I ended up going one for three on CMJ.
On Wednesday night, after an early screening of Lorenzo Lamas' Snake Eater at Chez O'Donnell, I tried to hit up the Hooray For Earth show at Crash Mansion, only to realize I'd written the info for the show down wrong. I could've stayed and seen Die! Die! Die!, but didn't.
Friday was worse: I swung by the WFMU Record Fair at the Metropolitan Pavilion after work, with the intention of snagging a vinyl copy of one of The Abs' albums (my current low-grade obsession). Didn't find any, but I did get to peep Nick The Bard and Ken in the flesh, and the wet-dog smell of record collectors is pleasantly familiar. After that, I got booze with Emma and we had dinner at Melt. We parted ways around 10:30 -- my plan was to hit up the Matador showcase at The Suffolk just in time to catch Ted Leo and miss all of the opening acts. Unfortunately, I failed to anticipate the popularity of bands like... "Cold Cave." Or "Lemonade." That is to say, the place was packed, the bouncer unsympathetic, and I'd arrived past the beginning of Ted Leo's set. I'd just hoofed it all the way to Suffolk and Delancey from Canal St., though, and, although it was drizzling, there was a spot next to the external stage door under some scaffolding where you could hear pretty much everything (except the vocals). So, somewhat shamefully, I lurked outside, face metaphorically pressed to the window, and managed to semi-listen to the majority of the songs. They played "Me And Mia." I think they played "Counting Down The Hours." They covered Hybrid Moments as their first encore.
Thursday almost made up for all that, though. I went to Cake Shop to see Kittens Ablaze, again trying to time things to miss as many bands as possible that I hadn't vetted beforehand. Shilpa Ray and Her Happy Hookers were on stage as I came downstairs -- I hadn't meant to arrive for their set, but I was pretty quickly overwhelmed by the, uh, intensity of their sound. Shilpa Ray sings and plays the harmonium, which is a kind of stationary accordion that she pumped with one hand. She's got an amazing, Brody Dalle-level set of pipes, and a frighteningly expressive face: When she's howling out a real raw, scary song, her features get all screwed up like a toddler throwing a tantrum and her frizzy hair floats in front of her face like a dark cloud, bruise-colored. In contrast, the "happy hookers" were a trio of chubby white beardos. It was weird. But I came away from their set feeling like I'd been hit by a (small) truck, which doesn't happen very often.
pow wow! came on next, and they were fine but nowhere near as good as Shilpa Ray. Their set reminded me of what (I think) people don't like about The Strokes: Bouncy, sing-song guitar and bass backup up indifferently-sung lyrics of no particular significance. After them were a Mancunian ensemble called The Answering Machine (ugh) who were also fine but not very interesting.
Kittens Ablaze went on a little after 11:00. One thing I like about them is the way their songs sort of emerge from the tuning noise and between-song dithering of six different instruments. This sounds like a horrible way to perform rock and roll -- indeed, I have no idea why I don't hate it -- but they ramp up the tempo and tighten things up nice and quick, and before you know it they're literally clambering over each other and across the cramped stage area to shout into the mics and the cellist and violinist are going nuts. Their aesthetic and the earnestness of their music reminds me of the The Clash a little -- they've got the backpacking-through-Europe look nailed, and the music's sloppy and super catchy. There's no way to avoid being drawn in by the screamed choruses of "This Machine Is Dying." You'd have to be a real suck-ass not to sing along.
On Sunday, Tom and I went to go see a stage production at the Magnet Theater by the people who curate the website Everything Is Terrible!, which showcases awful, found videos from the past few decades. The stuff on their site runs the gamut from funny (old people using the Internet in 1994) to terrifying (mass hysteria at a Pentecostal prayer convention), and the show included some additional videos that they weren't allowed to put on YouTube, like a promotional video for a Jeff Stryker-branded penis pump. Unfortunately, the show also featured some live-action "interview" segments with the people who hunt down and edit the videos (wearing outsized masks / headdresses to obscure their identities from the potentially litigious) and those really dragged.
Video game news: I finished Bioshock, ultimately coming around to appreciating its narrative chops; the story really solidifies in the second act. I had to put it on easy mode to get through the very last fight. Evan came over a few weeks ago and filled up the Xbox's download queue with demos, which Nina and I have been working through since. The one for Batman: Arkham Asylum was pretty neat, although the controls seemed to be pretty involved. Brutal Legend's got great writing and voice work but the running around and killing things part isn't that much fun. Lost Planet 2 was gorgeous but pretty much unintelligible. I've become very impatient in my dotage -- tl;dr.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Ugly, Ugly, Ugly, Ugly, Handsome
Emma was on Jeopardy! She looked and sounded really professional, and answered so many questions that I can't believe she only came in second. Although, to be fair, Terry From Plano is clearly a trivia master, and Jeff Kirby has apparently done this before.
On Saturday night, Nina and I went to the Peelander-Z show at The Studio at Webster Hall. I'd never been to that part of the club. We got in via their weird little subterranean entrance, cutting through the line winding around the block for the show in the main space, some DJ. The Studio's not bad at all -- kind of cozy, really -- except that people from the horrible, regular part of Webster Hall pass through on their way to the bathroom. It's like rooming with a bunch of frat brothers in a railroad apartment.
Peelander-Z command attention, though. Peelander Red opened the show, storming the stage in an enormous plush red squid / bass hybrid costume. He couldn't play bass while wearing it (or see, I don't think), but he could cavort, and he sure as fuck, you know, went up. They played a bunch of songs, or parts of songs, but that's kind of besides the point. And I don't mean that, you know, the music doesn't matter, but the fact that they start and stop the songs more or less as they feel like it keeps the show lively; keeps at bay the sweaty pageant vibe that so often creeps into the live show of "fun" bands.
"We are not human beings," explained Peelander Yellow, picking his nose and flicking it into the crowd. "We are from Peelander planet, Z area. On my planet, I am considered very handsome. Here, okay. But on Peelander planet, very, very handsome." Peelander Red climbed into the ceiling, hooking his legs around a metal beam and dangling upside down over the audience while he played. Peelander Green did the same thing, while pounding the fucking drums. All the Michaels in the audience came up on stage for "So Many Mike." They closed out the show with a combination conga line drum circle sing-a-long to "We Are The Champions." "This is cheaper than therapy," Nina said. I bought a t-shirt.
Afterwards, Nina wanted a slice of cake, so we walked over to Veniero's, which was still open. She had a slice of coffee-imbued cake and a limoncello. I had a coffee with a bunch of booze in it, which was awesome. It was a nice date.
Tom's been trying to get me to listen to The Best Show On WFMU, but I just can't get over how radio Tom Scharpling sounds. And is it possible to have a genuine radio talk show with bearable phone calls? I don't know. Scharpling's just too unpredictable when it comes to which self-important WFMU-listening twits he's willing to indulge, and for how long. Fans of Seven Second Delay have complained that they're afraid of being summarily dismissed by Andy Breckman; I find I get a cold feeling in my stomach when it becomes clear that Tom won't be giving "Spike" the "heave-ho" he so desperately deserves.
This week is CMJ! I'm planning what to go to.
Sunset Park got cold, babies. I brought lemon tree inside from where it had been summering: the top of the metal staircase out back where all the flies are. Our apartment, like others in the neighborhood, comes with ample heating apparatus but practically no way to control the temperature. First it was sweltering, then freezing; last weekend the radiators made a soft splashing sound, like the waters of a quiet lake being acted upon by the moon.
On Saturday night, Nina and I went to the Peelander-Z show at The Studio at Webster Hall. I'd never been to that part of the club. We got in via their weird little subterranean entrance, cutting through the line winding around the block for the show in the main space, some DJ. The Studio's not bad at all -- kind of cozy, really -- except that people from the horrible, regular part of Webster Hall pass through on their way to the bathroom. It's like rooming with a bunch of frat brothers in a railroad apartment.
Peelander-Z command attention, though. Peelander Red opened the show, storming the stage in an enormous plush red squid / bass hybrid costume. He couldn't play bass while wearing it (or see, I don't think), but he could cavort, and he sure as fuck, you know, went up. They played a bunch of songs, or parts of songs, but that's kind of besides the point. And I don't mean that, you know, the music doesn't matter, but the fact that they start and stop the songs more or less as they feel like it keeps the show lively; keeps at bay the sweaty pageant vibe that so often creeps into the live show of "fun" bands.
"We are not human beings," explained Peelander Yellow, picking his nose and flicking it into the crowd. "We are from Peelander planet, Z area. On my planet, I am considered very handsome. Here, okay. But on Peelander planet, very, very handsome." Peelander Red climbed into the ceiling, hooking his legs around a metal beam and dangling upside down over the audience while he played. Peelander Green did the same thing, while pounding the fucking drums. All the Michaels in the audience came up on stage for "So Many Mike." They closed out the show with a combination conga line drum circle sing-a-long to "We Are The Champions." "This is cheaper than therapy," Nina said. I bought a t-shirt.
Afterwards, Nina wanted a slice of cake, so we walked over to Veniero's, which was still open. She had a slice of coffee-imbued cake and a limoncello. I had a coffee with a bunch of booze in it, which was awesome. It was a nice date.
Tom's been trying to get me to listen to The Best Show On WFMU, but I just can't get over how radio Tom Scharpling sounds. And is it possible to have a genuine radio talk show with bearable phone calls? I don't know. Scharpling's just too unpredictable when it comes to which self-important WFMU-listening twits he's willing to indulge, and for how long. Fans of Seven Second Delay have complained that they're afraid of being summarily dismissed by Andy Breckman; I find I get a cold feeling in my stomach when it becomes clear that Tom won't be giving "Spike" the "heave-ho" he so desperately deserves.
This week is CMJ! I'm planning what to go to.
Sunset Park got cold, babies. I brought lemon tree inside from where it had been summering: the top of the metal staircase out back where all the flies are. Our apartment, like others in the neighborhood, comes with ample heating apparatus but practically no way to control the temperature. First it was sweltering, then freezing; last weekend the radiators made a soft splashing sound, like the waters of a quiet lake being acted upon by the moon.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
Diablo Cody
Eve and I went to Union Hall on Saturday to check out The Rifles, after eating delicious poutine at Sheep Station. We got to the 'Hall around 9:30, expecting to miss the opening act, and the place was practically empty. "Oh no," I said. "What if nobody came? I'm sorry if the bands suck." But it turned out that nobody had gone on yet. The first band was called The Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band (ugh), and I hadn't been wowed by the songs of theirs that I'd heard, but they ended up being fairly tight, musically -- good, precise guitar playing; excellent, vigorous drums. There were two things wrong with them, though: First off, there was this chick in the band whose only job seemed to be to shake rain sticks and look really blissed out, like the music was really, you know, moving her. Second, the lead singer had this awful smug, insincere attitude. While the band was tuning up between songs, he'd say things like: "Yesterday we were in the Poconos. ...Hiking on the old Appalachian trail. What were you doing? Were you stuck in the sticky city? ...Were you in your office?" (Yep. I sure was. What a sucker I am.) As they prepared to leave the stage, he said, "Thanks everybody. Stick around for The Rifles. I'm sure they sound really great." Yikes.
The bass player was the first member of The Rifles to take the stage, and we could tell immediately that they had a much better vibe. The guy was dressed like a alt-rock clown: aviator shades, a black felt hat with a feather in it, and a weird little miniature checkered scarf. He gave a bunch of fans in the front some cool older-brother high-fives, like a guy who might technically be a douchebag but who's pretty hard to dislike. Their music was also pretty hard to dislike -- they sound a bit like The Jam, a bit like The Fratellis -- but it was almost unmitigatedly monotonous, to the extent that Eve decided she'd had enough and left about fifteen minutes before their set was over. I guess I felt a little more charitable towards them, but, yeah, it was a little boring, and a little hard to fathom how they had so many fans who were that into them -- because there was a mysteriously high quotient of well-dressed, purse-carrying girls who were dancing around and taking pictures of the band and each other on their fancy computer phones. It reminded me of that time that Alana and I went to go see this ridiculously terrible band called Copperpot at a now-defunct club on the Lower East Side that was packed with screaming teenage fans who'd been bused in. The Rifles definitely had a leg up (or not) on that band, though, in that the guys in The Rifles mapped eerily well onto the cast of That 70s Show: The bass player looked like Danny Masterson, the lead singer like Topher Grace, and the other guitar player like Wilmer Valderrama. The drummer didn't look like Ashton Kutcher, though.
On Sunday, Nina and I had planned to go apple picking with Brooke and Aanie, but it ended up being too rainy. So we went out to brunch at Belleville instead, and then hopped the bus to Ikea, where we picked up a few small, useful things. Because of the speed and circumstances of our move, we hadn't yet had a chance to "play house," and so it was nice to make plans and think about ways to improve our new apartment. Ikea can be pretty draining, though. It's like a hedge maze, or one of those haunted house amusement park rides where you go from diorama to scary diorama and you just have to wait until it's over. But at Ikea all the dioramas are about chairs that don't have armrests.
My new(-ish) job continues to be an improvement over the past two years. I guess I didn't say too much about it last time, so: Conductor is a search optimization / analytics company, about 60 people strong. You know me, I'm not into marketing or business or that type of thing, but they're building something pretty advanced and interesting (and which I can't really talk about). The company's currently headquartered in the Grand Masonic Lodge building on 6th Ave. and 23rd St., which is a regular office building except that some of the floors (including one of the ones Conductor's on) are outfitted with mahogany trim and full-length wall murals of Teddy Roosevelt and other famous Masons. Oh, and there are special locked rooms full of Masonic books and artifacts -- for example, there's a Masonic dining room about 10 feet from one of our conference rooms that houses, among other curios, an 8-foot-tall stuffed polar bear. I shit you not.
Like I said, though, it's an improvement, especially in terms of management sanity and, you know, "perks" -- there's free fancy coffee, a fully-stocked snacks cabinet, and free pizza on Friday. I'm not fully sure what it means that this is reassuring to me. It's either that, as a company, it's pretty easy to provide a baseline level of comfort for your employees; or maybe it's just that programmer types can be bought off with granola bars and pepperoni.
I went out to Williamsburg tonight to catch a show at Bruar Falls. I'd never been to the venue before, although it comes up a lot on Oh My Rockness. It's set up like a lot of new places seem to be these days: Bar in the front, small stage area in the back, furnished like a kooky living room from the 70s. And there were a lot of little Bud Cort-type guys in attendance. But the bands ended up being pretty great. The opener was called Yusef Jerusalem, and they were a little rough at first -- their first song was just a bunch of shrieking and guitar feedback that made me go "oh no" -- but they ended up being pretty tight and garage punk-y. The lead singer didn't say anything to the audience, though, which was a little weird. Not even hello or goodbye.
Thomas Function, the band I was there to see, were pretty dope. They play fast, tight, punky soul songs, and their lead singer had a cool, nerdy yell. I wanted their set to be longer, but it was not to be.
I've been playing Xbox 360 games. They're selling a combo-pack of Bioshock and Oblivion for cheap at Best Buy, and both of those games seemed to be pretty well-received, so I picked 'em up. I'm in the middle of Bioshock right now. I can't deny that it's a pretty original framing device, and it certainly makes me consider while I'm playing it the differences between representation and endorsement of an idea, but there's something about the way it's paced -- the fact that you never really leave first-person-shooter mode, say, or that the character development happens primarily through asynchronous voice-over -- that makes the world feel kind of superficial.
The bass player was the first member of The Rifles to take the stage, and we could tell immediately that they had a much better vibe. The guy was dressed like a alt-rock clown: aviator shades, a black felt hat with a feather in it, and a weird little miniature checkered scarf. He gave a bunch of fans in the front some cool older-brother high-fives, like a guy who might technically be a douchebag but who's pretty hard to dislike. Their music was also pretty hard to dislike -- they sound a bit like The Jam, a bit like The Fratellis -- but it was almost unmitigatedly monotonous, to the extent that Eve decided she'd had enough and left about fifteen minutes before their set was over. I guess I felt a little more charitable towards them, but, yeah, it was a little boring, and a little hard to fathom how they had so many fans who were that into them -- because there was a mysteriously high quotient of well-dressed, purse-carrying girls who were dancing around and taking pictures of the band and each other on their fancy computer phones. It reminded me of that time that Alana and I went to go see this ridiculously terrible band called Copperpot at a now-defunct club on the Lower East Side that was packed with screaming teenage fans who'd been bused in. The Rifles definitely had a leg up (or not) on that band, though, in that the guys in The Rifles mapped eerily well onto the cast of That 70s Show: The bass player looked like Danny Masterson, the lead singer like Topher Grace, and the other guitar player like Wilmer Valderrama. The drummer didn't look like Ashton Kutcher, though.
On Sunday, Nina and I had planned to go apple picking with Brooke and Aanie, but it ended up being too rainy. So we went out to brunch at Belleville instead, and then hopped the bus to Ikea, where we picked up a few small, useful things. Because of the speed and circumstances of our move, we hadn't yet had a chance to "play house," and so it was nice to make plans and think about ways to improve our new apartment. Ikea can be pretty draining, though. It's like a hedge maze, or one of those haunted house amusement park rides where you go from diorama to scary diorama and you just have to wait until it's over. But at Ikea all the dioramas are about chairs that don't have armrests.
My new(-ish) job continues to be an improvement over the past two years. I guess I didn't say too much about it last time, so: Conductor is a search optimization / analytics company, about 60 people strong. You know me, I'm not into marketing or business or that type of thing, but they're building something pretty advanced and interesting (and which I can't really talk about). The company's currently headquartered in the Grand Masonic Lodge building on 6th Ave. and 23rd St., which is a regular office building except that some of the floors (including one of the ones Conductor's on) are outfitted with mahogany trim and full-length wall murals of Teddy Roosevelt and other famous Masons. Oh, and there are special locked rooms full of Masonic books and artifacts -- for example, there's a Masonic dining room about 10 feet from one of our conference rooms that houses, among other curios, an 8-foot-tall stuffed polar bear. I shit you not.
Like I said, though, it's an improvement, especially in terms of management sanity and, you know, "perks" -- there's free fancy coffee, a fully-stocked snacks cabinet, and free pizza on Friday. I'm not fully sure what it means that this is reassuring to me. It's either that, as a company, it's pretty easy to provide a baseline level of comfort for your employees; or maybe it's just that programmer types can be bought off with granola bars and pepperoni.
I went out to Williamsburg tonight to catch a show at Bruar Falls. I'd never been to the venue before, although it comes up a lot on Oh My Rockness. It's set up like a lot of new places seem to be these days: Bar in the front, small stage area in the back, furnished like a kooky living room from the 70s. And there were a lot of little Bud Cort-type guys in attendance. But the bands ended up being pretty great. The opener was called Yusef Jerusalem, and they were a little rough at first -- their first song was just a bunch of shrieking and guitar feedback that made me go "oh no" -- but they ended up being pretty tight and garage punk-y. The lead singer didn't say anything to the audience, though, which was a little weird. Not even hello or goodbye.
Thomas Function, the band I was there to see, were pretty dope. They play fast, tight, punky soul songs, and their lead singer had a cool, nerdy yell. I wanted their set to be longer, but it was not to be.
I've been playing Xbox 360 games. They're selling a combo-pack of Bioshock and Oblivion for cheap at Best Buy, and both of those games seemed to be pretty well-received, so I picked 'em up. I'm in the middle of Bioshock right now. I can't deny that it's a pretty original framing device, and it certainly makes me consider while I'm playing it the differences between representation and endorsement of an idea, but there's something about the way it's paced -- the fact that you never really leave first-person-shooter mode, say, or that the character development happens primarily through asynchronous voice-over -- that makes the world feel kind of superficial.
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