i_am_japan

Project Runway

2006-01-26T14:20:00.000-05:00

Last night on Project Runway, Zulema, the angry black woman’s Wendy Pepper, ate the proverbial dust. The closet demon and purveyor of bare cellulite butts produced a garment we’ve all seen before—getting off at the wrong stop on the Bronx-bound 2, surrounded by hulking Jamaican mothers of many.

Equally bad—and perhaps worse—was Kara’s skid-marked cat suit. How long can her delectable accent save her? Santino, now a pussy-cat in his old age, pussy-footed around some average-looking graffiti, sewing up a skateboard punk’s maternity wear, complete with an asymmetrical handlebar top. Front-runner and professional inoffensive Daniel V (don’t get us wrong, he’s cute), surprised us all by drawing inspiration from Michael Kors’ corporate wasteland.

All this and far more from the “Inspiration” episode, one which relied upon advice from Michael Kors, a man who hasn’t so much as sniffed inspiration since Giuliani closed the bathhouses.

Catch it on repeat, every day of the week. What, Bravo have other programming? Ye of little faith.

Auf wiedersehen.

Adem; La Casa Encendida

2006-01-14T00:29:00.000-05:00

For some time now I've been saving up for a good watch. That said, my cell phone gets no service in Spain, so like the sad drooping dish satellite image on my screen, I had lost my center. And the time of day.

Earlier that day I set out from the hostel a few hours early. I was ready to explore, and given the streets of Madrid, which from aerial look like tangled hair in your shower drain, I was ready to be romantically lost and found in a European city. And lost I got. I started out intending for the southern region of Lavapies and ended up on the western extreme at Palacio Real. I had a few hours before Adem began playing. Why worry about the time? Rock and roll.

Another appropriate question might be "Why Adem?" Their latest release, Homesongs came out about a year ago, to generally good reviews. They were a band to whom upon initial release I paid little attention. Nothing particular; not particularly my sound. I used to have intense screening processes to decide the fate of albums on my iPod (before the fateful day when I plugged it into the wrong machine and the entire intensely cultivated memory fell through my fingers forever), and Adem was always close to the cut. But each time I screened Homesongs for deletion (the security of my selections was air-tight) I found something I liked: an easy pastoral rhythm or a charming flourish on the bells.

Adem only succumbed last November, in a major overhaul too urgent for screening.

Why then did I travel 5000 miles to see Adem on my first night in Madrid? I opened the guidebook to the red section concerts and it was the only name I recognized.

It had been dark for a few hours when I showed up at La Casa Encidada, thoe grandeur whose high, arched doorway evokes an American firehouse. I was expecting a concert hall, so when I walked in and things were being sold other that the simple-to-say-in-Spanish "Ticket, uno," I observed the cashier for a few minutes before simply running past it downstairs. As no one objected, I assumed I was in the clear.

La Casa Encendida is a remarkable space—without any knowledge of Spanish, its funding and organization unknown, it seems quite magical. Two people stood at the entrance to a surprisingly dark corridor. I presumed they were looking for a ticket, so I did my best to look official and self-assured in my dad's ripped leather bomber jacket and brushed by them. No objections.

Inside was a surprisingly extensive exhibition, which I slowly discovered examined plagiarism in a number of mediums, including art, music and video. Particularly amusing was a montage of dated Spanish horror films, hysterical in their naivety and bearing eerie similarity well-loved American flicks…

After an unknown amount of time exploring the exhibition, a video center that featured desexualized pornography, and full classroom upstairs, I worked up the nerve to buy a ticket and to ask the location of the theater. The show was at 9, early, so I mean I couldn't have missed it.

Outside the theater no one took tickets and the doors were closed, which gave me slight pause. But, hearing music inside, the pied piper beckoned, and I proceeded. The band was on-stage, but there were only two people in the audience. Poor Adem Ilhan. How far behind he'd left the days of Fridge. In a show of support, I chose an enthusiastic seat, front and center.

The band sounded great and then 2 minutes in—stop. They put down their instruments and begin discussion. What is happening? Is this the show? Is it this incredibly postmodern venue? Is this the way things happen in Europe?

It was the sound-check. I slid low into my chair, but the band played on. They played mostly material from Homesongs, with some new tracks that nonetheless sounded familiar. The band was cohesive and the performances tight, the percussion particularly charming in its bric-a-brac sort of way. The band seemed hardly to notice, although Ilhan occasionally squinted in my direction. I suppose they believed me management, and they were at the same loss for Spanish as I.

For twenty minutes I sat in on the show. The songs, though melancholy, were subtly so (though distinct from lo-fi). Lyrically, Ilhan is unadventurous but achieves great warmth, which comes off stronger with the visual of his large family of band-members around him. The unpretentious band elevates the candor of the songsmanship. They have strong, open faces that—though by no means Walker Evans subjects—ennoble the mundane domesticity of the music.

Finally, I received a tap on my shoulder. I had planned all sorts of excuses—I was going to interview the band!—but when the man behind me, presumably the manager, asked me if I knew the band, I just told him that I didn't know enough Spanish to inquire the time of the show, and I took the walk of shame.

The manager was nice enough as to tell me when I could return—the show was still two hours away. I went out looking for food, though severely challenged by the lack of vegetarian options in "working-class" Lavapies. What seemed like an eternity of hunger and cigarettes later I returned to the Casa, only to find the band outside. Clearly the show hadn't started, and I had become a stalker.

I took my time getting back; after all, the police could be waiting and if I know anything about Spain it's that Inquisition-era cells had spikes. An hour later the show opened to a full house. The songs were less tight, and despite the obvious alternation of moods, the set seemed more maudlin without the band's jaunty interplay. The encore was a Bjork cover, the third of which I've seen used as an encore in the past month.

But I'm still up for that interview…Any day now.

Todd P; Interview

2005-11-30T23:11:00.001-05:00

I did three pieces this week on party promoters, focusing on Todd P, Karenplusone and Leo of Crashin' In. Below is the transcript of the interview for the Todd piece.

When did you move to New York?
I actually moved directly from Texas, but I lived in Portland. I only lived in Texas for about 6 months. I moved here in about March 2001, and I think I put on my first show in October.

How did you start promoting? I had put on a couple of parties in Austin 5 years ago. And then I moved to Portland and I ran a small all-age club that did really well. I did that for about 2 years. So I had, you know, a couple of connections that way.

But you came to New York for a girl? How did that pan out?
Oh, it was over before I arrived. I'm sorry to hear that. Believe me, it was for the best.

How do you do it non-profit? Do you have a day job?
I don't have a day job. Well I rent practice spaces, commercial spaces. But it's not non-profit anymore. These days I do take a small profit, because I don't have a job. But it is fairly minor. For the first 3 or 4 years I never took any money, and I had a day job. But these days I don't because I'm trying to get my space open, and I have the rehearsal spaces which give me a small living wage. But I do pay myself out of the shows.

What is your philosophy regarding the music you want at your shows?
I'm into a lot of different styles and a lot of different approaches. I do like people that have the energy of early rock and roll and the politics of punk and hardcore, without really sounding like that. My overriding philosophy on music is that it has to sound provocative, which is really the same criteria you can use for any art form. Art is interesting when it has a look or a sound or whatever that catches your eye with its novelty, and after that has something to say.

How does that philosophy relate to your audience? What type of people are you hoping to get to your shows?
The kind of people who are looking for that in life. I want the shows to inspire. Whether everybody who comes to the show is thinking of it that way, conscious of it, before they come out. I hope to bring together people who can be inspired.

Does this mentality attract a certain demographic to your shows?
I hope it doesn't, but it does. My hope is that there isn't a demographic, except for people that want to be alive. But of course there is, of course it's upper-middle-class white people just because that's what I am, or at least that's where I came from. That is the type of person that has been interested in the forms of music that I work with. I would love to expand my crowd, and to be more multi-cultural, but obviously it's mostly college-educated kids.

Do you see this as a conflict--being provocative, and having comfortable kids at your show?
Well, for one thing I would say that most of the people at my show, the cynics would say they're slumming it. The bottom line is people have consciously not followed the comfortable lifestyle when they could have followed it, and have created a lifestyle that is somewhat challenge. However much cynics see that as a cliché--a bunch of cultured white kids living in a loft out in the ghetto--and that that is not being inspiring, whatever, it is inspiring, and it certainly is an improvement over people living in track housing. No, I don't think there's a conflict. What I wish is that the sort of in-grained culture and the minority cultures of New York didn't have such a (I guess the word would be) lexicon for free-thinking. It makes it hard to bring people together, and to be more universal. I mean New York is the most segregated city in America [sic: Boston, or so the legend goes] and though we all ride the subway together, everyone lives in their own little communities and hangs out in their own little scene. Suppose you're an Ecuadorian living in New York. Aside from the guy you buy stuff from at the bodega from, and the guy you see in the subway, you could never speak to anyone in the world who's not an Ecuadorian. And that's how it works. It's greats for the immigrant on the subway, because everyone has their own little world. But it also makes everything very segregated into its own little universe, which from my perspective, who would love to see everyone hang out together, as cheesy and old school liberal as it sounds, I really would like that. I'm not happy having a niche. I am really into the music I put on, and I put a lot of time into music, and just into art and music in general. I would love to share what I do.

So do you shape your publicity accordingly?
I'm not a publicist, and so the publicity I get is unsolicited, and it comes to me. But it's all about who you've sold as the artist. I've tried and continue to try to go to things that are in different communities, and find stuff. I'm not that knowledgeable, having not grown up with those things all my life, that I feel confident enough to put together groups of artists that I'm into. My hope is that once I actually have a venue of my own that the process will become easier.

What is the status of your venue, the Llano Estacado?
The most recent update is that, it's been closed for over 6 months now. In its initial months of being closed we went through several stages of how to deal with the situation, seeing if there was a backdoor way to avoid getting shut down again. Those things never came to pass. They weren't really possible for it to be halfway legal. Over the summer we talked to a lot of people who we thought might help us get legal, finding out what the circumstances would be. Most of those people would be architects and lawyers. And most of the connections were through art and music; therefore they were kind of high-end. They were either people who design high rises, or people who were interns working for people who design high rises, neither of which were helpful because they're always people who a) don't work on the small scale and b) don't know how to work on a small budget. Or, on the other hand, the people who work for the people have never designed anything bigger than a toilet. They've designed a bathroom or a deck or something, but that's all they've ever designed. It was pretty frustrating for many months. It meant a lot waiting on people's schedules and having walk-throughs by various legal professionals, and all that kind of crap. It mattered very little.

However, very recently, in the past few months, I've been introduced to some people, some architects and some lawyers, who work in a different class. They work with small business owners. They're people who work in the ethnic communities. They work with small Mexican dance clubs that try to open; they work with little Jamaican catering halls--all those places that the city tries to fight. Kind of like what I experienced, but obviously in a different way. It's not easy to open a place that throws big dancehall parties in Central Brooklyn, at least not ones that are said to stem violence, rightfully or wrongfully, but the city tries to make it hard for those places.

What I've done is I've contacted the people who worked with these places, who have helped bring them up to code, and now we have goals and a plan that is much more within or grasp financially and time-wise. It's a matter of coming up with a small amount of money. This is a very new development and it's only come about in the last month or two and the goal at least now is the fundraising, which is starting to come together.

How is it coming together?
Various ways. The same way it comes together for anybody else. Once it comes together, it won't immediately be open. We still have four to six months of the permitting process. It could happen a year to the day.

So how do you and your venue fit into the general nightlife scene in New York? Why, for example, do you think it is important for you to have a single venue? Is it because you see your party as very different from what else is happening in the city?
It's because every other place that we've put on shows is not ideal. It's not about distinction. I would rather have an indistinct concept of what is ideal. I would like to come across, again, from a more philosophical view than from a particular creative niche. I wouldn't want to be type-cast like that. What I find, moving around to different clubs all the time, and they're not really clubs so much as dive bars, lofts, and weird rental halls, which is what I mostly use. It's not ever ideal, because a) the lion's share of all the proceeds of these happenings is going to the people who own these bars. Not that I need to make money, but shouldn't that money count more towards integrating the communicative? I think it should. On top of that, all these places have noise problems. All of these places are not living, breathing creative entities; they're places where I host events.

So then how do you envision the space fostering that type of community? I'm envisioning the Factory in Brooklyn...
The building is already a creative building; it already hosts and art gallery. We're going to have more gallery stuff going on. And it just won't be as hermetically sealed as you find in most music clubs or whatever. There will be installations in the places where the shows actually happen, that actually change the look of the place constantly, to give it the feel of seeing all these art forms as one art form, and not separated into fine are and music and popular art and blah blah blah... The only reason that I cleaned up is because a lot of people in different industries art making moneys off it. You don't look at it that way. You look at it as just an exhibition in creativity, then you don't have to have fine arts in one room and dance happening in a special dance room. That's crap: a room is a fucking room. It's four walls. Anything that you like or see as important or interesting, or that has meaning can happen. We can show movies; we can do anything we want. It doesn't have to be in the cheesy typical mold of the community art center or that kind of thing.

So to conclude, how would you characterize the rest of the New York concert/club scene?
That's a huge thing to say in a couple of sentences. How would I characterize it? In one word: commercial. More commercial than anywhere else on earth. And that's not always terrible. It's not a terrible thing. Great things come from commercial art. But you have to understand that huge limitations arise when the defining factor of good or bad is purely commercial drive.

Blood on the Wall, Tunnel of Love; Cake Shop

2005-09-09T18:17:00.000-04:00

I'm back from France, and still late as ever. After vegetarian chili and some flossing, I arrived at Cake shop late as ever, having missed 2 of the bands.

Tunnel of Love did their typical thing, tumbling in and out of the crowd, sweating, shirtless. Quite frankly I was busy. Too girls who had paid me no mind the first time I met them were now pleased to speak with me, 5 pounds lighter in my cutoff shorts and suspenders. My waist was totally going cha! too loud to hear the band.

Blood on the Wall are homely. They look Kim and Thurston from Sonic Youth, if Kim and Lee had spent the last ten years of their lives eating burgers and smoking cigarettes and generally not being icons. Courtney Shanks is all gruff insecurity--Kimya Dawson with more booze or same amount of booze but less painkillers. When someone in the crowd instructed Courtney to take it off, her "fuck you" was as much Midwestern modesty as rattled rebuff. Brad Shanks is all red hair and flannel and beer. I mean, check the press photo.

Appearances are important. Why are they Time Out's "local bands' favorite local band?" as opposed to you Time Out's "band on the move" or even Time Out's "favorite local band." It's because local bands like to drink beer and look attractive, and being surrounded by less attractive people drinking more beer helps that image. It's also because Blood on the Wall are super fun, approachable and hang out at Enid's.

Either way, they're a "favorite," and for good reason. In the full Cake Shop basement under Christmas lights, Blood on the Wall's warm and [Sonic Youth-like] fuzzy music is that much warmer and fuzzier. The effect is genuine and unaffected, rootsy without being self-righteous. They might not have Bruce Springsteen's posterboy looks, but they do locals good.

Paris, France

2005-06-10T10:36:00.001-04:00

I arrived in Paris five days ago, moved in, and have yet to do anything really exciting.

General impressions of the French:

1. They never work. I live two blocks from the Palais du Luxembourg, and from 1000-2000 (ooh...24-hour French time), men and women--but mostly men--laze about, take photos, and play an elaborate version of bocci-ball. And they still have the money to pay for black nurses.

2. If you tell them you like "fromage," they will jump around an wave their hands. There's nothing like an American novelty. Or a French one, at that.

3. There are no French people. It's a lie. The referendum: all American tourists, scared to death of what a united Europe would do to their already valueless currency.

Should be working for Chronowax this summer, although I missed my meeting this morning. Ciao!

Barrel Fever; David Sedaris

2005-05-30T23:24:00.000-04:00

No matter how fabulous the movement might be, homosexuals in America are on the defensive. To be successful, gays are given a crutch. And make that a funny one! Whether it be Will's pandering, or his inability as the most rational character to have an on-screen relationship, or the flamboyant, girlish ineptitude of Jack on the same show. Okay, I fucking hate Will & Grace and the fat girls who watch it. I dislike the idol-seeking gay men who watch it as much as I could any ugly, neglected dog.

For David Sedaris, that crutch is his lower-middle-class upbringing. Granted this is the source of Sedaris' major critique, and it's painful; it can be quite effective. But at the same time, it's another interpretation of the handicapped homo. And more importantly, in the stories where Sedaris' scarcely-costumed self-portraits circumstantially suffer (though they rarely resign), the comedy suffers.

It does, however, make for occasional moments, such as this testimonial from an imagined talk show:

"I never bit anyone on the head unless maybe they deserved it because they come home all messed up on needle drugs."

For the most part Sedaris is strongest when taking the higher ground. In the title story, Sedaris channels himself into a wity mother-son combination who refuse to submit to a world of AA meetings. The idiot world struggles beneath them, and the pair, though suffering, condescends only to communicate through the occasional extortion. Sedaris is best on the offensive.

But then again, perhaps I just need affirmation.

Demon Days; Gorillaz

2005-05-29T11:59:00.001-04:00

I'm taking it upon myself to update more, which means more songs, albums, books, and movies, as I listen to, read, view them. I hardly leave my house, so the opportunity rather eagerly presents itself. I leave for Paris June 2, however, so my site-coddling may soon dry up.

Now to Gorillaz.

Simply put, I'm a snob. I loved "Clint Eastwood," loved the video, claimed I was the first to discover the band (which I was--in New Jersey--via MTV2). But 40,000 spins later, I was too cool for 2-D, Murdoc, Russel and Noodle. They were on Virgin, for Christ's sake.

I wasn't the first to discover "Feel Good Inc" or Demon Days, but hey, I'm cool with that. It's still a great song. It rings in with the familiar cackle, the funky falsetto, and a killer hook, before settling into a familiar fuzzy vocal current. And that hook!--which sets off into a severely danceable rap, and then splashes techno arpeggios. It's four songs, four characters, and I have faith in every one of them

As for the rest of the album, well that requires a leap of faith. It's a leap I'd love to take--cartoon reality is far better than plain ole' reality. I still wish for Pokémon powers.

The problem is that the band asks us to relax our realities, but fails to follow its own advice. Damon Albarn can't get out of his way for more than half an album. For the first seven tracks or so, it's 2-D in that's in control, sly and mysterious, comically lonely. But after so much time, 2-D loses his polish; the curtain comes down and the wizard is Albarn.

Granted, even the outstanding tracks are infused with melancholy, for which the cartoons' happy-go-lucky machinations are the perfect outlet. But as the album wears on, Albarn tries everything from string quartets to childrens choirs to cheer up his rainy day British pipes. The results are disappointing, not surprisingly given their less than inspirational devices..

Cartoons may have been the Blur frontman's catharsis. Gorillaz isn't pegged as a solo project, but come on...

What if the cartoons are more compelling than their master?

Player Hater

2005-05-26T20:12:00.000-04:00

So this guy, Jeff Gomez, asked me to check out his site, for his band Player Hater. I assume this means do a write-up, and if so, a positive one. Publicity, yes?

Reasons for obliging include:
1. Personalized e-mail--nice touch!
2. He reads my site, which is itself a sick little creature. And he calls himself a novelist (is in fact published), a title for which I have distinct sympathy.
3. He said he likes my site, and, if it hasn't already been indicated by my first reason, or if you don't know me, I'm a sucker for flattery.
4. I just came back from a sleep-over, I'm in a good mood, and I'd like to help a brother out.

So here's a run-down. Constructive criticism, yes?
1. The name Player Hater. I first interpreted it ironically (they are Arab Strap with a sense of humor, after all), but does irony really presume any intellectual control over the terminology, or does it just open the band to another level or better-conveived irony? Let the fifteen-year-olds in Long Island decide... Then I wondered whether the name were serious, as they are a rather melancholy little band. I think I prefer this option, and will hold out on further judgment.
2. The designation "Emo" on the myspace page (it is myspace, but still, one should know better). By the picture/site biography, it would seem Gomez is too old for this genre. I don't care how achey or breaky your heart is, wearing a sign that says "Emo" (or even a studded belt) is like having credibility Germans tattoo a number on your arm. Get that lasered off!
3. "Who's Walking Away": At first I thought the riff and the vocals poorly matched, but my wariness has since faded. The riff is infectious, even if the loop in the bridge is a bit predictable. The lyrics are more clever and evocative than Emo, and appropriate enough for a dreary day in New York.
4. "Pretty in Sink": The opening chords worried me/reminded me of Nada Surf, so that the layered/"electronic-wrapped" vocals were a relief. I don't see why he's so wrapped up in this girl: she sounds like an awful bore. After the slyly catchy "Who's Walking Away," this track sounds dry, and not particularly pretty. And the cover shot looks like it should have a Hallmark inscription written in large white script.
5. "High Fidelity": The vocals here sometimes risk outright emulation of Lou Reed, but when not sounding incredibly derivative, Gomez's voice is livelier and even more agile than the rest of his work might suggest. The transcript of the lyrics comes out in couplets, a seemingly unwise venture, but the track subtly avoids sounding like the work of a discount-brand greeting guard. Repetition of the word "crazy" is too easy, however; one might in fact call it 'lazy'.
6. "Go Team": The best song of the set. The vocals avoid direct references to Stephen Merritt, Arab Strap, or Lou Reed. The lyrics, too, achieve a pretty unique image. A functional relationship established as Gomez's ultimate, elusive goal, the bravado of the song is both refreshing and inherently self-conscious.
7. Songs about heartbreak face the difficulty of cliché, but Gomez is affected--even aided--by this obtacle in a dual fashion. Like Stephen Merritt, he endorses love's cliché, makes love the thing of children and expands it to a fundamental principle. And, as with Merritt, he fails as much as he succeed, albeit with less style, his successes are not as great. Like the typical New York novelist/Modernist student, he reduces experience to fragmented scenes and images. Although I've come to detest such montages as the definition of character (it succeeds in Amélie, fails miserably in The Motorcycle Diaries), the treasured act of buying a used CD is ambigious enough to elude my approach. Does Player Hater completely overcome the obstacles of its subject matter? No. Does it really have to? Not really.

Mind-blowing, no. But with a name like Player Hater, that result seems sort of out of the question anyway. The four tracks are, however, likeable, if not too much so. Check them out--support a New Yorker.

Deerhoof, Nedelle, Nuees Ardentes; Northsix

2005-05-24T02:38:00.000-04:00

I mounted into the car from a gravel path at Dartmouth and stepped out in horn-heavy traffic heading toward the Lincoln Tunnel. I ran My driver/friend (the former first, the latter second) Hie-Won (a nifty little site I made for him in high school) popped the trunk as I hurried round the back, pulled out some supplies I'd need for the night and stuffed them in my bag. I was on 44th and 11th. The highway traffic: the smell of horse stables!

My retransplantation into New York was a bloody mess.

But I eased my way into it. I made it through Midtown, through cheap shoe stores, tired day laborers and suspicious police officers. I refueled in KTown, and walked down toward the L at 14th Street. As the walk grew longer, the neighborhoods more gentrified, I eased into my comfort zone. I don't care how bloated or inflated, how superficial or commercial aesthetic comforts may be, they're comforts nonetheless, worn soft for me to settle into.

I hadn't been to show in, well, too long. I met Lauren at the corner of Bedford and 6th, shouting "fucking hooker" into a car as her friends inside looked out and away and the neighborhood took secret notice. After a cool hello (I have yet to display any cred) they rolled up their windows and took off. Good start.

Lauren and I went off arm in arm, heading the wrong way on 6th and then turning around. We arrived early, which she noted: "Why are we here so early?" I failed to provide adequate response.

Nuees Ardentes was that initial shock I should have expected. Wow: I was not in the mood. And I do not say "wow" often. Ukulele, juvenile absurdist lyrics, all predictable from a Deerhoof opener, but without any appeal beyond the kitsch.

Blood on the Wall pulled out (car accident? apparently, but I swear they're just trying to acoid me. This happens every time!) and after the opener, Lauren and I needed a cup of coffee.

We came back in time for Deerhoof. Satomi and gang shuffled onstage, backed by red blue and yellow trashcan lights. The band waded into the set, slow and steady, and the first two songs were a bit sloppy, unready. Satomi seemed shy and kept her head down. But the end of the second song marked a change; she started cooing and chirping away (I had started to worry it might be an instrumental set), with increasing enthusiasm. Half-way through the set, it became evident that the guitar was holding her down. She unhooked herself, and began a series of dancing. Her face lit up. Her arms bent at the elbow to her head, to her waist; then in boxes around her eyes; pointing at the crowd, indicating vision; hopping on one leg; tripping. It was really fantastic.

I was back in New York, albeit in Brooklyn. But still I hadn't written about a show...

Collision; East Campus

2005-05-14T16:33:00.000-04:00

Collision, the end-of-the-year art bash at Columbia, was held last night. Ideally, it's the year's hoorah, celebrated with an open bar and voided of any frat boys by the presence of student art.

So like any party, or really any art, or any great ideas, at Columbia, Collision was destined to fail:

Collision was scheduled to take place in a warehouse, SoHo-style (although really at 123rd). The first issues arose when the three rooms planned were cut to one large space. This had the acoustics monkeys at WBAR hissing and pissing in their cages, and threatening to walk out of the DJ booth, renouncing the evils of imperfect sound quality. Next, due to contractual issues, the entire space became inaccessible. Collision was re-scheduled for the East Campus courtyard around the low-level suites.

Due to the space change, some of the art could not be shown (read: Eugene's film, featuring ME). There was, however, a performance art duo consisting of two boys rolling around in a luggage bin, kicking onlookers, and periodically demanding beer, Otherwise, that which was shown was hidden and unadvertised.

Without the art, the frat boys felt secure enough to intrude. At the Anton Glamb show, one mimbo wandered around shirtless, harassing vapid-looking girls. This came to an end allegedly when said vapid-looking girls smoked near the fire alarm, thus ending the party in East Campus with irked security personnel.

The party relocated, where else but right outside of East Campus, and from there disintegrated Hippie drums, chanting and free-form dancing. Where the fuck was I: Dartmouth?

Margot Leitman; The Upstanding Citizens Brigade

2005-05-12T20:44:00.000-04:00

Margot's a great gal. I have Christmas dinner with her family every year (read: she gets super drunk). She makes a mean pomegranate martinis (read: she serves to minors). She said she'd invite me to her wedding (read: she's really tall).

PLUG: For the next four Wednesdays, she will be performing at the Upstanding Citizens Brigade, that company that brought you Horatio Sanz. But don't worry: she's not fat or Mexican. In fact, she's a great. If Amy Poehler were to leave SNL, she'd totally take the blond, ambiguously-attractive-but-kind-of-angular-and-totally-sexually-twisted role. And you know how much you love Amy Poehler.

The show, "Just Here for the Day," is funny and touching, albeit more effective when funny than when touching. It follows the evolution of an aging groupie who finds solace in substitute teaching, and draws upon the teaching experience of her hysterical mom Pam.

Bring the kids!

Chanel Exhibit; The Metropolitan Museum of Art

2005-05-11T15:15:00.000-04:00

Karl Lagerfeld is a bit of a hack. Okay, there. I said it. Exhibit A: Fall 2005. A nice collection, but all discussion ends with pleasantries. Exhibit B: The Chanel Exhibit at the Met, open until August 7.

In the Times, Lee Rosenbaum recently referred to the exhibition as an act of "collusion" between Lagerfeld and the curators at the Met, namely Harold Koda.

Based on the exhibit, I disagree. Lagerfeld may be a hack, but he's no idiot. And to choose to have the 'updated Chanel' pieces next to the master's is pure folly. His new editions look more like gawdy bastardizations than modernizations (with at least one exception, from the final window). Lagerfeld's 90s were a bejewelled mess, and points to the designer as the unfortunate illegitimate father of chunky horsehair boots.

Chanel's quotes were silly, but Lagerfeld's worse. Is this a reasonable claim? Probably not: Coco has received the gift of time and reputation; Karl is just old. This is the inherent dilemma to the exhibit: not enough time has passed to assess the value of Lagerfeld's work. By abandoning hindsight, the Met loses all pretenses of foresight.

Okay, so maybe Lagerfeld isn't so bad. After all, Chanel wouldn't have passed up an opportunity to spruce up the masses at Target. Thank God she never had the chance.

Kimora Lee Simmons; My Hero

2005-05-07T09:58:00.000-04:00

"I represent luxury," says Kimora. "And that's what I love."

Kimora worries about the effect her wealth might have on her kids. "Our Christmas tree was like the tree from Rockefeller Center," she told me. "It was a $30,000 tree." She said she saw Aoki looking up at it, and she thought, "What kind of a life am I setting up for her? … It's just about making them, like, not be assholes, which is what I think any parent would do."

I know I'm late on this but Kimora Lee Simmons = Anna Wintour + Fabulosity

I said it!

Caribou, Junior Boys, The Russian Futurists; Northsix

2005-05-06T17:16:00.000-04:00

It's rare to for two great bands to be on the same bill (think back to N Sync/Britney Spears), but three! Why it's enough for me to, the night before my Masters of Literature Humanities final, skip down to Brooklyn! So instead of studying (reading style.com/lamenting the idiocy of my LitHum classmates), Sara and I succumbed to Dan Snaith's sweet beckoning.

Being from New Jersey, everything reminds me of a mall. But the Russian Futurists really remind me of my freshman year, the smell of fake Cajun food, and change fountains. In Let's Get Ready to Crumble, Matthew Hart's voice lost all personality under the upper register, and the low production value gave everything a charming, inoffensive aesthetic. Like mall construction: cheap architecture + lots of skylights = gold. Our Thickness, from what I can tell, lacks this charm. So does the Russian Futurists' live show.

I saw the Russian Futurists at the Knitting Factory during CMJ, but dismissed their lack-luster performance as a product of the Old Office's shitty sound system. I erred. For one thing, Hart and co. were aligned perfectly horizontally. For dyhnamic personalities, like for example the Arcade Fire, this works. There was forward momentum. For the Russian Futurists, it doesn't. It feels as if they're playing to themselves, and head down, all their energy stays rather visibly at the band's feet. The screen behind them mistakenly said 'Junior Boys' in a hideous script, and the whole set seemed rather careless.

Junior Boys is a sexy group right? So you can imagine my surprise when Matt Didemus comes out looking like the principal from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. But the set was a lot more subtle than recorded, even at points reminding me of modern gothic ballroom dancing. But the keyboardist is attractive, so whatever. Good, long set, with sparse, evocative imagery.

But the most impresive thing about the set was this four-person line of dancers that haphazardly came together in the front row.From left:
1. Total bridge and tunnel, with fully gelled hair, a striped button down and Ray Bans circa 1995, moving like he was at an Usher show.
2. Next to him, full out head bopper, Jew fro and all.
3. 5'6, 110 lb. man wearing a tight red jacket, skin tight pants, two studded belts and a faux hawk. Very deliberately and confidently doing the robot. And when he opened his mouth: NOT GAY.
4. The last guy totally broke it down. He did what looked like a Jane Fonda work-out so hard his pony tail came out.
The Northsix Village People.

In between the Junior Boys and Caribou sets we chatted with this kid Mike (Matt?) who raved about the show to come. But his noise was called the Master Control Program, and thus his opinion was open some scrutiny. Nice guy though: support the show!

The Caribou show was in fact great. The centerpiece was a video, to which their songs--no matter how different the albums may be--led coherent, cohesive soundtrack. Excellent animation, hilarious storyline including senior citizens, marshmallow men and decapitation. Matt (Mike?) insisted the show was better the day before at the Bowery. I believe it; the sound at Northsix is pretty shitty. But at the Bowery (I refuse to even link to it anymore), we wouldn't have gotten so close, they wouldn't have served minors alcohol, and all of fucking NYU would've been there. Thank you, Northsix; Fuck you, Bowery Ballroom.

Love Squad; Blackbox Theater

2005-04-29T03:51:00.000-04:00

So you know those kids in your high school who auditioned for the plays, and only got to do stagework, or maybe they were in the chorus? And they were always the most enthusiastic about theater? And they were either really slutty, or prude little housewife types? Well, they were all at the Blackbox Theater last night/

But no matter: This is the Anton Glamb musical. This is the performance of a lifetime. This is Love Squad.

Love Squad, adapted from Anton Glamb's Do It! deserves better than its audience. Four times as good in fact, with four stages and the action moving rather disorienting-ly all around the audience.

Love Squad is three plotlines, all acted out between Mark Junek (excellent) and Grace Parra (more excellent). One is terrific; one is tolerable; one is terrible. The latter, which follows the rock idolism of a fundamentalism Christian preteen, of course garnered the most laughs. Tribute to a creepy audience unconcerned with intelligent writing and simply out there to call religious people hillbillies. In any case, all three stories have the same plot; the difference is in the level of sluttiness written into Grace's character--the more the merrier. Also funny were allusions to Anton's intentionally unintelligible speech and behavior.

There are also four dancers, of whom Jordy Lievers was the only one worthy of mention. The mechanical choreography was effective and original for the first half of the show, after which the choreographer seemingly went on vacation, restricting the dancers to vague movements.

Anton doesn't have much of a voice, and his impromptu songs are far funnier than the ones on Do It! But whatever, it's, like, Anton Glamb. He's totally, y'know, awesome. He's from Hawaii! That's cool...

On Lou Reed; Interview With My Aunt Matilde

2005-04-23T23:17:00.000-04:00

It's Passover dinner and my Aunt Matilde is coming on 80.

She lives on the water on the Upper East Side in the 80s, but refuses to take cabs. She doesn't recognize the words 'Bob' and 'Dylan' in concert, claiming "I'm so out of it, with all these singers. " She colors her hair red. She is 4'10

Matilde's husband owned an accounting firm on Long Island. Her husband's business partner was none other than the father of Lou Reed.

How was Lou as a child? He was weird, and quiet. Always in his room, picking at that guitar of his. He had certain problems, you know. But I even worked with him, once, after he'd graduated from...Syracuse. He only stayed on for six months, of course.

And it's so funny, I say, because his parents were so straight: they were squares. God knows what they thought of it at the time.

But now? Oh, well you know, that's a whole other story...[chuckles] He was just a weird kid, and his parents didn't know what to do [aside from electroshock therapy] And I still don't get it...

You know he'll be remembered better than some presidents... Well I don't know was it's all about. I'm not hip. But my son went to a show, and he was about your age then, and Lou came out in all leather, all black, and he had no connection to the audience. My son, Arthur, just walked out! But then, I was in an airport and this young kid next to me was reading something, and I caught the words 'Velvet Underground' and then I caught 'Lou Reed'. So I turn to the kid an I was like, "You know Lou?" And the kid said yes, and I said "My husband used to work with his family. I knew him as a kid!" And the kid got all excited and said "He created rock 'n roll!" Well I knew him. He created rock 'n roll.

Hot Jazz; ADP House

2005-04-18T02:30:00.000-04:00

Saturday was this semester's big event at ADP, the literary society (read: gay drug den). It's supposedly a big deal to be invited; and by that they mean it costs like 25 bucks per couple to get in. Hot Jazz, or more appropriately: my ID was revoked so I couldn't see Annie at Misshapes.

Last semester was a disaster, as everyone went their separate ways in search of drugs and sex (little rock and roll to be had, as the lame cover band soon got so drunk that the lead singer hung from the chandelier). Now, one semester older, wiser and better accquainted with campus dealers, we were ready to go.

I don't really do lines out the door, so Michael (oh livejournal...and yet, have I really grown past you?) waved us in. Good start.

Fashion was unappalling, given it's a Columbia event. A few too many ill-fitting suits, but as I was one of the offenders I can scarcely complain. And a nice vacation from the recent influx of Juicy sundresses and flip-flops.

The floor was packed and sweaty, but the covers band was severely less drunk (as was dictated in his contract). Not packed enough for me to dryhump any unsuspecting victims.

Nonetheless, a good, albeit Annieless night

Am I Famous Yet?

2005-04-17T21:46:00.000-04:00

This is fun!

Unbiased? Definitely not. Whiney? Always.

Hooray for readership!

Sighting! Make Out! Drama!

2005-04-16T15:25:00.000-04:00

Last morning at around 4 am, Jimmy Fallon of SNL/straight-to-video fame was at Siberia. There, he chatted up an 18-year-old BFA pretending to be a Columbia student. They went outside, where he made out with her, somewhat sloppily, apologized, and then did it again.

Beacon's Closet, American Apparel, Metropolis, Screaming Mimi's, Odin's, Tokyo Joe's, Canal Jeans; Shopping

2005-04-16T11:58:00.000-04:00

Before the Beck show I went shopping. I had been hyping it up for nearly two weeks as an extravaganza, and scaring my friends away from joining me, referring to it as "intense" and "high-octane." I was planning on buying a suit, shoes or boots, a flannel or button-down, jeans and some cute little polos.

Beacon's Closet, North 11th, Williamsburg: The standard, and I've found great stuff there (like my white-hot jacket), and I had high hopes on all fronts. They don't have a men's pants section--men in Brooklyn don't wear pants. This is fine, as my pants are usually designed for lesbian hikers, but the collection at Beacon's was mostly for fatties, all of whom wear bell-bottoms. No nice polos and the only nice button-down in the whole place had screwed up buttons. A disappointment completely.

American Apparel, North 6th, Williamsburg: At this point I'm not looking so original. But AA makes the only polo that fits my slender frame (My blog, I pick the generous descriptions). Worth the 30 fucking dollars, methinks.

Metropolis, 3rd Ave, NYU Territory (shudder): I found the best pants here! Last time. Nothing on this day, but the same semi-cute attendant. Alas!

Screaming Mimi's, Lafayette, NYU: Same as always: Cute stuff, slightly-above-cute price. Attendants (frequently seen at Misshapes) flatters me into buying things. In search of a messenger bad, she directs me to Odin's.

Odin, 11th (btwn 1st & 2nd), East Village: The self-important Japanese vendor won't even look at me as I leaf-through the high-end, hit-and-miss (sometimes looking like Brooklyn Industries, ick!) sweatshirts and mini leather bags.

Tokyo Joe's, 11th, East Village: I walk in, half-smile at the Asian gir working there, it's not returned, a not-cute-enough-to-be-a-model type bends back with a dress draped over her. Walk in, Walk out.

Canal Jeans, Broadway (near Spring), Hell: big, bright, no tight jeans: do only fatties shop here? Over-priced, good bye.

My life is so difficult. New York vintage is a tragedy, and not a cute bag or pair of pants in sight.

Beck; The Maritime Hotel

2005-04-15T23:22:00.000-04:00

When did Beck get old? Or rather, was he ever young?

I guess the second question is a bit off-base: I wasn't old enough to appreciate his "Loser" youth. But that he is one of the few artists to survive the mid-90s has made him somewhat an elder statesman, unrelated to actual maturity level or age. There's also his comparitively private personal and his weird scientology (repressed homosexuality?) which make him a more distant character. Then there was 2002's Sea Change, a remarkably mature piece. And by mature I mean slow.

As age is inevitably the end of massive exposure, it has severe consequences for Beck's career. It's not always that he will grace the April edition of Filter. And without the pretty boy persona: record a classic or fade away.

Beck's Guero is itself a sign of age, in that it's largely self-reverential. It's unfair to stop there; "Girl," "Que Ondo Guero," and "Hells Yes" are all great songs, even if the latter garners unfortunate comparison to "Where It's At." The rest of the album shows signs of wear, capitalized by first single "E-Pro" and its tired "na-na-na" chorus.

I was out shopping when I get a phone call from Abbe. She had entered a contest at Tower, one of those stupid things you should never really enter for fear of harassment from advertisers, and won two tickets to the "secret" show publicized on his web site the night before.

Timeline:

0630: Arrive, wait on line. We'd thought doors were at 0600, so that we'd be fabulously late. Clearly not.

0645: It grows colder.

0700: We plot to kill Beck.

0715: They finally open the doors. We enter Hiro, and we get it. Asian themed. The stage is a horrible wooden facade, with a dragon spewing smoke from its eyes and mouth. Stereotypes abound. Innumberable paper lanterns. Nonsense Japanese script on the walls. Stereotypes abound. Red walls and faux-bamboo mezzanine. Stereotypes abound, albeit confused ones.

0730: We're in the second row, and some jealous bitches complain about the presence of my messenger bag. I call them ugly cunts, and I'm right on.

0815: Roadies aimlessly wander about the stage, my feet are killing, and I'm revising my plan to kill Beck.

0845: Beck goes on. He is a tiny little man in his army boots, relaxed jeans, white tee and green army jacket. Looks young straight-on, not so much by profile. He sleepwalks through the beginning of the set, although the aforementioned excellent songs are excellent. His meek stage presence is redeemed by dancer Brian, who touches his stomach and does the robot throughout the set. A star is born.

Beck throws in "Devil's Haircut" and--thank god!--"Nicotine and Gravy" and "Where It's At" which is proficient but at this stage in the game seems like routine. Beck wakes up for the raps, although his voice isn't as distinct as it is recorded.

1000: Fifteen songs and much awkward dancing later, we go to Mary Ann's on 8th and 15th for miserable but non-ID check margaritas, bizarre service and some delish quesadillas.

Addendum: I love you Beck. And your tiny show was gracious and appreciated. But a show is a show is a show. Stay pretty forever.

M. Ward, Norfolk & Western; Southpaw

2005-04-12T01:18:00.000-04:00

It's amazing what a 7.5+ Pitchfork rating can do. Who would have thought that Matthew Ward of Portland, Oregon, aging quickly and wearing of all things a baseball cap, would have sold out dates at both Southpaw and Bowery?

It was quickly apparent that Norfolk & Western will never get that kind of review. Standard folk numbers. Standard Brooklyn opening-act attention. The same amount of talent.

Even Ward himself is a bit of a stretch live. But Sara and I made the long trek down the 2/3 to see him, and to Hell if I wasn't going to make the most of it.

On tape, Ward seems aged to fit his musical stylings. In reality his voice is neither grandfatherly nor benevolent, and he actually approaches aggression. To his credit, he did take pictures of his band for an over-eager fan/blogger. And on top of that, drummer Rachel compensated, banging those things like a Partridge kid on amphetamines.

I was alarmed when Ward began with a rather unremarkable instrumental song, and more so as he opened with the weaker tracks of his catalogue. It wasn't until half-way through that he moved into his more more compelling, lonesome works . But apparently he didn't go far enough; even after a two-song encore, fans were still scratching their heads and complaining of the short set. Personally, I'm scratching my head at their scratchings: he played ten songs, even if none of them were "Hi Fi."

I can't imagine M. Ward being a success at Bowery. Southpaw, even if it is too large a venue to be genuine, fits Ward's rootsy character. The poorly-hung Christmas lights and the failing sound system complemented Ward's unpolished, unassuming show, perfectly. The venue helped Ward construct an image, which saved the show for me. Despite any aural failures, I couldn't shake the image of a man, fresh out of bed, running around in red and black flannel pajamas. And clearly that's enough for me.

Madame Butterfly; Metropolitan Opera House

2005-04-10T02:46:00.000-04:00

"Madame Butterfly" was my first opera, so I can only really judge it as a novelty. Impressions:

1. It went really quickly. The three hours were divided between two intermissions, and the only person who fell asleep was this fat man with an earring and a crew cut. There goes that cliché.

2. Operas are not plot driven. Surprise? Yes.

3. Madame Butterfly was played by an Asian woman--novelty! She was no Chromeo, bien sur, but she kind of overshadowed the rest of the cast--and no, not just with her slanty eyes.

4. Weezer's Pinkerton drew from the plot really superficially. Yes, Rivers, you used the names "Pinkerton," "Butterfly," and "Cio-Cio San," but they had no significance in your songs. Oh, I get it, you have a thing for Asian chicks, and it takes place in Japan.

Bloc Party, The Ponys, Chromeo; Bowery Ballroom

2005-04-09T04:18:00.000-04:00

David Macklovich: man or God? David is a full head taller than me, perfectly-coiffed and perfectly-dressed (Can you say dark purple shoes, light purple socks?). He's also my French professor and the pretty boy of techno superstars Chromeo.

Despite his charms, I wasn't immediately sold on Chromeo. "Needy Girl" was drenched in irony, I thought, but without anything to back it up. Hundreds of wine-soaked Chromeo dance parties later, I got it--Chromeo loves this stuff. They may be playing with R &B, but they're not cutting it down. And they're doing so with some really badass beats.

My love for Chromeo and his generous listing overcame my distaste for headliners Bloc Party. I had to support my man--and bring my friends along.

David had been playing down the whole event. He got bottom billing for not going on the full tour, and he went on, as he described "at 8:30, with 6 people in the crowd." He even considered not doing the show.

Luckily for the more than 6 (more like half-filled Bowery) people there, and even for me who lost my fake ID at the door, he did the show. And the crowd appreciated it. Eugene broke it down better than anyone there, of course, but the frat boys and these two wretched wenches who later followed us upstairs, visibly showed their support as well. Chromeo has a bizarre following.

Dave1, P-Thug and A-Dog, the aging drummer, put on a great show, clean and close to the album. And Dave promised a new album, although later confided that it may have been a bit of a stretch to please the crowd.

Next came the Ponys. Pretty standard but engaging. By this time, David had taken upstairs to his box, so we didn't see much of it. They are coming out with a new album, Celebration Castle and touring, and I'd be pretty interested in seeing it.

The place filled up as Bloc Party time approached. And I've got to say, as they filtered on stage, they've got great presence. Unfortunately, the same isn't true for their songs, which sounded pretty much the same throughout. Eugene aptly described them as "a less proficient Taking Back Sunday" and I'd have to agree. They are really emo. Cute guitarist though.

Afterward, David accosted the notoriously asshole bouncers at Bowery for my ID. God.

The Fiery Furnaces, dios malos; Northsix

2005-04-08T05:46:00.000-04:00

So yesterday I went to Trattoria Dante, where I ordered the caprese (buffalo mozzarella and tomato) for an appetizer and Penne Alla Vodka. A simple treat followed by a hulking saucy mass, which coasted on its predecessor's charm.

Tonight I went to the Fiery Furnaces show at Northsix. We missed Hal and Blood on the Wall (damn you L Train--ok, it wasn't your fault, we were just busy being fabulous).

We showed up in time for dios malos, formerly known as Dios. Recorded, dios' California romance is removed and ineffective. But up-close, their naive pop-garage rock makes the most of its sparse means. Simple lyrics over distorted guitars ("After all is said and done, I'm alone"), are more endearing than cliché.

And it's easier to feel for singer Kevin Morales when you see him. Even hiding behind his keyboard, Morales' Neil Young-style crooning wrapped the audience like a big ole' bear hug. I'm no friend of fatties, but Morales' weight makes his loneliness all the more poignant. Instead of waiting, as I might have typically done, for his canned cheese-drenched heart attack, I feared for nothing but the fat man's heartbreak.

If only the Fiery Furnaces could have been so innocuous as to be served on dios' delicate platter...

Unfortunately, the Fiery Furnaces are too dynamic recorded to be so pleasant live. Their set can be best likened to one of their adoring fans:

...Fitted with a two seasons past prime neon blue track jacket (in 2005? Come on dude), his uncanny grin only exaggerated what appeared to be a prematurely facelifted face. At maybe twenty, his dimples were stapled to the extremes of his shiny face, which bopped side to side like a tan balloon filled with wet cement. I was mesmerized. Too nauseated to keep constant watch, but hopeful that he might catch my glance and think I were hitting on him, that he'd creep over, that I'd drop my jaw and shriek my refusal, that, mortified, his horrid plaster face would dry--drop to the floor and shatter...

Okay, so it wasn't that bad. FF did their characteristic medley, to which I ask: Matthew, Eleanor, why? Choose a fucking song and stick to it. Although admittely it is 1. difficult to reproduce the majesty of their albums 2. really fucking cool that they re-arrange their songs 3. difficult to span the different sounds of their albums -- it just doesn't work. Eleanor, who regrettably did most of the singing, sounded dead for the most part. And the subtleties of the songs were lost to an upper register of the keyboard that melted my brain.

All in all, too nauseous for dessert.

Excellent side dish: the drummer's facial expressions, which ranged from troll to cheerleader and back to gargoyle.

Shannon, where you get your nails did?

2005-04-07T19:43:00.000-04:00

This girl is committed to her habit. I'm jealous, and not just because she's shrunk.

Project Runway will never die

2005-04-06T21:20:00.000-04:00

Sighting! So I was walking in Soho, and who do I see but Kevin Johnn of Project Runway should-have-made-the-top-three-fuck-you-Wendy-Pepper fame. He was sitting secretly on a bench on the corner of Spring and Crosby, with a young lady. He was stubblier and smaller (he's a tiny little man, at least sitting down) than on the show, but still the cutest.

Nagisa Ni Te; Dream Sounds

2005-04-05T21:28:00.000-04:00

So I was reading an article by Norman Geshwind (Geshwind, N. 1979, "Specializations of the human brain," Scientific American, 241, 180.), focusing on the location of different skills in the brain. Aside from some really creepy artwork featuring a penis emerging from an interior crease of the brain, it also referenced the brain's tendency to respond dually to stimuli.

It's kind of poetic, in fact. The left responds practically, the right emotionally.

On Dream Sounds, Nagisa Ni Te are clearly only reaching for the right.

So given my general benificence, my left-handedness and my preference for Udon, I'll give this album only the right-brain treatment.

Dream Sounds: I generally enjoy dreams, which I recall more often the next morning through a feelin in my gut than through the plot. Appropriate title, as the album is more an ocean than a collection of waves. I can't remember a single riff (nor there being one, really) but I did like what was going on.

The album is in Japanese, so the vocals might as well be another instrument. And pleasant ones they are at that, dubbed but not overdubbed, and reflective throughout.

Dream Sounds revisits four earlier-released tracks. And by by revisits, I mean makes longer. If they had a particular riff, the treatment might be unstomachable. But in it's slow grind, it matches my palate. Wine over vodka, any day.

Nagisa Ni Te isn't testing any limits, breaking down any barriers, or even stroking their guitars very hard. But as far as pleasantness goes, it's years ahead of its time. Granted, I've left out half the criticism. But it's 60 degrees in New York: get outside, fuckers!

The New Yorker is on to me!

2005-04-05T20:32:00.000-04:00

This girl looks exactly like me wearing Lauren's coat. But with more money and a fatter face, which is going to get a lot fatter with that Times gig daddy's gonna buy her. Nor have I ever seen someone Bungalow 8 and Bob Saget before.

AIM Conversation; Amy Phillips

2005-04-04T19:18:00.000-04:00

Worthless? Oops! This? Eek!

That's right; Amy Phillips found my blog. HI! Sorry!

She was of course incredibly nice, even agreeing (tentatively? Now it's on the internet; not so tentative anymore) to appear at the Columbia Spectator to speak to the music section and face a lot of blank stares.

I sat in front of my computer, all the time feeling very obnoxious and trying to slap the permanent cringe from my embarrassed face.

Interior Interview

Amy emphasized the difficulty of her profession and stingy editors (read: pitchfork). Does this mean I suck and should give up? Yes.

Have I learned my lesson? Should I stop trashing people, even if they're really dumb/ugly? No, never. I hate everyone. Except Anna Wintour.

By posting this, have I become a creepy wannabe? Yes.

Addendum (0407)
So it's however many days later and I'm still beating myself up over the Amy Phillips bashing. Apparently my blog self isn't as big or as bad as I'd imagined him.

Nor was Amy as big or as bad as I'd imagined her. Rolling Stone guy, Cute guy, and 80s-obsessed guy were all way more "worthless" than she. I was just disappointed, as she's a Columbia grad and, you know, a total role model, dude.

Kudos to calling me out on it. <3

M83; Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

2005-04-04T02:16:00.000-04:00

Here's the M83 interview I just did. Hooray for positive feedback.

I want to swoon. I want to run around, color marker in hand, and have the biggest, bestest rock band sign my sweaty copy of Tiger Beat. Would I—could I even—do this for Anthony Gonzalez of M83?

Alas! the cult of the rock star has diminished. The best bands are not the biggest, nor are they in Tiger Beat.

In March 29’s underwhelming “Noise from Underground: Pop Criticism and Cred in the Era of MP3s, Zines, and Blogs,” the panel discussed the effects of technology on music journalism, addressing the field’s “democratization” (often mispronounced by the esteemed panelists). Anyone, regardless of talent or experience, has a voice, and often the untainted voice is the one most appealing.

Musicianship has been similarly democratized: anyone with the proper software can make music. And the results are striking, with Fennesz’s Endless Summer and Manitoba’s Up in Flames consistently besting traditional rock albums in style and personality. M83’s recent Before the Dawn Heals Us is such a work.

Anthony Gonzalez of M83 is by no means an anonymous laptop artist. Although his band’s instrumentation and texture puts M83 alongside the aforementioned bands, in fact, as Gonzalez notes, “For myself, I prefer acoustic instruments. I don’t like to work on laptop music.”

Yet M83, like a laptop artist, deconstructs the rock star image. Gonzalez notes the relative technical simplicity of producing an album: “You just need to have an 8 track recorder and a computer and a keyboard. You don’t need a lot of things,” And when asked of his musical training, Gonzalez replied defiantly, “No, no, no, no. I learned to play guitar, and after that I learned by myself. I don’t need to be a very good musician to make the music I make.”

Even without musicianship, M83 has released two outstanding albums and an above-average EP, the most recent of which is January’s Before the Dawn Heals Us. That album felt like falling, with alternating moments of weightlessness and self-consciousness, of fear, of ecstasy, and of pain. And although Gonzalez hardly skimps on the synthesizers, there is a marked emphasis on live guitar.

Most strikingly, M83’s music has extreme visual dimensions and suggests intensely melodramatic self-created stories. Gonzalez explains, “When I’m composing music, I’ve got a lot of pictures in my head. Like landscapes or whatever you want.”

Specifically for Before the Dawn Heals Us, Gonzlaez explains, “I wanted to create a record which maybe tells a story, with a beginning a middle and an end. Something like a movie. You can imagine all the pictures you want and all the stories you want.”

But for all its worth, Before the Dawn Heals Us sounded like the nighttime continuation of 2003’s Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts. This is hardly surprising: take the Strokes for an example. The difference for M83 is that between albums it lost half of its membership.

Anthony Gonzalez met Nicholas Fromageau in high school. As Gonzalez recalls, “I started making music maybe when I was 13. I learned to play guitar, and so when I was 14 I started 2 of my own rock and roll bands. I met Nicholas when I was 15 and we started to play together and after I began to buy electronic [music], I started the project M83.”

After about a decade of collaboration, Fromageau left M83, because as Gonzalez explains, “He wanted to create his own project and write his own music. And for myself, I wanted to work alone too. It’s not because of a musical misunderstanding.”

But from the sound of the two albums, it’s almost impossible to notice the loss of Fromageau. And although Gonzalez justifies the consistency, saying, “I composed the music, and Nicholas gave me advice,” a line-up change of such magnitude should produce honest change. No matter how much Van Halen was Eddie’s project, it wasn’t the same without David Lee Roth.

Herein lies a current limitation of the genre. If we can’t even trust the identities of our musical heroes, how can we put faith in their good works?

M83 is now testing another limitation of electronic music: the live show. Last month, samplers/soul guitarists Ratatat demonstrated this difficulty at the Knitting Factory. Despite stunning guitar work, it was hard to ignore the fact that most of the work was being done by tapes.

Conscious of this hurdle, Gonzalez transforms M83 into a full-out rock band, playing guitar with a live backup. He has been doing so since February, when he embarked on French and then British tours. Now, M83 is coming to the United States, with two shows at the Bowery Ballroom.
To date, lineup and technical limitations have failed to significantly hurt M83. And why should they? Even without a hero’s welcome, Anthony Gonzalez writes a great epic. New Yorkers line up, and keep your fanzines handy.

Daylight Savings Time

2005-04-03T03:20:00.000-04:00

Lazy underpaid night laborers get an hour off.

Thumbs down.

Two kids on my floor suffer alcohol-related injuries.

I can hear the buzz of the paramedics' headsets. Thumps UP!

Bloc Party: How Do I Hate Thee? Let Me Count the Ways...

2005-04-02T21:40:00.000-05:00

I was planning to review "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum," featuring my friend Nessa Norich, held at the Roone Arledge Theater at Columbia. Unfortunately I didn't know it was at Roone Arledge, and so I checked every other theater between 110th and 120th streets, in vain.

Instead, here's a synopsis of Bloc Party I did for The Columbia Spectator, which will appear in Friday's issue:

“Angular” guitars reach their low in Bloc Party. Hailing from South London, Bloc Party takes British brethren Franz Ferdinand and the Futureheads a step further, embracing not only early 80s dance and decade-spanning art rock, but also mainstream modern rock. Bloc Party’s latest release, Silent Alarm, follows up on the inexplicable success of the band’s self-titled EP, which was released last year. The result is a lazy, generic mess, short on hooks and with lyrics unaffected by lead singer’s Kele Okereke’s unintelligible accent. And, of course, two sold-out dates at the Bowery Ballroom.

Lightning Bolt, DMBQ, Panthers; Club Exit

2005-04-02T04:55:00.000-05:00

Going to Club Exit in Greenpoint, Lauren and I didn't really know what to expect.

As neither of us is a trashy Pole (Lauren being Korean, actually), the club was a novelty. First off, it's huge, with two bars on each side, the right one being raised along with a sizeable portion of the audience. The decor was...eclectic. The ceiling was dotted with what look like red, turned over Japanese umbrellas or mushrooms. The left side of the room is guarded by gigantic ribs--the The Lion King and the elephant graveyard. The sound was pretty remarkable given all these obstructions and the size of the room, although we were in front, so it's hard to judge.

We knew what to expect from Panthers. Above average Vice cock-rock. Surprisingly enough, more than half the audience was facing the stage and listening. Not I though.

DMBQ opened with the sounds of the apocalypse, and hipsterdom came to attention, scared for their lives and their leather-jacket/hoodie combinations. I can tell you with confidence that the apocalypse will consist of only one bass riff, but that riff will be really fucking awesome. And the band didn't pause. I'm not sure if that's because they only really played one song, but regardless, it was impressive. Shinji Masuko shrieked for way over a half an hour, spitting until foam cascaded down his chin. Gutarist Toru Matsui had the fucking greatest head bob/fuck-you- facial expression ever; it reminded me of the girl in the Crazy 88s with the facemask. China, the drummer, was amazingly apt given the amount of bopping around she did. And bassist Ryuichi Watanabe topped it off with creepy glasses with lights at the end, straddling the amps, and a killer fro. And the drumset totally crowd surfed.

Behind the stage, raised up, the DJs and club owner oversaw all--judges for damned souls. Moshing ensued, tribute to the band's power and the audience's hellish idiocy.

After all that, Lightning Bolt was a bit of a come-down. Bassist Brian Gibson and drummer Brian Chippendale put on a show--for the 35 people around them. They played in front of the stage at floor level, restricting the show to the half-circle of sweaty jumpers aound them. Sometimes rapturous, sometimes fatiguing, it's too bad that the best bass parts seem only garnishes to the massive drum solos. Lauren beat up her neighbors and loved it; I sat on the stage and watched the moshers (mostly uglies and frat boys: where'd they come from?) collide.

Interview, M83

2005-03-31T16:00:00.000-05:00

I just got off the phone with Anthony Gonzalez of M83. Who knew there were Mexicans in France?

Disaster One: My machine broke. I ran all over trying to procure this phone conversation recorder. The Columbia Spectator does zany things like, for example, provide me a machine without a tape. Anyway, so that was all taken care of, and I'd checked the batteries and everything--on Tuesday, before the publicist put if off (an omen). So after I receive the phone call and swing the headset around my neck, I press record and...nothing.

Disaster Two: The publicist was involved. "Anthony, when this one is over I'll call you for the next one." Way to set the finish line before I've started, Roberta.

Disaster Three: In France they don't speak English. I know, I know, this one surprised me too. There was much fanfare requisite to this interview, and by fanfare I clearly mean repetition and synonym-providing. And Broken English, though enjoying low comedy fame, fails to make for interesting transcripts.

Disaster Four: Anthony Gonzalez is boring. Or, I'll give him some credit, Anthony Gonzalez does not like giving interviews. Hell, I wouldn't. No, I would. And I'd be outrageous: just you watch! Anthony was anything but outrageous. Maybe it was the language thing, but his responses kept pretty much to the same three words: "art," "work" and "no." This unfortunate word selection made for the most boring falling out with Nicholas Fromageau, which was to be the thrust of my article.

Yawn, here's a sample of my interview:

Why did Nicholas [Fromageau] leave M83?
Because he wanted to create his own project and write his own music. And for myself, I wanted to work alone too. But it’s not because of a music…misunderstanding, just because he wanted to work on another project and myself too.

Will you continue to collaborate?
Maybe, maybe for the live shows, or another album maybe. Nicholas is working with a lot of friends of mine, in a lot of different band, so we might collaborate.

Now that it's just you, do you see M83 taking a new direction?
I don’t think so because the compositions are the same, and the melodies are the same thing. I think the instrumentation evolves, and there are more acoustic instruments and less electronic ones. I think the melody aspect is maybe the same. I think this is a music which needs a lot of evolution.

Was it different to set out on an album with Nicholas?
No, it’s the same. Just work first on the melody and then I turn around and I add the bass and the guitar.

I'm sorry. At least the publicist listed me for the Bowery show on the 13th. Not such a disaster, after all.

Regina Spektor, Sean Lennon; Bowery Ballroom

2005-03-31T14:46:00.000-05:00

Thank god for friends with parents in high places. This is the joy of a private education. Anna's dad listed us for the sold-out Regina Spektor Bowery show last night.

Sighting: There are three people in the world that get me starstruck: Bjork, Jude Law, and Yoko Ono. Guess who was there supporting her son? Yoko was rushed upstairs--wait! wait! don't forget her sunglasses! Or her flashy beret!--by two hulking bodyguards. It's too bad she only brought half a Lennon...

Poor Sean, as we all know well, is done courtesy with such a high fraction of Lennonism. I mean, he is a really sweet man. After coming on late, he riddled his show with witticisms and endearing glances at the audience. Whatever star power he got from his parents, it's in the form of warmth. Certainly not in songwriting. Lennon managed to go as far out (maybe once or twice) as to rhyme "aim" with "game." The last song was a pretty piano ditty, although somewhat marred by Sean's lazy (read: juvenile) lyrics. Yuka Honda is in his band though, which kind of redeems him.

And on the seventh day (no one needs that much rest), God made Regina Spektor. With piercing blue eyes you can see from halfway through Bowery, I don't know if she's fairy or devil. I think she'd choose fairy, and the sprightly Bjork talk and pouty glances is a bit of a shtick.

Regina's voice, however, is no mere shtick. She went for two hours, later excusing herself for her "time-warp." It's all the more impressive, given that her belting suffered only minimally through to the end.

In the year since my high school education ended, I forgot what it was like to hope for a show to end. Poor Regina just doesn't have enough consistent material to justify her on-stage hunger strike. Stuff from the "new" album sounded great where it sounds great recorded, as did Regina's standards (she played everything), but the show was highlighted by interspersed a cappella numbers. Cut her awkward, up-tight bassist and an hour from the show, and Regina Spektor is perfection.

Noise from Underground: Pop Criticism and Cred in the Era of MP3s, Zines, and Blogs

2005-03-30T16:32:00.000-05:00

What a dismal beginning to this blog. I guess, however, it's appropriate to set off with my complete disillusionment with music journalists.

This panel had promise! Columbia had organized a diverse group, ranging in age from twenty to ancient and in position from aspiring to evil. Besides, I had to RSVP for this shit. There was a line out the door. Yet another testament to the judgment of the masses (my judgment was perfect, of course; I was merely misled).
But it was a train-wreck. Most of the panelists were downright stupid, and were complemented by an idiot audience representative of Columbia University.

So here's a run-down of the personalities:
Moderator Sasha Frere-Jones, populist and mysteriously popualar New Yorker columnist. He arrived wearing Gavin DeGraw's hat, which set me in a foul mood from the start. Sasha was the most articulate of the bunch, and had clearly done his research. At one point, he attacked Knox Robinson's ties to a publishing/advertisement firm, which was amusing. But that was his whole shtick: fucking around with poor ole' Know. He replaced any substantial opinions on anything interesting with profanity and archaic terms like "beef" (used as a verb), and was super rude to the audience. It's hard for him to juggle his love for self-indugent snob-free journalism with the knowledge that somewhere deep inside knows he sold out.
Tunde Adebimpe, TV on the Radio. Coming in I thought he'd be the worst, another musician with political garbage to spew at a deserving audience. He spoke once, innocuously. Looked pissed by the end. Cute outfit, too.
Michael Azerrad, emusic.com. "I change my style for different types of publications." I hate you. Shut up.
Anthony DeCurtis, Rolling Stone. I was expecting this man to be the devil. I guess he was, as far as the devil is completely out of touch. Clearly proud that he's working for the world's worst music publication. Throughout, people kept giving lip service to this awful rag. A shame.
Amy Phillips, moreinthemonitor. It was a bad sign when she introduced herself with a nervous tick. She's young and she keeps in touch with WBAR, so I figured her, she might have something relevant to say. Nope. Worthless, much like her pitchfork reporting.
Knox Robinson, the fader. The only people in the world who have a clue are asshole. That's not to suggest Robinson has the whole clue, but his take on "visceral" blogging was rather on-point, if not horribly life-affirming. His persistent interruptions of the other guests became increasingly annoying as the discussion proceeded. And in many ways he was unable to combat the Frere-Jones' stodgy wit.
Brandon Wall, prefix. Brandon is hot. But he's also a total self-promoting future-Rolling Stone writing yup. Nothing to contribute but a pretty face.

It was pretty amazing that no one in the crowd asked about the rammifications of blogging, or the legacy of the time period. Well, I guess it's not that surprising considering how fucking rude and offensive Sasha was to anyone with a brain.