000 fans collectively celebrated our home by cheering along to a song that actively shits on it.
In the past I’ve written about the things I enjoy in live music: technical virtuosity, energy, hearing something unique – something that may never be recreated, and surprises. Suffice to say, this show had it all. (Here’s a link to a video of them playing “The Infanta.” I don’t think it quite does the sound justice… although it pretty well mimics my view.) Did I mention I love the Hollywood Bowl?
Christine and I went to the Hollywood Bowl a few weeks ago and caught The Decemberists playing with the LA Philharmonic. And it was awesome! More on that shortly.
First, the Hollywood Bowl is the coolest place in the world to see a large, outdoor concert. This I’m convinced of, despite having only been to maybe a dozen or so outdoor concert venues. It’s so fucking cool though! We parked at Hollywood and Highland (where the Academy Awards are held), walked through the heart of tourist central Hollywood and arrived at the bowl, a veritable oasis in the heart of urban tourist sprawl. Before taking our seats, we sat with some of Christine’s friends and chatted with them at a picnic table while they drank wine and ate tasty snacks. Then we walked to our seats, opened the bottle of Chianti we brought, and dug into our picnic dinner. Apparently, if the LA Philharmonic is present, you can bring wine and beer into the Hollywood Bowl, no questions asked. And that is so fucking cool! Plus you’re in this amazing, gigantic, yet somehow intimate concert space, and there’s virtually no indication that you’re anywhere near Hollywood. It’s just hills and trees and vegetation surrounding you. You quickly forget where you are and manage to focus all your senses on tasty wine and fantastic music. I love the Hollywood Bowl. I can’t stress that enough.
A Band Of Horses was the first opener. They’re good. Christine likes them a lot. I thought the Bowl was too big of a venue for them, but they were nice. I honestly don’t have too much to say about them. They seemed good (I know I said that already), but I was focused on wine and picnic dinners and people watching and taking in the sheer beauty of the bowl. I can’t stress how cool it is there.
Next up was Andrew Bird. A guy I worked with when I first came out to LA, was kind enough to make me an incredible mix that featured a Andrew Bird song on it, so I got to be really cool, and tell everyone ahead of time how excited I was to see him, even though I’d only heard about a half-dozen of his songs. I was right though. He’s ridiculous. If you haven’t heard Andrew Bird, you should… especially if you can catch him live. He plays alongside a drummer and bass player (or at least he did on this night). Andrew Bird plays the violin (incredibly well), loops it with a foot petal, whistles , loops that with a foot petal, then picks up the guitar and plays that. Then puts down the guitar and picks back up the violin. Then he whistles some more and somewhere along the ride, he sings too. And he does it all so well. I have trouble describing his style. To say he’s a singer/songwriter who plays violin and loops samples just doesn’t seem to do him justice. To say that after seeing him perform a 45 minute set, I was convinced there was no way The Decemberists playing with the LA Philharmonic could possibly be as impressive as he was, probably is a better testament to how awesome he was. If you don’t believe me, check this out.
I was wrong by the way. The whole, ‘there’s no way The Decemeberists could be as good as Andrew Bird’ thing. Yeah, I was an idiot, because The Decemberists with the LA Philharmonic was one of the coolest things, I’ve ever seen or heard. I’m not going to go song by song and explain every nuance of the show, just a few highlights instead.
They opened with “The Crane Wife, parts 1 and 2.” From the first few notes that the Philharmonic played, I knew I was in for a treat. And moments later when I heard several string players hit a chord in unison and the big bassy French horn kick in, I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically. It’s so rare that music surprises me, tickles me, touches me. Watching an incredible band play really sophisticated songs with the help of one of the nations best symphonies is a quite simply a treat, and I wasn’t quite ready for what I was about to hear. The songs were so well-orchestrated, so layered, so pleasing to my ears, I couldn’t help but laugh and laugh; it seemed the only sensible thing to do.
My other favorite moment of the show came when the crowd greeted the band with raucous approval as they launched into “Los Angeles, I’m Yours.” For those of you not to familiar with The Decemberists, “Lose Angeles, I’m Yours” is perhaps the single most beautiful tribute to the city I call home; it also happens to be a scathing rant about everything that makes LA such a deplorable place. Christine informed me that people in LA love songs about how awful LA is. And why not? Everyone here is from somewhere else, there’s no attachment to this city, no hometown pride; it’s cool to turn up our collective noses at a city a renowned for neon dreams, materialism, and greed. On this night, some 17,000 fans collectively celebrated our home by cheering along to a song that actively shits on it.
In the past I’ve written about the things I enjoy in live music: technical virtuosity, energy, hearing something unique – something that may never be recreated, and surprises. Suffice to say, this show had it all. (Here’s a link to a video of them playing “The Infanta.” I don’t think it quite does the sound justice… although it pretty well mimics my view.) Did I mention I love the Hollywood Bowl?
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Pandora's Juke Box
It’s quite possible that I’m not on the cutting edge of this. In fact, I’m almost certain everyone already knows about this. But on the off chance that some of you out there are as incredibly un-hip as I am, I’m here to preach to you about a website that is a true godsend. Cali’s husband, Paul, turned me onto this a week ago and I quickly became a believer. Pandora.com. I repeat: Pandora.com. Now say, “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!”
The website is simple: Start by either entering the name of band or song you like. If you enter a band, Pandora will play a song from that band and give you a description of the music. For example, I typed in “The Roots,” and Pandora played “Love of My Life” off “The Roots Come Alive.” Pandora told me The Roots are characterized by, “hardcore rap influence, east coast rap roots, funk influences, syncopated beats, and duo rapping.” Based on those characteristics, Pandora then automatically created a playlist for me. Next up was “Grown Man Sport” by INI, featuring, “east coast rap roots, heavy backbeat, swingin’ beats, group rap arrangements, and jazzy hooks.” Then “The Easy Spell” by Mos Def. Then “Doo Rags” by Nas. “Proceed 2” by The Roots. “Militia (Pete Rock Remix) by Gangstar. And so on… For each song, I could give a thumbs up or down, based on whether I liked it. A thumbs up and they continue to play similar stuff including that song, a thumbs down and they shift the playlist in a different direction. You can pause, skip tracks (although a limited number in an hour), but not fast-forward or rewind within the song. If you enter a song at the original prompt, you go through a similar process, except, instead of playing that song, they’ll play a similar sounding song. If you type in “Stairway To Heaven,” they might play something like Aerosmith’s “Dream On.”
It gets better. If you sign up for a FREE account, you can have up to 100 different selections (bands or songs) to make playlists from (and Pandora remembers them all and your preferences). You can combine all of those different “playlists” and Pandora will automatically form a “quick mix” incorporating music from whatever you select… whether it be 10 bands or 100. Basically, it’s like setting your iTunes library on random, only, your library is like a million times bigger. And yes, obviously it’s not the most convenient way to listen to music, but considering the possibility, nay, probability of broadening your knowledge of music, the few quarks seem well-worth it. So do yourself a favor and check this puppy out.
The website is simple: Start by either entering the name of band or song you like. If you enter a band, Pandora will play a song from that band and give you a description of the music. For example, I typed in “The Roots,” and Pandora played “Love of My Life” off “The Roots Come Alive.” Pandora told me The Roots are characterized by, “hardcore rap influence, east coast rap roots, funk influences, syncopated beats, and duo rapping.” Based on those characteristics, Pandora then automatically created a playlist for me. Next up was “Grown Man Sport” by INI, featuring, “east coast rap roots, heavy backbeat, swingin’ beats, group rap arrangements, and jazzy hooks.” Then “The Easy Spell” by Mos Def. Then “Doo Rags” by Nas. “Proceed 2” by The Roots. “Militia (Pete Rock Remix) by Gangstar. And so on… For each song, I could give a thumbs up or down, based on whether I liked it. A thumbs up and they continue to play similar stuff including that song, a thumbs down and they shift the playlist in a different direction. You can pause, skip tracks (although a limited number in an hour), but not fast-forward or rewind within the song. If you enter a song at the original prompt, you go through a similar process, except, instead of playing that song, they’ll play a similar sounding song. If you type in “Stairway To Heaven,” they might play something like Aerosmith’s “Dream On.”
It gets better. If you sign up for a FREE account, you can have up to 100 different selections (bands or songs) to make playlists from (and Pandora remembers them all and your preferences). You can combine all of those different “playlists” and Pandora will automatically form a “quick mix” incorporating music from whatever you select… whether it be 10 bands or 100. Basically, it’s like setting your iTunes library on random, only, your library is like a million times bigger. And yes, obviously it’s not the most convenient way to listen to music, but considering the possibility, nay, probability of broadening your knowledge of music, the few quarks seem well-worth it. So do yourself a favor and check this puppy out.
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