Best Loved Holiday Memories

I was on the train a few weeks ago. There is a towheaded kid in a stroller, maybe 4 and a plump 40-ish Caucasian mother. The kid has his hands over his ears, pushing earbud type headphones deep into his ear canal.

The Mother says "Don't you want to stop listening to your IPod?"

Kid: "No!"

Mother holds up a hardcover picture book "Well," she says in that very 2nd grade teacher way, "I want to read this book, are you sure you don't want to read along with me?"

Kid (hands over ears): "No!"

Mother really tries to work it, begins flipping the pages. I see the book is called "Spin The Dreidel." She begins to read aloud, annoying the entire subway car I am in, full of people uninterested in dreidel spinning in particular and possibly literacy in general. The kid looks up briefly, then returns his rapt attention to whatever he's listening to on his headphones.

I go through three more subway stops hearing all about dreidel spinning, until I finally exit the train.

Questions for discussion:
- Why does a 4 year old need an IPod?
- Is there any way in which "Spin The Dreidel" could possibly compete with an IPod?

"I'm Not There" - shortest movie review possible

Cate Blanchett as Bob Dylan could not be hotter. She's cool, she's sexy, if only she was really a man who I could make out with. Alas. Otherwise the film is masturbatory, self-involved, perplexing. For those of us who know nothing about Dylan you'll want to know more, for those who know something about Dylan you'll spend the movie going "That's not right!"

I once had a fight with a guy about other Todd Haynes movie "Safe" He thought it was brilliant, I thought it was painfully boring. The only difference with "I'm Not There" is I'm not the only one who thinks it's boring.

Honorable mentions:
Cate yelling "I still remember your sweet little pussy" at a groupie.
Richie Havens playing a song.

Metal Health Will Drive You Mad

Fare thee well Kevin DuBrow, former lead singer of Quiet Riot I must say I'll miss seeing you on all those VH1/MTV reunion shows telling me from beneath a giant and very obvious wig, how Quiet Riot is so going to make a big comeback.

On the bright side, at least with you dead, nobody can set fire to a nightclub with pyrotechnics and accidentally kill a bunch of people who thought it would be funny to go see you slog through a set of moldy favorites as you try to recapture your glory days. One thing to be thankful for this holiday season.

Kay Hanley, headed for heroin habit?

A little bit more on that Thanksgiving Day Parade from my girl Kelly. Apparently there was a horrifying thing I missed involving one of my least favorite ex-local musicians...

"The Care Bears float was a moment of supreme "HA HA HA! Look what you've stooped to!" as the musical guest on the float - singing a song about caring and sharing - was Kay Hanley."

Wow, just watching that clip really creeps me out. Kay and skating Care Bears. Why does this remind me of when on VH1 behind the music Tommy Shaw from Styx said the embarrassment of performing Mr. Roboto live is what drove him to a life of heroin addiction?

What I learned watching Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade

1. The refrain of Lifehouse’s single “First Time” is nearly identical to Robbie Williams’ “Win Some, Lose Some”. Is there another Avril Lavigne vs. the Rubinoos style lawsuit on the horizon? By the way, nice appearance by the band from atop the US Postal Service float. I’ll think of Lighthouse the next time I buy stamps.

2. Menudo still exist (and I applaud their choreography).

3. I actually kind of like "I Jump” a song performed by a band called Bindi and the Crocmen - comprised of Steve Irwin’s grammar school aged daughter fronting and a group of jumping Aussies who greatly resembled The Wiggles. It is possible however that I am merely a sucker for any song sung by a tiny voiced pint sized foreign girl. I’d be lying if the whole affair didn’t bring to mind “Ginger Ale” a song by The Clean and sung by Hamish Kilgour’s small daughter about her favorite beverage with the great refrain “bubbles up your nose – so sweet, so sweet!

4. Hard to tell who was looking cooler Good Charlotte or the Energizer bunny. Both wore the same sunglasses but Good Charlotte sang from atop a float advertising Hess trucks – surely the pinnacle of their careers. Since the bunny is a giant balloon full of helium, I think he wins.

Jens Lekman is the most fucking Swedish thing I've ever seen (and I mean that in a good way)

Wow. It would be hard for me to imagine a Jens Lekman show that was more Jens Lekman than the one at The Paradise last night. The Swedish crooner arrived on stage wearing jeans and a crisp white cotton shirt with red appliquéd flower, flanked by a nearly all-girl 7 piece band whose average age appeared to be 16. Most of his bandmates sported tea length white cotton smock dresses, white stockings, and white flats, except the drummer who added to her attire bloomers and a cotton cap and the sole gent (DJ Viktor Sjöberg) who opted out for trousers. Together the octet proceeded to cruise through a remarkably lush hour plus set loaded with violins, trumpets, tape samples, and pithy, pithy romance.

Many songs, like the impossibly twee "The Opposite of Hallelujah" and ABBA-ish disco of "Sipping On the Sweet Water" came from Lekman's newest album "Night Falls Over Kortedala", the title of which is taken from Lekman's apartment, the 'Kortedala Beauty Center' (named after his former hairdresser's place), but it was older favorites like "Maple Leaves", "You Are The Light (see video clip above)" and "Black Cab" that brought squeals of delight from the rapt crowd. Throughout the set Lekman paused to tell humorous stories (including the genesis of "A Postcard to Nina" - about a lesbian friend who told Lekman on the way to visit her parents "Oh, by the way, I told them we're engaged") while the band engaged in goofy choreography, and at one point collectively put down their instruments to invade center stage and twirl in circles with their arms outstretched. Your average night of pop? Oh, I think not.

Encores included new single "Friday Night At The Drive-In Bingo", "A Sweet Summer's Night on Hammer Hill" - where the violin players danced at the side stage pounding their chests while chanting the "bompabumpabompabumpabompabumpabomp" refrain, and weirdly, an acoustic cover of Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al" with the choruses omitted. Eventually Lekman's silvered tones gave out, and his mic got unplugged, leaving him to thank the audience in his loudest voice possible while offering regrets he couldn't go on.

Fans left to the sound of Sjöberg closing out the night with a delightful set of overlooked pop nuggets like "It Never Rains in Southern California", as if those Swedes would know...

Thanks Pantera!

Went to see The Comedians of Comedy tour last night, an evening out which was so funny, halfway through I found myself praying it would end so I could breathe again.

Picked up this bit of info courtesy of Patton Oswalt's set. Apparently, if you are a guy out with other male friends at a metal show, and if by the end of the night you have not picked up any women, it does not mean you are gay if later you give one of them a blow job so long as you yell "Pantera!" during the act (which Oswalt calls a "Bro-job"). Well, you heard it here first.

Sasha Frere-Jones: Play That Funky Music White Boy

Excellent bit in the Weekly Dig this week about tiresomely verbose New Yorker music critic Sasha Frere-Jones, and a recent article in which he makes half-baked intellectual arguments about "How indie rock lost its soul", while admitting he was in a white funk band as a youth. Oh help me sweet baby Jesus.

The Hives - TD Banknorth Garden or my dream date with Howlin' Pelle Almqvist

So there I am in the gift shop of Boston's Museum of Fine Arts with my Mother. She's browsing postcards, I'm looking for a book on Gilbert and George when over the top of the bookshelf I spy strangely familiar looking noggin. Don't I know that guy? But how? Hey, is that Howlin' Pelle Almqvist, lead singer of fabulous Swedish garage rockers The Hives?

I stalk the gent around the bookshop for about 5 minutes wondering if I am mistaken, before seeing the clue that shows me I'm not - he's wearing white shoes. OK, it must be him. When approaching celebrities, it's always difficult to know exactly what to say. For instance, my friend Brad told me about how he once saw Robert Plant looking for a toothbrush in a duty free shop in Heathrow Airport. There was that moment of panic that precedes seeing someone whose music has changed your life, then the idea you have to go up to them and say something. But what? "I like the Oral B myself" - ? In the end he elected to say something to the effect of "Thank you for making music that changed my young life", a comment which Plant seemed very happy with, before buying some floss and departing. In this case though, I have something to say to Almqvist - so I approach.

ME: "Excuse me, aren't you in The Hives?"
PELLE: "Yes, I am"
ME: "Hi, I'm Erin, I'm a fan"
PELLE: (shakes my hand) "Nice to meet you"
ME: "I wanted to see your show while you were here. I tried to get tickets but they were sold out. You were here last night, right?"
PELLE: "Last night and tonight, but tonight it's just a half hour, we're opening for Maroon 5"
ME: "Oh right. So when are you going to be back here next?"
PELLE: "In February I think. You know, if you want, I can put you on the list tonight, just write down your name for me and I'll put you on."

Yes, you read that right.

A bit more talk about how great their new website looks (because it does) and when is set time and I'm left to return to my Mother and use a lot of hand signals to try and explain who that tall guy I was talking to was.

________________

4 Hours later, I'm surprised to find myself sitting in a free seat provided by Mr. Almvquist, surrounded by hoardes of plumpish blonde 15-20 year old girls (because that is the description of 80% of Maroon 5 fans). The price was right, but after being so up close and personal, the 800 feet or so I am from the stage harshes my enjoyment of the show. The sound is terrible, echoey and hollow but to be fair in their matching black outfits with white trim even from this distance the band look great. They lead with a song I can't identify - is it new? - with second being "A Little More for Little You" not exactly the strongest selections to lead a show that's only a half hour long. Still, each of these guys is such a consummate performer it's hard to deny the enormous effort they put into selling their set. Drumsticks are hurled upwards and are caught in time for the next downbeat, guitarist Nicholaus Arson perches on a monitor and salutes the crowd, but Almqvist is ever the star, prancing the stage like Mick Jagger, doing kick-splits in midair, waving the audience to applaud at the end of every number, and rattling off a wide array of comically egomaniacal comments as if we are his date for the evening, purring into the mic "Let us now love one another" before kicking into "Walk Idiot Walk." As a frontman, he's without parallel and the Maroon 5 girls eat up his arrogant Swedish charms. So by the time he hops down from the stage during new song "Try It Again" to wander through the audience (no mean feat in a giant venue like this) they grasp at his hands and touch his hair like they paid their $45 to see Hives and only Hives. The set ends with the best song of the night, a grinding little number which is the forthcoming single from the "Black and White Album" (out in November in the USA) "Tick Tick Boom". Download it here.

The red neon Hives logo floats above Almqvist's head one last time as the band say their goodbyes, "It's been a pleasure for the Hives to play for you tonight Boston, and I know it's a pleasure for you" he says. "Was it good for you?" is not in this guy's vocabulary, but not one person in this venue cares.

A day later I get a phone call from my Mother, "Listen to this!" she says before holding out the phone to her workdesk CD player. It's The Hives. "One of my coworkers brought these records in for me to hear", she says before getting down to her review. "The songs are awfully angry, not really my thing, but that boy you saw in the store, he's much more handsome in person than in this picture on the cover of Tyrannosaurus Hives..."

OK Mom, I'll let him know.

_________

Epilogue: As I leave I note the merch Maroon 5 are selling. Besides the usual T-shirts there are glowsticks that say Maroon 5 on them, shot glasses reading Maroon 5 and teddy bears wearing T-shirts which proclaim "I love Maroon 5". Teddy bears and shot glasses, well put that in your pipe and smoke it Mr. Freud.

Acrassicauda - Iraqi Iraquers Iraq Out.

Doing a bit of housecleaning I came across my notes on a film I meant to write about here previously “Heavy Metal in Baghdad”. I caught it last month at the Toronto International Film Festival and the film basically follows around Iraq’s only heavy metal band, Acrassicauda (means “The Black Scorpion”) as they do all the things your average Iraqi heavy metal band do.

Namely:
· Work very hard to hold a rock show in a sad looking community center where about 25 men (no ladies, please) come to bang their heads (by the way headbanging is not allowed in Iraq because the head bobbing gesture is considered “too much like Jews praying” ??);

· Have their practice space blown up by a scud missile;
and eventually...

· Flee to Syria before the government cracks down on their Metallica-loving ways.

If anything, this portrait of a band with a dream in the middle of a country with so little hope reminds westerners like myself how easy it is to take for granted the liberties we have. While today I lament tickets for the Van Halen reunion tour are sold out, Acrassicauda wonders if they will be put in jail for rocking out, and collectively dream of a day when they can grow their hair long (prohibited by Iraqi law) and love metal openly rather than behind closed doors.

When I saw the film, the filmmakers were there along with Acrassicauda’s former lead singer who was applauded by filmgoers seemingly to his own shame. The filmmakers made impassioned pleas to the audience to donate money to help the band get out of the middle east, explaining how the band have had to sell their instruments to continue living in Damascus where they were seeking asylum. The band would have come to the world premiere of their film, but Canada would not approve their visas. Additionally the filmmakers want to get Acrassicauda on Ozzfest. Never did heavy metal appear a floatation device so desperately grasped by four young men. For those about to rock, I salute you.

The Apple

Last night was the first time I became aware of the existence of "The Apple" a Rocky Horror-esque movie musical from 1980.

The premise is hard to articulate because the film itself is so poorly written. Lets just say that in the amazing future world of 1994 - a world where everyone wears reflective gold, silver, and holographic clothing and where nearly everybody is a gay stereotype - a drab boy-girl folk singing duo in appear at the Worldvision Song Festival and sing a song that despite being entirely unmemorable attracts the attention of the biggest music mogul in the world (Vladek Sheybal - "From Russia With Love"/"Red Dawn") who decides he must make the female half of the duet as his newest star (Catherine Mary Stewart just previous to appearing in "Night of The Comet"). To secure her he (naturally) tempts her with a giant drugged apple, an enormous dance sequence and a barely clad Jean Michel Jarre-type fellow (Alan Love, previous to being in the far superior "Gregory's Girl"), all of which results in her signing his nefarious recording contract. From there on in, it's the tired story of nearly all rock musicals with a lead female: the girl sells out (Breaking Glass) to become a big star (Ladies and Gentlemen The Fabulous Stains), but oh the sweet sweet life she leaves behind (Beyond the Valley of the Dolls) with a devoted yet flaccid and tiresome boyfriend (an incredibly tight-panted George Gilmour) that she decides she must recapture and run from celebrity. But HOW?

This movie is badly written, poorly acted, terribly directed, and appears to be mostly shot in an abandoned airport in West Germany (supposedly the offices of a record company, not fooling us) but weirdly, despite it's obtrusive dancing scenes, terrible songs and hokey costumes the film is so entirely absorbing I JUST COULDN'T STOP WATCHING. Although this film may be a failure in nearly every realm, there is something about it which is strangely hypnotic; like a bad Chinese meal that leaves you full, a bit nauseous and mysteriously still hungry. With that in mind, I while can't recommend really going out of your way to see The Apple, if it should be made available to you, say late at night, after an excessive night of mind-altering drinks, drugs, or rock should you say no? Oh definitely not.

For more girly rock movie reviews, visit my dear amiga Kellygirl here.

+ / - (Plus/Minus), Fujiya & Miyagi, Middle East

Was so pleased to have two shows in the same club to see tonight. Downstairs at the Middle East it was the whispered, slinky indie-funk of Brighton UK's Fujiya & Miyagi. For those who have not yet heard this band's insatiably clever debut "Transparent Things" on Deaf Dumb and Blind, it's the sort of blending of electronica, dance, and indie that adds up to something insufferably cool. The set incorporated most of the tracks from their sole release along with some new more complex material which really cooked. I hear from their manager the next record is being recorded now and should be out next summer. Feels like an awfully long time to wait. As I stood up near the front I was surrounded by a bunch of frat boys and girls screaming about their band love ("FOOOGEEEEYAAAAAHHHH!"), which made me contemplate how uncomfortable it would be to be in a band with fans you'd never want to hang around with.

Afterwards, I snuck upstairs to catch the end of the blazing set laid down by +/-. Fronted by James Baluyut and Patrick Ramos, formerly of Versus the band has a lot in common with its progenitor, most notably the use of haunted choruses and knockout dynamics to keep the listener engaged. But one thing they thankfully don't share with Versus is having made a really crap album at the end of their career (yet).

Only there for the last 5 songs or so, which I could see was an excellent time to show up. By the end they were joined on stage for their encore by (James' brother and indie-rock celebrity) Richard Baluyut as well as most of the members of Moools who played earlier. The show was crazy loud. I bought a CD and went home happy.

Mission of Burma & Jonathan Kane’s February: Geezer Rock Weekend – Part 2

Remember that scene in “A Clockwork Orange” where the powers that be reprogram the evil and sociopathic Malcolm McDowall? They prop his eyes open, strap him to a chair and make him watch horrifying video which eventually shatters his sanity? Remove the British accents and add four guitarists with no stage presence and you have pretty much what it was like seeing Jonathan Kane’s February open for Mission of Burma on Sunday night at the new Institute of Contemporary Art.

Stuck in my 4th row center seat it would have been unsightly to make everyone in the row get up and move, thus I found myself compelled to endure a half hour of this latest offering from ex-Swans drummer Jonathan Kane. Even my heavy duty earplugs could not shut out enough as the band played 4 compositions which centered around most of the guitarists and sole bass player hitting the same chord over and over for 7 minutes at a stretch. To make matters worse, was to watch how totally self-involved each of these musicians were. Not one could be bothered to acknowledge the presence of the other musicians around them, nor the crowd before them, instead focusing their minds on a single thought: “Dude, I am so totally awesome!” Surprising, when the ‘music’ this combo was outputting was such obvious garbage disguised as some kind of new-york-style high art. To be fair Kane was still a fine drummer and the only person who showed any stage presence or enthusiasm. At least the band’s name says it all; February is often the longest, coldest, and lamest of months here in New England - so as in life goes art.

Mission of Burma had none of these problems however. As a set of neon lit towers glowed at the corners of the stage and a giant picture window behind the band revealed flights and boats circling the airport and harbor; Clint Conley played the post-punk hunk, Roger Miller the mad scientist, and Peter Prescott from behind a clear plastic wall encircling the drum kit, the one who could keep it all together. As they have been at every gig I’ve seen them at since reuniting, they churned through their set of mainly newer material ("2twice", "1001 Pleasant Dreams" "Careening With Conviction") with an uncanny precision and a bursting at the seams energy that’s unrivaled by bands half their age. The only disappointment was a lack of older songs, specifically "Academy Fight Song" and "That’s When I Reach For My Revolver", but at least encores of "This Is Not A Photograph" and "That's How I Escaped My Certain Fate" satisfied.

As we walked the barren streets near the ICA looking for the train home my show-companion Susanne admitted to me that Mission of Burma were not her favorite band. Apparently she’d thought we were going to see Human Sexual Response. Upon reflection, this is possibly the only classic Boston band I didn’t see reunite this weekend. Still something to strive for.

Cherry Red, how cool are you?

Prompted by my discovery of Sheriff Jack (whose mastermind, Lewis Taylor currently makes his income penning songs for Robbie Williams) and my love of the song "Buy Everybody a Cake", I tromped over to the Cherry Red website and was surprised just how nice it was. You can download videos of The Toy Dolls, buy old Marine Girls records, and get, at shockingly low prices, Sheriff Jack downloads. Of course one must remember that's £'s not $'s we're talking here. But still, a happy discovery.

Nasty

Out at The Enormous Room last night I became aware mid my 3rd drink of the Nasty conspiracy of the late 80's. At that time it seems there was a great concern about Nastiness. Janet Jackson indicated that although Nasty boys don't mean a thing, she also implored them "don't ever change". Meanwhile Vanity and her 6 (well 3, ok 2 not including Vanity) queried "Do you think I'm a nasty girl?" This is interesting to me if not only because I cannot recall any songs in the recent past that had a concern regarding the "nasty" question, but also because if someone currently told me they were nasty, I would believe they were "rude" or perhaps technically filthy (much like a certain local scribe I was annoyed by at said bar, but that story is for another time), rather than sexy in some way.

At any rate, I have few 'answers' about Nastiness and the enthusiasm of those in the late 80's to discuss the topic in song form, I just have questions. Oh yes I do.

Interpol, Liars, at the Agganis Arena (which sucks)

Jesus Christ almighty, the way they run the Agganis Arena, you'd think that you were prisoners entering Sing-Sing rather than going to see a moody little rock show.

Outside the venue, the people from Mentos are giving away free sleeves of their freshmaking candies, but just inside the door the security guards seize them all. Mentos are food, and food is not allowed in the venue. Or rather outside food, because if you want to buy a $6 slice of pizza or a $8 tap beer INSIDE the venue that is fine, but freshmaking (like large bags, signs and fireworks) is strictly prohibited. I defiantly stuff a Mento in my mouth before surrendering the remainder of the sleeve and the security guard gives me a nasty look, trying to figure out how she can get me to spit it out before I go inside. Too late, I have been freshmade!

Opener Liars could use some freshmaking. Ozzie singer Angus Andrew screams a lot, wanders the stage in a powder blue suit (beneath which he eventually reveals a Celtics shirt), and with his shaggy doo and awkward charms is reminiscent of local chanteur Ad Frank. Thrashing through their tribal ambient set a la Sonic Youth, Yo La Tengo, and all those songs on Vines records that don't become hits, the band certainly gave it their all, but as they strained to fill the largely empty arena one couldn't help but think how much better this would be in a nightclub where the fans aren't held a minimum of 15 feet from the front of the stage.

Interpol are about as Interpol as anyone could hope them to be. The band enters a dim stage bathed in blue LED lights looking as formal as in their press photos. The usual dark suits are here (save drummer Sam Fogarino whose suit is white, and singer Paul Banks, who is nearly casual in short sleeves), Carlos D is thankfully shorn of his absurd mustache and the keyboardist wears a fedora (Note to self: Just because your band takes their name from an international police force, no need to mimic the attire of Simon LeBon in the Hungry Like The Wolf video). They lead with "Pioneer to The Falls" the haunting lead track from their new album "Our Love To Admire" and there start a nearly 2 hour set of uncanny perfection. The early set is dominated by old material like "Obstacle 1", "C'mere", "Slow Hands", and by the crazy legs dancing antics of guitarist Daniel Kessler. Throughout this, every note is perfectly rendered, every stop and start perfectly hit, Banks' voice is crisp and unwavering, and the band hardly interact with the audience at all. The crazy legs dancing ceases as mid-set the band return to the new album with "My Chemistry", "There's No I In Threesome", and "The Heimlich Manuever" but reappears as soon as older tracks "Evil" and "Not Even Jail" come out. Is there a link? Must be. So although Interpol are as meticulous tonight as a preprogrammed Kraftwerk drum solo, at points it all just seems too perfect. I mean, porn-star sex is hot, but it can be a bit impersonal.

Oh wait, but it's still hot. Yes, very hot.

So it would probably be unfair to call Interpol out on that little technicality wouldn't it?

Yes.

As we leave, I run into my friend Kevin, who shows me that the Mentos he got outside were not seized, doubtless the difference between me putting my Mentos in my purse and him putting them in his pants pocket (begging the question "Are those Mentos in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"). He offers them around and serves up his own new slogan for the candies "It's no longer about freshmaking, it's about being an asshole". Indeed.

Oh Canada!

I've been in Canada 3 days now and I shit you not, every morning when I turn on the radio I hear Rush as either the first or 2nd song of the day. Last night I ate dinner to the sounds of The Tragically Hip. No sign of Sloan yet. I love you Canadian content law.

The Great White North

So I'm off to Toronto end of next week. I'll be there for the Toronto International Film Festival and my fantasies include fighting a member of Sloan for the last package of Raisinettes just before we all attend the latest Ang Lee movie. There is more to this fantasy, but I digress...

I thought while in Toronto it would be great to catch some bands but oddly, according to Tourfilter (an excellent web-tool to ensure you don't miss any bands coming your way) there are only like 4 bands playing every night, and weirdly the most notable one is Red Rider. You know, "Lunatic Fringe" Red Rider? Yeah, them. Talk about reunion shows that would never happen in the USA. I suppose it's only by the grace of God I'll be there a day after The Barenaked Ladies. I would not fight them for Rasinettes, on no. Just take the Rasinettes and leave me alone Barenakeds. Ick.

Like they're running out of bands out there...

A brief field trip to the Borders near my job revealed Tegan and Sara, The New Pornographers, and Rilo Kiley on nearly every music magazine cover. I am not going to go through the dignity of linking their names here as there is ample opportunity for you to find out about them in music publications of both the indie and major league varieties as noted in first sentence.

I know this is not something unheard of, but it does kind of make a sad statement. I know from personal experience that when you're a music reviewer your mailbox gets stuffed full of new CD's every day, so I guess my question is, in a month, are there really only a small child's handful worth talking about, or are we just not doing our job to find out about other artists, and/or shortlist bands whose labels don't have the funds to buy nice big glossy ads? Don't get me wrong, there's a lot of suck out there which can be thrown out immediately, and I do like The New Pornographers, but like the lady says "Is that all there is?"

Black is the new black and nobody cares

Dear Shins, Editors, Interpol, and everybody else who this pertains to,

You know how you thought it would be so cool to have your CD be flat black with a very subtle watermark of the name of your band imprinted on it? Thought it would really set you apart didn't you? Well guess what. Everybody else thought OF THE EXACT SAME THING.

Next!

Patton Oswalt on the miracle of 80's Metal videos

The one thing I really liked about the 80’s hair band videos that needs to come back, the one recurring motif, were the bands that would rock so fuckin’ hard they could change the physical properties of things! Like they would blow holes through walls with their rocking, or they’d go up to your shitty Honda Civic and go “squibbely doo!” and all of a sudden it’s a sleek Lamborghini! Like Hey! Thanks Night Ranger!

That needs to come back. Y’know? Like System of a Down or Queens of the Stone Age have to do a video where they’re going “That cheese sandwich isn’t grilled – squibbly flabbily doo!” And all of a sudden it’s a melted cheese! Oh god damn, you Armenian geniuses!

- Comedian Patton Oswalt from "80's Metal" on "Feeling Kinda Patton"
He is also known as the voice of Remy the rat in Disney's Ratatouille

Paris JeT'aime: Stereo Total, Les Sans Culottes, Octopus Project

Les Sans Culottes may be a band comprised of musicians with made up names singing songs with absurd lyrics in fake French (that’s “Franglais” to you), but there’s something a bit more serious about them since a 2005 lawsuit split the band in two. Half went one way to become Nous Non Plus, and the other half recruited 5 new Culottes and the battle of the Fake French Bands from New York City was declared. I’m not going to pronounce a victor in this messy fight, which if one trolls the web for any length of time can see stinks like week old fromage, but I can say that from recent shows and repeated listenings to LSC’s latest release “Le Weekender”, the new Culottes are far better off without the old. The reason is simple – the old Culottes could be fun, but the new Culottes really and truly ROCK.

Tonight’s show finds the band giving more nods to the past than their set in Boston a month ago. It includes nuggets like “Sa Sabine”, the Babar inspired “SOS elephants”, and “Allo Allo”, but they really tear it up when they get to newer numbers like “Les Yeux Grands Sauvent Le Monde”, "La Semaine A Deux Jeudis" (complete with choreography), and oddly, a killer cover of “My Sharona” (in French of course). The girls all have great legs and wear great shoes, bandleader Clermont Ferrand gives his best Serge Gainsbourg, and the rest of the band are tight as the cork on a bottle of Dom Pérignon. In a word: "Oui".

I had an entirely different expectation of The Octopus Project than how it all turned out. From the tracks I’d heard already (thanks Nick), I’d pegged the Austin quartet as being more of a bloop and blip kind of affair, but on stage, surrounded by amps disguised as giant light up bunnies (or possibly, as a friend pointed out, bunny-klansmen) and a screen that ran a series of creepycute images that were more creepy than cute, they jolted their way through their instrumental set with more electricity and sweat than they had to. I mean, as it was I would have paid good money to simply stare at the gravity defying hairdo of keyboardist Yvonne Lambert and get the measurements of her fabulous asymmetrical dress. The rest of the set, including heart churning versions of “The Adjustor” and “Tuxedo Hat” were merely gravy.

I hadn’t been thinking much about Stereo Total lately but it was hard to not be convinced by their brilliance after tonight. One large stage, two small people, a bare bones drum kit for chanteur Françoise Cactus and a small keyboard for everything else man Brezel Goering. Long and lean, Goering spends the hour running around the stage, drumming on the plumbing pipes protruding overhead, pressing various buttons on his tiny keyboard to release the preprogrammed samples, reading lyrics off a piece of paper, and occasionally diving into the audience to crowd surf. Cactus wears giant glasses, spits out her eccentric twitterbird warbles through a thick accent, reads music off a music stand and stops occasionally to blot sweat from her face and cheerily comment of the nightclub temperature “So I guess the A/C is kaput, eh?” Songs come fast and furious from covers of The Plastics and Salt n' Pepa to originals like “Musique Automatique” and “Ta Voix Au Telephone”, each rendered in somewhat minimalistic form, but the band are so enthusiastic its impossible to not get caught up with their fervor. The sold out crowd spill onto the stage for songs like "L' Amour A 3" and by the time they end with “Everybody At the Discotheque (I Hate)” the sold out crowd are all pumping their fists in the air and singing along. It’s my friend Rob’s third time seeing Stereo Total and before we leave he shakes his head when he admits he was thinking about not coming out tonight but now is so glad he did. Aren’t we all?

Eddie Argos and Selling the Promise of Sex

There’s something fishy going on at Bust Magazine. The mag in this month’s music issue profiles Art Brut singer Eddie Argos as a sweet English boy to get all dreamy over. The 2-page profile shows a significantly slimmed down, coiffed, and repackaged Argos talking about his favorite places to go on a date, rather than the out of shape and weasely moustacheed one seen just a little over a year ago in the “Good Weekend” video.

My problem with this? Isn’t Argos married? And if he’s not, why has he been wearing a wedding ring both times I’ve seen Art Brut play Boston (conspicuously absent from photo shoot photos)? I’m old enough that I notice these things you know…

Years ago Sassy magazine was famous for running these kind of profiles with their “Cute Boy Alert” feature – for instance profiling indie-hunk Evan Dando as a new focus for readers desire, but as they would talk about his sensitive soul and share his recipe for homemade chocolate sauce they’d leave out key details like that Dando was at the time of publication was a serious heroin addict. Not very dreamy that.

There are plenty of precedents for celebs to fake for their audience that they are single, younger than they are, etc. etc. but that still doesn't really make it right, does it? Isn't it enough to just be Art Brut? Can't people just like music even if its made by married people?

And Eddie, if you're not married, then take off the ring. You're confusing us old ladies.

They tried to make her go to rehab, but she said no, no, no.

Yep, in a sweet moment of life imitating art, Amy Winehouse dropped out rehab yesterday, and then canceled her upcoming North American Tour. Boy, when that chick writes a song, she really means it.

Scrawl – “Bloodsucker” – or I continue my adoration of all-women bands and EP’s

I shouldn’t even get started about my obsession with Scrawl. It’s a sick thing that started with a cassette copy of “Plus Also Too” that was played until the notes nearly wore away and culminated last Halloween when I met Scrawl singer Marcy Mays hanging out at her current gig, proprietor of The Surly Girl Saloon. There at Columbus Ohio’s hippest eatery/venue (I vouch for the egg salad sandwich with gusto damn you bet), she sat at our table, told me to not get a bloody mary and complimented my vintage Cheap Trick t-shirt. Better than an autograph that.

From 1987-1998 Scrawl accumulated a catalogue of songs which detailed a rock girl’s life with a nearly uncomfortable honesty and vulnerability. Painful relationships, drinking, band practice, bad choices, fights with lovers, and the emptiness left in their wake were recounted like so many bent, torn, and beer stained snapshots, pasted with fading yet sparkly nail polish into a well worn heart shaped photo album. All this and they could rock too.

“Bloodsucker” was an EP that came out in 1991 on Feel Good All Over and has since been re-released on Simple Machines. Every song is a vinegar tornado of guitars and heartbreak plus an outstanding cover of Cheap Trick’s “High Roller” (and weirdly Paula Abdul’s “Cold Hearted Snake”). When it comes to love, Scrawl make it hurt so good.

More here.

In praise of Little Hits

Go here for one of the greatest music blogs ever.

BRET MICHAELS: BALD

I just wanted to say, this is the #1 search that brings up this blog. If so many people are searching on this, how can it not be true?

Bangles, I remember you

I’ve been rediscovering my own vinyl lately and felt compelled to write a bit here about The Bangles. No, not the embarrassing Egyptian-walking Bangles you remember, I mean the first IRS EP Bangles.

The year is 1982 and it’s a time when people still release EP’s to intro a new band or to add to a collection of someone more established. People buy EP’s even. It’s a wild time before the Internet even existed. Imagine that. It’s a time so deep in the past that The Bangles have not yet met Prince, and are unaware that they will one day give in to trading on possessing a total of 8 human breasts between them in order to get airplay. But I digress...

The Bangles don’t have bassist Michael Steele yet, they have a lady named Annette Zilinkas in the band, who in a move that years later will be sure to make her think about the fickle finger of fate, will depart to sing in Blood on the Saddle before the Bangles on their next record become a big commercial success. So the first Bangles EP (and for that matter the instrumental track “Bitchen Summer Speedway” which appears on compilation Rodney on the Roq Volume 3) is a snapshot of the Bangles before fame has tainted them, and before Susanna Hoffs mistakenly believes she is an actress.

On The Bangles EP, the production isn’t much, so what is most noticeable are the million part harmonies that collide and shimmer all over the place. On tracks like ‘Mary Street’ the band sound as lush as a female choir delivering the chorus, and on “The Real World” Hoffs’ vocals sparkle with little girl sweetness over an irrepressible jangly mix that epitomized that Paisley Underground sound so popular in the early 80’s LA scene. It’s a shame that as time went by The Bangles just became less a band and more a vehicle for Hoffs’ bedroom eyes and less a vehicle for jangle pop. Some remnants of this early Bangles does spill over into All Over The Place on tracks like “James” and more fully developed single “Hero Takes a Fall” but by Different Light it’s a whole different band. Farewell to youth, hello to ick.

The Violent Femmes, mistakenly believing they still have "indie cred", sue each other over it

Violent Femmes Embroiled In NY Lawsuit
Violent Femmes Turn Litigious In NY Court Dispute Over 1980s Hits

(AP) Fresh off their latest tour, 1980s folk-punk favorites The Violent Femmes are headed for a surprise gig in federal court.

Bassist Brian Ritchie sued lead vocalist Gordon Gano on Wednesday, saying he was deprived of credit for some of the group's songs and a proper accounting of its earnings.

The lawsuit, filed in U.S. District Court in Manhattan, also accuses Gano of trashing the band's reputation by allowing its signature hit, "Blister in the Sun," to be used in a Wendy's commercial.

Gano, reached by telephone at his Manhattan home, called the lawsuit "a complete surprise" _ especially since the band still regularly performs and just returned from a tour in South Africa.

"We just played a really, really good tour," he said. "Since the early '80s, everything's really good. We're playing better than ever."

In the suit, Ritchie claims he founded the band in 1980, taking on drummer Victor DeLorenzo that year and Gano in 1981.

After releasing a self-titled debut album, "Violent Femmes," in 1983, the band gained fame with hits including "Blister in the Sun," "Add It Up" and "Special." It recorded at least 10 albums and toured the world at least a dozen times, the lawsuit said.

"This action is the unfortunate culmination of an ongoing intra-band dispute between Ritchie and Gano over Gano's misappropriation and misadministration of Ritchie's interests in the jointly owned songs and assets of the band, misappropriation of assets solely owned by Ritchie, improper accounting and nonpayment of royalties," the lawsuit said.

The Wendy's deal was a buzz-kill for the band's fan base, the suit says, causing one fan to comment in an online blog that after hearing "Blister in the Sun" in a commercial, "My ears perked up. Then my jaw dropped. Then my heart sank."

The suit seeks a ruling declaring Ritchie half owner of the band's songs and an accounting of past and future royalties and unspecified damages.

Gano declined to respond to the claims in detail, except to say he wrote the band's songs with one or two exceptions.

Thanks Sharon!

We explode together when I'm on stage

I have to admit, as a kid, I was never a giant Kiss fan. These were albums my teenaged babysitters had and which, like my copy of Queen Night at the Opera, I was mildly scared of the possibly satanic overtones of (hey I was 6 then give me a break). So it was only yesterday when wandering the stacks at WMFO with my friend Brad that I became aware of the amazingly strange and often incoherent “notes from the band” tacked on the inside of the gatefold of Kiss Alive!

Below is what I believe to be a mostly accurate reprinting of each note. I have sequenced them in “best for last” order:

_____________

Dear Earthlings, The gravity on Earth isn’t quite the same as my planet, but I'm slowly getting used to it. I always wanted to play lead guitar and express myself usually to an audience. When I play guitar on stage its like making love. I work so you get off every time. Thanks for helping me get off. Love, Ace

___________

Hi Cat People, Well you should get your claws into this album. I know its gonna make your tails stand up straight up. The Cat himself stalked it from front to back and it tasted great, so all u alley cats and tom cats, rock your rolls right off, Or should I say tails?? Love ya, Your silver-nosed tomcat, Peter Criss
______________________

Dear Victims, I love to do all those deliciously psychopathic things to you that make you writhe in pain and groan in ecstasy. My spiked 7-inch boot heels are at the ready should you be in the mood for heavy sport, and my mouth is there to tell you all terrible things you never thought you'd hear (but love hearing)!! I can see you from the corners of my eyes, and I know what you do when the lights go out. I bleed for you and breathe fire for you and you wonder if I’m crazy-I AM! Gene Simmons
________________

My Dear Lovers, Nothing arouses me more then seeing you getting off on me. It makes me work that much harder to please you. My body is yours, yours is mine. We explode together when I'm on stage, I'm yours..............take me. Paul Stanley

All I can say is, we need more notes from bands like this.

A Night in Heaven and Hell: Neptune and the Voluptuous Horror of Martin Gordon

It’s Linda’s birthday, and for Linda’s birthday, she gets what she wants.

Linda wants to see Jon Whitney spin new wave videos at Rivergods, so we do!

Linda wants to go see local art-trash-rock-combo Neptune at Great Scott’s, so we do!

The front end of the evening is lovely, Jon spins videos that are well remembered (“Everybody Wants to Rule the World” – Tears for Fears) and also terribly obscure (“Dr. Mabuse” – Propaganda). I protest when Linda tries to make us leave during Duran Duran’s “Girls on Film” as a guy at the bar and I have bonded over our secret affection for this video, one which I recall so clearly being banned from MTV for its obscenity, though as I watch it now I can’t imagine why. Showing ladies bare bottoms? Oh how far we’ve fallen.

But we do escape, run across town and in a matter of moments have entered Great Scott’s door hoping Neptune will play soon. But no, it is not to be. We have arrived during the set of Tristan Da Cunha who are apparently having a record release party tonight. They are math-rock or as a random fellow at the bar complains “too much like some jazzy Berklee band trying to impress us with their key and time signature changes”. Our eyes mutually roll, I buy Linda a drink. We wait. I figure next will be Neptune, it is nearly midnight on a Thursday, but then the same gent points out no, there are 6 bands on this bill. But why? But why?

Next up is Martin Gordon. “Who is Martin Gordon?” I find myself asking just in time to have my question answered by a 3-minute long PowerPoint presentation projected onto a large screen hanging from the stage ceiling. Come to find out, Martin Gordon has done a wide array of things, but for my money his biggest achievement has been being the bass player on Sparks’ “Kimono My House” album.

“This is his first gig in America!” the excited voice over tells us

“The first time anyone has heard his songs in the US!”

“Here he is!”

“Martin Gordon!”

And he is!

Terrible!

And he should be!

So much better!

Gordon’s band is a group of fellows I’d guess are in their mid-forties, and their music for some reason makes me think of The Yachts. I know that’s obscure, so please fill in your own early 80’s small time euro-guitar band that had maybe one hit here. Or alternately think very early XTC, but imagine them if they sucked. Because the thing that’s really annoying me about Martin Gordon’s set is I should love this music because it’s based on the kind of power pop I will always have a lasting affection for, but Martin Gordon and his band are terrible, terrible songwriters, and behave as if they have never heard of that verse chorus verse thing. It isn’t long before we I are on the pavement outside the nightclub along with about 75% of the other nightclub patrons not smoking, but merely waiting for the torture to be over.

It’s 1 AM now, we’re tired, but we’ve come to see Neptune and damn it we’re going to see them, and after a strangely overlong, awkward and otherwise inexplicable baton twirling performance by local twirler Laurel Sparks, we finally do.

In the future it is easy to imagine that all music will sound like Neptune. It will be cruel, sterile, hostile, cacophonous, upsetting, nailbiting, wonderful, gorgeous, breathtaking; or at least that’s what I like to believe. I’ve been going to see Neptune for more than a decade and I never tire of it. The band has always been led by Jason, who welds many of the band’s instruments from scrap metal into things that resemble but hardly sound like guitars, and though lineups fluctuated for sometime, the current trio, with Dan drumming and Mark playing just about anything he can get his hands on seem to have stuck. Together the three burn white hot, propelled by Dan’s insane rhythms and while the other two add layer upon layer of gorgeous noise resulting in music that sounds like a rock and roll garbage truck convention, and I mean that in the best possible way. Neptune’s fans are crazy in love with them, dancing and jumping so hard that the floor beneath my feet shakes and threatens to give way and plummet us all into the basement. It’s too exciting for a school night. It’s too exciting for 1:30AM. I am too old and have to go home. But was the pain worth the pleasure tonight? Yes. God yes.

Happy birthday Linda, you got what you wanted.

No reunion tour for The Jam

This just in, a friend of mine sat next to Paul Weller from The Jam on a plane last week. The king of the mods was coming home from a holiday in Spain with his family. During the flight they got to chatting and Weller expressed that as far as he was concerned all of these new wave bands reforming is "rubbish". Well I guess that puts to bed any dreams of a Jam reunion. No word on what his in-flight meal was though.

I Hate Sum 41

There I was, minding my own business, trying to find a reasonably priced copy of Mitch Easter's newest release "Dynamico" (no luck) at our local hipster record chain when I realized I was being assaulted by truly horrible emo. The culprit, the new release from Sum 41, "Underclass Hero".

I guess one of the benefits of being as terribly terribly old as I am (wait, let me put my teeth in for writing the rest of this post) is being able to remember when Emo actually had real feeling attached to it, and was not just a predictable array of skateably soaring chords accompanied by trite hollered lyrics scrawled in CVS notebooks by white upper middle class boys whose greatest pain to date was buying their IPod right before the new one with the video came out for the same price. Oh did that hurt your tiny little heart? Owsie-wowsie emo-boy. Maybe you should go get more fuel for your revolution at the local Hot Topic?

Needless to say I was suitably chased from the store after about 3 songs. I thought of telling the cashier how much the music currently on blows, but then I remembered when I worked at Strawberries and was forced to listen to The Cover Girls 20 times a day. Most of what is played in stores is a paid cross-promotion with labels. Pay to play. It's 'illegal' on the radio, but thank god not in record stores. But how much would I charge to listen to this record again? Hmmm...