May 31st, 2006
Voxtrot
It’s unquestioned dogma at this point that the proliferation of MP3 blogs and online music criticism sites has been a boon for indie bands, as people are increasingly turning to the Internet to find out about new music. In fact, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! and Arcade Fire probably should have tithed a percentage of their album sales to Ryan “Pitchfork” Schreiber personally. This isn’t to say that both of their albums weren’t outstanding. They were. It’s just that prior to the Internet, the idea of a Merge Records group and an unsigned band garnering such buzz after one album was unthinkable. This trend seems perfectly tailored to indie music, which had typically struggled to play catch-up with the marketing and distribution muscle of the major labels.
For the consumer, this is generally good. Not only do they get access to more information, but MP3 blogs let people to download music for free, letting them decide whether or not they like a certain band. This has almost eliminated the damning feeling that you used to get when you’d hear a song on the radio and love it, only to pick up the album and realize that that there are only two decent tracks on the album (also known as what happened to me when I bought the first Lox album, LL Cool J’s Phenomenon album, the Jadakiss album…okay let’s not go there).
And yet few people are discussing the unmistakable fact that bands are skipping the whole “paying your dues” element that has characterized music in the past. Gone are the days when a band would have to relentlessly tour album after album just to accumulate a decent sized fan base. Now all you need is a good Pitchfork review, positive words from some influential bloggers and you’ll move 50,000 units. Easy. This is the musical equivalent of skipping college to play in the NBA. You might have all the talent in the world, but in the big leagues, you’re going to be playing with grown men and Ben Wallace doesn’t care how many points a game you averaged in high school.
Enter Austin-based Voxtrot. Perhaps the biggest MP3 sensation in the last five minutes (c’mon it’s the Internet, there’s a guy who’s recording a demo in Iowa using Pro Tools and he sounds just like Neutral Milk Hotel.), Voxtrot captured the blog world’s attention this year and last with their stellar EP’s, 2005’s Voxtrot, and 2006’s Mother, Sisters, Daughters & Wives. Even Pitchfork got in on the action, giving the band a solid review for both of them. And I’d even argue that P-Fork’s review was low, as those EP’s constitute some of the best music I’ve heard all year. (check out Voxtrot’s Myspace page for samples).
I even joined in on the Voxtrot hype, writing an extremely laudatory concert review of a March show that the band played at the UCLA Cooperage. Not only did I find the band’s live performance stellar, but I was amazed that they managed to rock such a school cafeteria. Not bad.
But just two months later, thanks to the deafening hype of the Internet and the strength of their EP’s, Voxtrot landed a plum gig, opening for Elefant at the Wiltern, one of Los Angeles’ larger venues. To understand how big the Wiltern is, Spoon headlined a show at the Wiltern last year, as did the Pixies, as will the Raconteurs. It’s not huge, but it’s typically a place for veteran bands touring their third or fourth full-length album. Voxtrot has not even released one.
Granted Voxtrot was the opening act, but judging from the size of the crowd, just as many people were there to see Voxtrot as were there to see Elefant. Understandably, the band seemed nervous when they took the stage, with Voxtrot frontman (far left in the hot tub below)
discussing their first gig in LA, last year at the Silverlake Lounge, where they ended up losing $350. Suddenly, one year later, they had seemingly arrived, getting to play in one of LA’s most fabled venues. Unfortunately, the larger setting proved one unescapable fact: the band isn’t ready yet for prime-time. Despite the impressive lyrical and musical chops displayed on the album, the band hasn’t yet devised a stage show to match. Immediately, after taking the stage, concert-going partner/expert basketball blogger/Matisyahu expert Nate Jones, turned to me and could only exclaim one thing over and over again: “I can’t believe how bad they sound.”
Indeed the band just seemed flat, their instruments seemingly not equipped to fill the gaping ceilings and art-deco walls of the cavernous Wiltern. Whereas at UCLA, the band’s transitions seemed to build and build until each song reached a soaring apex, they fell flat on their feet in front of the thousand-plus people packed into the venue. As much as I loved their EP’s, these were not the songs I remembered, as each one seemed hopelessly tinny and thin. In all the shows I’ve ever been to, I’ve never seen such a drop-off in performance in such a short amount of time.
Ultimately, Voxtrot’s lackluster performance revealed several flaws in the architecture of this new digital age. If a band can catch fire among Pitchfork and the MP3 blogs, they seemingly get a free pass to skip stages that should be crucial in their development. Rather than learn how to finely hone their stage show in progessively larger venues, bands are being thrust into situations they aren’t ready for. Voxtrot being a perfect example. If My Morning Jacket still plays in the Henry Fonda, a noticeably smaller venue than the Wiltern, than there is no way that a band like Voxtrot should be playing the Wiltern, even as an opener.
And yet, it isn’t the fault of the bloggers or Pitchfork, there is simply nothing that can be done about it. Ultimately, it will probably end up being good for the music world and allow for quality independent labels and bands to make decent livings. But all in all, for every Lebron James that will arrive fully formed in the NBA, there will be four or five Jermaine O’ Neal’s, players who might need a bit of seasoning until they hit their peak. And that’s where a band like Voxtrot falls right now. They have the goods to become top performers in the league, but right now they probably need a few years of experience before they reach the All-Star game.
Passion of the Weiss Rating: 5 crucifixes out of 10
The Silversun Pickups
Definitely the highlight of the evening, the Eagle Rock-based Silversun Pickups came on first and delivered a taut yet raucuous 35 minute set. Running through tracks off of last year’s Pikul EP and from their upcoming LP Carnavas (which from what I hear is outstanding) , the Pickups blew me and Jones away. Then again, if you’ve lived in LA for the last three or four years, it’s been almost impossible not to see the Silversun Pickups, who seemingly play every two weeks in this town. (I’m pretty sure they must get their mail at Spaceland and The Echo.)
However, despite their relatively large imprint of Los Angeles’ finally blossoming music scene, I’d come late to the Pickups’ bandwagon, which has grown increasingly large in recent months, as multiple bloggers have expressed an admiration for the Pickups songs and sound.
And the sound. Well, they like the Smashing Pumpkins. A lot. Not in the derivative, I’m trying to copy their sound sort of way. But in the inspired and influenced by sort of way. The comparisons are un-mistkable. Brian Aubert, the Pickups’ lead singer sounds quite a bit like Billy Corgan, especially live and both Nate and I independently came to the Pumpkins conclusion. If you add the fact that both the Pumpkins and the Pickups have the same intials and a female bassist in both bands, and well, the comparisons seem to make more sense. (side-confession: the Pickups also get bonus points for having a cute girl in the band).
While I liked their Pikul EP from last year, I didn’t love it, despite the fact that “Kissing Families” (you can listen here) was one of the best songs I heard in 2005. But in person, each song seemed to burst to life. I’d rate both Voxtrot EP’s well ahead of Pikul, but live, there was no comparison, as Pickups lead singer Brian Aubert had an undeniable charisma that radiated throughout the Wiltern. If you live in LA, you might’ve seen them play before, but even if you have, I’d recommend checking them out again. They were great. And judging from the songs they played off of Carnavas, this could be the album that gives them a national presence.
Passion of the Weiss Rating: 8.6 crucifixes out of 10
Elefant
Somehow, the “oh, we’re so edgy in our press kit” band pictured above managed to headline this show, despite being preceded by two bands wildly more talented than they are. If I were Elefant lead singer, Diego Garcia, I’d probably cry myself to sleep every night, knowing that I had to be on tour with two bands whose worst songs are still legions better than my best ones.
Unfortunately, life isn’t fair. Elefant lead singer Diego Garcia probably won’t be crying himself to sleep every night because apparently Diego Garcia is a hearthrob, who happens to look like Jordan Catalano.
Therefore, Diego Garcia is probably a happy man. But the genius of the band Elefant is that no one seems to know the difference. They got signed to a major label and apparently they have thousands of fans, enough to sell out the Wiltern. But I know the difference. Elefant is one of the lamest bands I’ve ever seen.
First off, judging from the demographics that turned out for the show, their fan base seems to consist of shrieking 16-year old girls who used to be N’ Sync fans but have graduated to “adult music.” Second, they record for Hollywood Records, the same label as Hillary Duff and Regis Philbin. It is owned by Disney. Rock and Roll, whoo!!!!!! Third: the band’s name is Elefant, spelled with an “f.” Can you get any fucking lamer?
Elefant makes music for people whose favorite band of the decade thus far is The Killers. Picture Interpol and Bloc Party being crossed with 30 Seconds to Mars, Jared Leto’s band and this is what you’d get. Large bold and shiny, well-produced music, with enough atmosphere to fill up a large hall, fronted by one of the lamest people in rock and roll.
How lame is Diego Garcia? Well, please check out this song lyric that he sang at the concert:
I offered her some chocolate and beer/
she said ‘No’./
I said why?
He actually wrote that down. Some people just radiate poseur. Garcia is one of them. This band is awful and the most insidious thing about them is if you don’t listen to good music, you wouldn’t know the difference. What Collective Soul was to grunge, this band is to Indie Post/Punk. Never ever go see this band live, never ever buy their albums, never ever speak of them in my presence. I’d rather watch a DVD of old Carmen San Diego re-runs than have to see this modern Diego live. Then again, Where in the World is Carmen San Diego was kind of awesome. You know who isn’t awesome? Elefant.
Passion of the Weiss Rating: 3 crucifixes out of 10
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 6 Comments »
May 30th, 2006
In the aftermath of the media uproar surrounding the birth of miracle baby Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt, the Jewish people have officially announced the end of the search for a messiah. Accordingly, throngs of Jews have flocked to Jerusalem to await the end of the days and the emergence of Jolie-Pitt to start separating out the damned from those who will be saved. The child, the offspring of actor/deity/philosopher kings Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, ends a quest that according to Jewish doctrine, began in the city of Ur when Abraham first saw God in a burning bush. The burning bush allegedly commanded Abraham to be the leader of a great new religion, whose people would inevitably spend the next 5,000 years being persecuted, waiting for the messiah and trying to make vast quantities of money in the banking, law, medical and comedy industries in the interim.
However, according to the chief rabbi of Jerusalem, Yonah Metzger, the wait is over.“
.“At first when I heard the news about the messiah, I decided to turn to the lord in prayer. I prayed, but then I said, ‘you know what I’ve waited enough. It’s just rude not to show up on time.” So I decided to turn to the next best source of advice: celebrity magazines,” Metzger said. “It turns out that our messiah already has quite the following. Did Jesus appear on the cover of In Touch, Star, People, US Weekly, Life and Style, and OK! Weekly, his first week on earth? I don’t think so. All I have to say to the goyim is that our messiah is better than your messiah. We’re so sick of coming in second place. Finally, we win. At last.”
Though no word has come down whether or not Jolie-Pitt is interested in becoming the messiah, it seems that it isn’t up to her. At least, if the Jewish people have a say in the matter. Accordingly, many prominent Jewish celebrities have congregated in Jerusalem to await the coming of their savior. Prominent Hasidic Reggae star Matisyahu is one of them.
“When I first heard about Shiloh’s birth, my initial thought was that people were talking about the classic 1996 family film, Shiloh. Back when I used to follow Phish around the country, we used to get all high and watch Shiloh. Have you ever watched a movie about a boy and his dog…on weed?? It’s awesome,” Matisyahu rambled. “When I first heard about Shiloh, I called up my spiritual advisor in Hebron. But he was in the middle of a gun fight and couldn’t talk to me. Apparently, Shiloh’s magic has yet to begin. So I turned to the second-most-important person in my life, Jake Klein, my A&R from Sony. He seemed to be throwing his allegiance towards Shiloh, so I figured why not? It hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing for the Jews these past few thousand years anyway.”
But the bedlam currently underway in Jersusalem hasn’t just been the province of previously orthodox Jews. Shawn Green, an outfielder for the Arizona Diamondbacks and widely considered the best Jewish athlete in the United States, decided to interupt his all-star season to fly to Jerusalem to wait for the emergence of the chosen one.
“I was confused,” Green said bluntly. “What am I supposed to do now? Do I play on Yom Kippur? Do I play on Saturdays? Everything seems to be so up in the air. I figured the best bet was to come to Israel and wait for her arrival. We’ll figure the details out later. Sure, our general manager is pissed off, but people don’t seem to understand the magnitude of it all. It’s not just the savior of a people who has been born, it’s the offspring of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. They are actors, having an actor child. I’d be crazy not to come.”
However, sources in Jerusalem were most shocked when Bob Dylan nee Zimmerman, the former alleged savior of the Jewish people, showed up to pay homage to the new Queen of the Jews.
“Back in the 1960’s, a lot of people thought I was the savior of the Jews, because I was just a good folksinger. But this girl is so much more than that. She’s the children of really really ridiculously good looking people,” Dylan said. “I just wish that Shiloh had arrived in the late 70’s. It might have stopped me from converting to Christianity and making the Slow Train Coming, Saved and Shot of Love albums. Thank god all the spotlight is off me for once and back where it belongs, on the just-born infant daughter of the stars of “Cool World,” and “Tomb Raider.” Wow.”
Posted in The Fakest News in Town, Uncategorized | 9 Comments »
May 23rd, 2006
There are several ways to handle the onslaught of unorthodox sights, images and smells mingling in the filthy San Gabriel Valley air at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire. None of them involve any degree of sobriety. Being sober at a Renaissance Faire is like wearing a black three-piece suit to the beach. You become alienated, uncomfortable, and surrounded by people gawking at you for having made such poor sartorial sense.
But even with a briefcase full of the finest goods that your local street pharmacist has dealt you, there is simply no way for a person with even the closest semblance of normalcy to make sense of this miniature civilization that crops up for five weekends each year at the Santa Fe Dam Recreation Area in Irwindale, an atrophied suburb approximately 45 minutes outside of Los Angeles. Luckily, I am not a person with any semblance of normalcy.
A bit of background: I had been to exactly three Renaissance Faire’s before, with varying degrees of insight. One time was for a Junior High field trip. Another time, I only lasted about a very very sober hour before the sight of hundreds if not thousands of men and women dressed up in their finest Elizabethan costumes became too much for even me and I was forced to retreat to the comfort and safety of my car and the Samsonite that awaited me back at home The third time was a bit better. I was most definitely not sober and attending the Faire with two of my best friends. This trip featured me being accosted in the middle of the Faire by a rather attractive girl with breasts pushed up and nearly out of her costume, asking me to a recite her a poem.
The Response: (with a creative debt handed to Ted “Theodore” Logan of the famed rock act Wyld Stallyns)
“Oh, beautiful babes from England
For Whom We’ve Traveled Back in Time
Will you go with us to the Prom in San Dimas
We Will Have a Most Triumphant Time”
I’m not sure if the “wench” (yes, all women are referred to as wenches by the Faire people) picked up my all-too-sly Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure reference, but she seemed to enjoy it nonetheless, and my friends even chanted the not-all-so-sly “Go For It.” I did not go for it. Though at one point, a different woman asked David “Crock Tock” Crockett to flog him with a leather whip. None of us really knew if she was joking.
These past experiences had steeled me for the potentially maddening sight of the 1,000-plus “volunteers,” willingly spending their time and money to dress up and pretend that they were living in the Renaissance. Kind of. Accordingly, my apartment beforehand resembled something akin to the scene in Half Baked where they are deliberating between using Wesley Pipes or Billy Bong Thornton. Let’s just say I liked “Sling Blade” more than “Blade.”
Driving to the Faire, I tried to explain what was going to happen to my girlfriend who had never been to such a bizarre event. I failed miserably. For much of the ride, we deliberated whether or not bringing a young child to such a place could scare them for life and relegate them to an existence filled with pageantry, pomp, circumstance and tights. We arrived at few conclusions.
No matter, the 44th Annual Renaissance Faire, loomed before us, among great stacks of white spring sunlight, baking the sprawling and dusty fairgrounds. Paying the steep $25 entrance fee, I naturally made several comments about the prohibitive cost of the event, before being staggered by the site of the meticulously created medieval/renaissance era Village in front of me. Yells and catcalls rifling through the air.
“Hello, lady and gentleman. Welcome to ye olde Renaissance Faire. Stay awhile, roll in the hay awhile. Heh Heh. Heh.”
A man dressed in green tights, a tunic (you don’t see someone in a tunic very often) and a bizarre muffin-shaped hat sold bags of peanuts and yelled loudly:
“Get your sacks of nuts. Every woman loves a big sack of nuts. Hot nuts. Can’t beat them. No woman can resist.”
Immediately, I realized one thing. The Renaissance Faire was about sex. And lots of it. Suddenly, I found myself in the cross-fire of waves of men dressed in garish Renaissance outfits, trying to step to women dressed in a variety of Renissance fine linens and cottons, sporting as much cleavage as humanly possible.
Renaissance Faire Rule #1 : The performers are there to fuck.
But this wasn’t my reason for attending the Faire, I came to observe a horde of people who somehow found it extraordinarily liberating to dress up in anachronistic clothing, drink vast quantities of beer and walk around for days on end speaking with a fake British accent and relying very heavily on the words “merry,”"ye” and “m’lady.”
Rule #2: The word Merrily should only be used in the phrase “Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Life is But A Dream,” and not by 47-year old men, dressed in flamboyant purple tights with thick beards and a day-job selling upholstery.
Somehow, I ended up sitting in a corner of the festival, eating a “ye olde baked potato,” watching the characters eat next to me, making come-ons to each other the entire time.
“So, my fair lass, what are ye doing after the faire.”
“Alas, my fair gentleman. I have a squire of my own.”
Not only did the exchange sort of remind me of Steve “The Pirate” from Dodgeball who mysteriously only wanted to talk like a pirate, more importantly it raised a very important question. I.E. Do these people talk in Renaissance Faire-speak during sex? And if so, do the woman do call the men “my lord” in bed, or do they have a whole different set of sexual epithets gleaned from the Renaissance that they’re ready to spew at the drop of a hat. I’m pretty sure that they do. Suddenly, I became certain that the Renaissance Faire is solely an excuse for these people to work themselves into a lather of cleavage, ribald comments and strong drink, and then at night the Ren Faire performers retreat to their tents and perform unspeakable and undescribable acts to one another in vicious sex orgys.
Renaissance Faire Rule #3 Cleavage is Never Bad. 
Now I don’t necessarily have a problem with the Renaissance Faire crowd wanting to do sordid things behind closed doors. After all, they aren’t hurting anyone and I was sort of happy that all these outcasts had found a place to let it all hang out. So to speak. But I was onto their scheme. Every time that I saw a man walk up to a woman and grab her ass, I knew the truth, I knew that this whole gimmick was nothing more than an intricate strategy to get girls. In many ways, this place was no different than a Hollywood nightclub. Except while Hollywood nightclubs are nothing more than an elaborate almagam of smoke, lights, liquor and money, for the end result of wealthy men sleeping with young 20-something girls, the Renaissance Faire was just a bit more open about it. And a whole lot more nerdy. Oh sure, they don’t TELL you about the donkey, leather-clad monkey and refigerators full of ice cubes that they inevitably have stashed back at the camp, but I sensed a degree of honesty about it. And I respect that.
I continued to walk on, stomach filled uncomfortably with a ye olde baked potato that wasn’t sitting all too well.
Renaissance Faire Rule #4: Ye Olde Baked Potato Is Not As Good As It Sounds
Then I considered taking in a show. Yes, a show seemed to make sense. I consulted my handy Renaissance Faire guidebook that they had passed out. Almost instantly, I noticed a group of shows entitled:
Seeking Naughty Content? (NC-17)
Poxy Boggards
This self-described “drinking group with a singing problem,” will delight you with their bawdy songs and naughty antics.
Merry Wives of Windsor
These lusty serving wenches retrun to the Faire serving bawdy songs and plenty of good cheer.
The Belles of Bedlam
Sure, they’re bold, they’re beautiful, and they’re back with their naughty bawdy brand of songs for grown-ups.
Pye Power Couty
Always full of surprises and antic accusations. This bawdy, raucuous bit of revelry is the longest continuously performed show at Faire.
Observing these show descriptions, I became aware of
Renaissance Faire Rule #5: Renaissance Faire People love the word bawdy.
Bawdy is one of those words you never actually see used anymore unless it’s used to describe a William Shakespeare book. Alas, this is not true at the Renaissance Faire where you can’t go five feet without having the thought: this is so fucking bawdy.
I half expected a pair of men wearing jester hats to spring before my eyes and confront the other one with the statement, “motherfucker, you ain’t bawdy. Watch me step to this lass. This is fucking bawdy, bitch!!”
This never happened, but my brief visual of two jesters having an esoteric adjective-off, led to another thought. Do people at Renaissance Faires floss? Like for instance, does a dude try to have the most stylish pair of tights to attract the finest Renaissance ho. Does he try to rock the biggest and most ornate hat? And what about the people that competed in the events (there were fencing and jousting competitions on the hour). Did the dude that won the jousting contest get all sorts of love during the group orgy later that night. I had some questions to ponder. However, I ultimately decided something:
Renaissance Faire Rule #6: The Winner of the Jousting Match is Inevitably Picking Which Lass He Wants to Squire Later That Night. Respek.
Then there were the girls themselves, most of them were rather unattractive, but every now and then you’d see an incredibly cute girl dressed like a complete freak, totally engrossed in this weird world of artificial pageantry and acting. Say you met that girl at a bar two days previous and you asked her what she was doing that weekend?
“I’m going to the Renaissance Faire,” she answers.
“Cool, I’ve been there before. It’s fun to sort of laugh at everyone.”
“What!! Laugh at them? I dress up. I’m playing Queen Elizabeth II. It’s a very important role. You just don’t get it.”
Renaissance Faire Rule #7: If You Do In Fact Suceed In Picking Up a Ren Ho (and no, this does not mean a girl that MC Ren has slept with), A One-Night Stand Is Probably Your Best Option. Otherwise, it might get weird. Very very weird.
Then I finally sat down and took in one of the aforementioned bawdy shows. But rather than be titillated, I was just bored. Excruciatingly bored. Seriously, half of me wanted to go up there and do an impromptu stand-up routine just to save myself from falling asleep.
Renaissance Faire Rule #8: Improv Can Be Occasionally Be Funny In the Hands of Professionals. It Will Never Be Funny at a Renaissance Faire.
What was I to make of this? Who were these people? And what did they do for a living? How do they go in to work the following Monday, mingle by the coffee machine and tell their co-workers how they totally kicked ass in the archery competition at the Ren Faire last weekend, and how every woman there was totally jocking their Henry VIII costume.
Renaissance Faire Rule #9: What Happens in the Renaissance Faire Should Definitely Stay In the Renaissance Faire.
Still flowing through the thick crowds two hours later, on the last weekend of the Faire, I started to grow uneasy. One of the most uncomfortable things about going to a Renaissance Faire is that you are on their turf. No one is safe. At any moment, a performer might run up to you and grab you and start trying to talk to you in their awful, “I played Macbeth in the 7th grade play once” accents. And after about two hours of eating and mocking the weak stage shows (let’s just say, the only thing the shows had going for them was their bawdiness. How bawdy? Pretty fucking bawdy.) I was growing tired and it had been hours since Samson had been conversed with and with several cops patrolling the crowds, it wasn’t actually a good idea to dial up my old friend.
But I remained hesistant to leave. I had arrived at no conclusive evidence that the Renaissance Faire was nothing more than an excuse for debauchery, debasement and a whole lot of other unseemly things that begin with the letter “D.” All I knew for certain was that at the Renaissance Faire, there were a lot of shows, a lot of parents taking their children to entertain them for a Sunday and a whole lot of people dressed up in Renaissance garb who obviously hadn’t been talented enough to snare a top role in the High School musical. Their consolation prize seemed to be a semi-peripatetic existence of going to Renaissance Faires several times a year and pretending to be Mary Beth, the peasant wench from Birminghamshire.
And yet what about the people who came to watch this year in and year out? What was their motivation to come here? Sure, they were people like me. Smart-alecs, there to poke fun at the strange customs and sexual peculariaties of this perverse niche of people. But what about everyone else. If you weren’t there with children, out of all the places in the world what was the motivation to attend to a Renaissance Faire. Did they think it was cool? Did they like the food? Did they like the movie Robin Hood Men in Tights THAT much? The answers seemed to elude me.
Looping one last time through the Fair Grounds, I stopped in to use one of the portable restrooms that the Faire had arranged on the grounds. Waiting in line to wash my hands, at an outdoor portable sink, I watched an encounter that I’ll never forget for the rest of my life. An encounter so bizarre, you’d have to be there to believe it.
In front of me was a rather large woman not dressed in any sort of Renaissance garb. She was wearing a very revealing tank top and a pair of jeans two sizes two tight. Across from her was a man wearing a pair of very dark sunglasses with several dark tatoos inked all up across his body, a wife beater and a goatee. I’m about 99 percent sure that he was in some sort of gang, as he looked identical to Edward Norton in American History X, not to mention the fact that there were hordes of menacing looking dudes who looked like they’d just got let out of prison, wandering around the Faire that day (not to mention the high visiblity of dozens of cops at the Faire. Only in LA do the cops have to come to the Renaissance Faire to watch out for gang wars)
Then out of the corner of my eye, I notice the woman and the gang-member look each other up and down.
American History X: Hey
Random Woman: Hey
American History X: What’s your name?
Random Woman: Brenda
(American History X walks around to stand right next to Brenda and begins taking a long look at the ample cleavage she is sporting.)
AHX: Say, that’s a pretty nice 38 DD chest you’ve got there. Wanna’ go out with me sometime?
Brenda: When?
AHX: Right now.
Brenda: Who are you here with?
AHX: No one, and whoever I’m with won’t notice I’m gone, anways.
Brenda: Okay, will you buy me a drink first.
AHX: One drink.
He then took her hand and led her off to presumably go buy a drink and have Renaissance sex. I looked back at the row of bathrooms to see if I’d just made up this entire encounter, then I noticed a large sign that read: Do Not Allow Children Under 6 To Enter the Bathrooms Unattended.
At that moment, everything suddenly became all-too clear, I grabbed my girlfriend and told her that we needed to leave. Now. On our way out, a pair of young woman ran up to her and started shouting, “My cousin, my cousin, aren’t you my cousin?” They tried to grab her and fleck drops of water across her eyes. Luckily, she made a break for it and darted out of their grasp.
About 100 feet from the entrance, a man tried to pull the same “aren’t you my cousin bit with me.” But this time, I saw it coming a mile away and as he ran towards me, I ducked around him and yelled back, “I really don’t think you’re my cousin. You don’t even look half-Jewish.”
Finally out in the parking lot, climbing into my car, and driving away as fast as possible, only one thought bubbled up from that long day, from that vicious miasma of come-ons, esoteric costumes and creepy sexual tension known as the Renaissance Faire:
Renaissance Fair Rule #10: The Renaissance Faire is Decadent and Depraved.
Posted in Best Of, It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 18 Comments »
May 22nd, 2006
Midway through the Little One’s taut and energetic 45-minute set at the Echo last Friday night, two thoughts popped into my mind. 1) This band is excellent. 2) Why doesn’t America have any Asian rock stars?
Without any context, this statement seems even weirder than what you normally expect on this blog. Allow me to explain, this question was triggered by the appearances of both the lead singer and the guitarist of the Little Ones, who appeared to be either Asian-American or Pacific Islander. At least, I think they were. I didn’t conduct any interviews nor did I ask for any DNA verification. Perhaps I should have before I decided to raise this question. Oh, well too late.
Of course, race played no role in my assessment of whether or not they were a good band. One of the most wonderful things about music is that race should never play a factor. Good music is good music, regardless of who makes it. And yet I also try not to buy into any of the PC babble that unfortunately characterizes much of our society. Whether we like it or not, race will always be an issue to a degree. Denying the concept of race does no one any good. In order to grow as a society, a healthy discussion of race is important. That being said, I’m just going to come out and say that I didn’t expect the lead singer of the Little Ones to be Asian. Now it’s not like I didn’t believe that an Asian person could rock the house. Far from it. It’s just that, well…there aren’t all that many Asians in popular music today. Especially in rock.
Of couse, this seems like a rather obvious statement and yet the thought had never crossed in my mind before. And yet, it probably should have, considering that Asians are a major part of American society and yet we have not seen one real Asian-American rock star. The question seemed to bubble on my mind, as I continually wondered how is such a thing was possible. After all, there have been major Hispanic rock stars (see Zach De La Rocha, Richie Valens, Santana, Los Lobos), black rock stars (practically everyone who invented the genre + The G.O.A.T. Hendrix), Persian rock stars (Freddie Mercury) and Armenian Rock Stars (System of a Down), and yet no real Asian rock stars.
Of course, whether people want to admit it or not, rock and roll today is sadly almost exlusively the province of white people. The dearth of black musicians in rock is a topic sometimes addressed in the media, while a few years ago during the heyday of Eminem, media pundits rushed to analyze the impact of a white man doing something typically considered to be a “black art form.” However, in all these discussions of race in American popular music, no one ever thought to mention the paucity of Asian-Americans doing rock music. Of course, one might point out such figures as Mike Shinoda of Linkin Park, Howard Chang, bassist for Thunderbirds Are Now!, Doug Robb of Hoobastank and James Iha of the Smashing Pumpkins. And yet, Shinoda was a rapper (another form of music where Asians are underrepresented, as I can only think of Shinoda and Jin doing hip-hop), Chang and Iha are guitarists and therefore not center stage, while Robb doesn’t count as a rock star by virtue of being in a band called Hoobastank (do I really need to elaborate here?).
Intitially, I considered the possibility that the lack of Asian American rock stars has to do with racism. And yet in recent years, Asians have made forays into the world of movies (Jackie Chan, Ang Lee), literature (Kazuo Ishiguro), and sports, (Yao Ming, Ichiro, Hideki Matsui) and yet not one Asian-American rock star. Race might play a factor, but it would seem to contradict the aforementioned examples.
Next, I considered that perhaps it had to do with the nature of Asian culture, one that I’ve often found to be quite similar to Jewish culture, except not as loud and not as cheap. To generalize (and I ackowledge there are surely exceptions), Asian and Jewish parents are generally not too keen to hear their sons announce: “Mom, dad. I’ve decided to become a rock star.” (perhaps this explains why I can’t think of any major current Jewish rock stars either).
Perhaps, and I’m speculating, the lack of Asian and Jewish rock stars results from a general cultural emphasis towards more stable careers than those in the arts (though I’m sure no parent is pleased when their son decides to drop out of school to be a musician) From my own experience, careers in the arts are not regarded with the highest esteem among many Jews, who generally think you’re “meshuga/crazy” for not going to law school. The conversation with my father about my decision to become a writer is a different blog for a different time. However, this bit from the very underated film “Orange County” accurately sums it up.
Colin Hanks: Dad I’ve decided to become a writer.,
Dad: A writer. What do you want to do that for! What to you have to write about! You’re not opressed, you’re not gay!!
Colin Hanks: Not all writers are opressed or gay.
Dad: Well, they’re all poor. I can tell you that.
CH: What about Anne Rice, John Grisham, Stephen King.
Dad: Three writers…in the history of literature!!!
God knows what would’ve happened if I’d told my dad I wanted to be a rock star. I imagine that an Asian-American raised in a traditional household might inevitably face the same stern pressures to turn towards a more stable and “responsible” career as well. (this is not to say that people of other races do not feel this same pressure). Or perhaps both of these possiblities are wrong, and there is no “real” reason for the scant Asian representation in the rock world. Perhaps it is all luck and Asians have just been waiting for the chosen one.
Well, the wait just might be up, as the lead singer of the Little Ones, has the opportunity to be the Yao Ming of rock music. Whether or not he will be The One remains uncertain, but last Friday night the Little Ones shimmering pop seemed to convert every Echo Park hipster within a three-mile radius that a Yao Ming-esque ability to post consistent double-doubles lay within the band’s reach. During the course of the band’s performance, the entire band displayed outstanding consistency, focus and a buoyant sense of energy that couldn’t help but make you tap your feet to the incredible catchiness and harmony of the band. After a long moribund stretch where excellent bands were few and far between, the LA rock scene might just be starting to pick up again with the rise of the Cold War Kids and the Little Ones who just might be the best new band in town.
Running through their set with laser-like focus and precision, blending Shins-esque pop songs with just a tint of the post-punk sound that has dominated Indie rock over the last few years, the Little Ones seemed to effortlessly display one of the most difficult things for a band to learn: the ability to write a catchy and intelligent pop song. The songs are simple, well-written three-minutes gems, the ideal soundtrack for summer. The ideal band for Zach Braff to “discover,” throw on a pre-packaged indie mix tape and have sorority girls nationwide humming along too. And I’m not the only one being converted by this band, You Set The Scene (who you already know best covers the LA Music scene. By far) has also named them his favorite LA band right now. Additionally, the band is just beginning to become a darling among the MP3 bloggers on the east coast, garnering write-ups from Coolfer, You Ain’t No Picasso and Yeti Don’t Dance. At the moment, The Little Ones are gearing up to play their first shows outside of LA, with dates scheduled for San Francisco and New York.
They are worth the hype and the all the buzz that has circulated throughout the blog world (because I’m through with the phrase blogosphere) and perhaps most importantly, The Little Ones are worth supporting if for nothing else to make Doug Robb, Hoobastank douchebag, the second most famous Asian American in rock music. Take note of Robert Plant’s words Doug Robb, your time was gonna’ come.
So definitely check them out. You can download free The Littles One’s MP3 from their website here. The entire EP is also quite good and definitely worth the money.
Passion of the Weiss Rating: 8.75 crucifixes out of 10 (Definitely worth checking out)
Also on the bill was veteran pop band, Irving, who released a quite good album this year called Death in the Garden, Blood on the Flowers. Unfortunately, I was not able to stay for their whole set, though from what I saw they put on a very energetic and impressive show as well. I definitely would’ve liked to have seen more.
My only problem with Irving is that one of the band’s guitarists was wearing a boy scout uniform. It was way way too ironic for me to handle. Rather than look cool, he sort of looked like Canteen Boy from that old SNL sketch. Which was just a bit creepy. I kept on waiting for Alec Baldwin to spring out from backstage and try to seduce him. My best advice to Irving, ditch the boy-scout outfit, stick with the good songs. Everything will be fine.
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 7 Comments »
May 17th, 2006
Alex Blagg, one of my favorite bloggers, once wrote an unbelievably hilarious post called “Nobody Cares That You’re A DJ,” in which he basically called out DJ’s for being pretentious, deluded and mostly talentless. It was awesome. But in spite of all the lameness of many DJ’s, I’ve always thought that it looked like a pretty good gig. You get paid substantial sums of money for nothing more than essentially having good taste in music.
Yet being a DJ has other perks: girls generally think you’re much cooler than you are (I’ve heard this from several women whose oninions I highly respect, none named Nicole Richie), you get all sorts of love from the crowd every time you play a half-decent record and did I mention you get paid lots and lots of money for doing very little work (also known as The Passion of the Weiss American dream).
In spite of all the benefits of DJ-ing, I’d never decided to go for it, mainly because it costs way too much time and money. I have other hobbies such as posting vituperative messages on a blog, working on my own creative writings, and balling up Mark Eaton-esque oafs in rec league basketball.
So when my friend Diamond David Gorson approached me to DJ a post Law School Graduation party, I jumped at the opportunity. After all, what says wild times better than a bunch of law students shedding their caps and gowns to cut loose, drink expensive liquor and discuss what day their Bar-Bri courses start on.
Immediately, I knew getting this party off the ground would be tough. First, I didn’t have any DJ equipment. At all. Fuck it, I figured. This is the 21st Century, all you need is an iPod and hopefully I’d be able to do what only MC Lyte had done before: Cold Rock a Party.
So doing my best to impersonate a good DJ, I first took my crowd into consideration. This is Los Angeles. Most adults I know that have good taste in music are hipsters and though I like Sufjan Stevens, I’d want to slit my throat if someone put him on at a party. Besides, there would be no hipsters at this party. Strictly Los Angeles folk, a strange amalgam of Law School grads, old high school friends, business moguls-in-training, and talent agency and entertainment assistants. Then there was me, a person whose party demeanor basically takes one of two forms: either I sit in a corner somewhere, intravenously loading my body with Jack and Coke, or I find a bowl of guacamole and chips and generally orbit it for the duration of the affair.
But while making my playlist, I realized the vast sums of time I’d spent drinking myself into a stupor at parties had paid its dividends. I had subliminally absorbed certain various truths necessary to making the roof of any party get on fire. I was certain that I’d hit upon an esoteric mathematics to being a good DJ, one that DJs rarely shared with amaterurs. This one covert fact protected a coven of disc jockeys worldwide: being a good DJ is kind of easy. All I’d need to do was follow a few rules, play a few songs and the next thing I knew I’d be the next DJ AM, being continually showered with love and affection by celebutantes each and every day.
The Passion of the Weiss Guide to DJ’ing A Los Angeles Party (No Hipster)
The Song By the Flavor of the Month Band (Rap Version)
Gnarls Barkley
Are you sick of these guys yet? Chances are if you’re reading this blog then you definitely are. But you know what? Most people don’t read blogs. Shocking, I know. But this means that 97 percent of the population is not sick of hearing songs off of “St. Elsewhere.” Meaning that if you play the song “Crazy,” chances are people will jump up and down like a bunch of drunken monkeys. Alas, this is an amateur move. Any good DJ would have good taste in music and would seemingly be months ahead of the curve. Any good DJ by now should have been completely tired of hearing Crazy and would probably rather drink a tub of drano than hear it at a party function.
The Pick: “Smiley Faces.” Probably the only song off of St. Elsewhere that I can still listen to, this track is not only upbeat and guaranteed to make people happy, but it just might want to make them both bump and grind. I can’t back that up.
The Song By the Flavor of the Minute Band (Rock Version)
Wolfmother
I don’t know if Wolfmother has sold their souls to the devil, but it seems as though I can’t go anywhere without seeing their lead singer (the dude with the afro) somewhere. Buses, television commercials, Internet ads. I’m pretty sure that one of these days that fool is going to pop up in my dreams. Hopefully, it will involve me kicking his derivitive ass back to Australia. Jones, I know you’re down with this idea.
I’m not sure why Wolfmother is so popular. It’s not that they’re so bad or anything. It’s just that for some reason the band Louis XIV got ripped on for being a complete rip-off of T-Rex, but these guys haven’t been hated on nearly enough for being complete White Stripes imposters. The lead singer’s voice is identical to Jack White’s. I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. But the point is, people seem to love Wolfmother and its guaranteed that playing these guys will score you major points in the non-Hipster scene, though you will be labeled “such a conformist east of Vine. Luckily, the party was west. Score.
The Pick: “The Joker and the Thief.” I can’t deny that I like this song. Just because I don’t like a band doesn’t mean I can’t like some of their songs. I like a few Editors songs too, I just think they’re complete knock-offs.
Other Songs Played that Fit This Category: The Arctic Monkeys, “Fake Tales of San Francisco,” and “Who the Fuck Are Arctic Monkeys.”
That 70s Song
Any good DJ is supposed to have a decent sense of musical history. As 60s music is mostly much too psychadelic and slow to get spinned at a party, the first decade that really made music that you could blow coke to was the 1970s (And as far as I’m concerned the Disco movement should be the greatest anti-cocaine deterrant of all-time)
A lame DJ would play tracks off of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack or something by Donna Summer, or god forbid, Abba.
If you’ve got to go 1970s, only one choice comes to mind. Marc Bolan and T. Rex. Is there a funkier Jewish man ever? I doubt it. And though “Mambo Sun,” or “Jeepster” might be my two favorite T. Rex songs off of the Electric Warrior album, there is only one real party choice.
The Pick: Bang a Gong (Get It On). The band’s biggest single, the song is guaranteed to have been heard by most (though prolly because of the 80s cover of it) and it also is guaranteed to make people bang gongs and get it on. This is unequivocally a good thing.
Other Songs Played That Fit This Category: The Stooges “Search And Destroy,” Blondie’s “Rapture,” The Ramones “Blitzkrieg Bop,” Bob Marley “Jamming” (just because it makes me think of the weed episode of the Simpsons where Chief Wiggum sings along to Jamming in the closing credits)
That 80s Song
For some reason, people seem to really like 80s music. I’m not sure why. As far as I’m concerned the decade only spawned one truly great band in the Smiths and had several very good ones (The Pixies, Sonic Youth, The Replacements are the first that come to my mind). As for the rest, it would take a good 10,000 words to describe my hate for the 80s.
Fitting that Talking Heads, one of my all-time favorite bands only arrived at success in 1984 after having hit their creative peak in years between 1977-1980. But Speaking In Tongues is still a very good album and if I were going to pick a favorite song off of it, I’d surely go with “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody).” But I was trying to be a big-time pretentious DJ, I knew I’d need to pick a sure-fire winner.
The Pick: The Talking Heads “Burning Down The House.” Everyone’ s heard this song. Until about three years ago this was all I knew of the Talking Heads. Shameful, I know. If you play this song at a party, the house might not in fact burn down, but a bunch of former sorority girls are guaranteed to use the phrase “Oh My God, I love this song,” at least three times.
Other Songs Played That Fit This Category: David Bowie “Let’s Dance,” Jane’s Addiction “Been Caught Stealing,” The Clash, “Rock The Casbah.”
The “If Anyone Recognizes This They Will Hopefully Think That I’m a Good DJ” Song
In 1997, a rather dumb Jon Lovitz movie called “High School High,” came and went in theaters without making very much noise. You may recall the commercials that aired involving the song “Rhinestone Cowboy,” (I’m sure MF Doom did when he made a song with the same name). However, what most people don’t know about High School High is that it had an unbelievably great soundtrack that probably only about 87 people in America purchased. The soundtrack was practically a who’s who of late 90s hip-hop with tracks from Pete Rock & The Large Professor, L’il Kim and The Notorious B.I.G., De La Soul, KRS-One, A Tribe Called Quest, Sadat X and Grand Puba, Scarface, Inspectah Deck, and The Roots.
But perhaps my favorite song off the album and the Pick was a Rza, Method Man, Capadonna gem entitled “Wu-Wear: The Garment Renaissance.” The song was essentially a four minute commercial for Wu-Tang’s brand of clothing, Wu-Wear, but it was maybe the best four minute clothing commercial song ever made. Take notes Jack White. Figuring that anyone who heard this song would inevitably have a pleasant moment of nostalgia that took them back to a simpler and more Jon Lovitz-friendly time, I decided to throw it on the iPod. Even if no one recognized it, I hoped to subliminally inspire a bunch of former law students to wear Wu-Wear.
Other Songs Played That Fit This Category: Beck “Tropicalia,” The Avalanches “Since I Left You,” Gang Starr, “Dwyck,” Souls of Mischief “Cab Fare,” Camp Lo “Luchini (This is It), Tha Liks, “Run Wild,” The Roots, “Concerto of the Desperado,” Slick Rick “Street Talkin,” “Soul Position “Hand Me Downs,” Chef Raekwon, “Ice Cream,” Black Star, “Definition.”
The Wild Card Song
The wild card song is the song that in all likelihood no one at a Los Angeles party has heard. You aren’t playing the song to make anyone dance or get all happy and dumb. You’re basically playing it because you like a band and are hoping that someone might actually go up to you and ask what’s playing and might buy the record (or at least illegally download it).
Wild cards are few and far between and should only be employed in great moments of self-indulgency. Luckily, self-indulgence is something I’m well-versed in. I was a natural.
The Pick: Wolf Parade’s “Disco Sheets.” Wolf Parade’s “Disco Sheets.” My favorite song off of their EP, Disco Sheets is just a great song and surprisingly very upbeat for Wolf Parade. Even if you aren’t a big Wolf Parade fan, this song is worth checking out.
Other Songs Played That Fit This Category: Voxtrot “The Start of Something,”
The Nate Dogg Song
If Wolfmother didn’t make a deal with the devil than in all certainty Nate Dogg did. In terms of musicians who who never dropped even one good album, Nate Dogg has definitely been a part of more outstanding songs than anyone. I don’t know exactly what it is. His voice isn’t particularly excellent. Its not bad or anything, but you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who doesn’t think a guy like D’Angelo could technically blow him out of the water. But seriously, if you put Nate Dogg on a song it is almost guaranteed to be a hit. People love Nate Dogg. Hell, I even liked Chico and Coolwadda’s “Girl You Make My High Come Down,” for a couple of weeks in the summer of 2001 just because of Nate Dogg.
The Pick: “Regulate.” Do I even need to explain why I picked Regulate? Is there anyone who doesn’t know the start of the song by heart? Is it safe that say that Michael McDonald only existed for this sample alone? Probably. If you didn’t like this song when it came out then you may have no soul. It was that good. Sure, it might be a little played out. But you’d be lying to say that after a half a dozen beers you wouldn’t at least crack a smile and maybe even rap along when this song came on.
Other Songs Played That Fit This Category: Dr. Dre “Xxplosive.”
The “Hey I Remember Liking This Indie Song When They Played it On the OC And/Or a Car Commercial And/Or MTV”
Face it, most people don’t find out about songs from the Internet. Sure, a highly educated class of people compulsively surfs blogs, Pitchfork, Stylus and a few other sources to get their musical info, but a hell of a lot of people learn about music from television advertisements and yes, the OC. Think about the audience for this type of programming. Tens of millions of people watch television every single day. How many people look at blogs. A few thousand. How many people read Pitchfork? Maybe 100,000 tops? Nothing compares to television’s power to break a band. Sad but true.
However, not all the music that breaks through this way is bad. In this day and age it’s tough to criticize a struggling indie musician who wants to feed himself and decides to sell a song for use in a commercial. Its not ideal, but hey, neither is the music industry and anyone who opts for creative control rather than sound scan is numbers is going to have to find a way to pay the bills somehow.
The Pick: Spoon, “I Turn My Camera On,” Is this the best Spoon song ever? No. But it’s a great song and I guarantee you getting played in a Jaguar commercial gave Britt Daniel and Co. the best exposure they’ve ever received. Which means that if you play a song like this at a law school graduation party, you’ll probably get a whole lot of future lawyers very excited about buying their first Jaguar. Everyone wins. Sort of.
Other Songs Played That Fit This Category: Black Keys, “10:00 A.M. Automatic,” Franz Ferdinand “I’m Your Villain/Take Me Out,” Bloc Party “Banquet,” MIA, “Amazon,” (the only great song off of a terrible album), My Morning Jacket “Off the Record,” The Walkmen “The Rat,” Tom Vek, “I Ain’t Saying My Goodbyes,” The Strokes “You Only Live Once,” (this song being sold is just a matter of time), The White Stripes “7 Nation Army.”
The Snoop Dogg Song
If you think you can get away with DJing a party in Los Angeles without playing at least one Snoop Dogg song, you can’t. People love Snoop Dogg. Again, I’m not sure why. The man hasn’t made a half-way decent album in 12 years but it doesn’t matter, people still buy this crap. But in many ways you can separate a good Dj from a bad one by which Snoop Dogg song he picks.
A bad DJ is guaranteed to play “Drop It Like It’s Hot,” because it’s Snoop’s most recent hit and it’s guaranteed to get people on the dance floor. Such DJs forget one unmistakable fact: this song sucks. I’m sorry but having a guy clucking his tongue in the background does not make a beat. It makes you lazy and untalented. Or it just makes you Pharell Williams who is at the very least just untalented.
A bad DJ is also guaranteed to play “Ain’t No Fun If The Homies Can’t Have None.” While this is an objectively good song, nothing makes me more annoyed than when dumb girls sing along to it, not even paying attention to the lyrics. Seriously, if I have to watch one more sorority girl sing along to Nate Dogg lyrics like, “Because you gave me all your pussy and you even licked my balls,” one more time, I’m going to go completely insane.
The Pick: “Doggy Dogg World,” off of the Doggystyle album. One of Snoop’s best songs ever and one that didn’t get too overplayed in the mid-90s. It still sounds great and almost everyone has heard it. A painless way to get over the Snoop Dogg conundrum.
The Dr. Dre Song
Just as you need a Snoop song, you need a Dre song. Its like having bread without butter. Fish without water. Lox without a bagel, tomato, onions and capers. Unlike Snoop’s “oeuvre”, Dr. Dre is much harder to fuck up, but in reality there is only one Dre song that NEEDS to be played
But you never how a DJ might fuck up. They very well could go with something off of the wildly overrated Chronic 2001 album. Something that just hasn’t held up very well like “Still Dre,” “Fuck You,” or “The Next Episode.”
The Pick: The obvious choice and the right choice. “Nuthin’ But A G-Thing.” This song was a gateway drug for millions of people into the world of rap. The sample is still as brilliant today as it was then. Snoop Dogg would never again sound as cool and confident. This has to be one of the best rap songs ever made. Easy.
The Outkast Song
You can spot a lame DJ a mile away by their burning desire to play the song “Hey Ya,” even though everyone and their mother is sick of that song. I’ll even bet that most people’s grandmothers are even sick of that song. If I had my druthers I’d never hear that song ever again. At one point I heard it simultaneously being played on three different Los Angeles radio stations.
A lame DJ who thinks he’s being crafty will dig a little deeper and play a cut off of Stankonia, perhaps “Miss Jackson,” or “So Fresh So Clean.”
But to get to an Outkast song that hasn’t been played to death you have to dig very deep, past even “Rosa Parks,” (which I’ll prolly be ready to hear again in three years from today) to perhaps the best Outkast party song ever made.
The Pick: “Player’s Ball.” I get upset sometimes thinking that the average music fan hasn’t heard anything by Outkast prior to Aquemini, if they’ve even heard that. AtLiens is probably my favorite rap album ever made, probably the closest thing I’ve heard to sonic perfection in my lifetime (and yes this most definitely includes Ok Computer). Their first album is also absurdly good. This track was the single off of Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik, a classic by any measure. If anyone out there does not have the first two Outkast albums, I can’t recommend them enough.
The Stone Cold Classic
There are just some songs that you know will be played in 50 years at parties. Songs too good to not play over and over again. Certified classics have become ingrained in our musical canon and almost everyone knows every word to them. Yet no matter how much we hear them, it’s almost impossible for a DJ not to play them at a party. It’s as though your house was being broken into by an armed intruder and you had a .44 lying next to you. You just have to use it no matter what.
Out of all of the classic songs guaranteed to get any party audience amped, none are better than this one:
The Pick: Digital Underground’s “The Humpty Dance.”
All you really need to know is that his name is Humpty. He’s really funny looking. But that’s all right because he gets things cooking. Damn right, he gets things cooking. Very much like Poochie from the Simpsons, Humpty gets bizzay, consistently and thoroughly. How did Digital Underground make such a great song? I’m not sure, because even though they made a few other gems (Doowhatyalike, Same Song, Kiss You Back) nothing approaches the level of genius of The Humpty Dance. Don’t act like you haven’t lip synced this song at least once in your life. I know you have.
Other Songs Played That Fit This Category: Ice Cube “Bop Gun (One Nation),” Naughty By Nature “Hip Hop Hooray,” The Notorious BIG “Big Poppa,” The Pharcyde “Passin’ Me By,” Sublime, “40 Oz. to Freedom/Smoke 2 Joints,” Wu-Tang Clan, “Triumph,” A Tribe Called Quest, “Scenario.”
The Final Verdict:
So after all this labor, all this analysis, and all of my neuroses, I show up to the party about two hours late, after another law school dinner goes incredibly long and a friend gives me a wrong set of directions. It’s 11:00 p.m., but I rush to the event, certain that my music was going to turn the party into something of Studio 54-eaque proportion. I was sure that much like the music played by Bill and Ted’s band Wyld Stallions, I would re-align the planets and cause world peace. Or at the very least get a couple people paying enough attention to remark, “Hey, someone’s playing some cool music.”
But as soon as I arrived, I discovered the sound was terrible. My music was pretty much only audible in one room, where a half dozen people milled around. On top of that, as soon as I arrived, half of the party left in one fell swoop. Apparently, they were going to the Lobby, another cookie-cutter trendy and hyper-exclusive Los Angeles nightclub. And me? I did what I always do, hightail it to the bar to receive a steady pipeline of strong drink. That’s Los Angeles for you. As soon as you arrive somewhere, everyone thinks that there’s somewhere else that’s infinitely better. It’s the nature of the beast. The party itself was fun and the mix of music was as good as I’d hoped it would be (at least in my eyes.) But all in all, one thing became abundantly clear: no one cared that I was a DJ.
Posted in Are You From the Lester Bangs School of Thought?, Best Of | 10 Comments »
May 15th, 2006
I’ve said it once, I’ve said it twice. Something was terribly awry with American culture in the early 90s. As strange and dysfunctional as American pop culture in the year 2006 seems to me, nothing can compare to the unbelievably bizarre clothing, hair, and music that somehow managed to dominate this strange nether-period between the excess and greed of the cocaine-drenched 1980s and the dot.com/boy band boom period of the later Clinton years. Yet out of all the profound weirdness that epitomized the 90s, nothing seems stranger than the phenomenon of Right Said Fred.
Certain events in history are constantly analyzed to figure out how and why they occurred : George Bush becoming President of the United States, the Holocaust, the unbelievably unwarranted rise to success of the Black Eyed Peas, but no one has effectively scrutinized why the pop star wunderkinds known as Right Said Fred, became the biggest band in America during the summer of 1991. Oh, sure people made fun of Right Said Fred at the time. They still do. All the time. But making fun of Right Said Fred is very similar to making fun of Chris Martin, it’s cheap, easy, and ultimately very satisfying. And yet, it’s easy to figure out why people like Coldplay. The members of the band are vaguely talented and Chris Martin is a nice stand-in for people who find Thom Yorke too intellectually taxing (and for the record Thom Yorke is far from a Mensa candidate).
Ultimately, the question remains: how in God’s name did Right Said Fred, perhaps the most flamboyantly homosexual act since the Culture Club, storm to the top of the charts with a song called “I’m Too Sexy,” and no one even questioned how a song this terrible, this weird, and so incredibly stupid could become the most popular song in the entire nation (it did hit #1 on the American charts, not to mention #2 in Britain behind Bryan “Canada Has Repeatedly Apologized For Me,” Adams). Are to believe that at any time, a song and a video like Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy,” is just waiting to strike? Are we to believe that tomorrow, two young British men have the potential to wake up and draft a song and music video featuring them flexing in mesh see through-tees. This is too much for me to handle.
What people don’t seem to realize about Right Said Fred’s shocking rise to popularity is that people went out and actually bought their record and watched their video. Sometime in 1991, millions of normally thinking Americans heard “I’m Too Sexy,” on the radio or MTV and said to themselves, “Hmm…this is a pretty good song. These Right Said Fred boys are okay. I think Ima’ go to the Wherehouse and pick up their album. I hope there are some more gems like “I’m Too Sexy On It.”
Americans are normally a very homophobic people yet somehow they side-stepped all their prejudices and rushed to purchase an album made by two brothers whose sole attempt to claim musical legitimacy seems to involve lines like “I’m too sexy for my cat.” 15 years later we’re viciously fighting over whether or not gay marriage should be legalized, but not too long ago, American culture had no problem embracing two men who brag about “shaking their little tush on the catwalk.” Huh? (Side note: The usage of the word “tush” in a song automatically nullifies any chance it may have of being a decent song. See “Tush” by Ghostface Killah and Missy “Rosie O’ Donnell of rap” Elliot. However, this rule does not apply to ZZ Top.)
But perhaps the most fascinating thing about Right Said Fred isn’t the cultural tidal wave that they began (what tidal wave? I’m getting to it), but that the members of Right Said Fred, Limey brothers Fred and Richard Fairbrass were actually accomplished musicians before starting a band that gave off the appearance of being born in a Berlin S&M dungeon. Apparently, Fred Fairbrass, the singer in the group went on tour at one point with Bob Dylan (this really is true). I can just imagine the conversations that must’ve gone on between Freddy F. and Bobby D.
Right Said Fred: “Bobby, I’ve got this great idea. Me and my brother are going to start this group called Right Said Fred. Our first single is going to be called “I’m Too Sexy,” and the lyrics will involve me telling millions of people how not only I am too sexy for New York but that I’m also too sexy for Japan. What do you think? Does this spell hit or what?”
Dylan: It’s no “It’s Alright Ma, I’m Only Bleeding,” but it’s close. It’s definitely very close.
However Freddy wasn’t the only brother with musical bona fides as his brother Richard (who I’ll bet dollars to donuts went by the nickname Dick) played bass with David Bowie and Mick Jagger on tour. Potential screenwriters start your engines now!
And now for the cultural ramifications that you’ve all been waiting for. You see, at first, I didn’t get how Right Said Fred had occured, thinking their success to be an outgrowth of the culture at large, rather than seeing them as bold new vanguards of a cultural shift. I was wrong. If anything, Right Said Fred were innovators. Studying the lyrics and the video of “I’m Too Sexy” reveals it to be a not-so-clever satire of models. Think of it as a poorly done prototype for Zoolander. To the lazy observer, one might think of Right Said Fred and models and think that there’s nothing more to the equation. However, 1991 is widely held as the dawn of the Supermodel era , and while there were supermodels prior to 1991, nothing compared to the adulation and attention that supermodels received in the period between 1991 and 1997 (when it is assumed that the era ended). The reason for this trend is simple: Right Said Fred.
Take into account the success of “I’m Too Sexy,” and then think of the waves that it sent through the music and fashion industries. Dare you think of a little 1992 knock-off hit called “Supermodel,” by she-male Rupaul. Or how about the sudden rise to fame of Cindy Crawford, Linda Evangelista, Elle McPherson, and Claudia Schieffer. Tyra Banks, Naomi Campbell and Cristy Turlington. How about the ill-fated and much hyped Fashion Cafe, that featured the financial support of Turlington, McPherson, Schieffer and Campbell. Or how about a little 1994 movie that esteemed director Robert Altman did about the supermodel phenomenon called Pret A Porter. One can ascribe a variety of reasons for the madness that ensued during these years, but the answer is simple: Right Said Fred.
Oh sure, today there are supermodels that exist today, but one can’t claim that they occupy the same space in the American zeitgeist that they did in the mid-90s. Perhaps this is a good thing. After all, who really cares about super models? But for a shining moment in time, Right Said Fred certainly cared about supermodels. They cared about walking on the catwalk. They cared about cats. We are in a very volatile time in America. There is war, rising interest rates, creeping inflation, gas shortages, but most importantly, we are living on the brink. At any time, Right Said Fred could return, or even worse, a Right Said Fred imposter, waiting to unleash some sort of fashion extravaganza on the unsuspecting vigilance. The moral of the story is thus: we must be vigilant people. You never know when the next Pussycat Dolls song might start a revolution. At arms.
However, one might wonder what the lasting impact of Right Said Fred was on the American cultural landscape. It would seem that since the supermodel trend is long-since over, any impact that Right Said Fred might’ve been washed away in the tide with the rest of pop culture flotsam and jetsam. Again, this is wrong. One only needs to watch a little movie called “The Pacifier” to see the impact of Right Said Fred. Have the men of Right Said Fred ever been seen in the same room with Vin Diesel? I think not. It seems that almost every time we got to the multi-plex these days to see an amiable movie about a guy who doubles as a spy/babysitter (genius) we see Right Said Fred. Apparently, they weren’t too sexy for the movies.
Posted in Are You From the Lester Bangs School of Thought?, Best Of | 15 Comments »
May 10th, 2006
Local doctors have announced that they have diagnosed the first-ever-recorded case of a man becoming clinically depressed for a social networking website. The man in question, 24-year old Woodland Hills resident, Michael Hale, recently checked into the psychiatric unit of Holy Cross Hospital, due to massive symptoms of depression and potential suicidal tendencies.
“At first, I thought my depression was due to the fact that I was living in the Valley, but as it went on and on, I realized that it was a lot more than that,” the formerly gregarious and social 24-year old said. “I slowly began to understand that my malaise had deeper roots to it. It all had to do with my love of Friendster and my hate for the this beastly behemoth known as Myspace.”
According to patient records, symptoms of Hale’s depression began to pop up approximately six months ago, when Hale began to struggle in the local bar scene.
“I’ll be honest, there isn’t that much of a local bar scene to begin with, but everything began to take a turn for the worse when I’d start to approach girls in bars. We’d start talking, I’d buy them a drink and the conversation would casually drift. Soon, I’d find myself asking them if they had a Friendster account. But they only laughed at me and asked me why I didn’t switch to Myspace. I’d tell them that I didn’t want one. When I said that, they’d just laugh at me and tell me that I wasn’t cool. I’d ask them how being on Myspace could make anyone cool. And they told me that I just didn’t get it.”
Doctors say that most people who don’t suffer from clinical depression would’ve just given in and registered for a Myspace account. But not Hale.
“After his continued rejection from females, Mr. Hale only became more steadfast in his appreciation of Friendster,” distinguished psychiatrist Marvin Monroe III, said. “It seems that he developed an obsession with the fading fortunes of this online social network.”
But Hale believes that he is just mis-understood in his defense of the merits of Friendster.
“People just don’t understand. There’s no real difference between the two. Its all just a clever scheme to get you to switch. They make you think that you’re cool just because you have a Myspace account. That’s their whole gimmick. They’re just trying to sell you shit, don’t you understand? It’s all a marketing vehicle, it’s all a marketing vehicle” Hale ranted.
Hale continued his diatribe by further emphasizing the benefits of Friendster and how it is evolving.
“People just don’t get it, it’s a whole new Friendster. They send me these e-mails all the time. Now you can comment on photos and leave personalized captions and you can even rate them. Can you rate people’s photos on Myspace? Hah! I don’t think so,” Hale said.
However, some of Hale’s friends expressed doubts about his persistence in touting the benefits of Friendster.
“Mikey’s got pretty weird lately. All he wants to talk about is how much he hates Myspace. I’ve tried to tell him that it isn’t as bad as he thinks it is. I’ve discovered a lot of cool bands on it, and I’ve met tons of chicks. I’ve hooked up with at least six girls just because of Myspace. Seriously,” Johnny Santino, Hale’s friend and an MBA student at Cal-State Northridge said. “I don’t see what his problem is. All of those really hot girls fill out surveys on Myspace and then you can totally find out all these really personal things about them. After that, all you have to do is talk to them and pretend like you’re into all the crap that they’re into. You don’t know how many chicks I’ve told that I like The Notebook. And I hate that movie! It works every time.”
Indeed, doctors seem to baffled over Hale’s condition, professing ignorance to the ways in which they can help.
“The first step is you have to want to help yourself,” Monroe III continued. “If I could give Michael any advice it would be that maybe he should just stop using any and all on-line social networks. The whole thing is probably just a waste of time anyway. Maybe he should take up a new hobby, like reading or something a little more valuable than cyber-stalking his ex-girlfriends. That sort of stuff is not healthy.”
But Hale declared that he will neither give up his Friendster activities, nor will he join Myspace. He also denied the doctor’s assertions that he’d been overly scrutinizing his ex-girlfriends’ profiles.
“I don’t see where he got that bullshit from. Okay, so maybe a couple times I logged onto a friend’s Myspace account to see if any of my exes were on the site. It was only because they weren’t on Friendster, even though I invited them to join a few times. Whatever, they’re just stupid,” Hale said. “It doesn’t matter. I’m gonna’ stay on Friendster until I die. It’s gonna’ make a comeback, I can feel it. Their server has even gotten a little bit faster. Now Myspace will never win.”
But according to Myspace president Tom Anderson, Hale might not have an option.
“He’s wrong. We’ll win. We always do. You remember that Puff Daddy song, “Can’t Nobody Hold Me Down?” We’re very similar to that in that we can’t stop, we won’t stop and quite frankly, we don’t even know how to stop,” Anderson said.
Posted in The Fakest News in Town | 2 Comments »
May 9th, 2006
The scene: 7:15 p.m inside a gymnausium at an Adult League basketball game held at Fairfax High School. A lanky 24-year old whose hair seems to be hoping to channel Bob Dylan circa 1965 steps to the line to shoot the first of two free throws. His team is up by 10 in the first half.
The gym is empty, save for a score-keeper, the players, two referees and a whopping total of four spectators there to watch the rec league game. As the player (me…obvs), steps to shoot the free-throw, suddenly one of the previously quiet spectators cackles, “You fucking suck, you scumbag.”
Being loudly called a scumbag in the midst of the free-throw throws me off a bit and I miss long. I turn around to stare at the voice that has just called me a “scumbag.” It’s an average-looking, unfashionably dressed girl who looks like she’d just stepped out of a library where she’d been reading Jane Austen novels all day long. She seemed to be the girlfriend of the team’s opposing center, a lumbering Greg Ostertag-like goon who despite standing 6′6″ was getting d’ed up by the 6′2″ defensive specialist/blogger extraordinaire, Jones on the NBA.
As I step to shoot the second free-throw, the Greg Ostertag-clone/boyfriend of said heckler (who only had the game of Ostertag, but more closely resembled former Utah Jazz center, Mark Eaton), says very loudly, “this guy can’t shoot free throws. He sucks.”
I sink the second free throw.
For the remainder of the game, despite the fact that his team is losing the entirety of the game, despite the fact that he is getting shut down by a guy four inches shorter, despite the fact that he can’t hit a shot further then six-feet from the basket, Ostertag/Eaton continues to talk shit to not just me, not just Jones, but also Crockett, who he keeps telling, “I want to see you shoot, bitch. I want to see you shoot.” Not a smart move. Crockett has a deadly 15-footer.
But its not just him, every time I step to the free-throw line, his girlfriend has developed a sinister hate for me and starts spewing different epithets to insult me.
“You fucking suck…What a fucking loser…Boo, 24 is terrible!!!”
Resisting my urge to charge up into the stands and pull a Ron Artest, only one thought floated through my mind: what the fuck is wrong with people!! Who feels the need to talk shit during a rec league basketball game, let alone to tell his woman to start heckling too. I can understand talking shit during a high school or college basketball game. Hell, If I had a dollar for every time I talked trash back during a high school game, I certainly wouldn’t be blogging right now. But this guy and his woman looked like they sold sub-prime mortgages for a living. They weren’t street. They weren’t hard-core. And despite their best efforts to dissuade themselves otherwise, they certainly weren’t “gully.”
Seriously, if you talk shit during a rec league basketball game, stop. Now. You aren’t cool. You’re playing in an adult league. You’re about as far from the NBA as Chris Martin is at convincing me that Coldplay is a good band. Stop. Think about it. You probably work 65 hours a week and I know that playing hoops is the time when you’re gonna’ “blow off all that steam,” but you aren’t LeBron James, you’re a goofy looking white guy who shows up to every game wearing the same faded headband. Shut the fuck up.
And if anyone out there thinks its cool that his woman was “down for the cause,” because she was talking shit too, she wasn’t. First off, it would only impress me if the girl was cute. But since her looks hovered somewhere between abject mediocrity and “maybe if I had about 4 drinks,” the only thing impressing me was this couple’s stupidity. There’s nothing more bad-ass than heckling your boyfriend’s opponent when there are 12 people inside a gym at a poorly played recreation-league game. Nothing!!
I have probably only played basketball against 10 people in my life who had the right to talk trash. All of them played DI basketball or could have. Dropping a consistent 12 points and 10 boards when league’s median height is 5′11″ does not give you that right. Sorry. And I don’t feel this way because of any lack of basketball ability. I probably consistently average 18 points and 10 rebounds a game in every rec league I play in. But do I talk shit? No. Because ultimately, I realize that I’m only good in the context of the fact that the average person just isn’t very good at basketball.
So the moral of the story is don’t talk shit. You don’ t look dope. You look disastrous. And as for the game, of course I’m fouled with about 27 seconds left. It’s a one and one and my team is up three. I approach the line..
“This guy will fucking brick it. He’s such a loser. He can’t hit a fucking thing.”
Swish.
“Scumbag!!! Loser!! You suck!!!”
Swish.
We win by five points.
And ultimately, as I’m leaving I get one last good look at the couple and shake my head and laugh, knowing that in 15 years that poor sap and his girlfriend will be that one set of parents at every Little League game that no one wants to sit next to. Their poor child will be embarassed that his parents will be retards and I’ll be there laughing …mainly because my son will smash on their little miniature Mark Eaton-esque offspring. And be able to sarcastically mock them while doing so.
Posted in It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 12 Comments »
May 8th, 2006
It’s an overcast Monday afternoon here in Los Angeles and I’m having an epic struggle to remember what I did this weekend. In general, I suppose that qualifies as a good thing. I do remember that I saw the Islands show which was most triumphant (reviews later this week) and also managed to watch the Lakers get viciously throttled by the Suns, proving once again that Kobe Bryant is not Michael Jordan by any stretch of the imagination.
Obviously, Kobe is an amazing player, one who was clearly deserving of this year’s MVP award, or so I thought until the second half of Game 7. (and for the record, if you don’t think race was involved in giving Steve Nash back-to-back MVPs then you’re deluding yourself) However, anyone who thinks Michael Jordan would’ve let his team get hammered by a mediocre Phoenix Suns team in a Game 7 has clearly been smoking something amazingly potent. In which case, send me an e-mail with such highly classified information. At any rate, how can anyone argue that Kobe deserved the MVP or deserves a stature worthy of Jordan when he took only three shots and scored one point in the second half. Sorry, Jones, this year’s playoffs thus far have only proved one thing, Lebron James deserved the MVP. Case closed.
But enough with all this basketball nonsense, its a Monday, it’s dull, work sucks…I’m aware of these facts. And being the compassionate blogger I am, what’s better than making sarcastic remarks about news stories that have caught my attention over the past week or so. Okay, so a lot of things are better than that, but I’m not getting paid for this, so deal.
1) Seemingly proving my theory correct, Pitchfork opts not to give another much-touted CD, the Best New Music designation, as Gnarls Barkley’s “St. Elsewhere,” scores just a 7.7. Granted this score seemed a bit high for a CD with one brilliant song, one very good song, two pretty good ones and 8 mediocre tracks, but I’m pretty sure that if it came out a year ago, Pitchfork would’ve given it Kanye West-sized hype. Don’t even get me started on how “Late Registration,” received a 9.5 from them. I don’t have hours to waste.
2) Definitely check out the Crock Tock blog for his take on the 10 worst rap verses of all time. The list makes a point of singling out some “great” rappers for some of their dumbest lines ever. As always, Crock drops lines that will infuriate some, but check it out and post your picks for worst lyrics of all time in the comments section. I’ve already got it started for Dr. Dre’s ridiculous rap on “Express Yourself,” where he claims he doesn’t smoke weed or cess because it will give him brain damage. Within two years, he dropped an album called “The Chronic.” You may have heard it. Hypocrisy 1, Andre 0
3) 50 Cent has started a new beef, this time with Oprah. According to an interview with the AP, 50 claims that “Winfrey rarely invites rappers on her show and that she caters to older white women.” 50 Cent then when on to state later in the interview that he believed that George Bush caters to mainly rich older white men, his own music caters mainly to 13-year old white suburban kids and that delicatessens cater mainly to an elderly Jewish clientele. The man is calling out names!!
4) Slug, the rapper from Atmosphere sits down with the Onion’s A.V. Club and sets his iPod on random. Things I did not expect to learn from the interview: Slug likes the Pixies, hangs out and regularly gets drunk with Tom Waits, is a huge Built to Spill fan and gets high with Craig Finn, lead singer of the Hold Steady. Things that I expected would occur in the interview: Slug mentions an ex-girlfriend. I think Slug must have a clause in his contract to mention an ex-girlfriend once every seven sentences, or else Epitaph will drop him.
5) If you want to read another take on Coachella, the NY Times goes West to see what those crazy Californians are up to. Predictably, the review is elitist (it manages to use the word mavens, contextualized, and the phrase “letter-perfect late disco.) I’m so happy that the NY Times reporters all scored 800s on the verbal portion of the SAT. If only, they learned a little something called taste then perhaps they’d be alright. Sorry guys, Madonna is not a clinical analyst of music from the 1970s and 1980s. But her producers might be. She isn’t a musician. She’s a pop star. Buy a fucking clue.
6) Brandon Flowers, who seems to be in the running with Kanye West and Bono to be the musician that can make the most asanine statements to the press has declared that the new Killers CD “is one of the best albums of the last 20 years. There’s nothing that touches this album.” Kurt Cobain then promptly rolled over in his grave and shot himself in the head again.
But seriously, if you read this article, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the album won’t be good. First off, he cites Springsteen as the album’s primary influence. Beyond the fact that I don’t like Springsteen and likely never will, a true artist would dig deeper and listen to whomever inspired Springsteen. Pete Seeger would be a good start. But this just doesn’t go for imitations like the Killers who think music history started in 1975, look at a copy-cat band like Wolfmother. Their sound indicates a careful study of the White Stripes, Led Zep and Black Sabbath. But take a look at a true artist like Jack White. He isn’t studying Robert Plant. He’s studying Son House, Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf. That being said, another reason why the album won’t be good: it has a song entitled: “Where the White Boys Dance.” I assume it’s about West Hollywood.
7) Speaking of talent-less musicians with overly inflated egos, the President of Cash Money Records/man who makes 50 Cent look like Ghostface, L’il Wayne, has declared that he’s the “Kobe Bryant of hip-hop.” Which I hope means that his next album will go out with a whimper in the first round/week of sales.
And just so my readers don’t think that I’m some sort of obsessive Pitchfork fan, here’s a perfect example of when they screw-up, as they give Kanye West’s “Mission Impossible,” song a 3.5 stars review. Go to the site and stream the song, its awful. I can’t deny that Kanye West has and is capable of making decent songs, but at this point his production style seems awfully tired. How much talent does it really take to sample an old soul song and slap a break-beat over it? His style has become a caricture of itself and this song proves it.
9) According to this LA Times op/ed: Puffing marijuana is the best medicine. The source, Dr. Lester Grinspoon, an emeritus professor of psychiatry at Harvard University Medical School, or as he’s affectionately known in these parts: my hero.
10) Read Ia
It’s unquestioned dogma at this point that the proliferation of MP3 blogs and online music criticism sites has been a boon for indie bands, as people are increasingly turning to the Internet to find out about new music. In fact, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! and Arcade Fire probably should have tithed a percentage of their album sales to Ryan “Pitchfork” Schreiber personally. This isn’t to say that both of their albums weren’t outstanding. They were. It’s just that prior to the Internet, the idea of a Merge Records group and an unsigned band garnering such buzz after one album was unthinkable. This trend seems perfectly tailored to indie music, which had typically struggled to play catch-up with the marketing and distribution muscle of the major labels.
discussing their first gig in LA, last year at the Silverlake Lounge, where they ended up losing $350. Suddenly, one year later, they had seemingly arrived, getting to play in one of LA’s most fabled venues. Unfortunately, the larger setting proved one unescapable fact: the band isn’t ready yet for prime-time. Despite the impressive lyrical and musical chops displayed on the album, the band hasn’t yet devised a stage show to match. Immediately, after taking the stage, concert-going partner/expert basketball blogger/Matisyahu expert Nate Jones, turned to me and could only exclaim one thing over and over again: “I can’t believe how bad they sound.”
Definitely the highlight of the evening, the Eagle Rock-based Silversun Pickups came on first and delivered a taut yet raucuous 35 minute set. Running through tracks off of last year’s Pikul EP and from their upcoming LP Carnavas (which from what I hear is outstanding) , the Pickups blew me and Jones away. Then again, if you’ve lived in LA for the last three or four years, it’s been almost impossible not to see the Silversun Pickups, who seemingly play every two weeks in this town. (I’m pretty sure they must get their mail at Spaceland and The Echo.)
And the sound. Well, they like the Smashing Pumpkins. A lot. Not in the derivative, I’m trying to copy their sound sort of way. But in the inspired and influenced by sort of way. The comparisons are un-mistkable. Brian Aubert, the Pickups’ lead singer sounds quite a bit like Billy Corgan, especially live and both Nate and I independently came to the Pumpkins conclusion. If you add the fact that both the Pumpkins and the Pickups have the same intials and a female bassist in both bands, and well, the comparisons seem to make more sense. (side-confession: the Pickups also get bonus points for having a cute girl in the band).
Somehow, the “oh, we’re so edgy in our press kit” band pictured above managed to headline this show, despite being preceded by two bands wildly more talented than they are. If I were Elefant lead singer, Diego Garcia, I’d probably cry myself to sleep every night, knowing that I had to be on tour with two bands whose worst songs are still legions better than my best ones.
