In one hundred years historians and anthropologists will undoubtedly study the phenonemon of the genus, homo habilus hipstericus, taking great lengths to analyze how such a species cropped up in various metropolitan areas around the turn of the 21st century. And when they do, they will regard the video posted above as the the Rosetta Stone of hipster-dom. Yes, this shaky homemade footage will surely be scrutinized down to each and every detail to properly assess the nature of the urban hipster. Behold concert footage of the band Man Man playing recently at the 2006 Siren Festival, in the burough of Brooklyn, the Jerusalem of hipster-dom.
When God gave his 10 Hipster Commandments to the Hipsters, there was no debate over what the first commandment would be: thou shalt be ironic. Inevitably, to express their desire to appease the aforementioned hipster God (rumored to be Dov Charney), ironic hipster bands needed to emerge to fill the gaping hipster psychic void that has occured in this foul year of our lord, 2006. A year when the hipster nation has been plagued by a disturbance in the force, caused by dissent in the ranks of Fiery Furances fans. Yes, word has circulated through theranks that the Fiery Furnaces might no longer have what it takes to cause a headache in 30 seconds flat. Luckily, for hipsters, a new deity has emerged: the great Man Man here to save the day.
Definitive Proof That It is Possible to Both Suck and Blow Simultaneously (pic.via You Ain’t No Picasso)
Please… examine the video…listen to the atonal clashing lack of rhythm and of course note the special markings of a hipster band: everyone wearing headbands, check, mustaches, check and short shorts check. Looking like a 1970’s porn star on the way to a tennis match, check. Alright, time to rock N’ roll.
Even the interview with the lead singer of the band, Honus Honus (real name Ryan Kattner…the homies called him the Big Kat) is ironic. When asked what he does for a living Honus Honus replies:
“I work in a cockfighting ring,” he tells Flagpole from his Philadelphia home. “I actually prep the cocks. It’s actually quite a dangerous job, because if you get a cock too riled up, it’ll fuck your cheek up. I had a cock cut my neck once and it nearly got my jugular. It’s a brutal sport, but the odds are good. Plus, there’s nothing like a rewarding meal after a long day of fluffing fighting cocks.”
If It Doesn’t Say Honus Wagner Than It’s Not the Real Thing
Translation: I have a trust fund. I know that a lot of people with good taste in music like this band. I’m not sure why. Just because someone’s weird it doesn’t mean they’re brilliant. I guarantee if you gave me a guitar, a trumpet, some pots and pans, some feathers, a tube of toothpaste, a handle-bar mustache and four jerk-offs plucked from Last Night’s Partyand if all of us starting banging them around in a spastic off-kilter rhythm, I could go to Brooklyn and convince someone in Williamsburg that I was the second coming of Jesus Christ or at least The Liars. The point is, I wouldn’t do that. Because it’s a whole lot easier to make purposely bad ironic/weird music than it is to learn to play the guitar well or to write songs. But why learn to write songs with harmony when nobody cares as long as you do something strange to distract them from wondering why you can’t the right note or chord.
Hats For Bats…Keep Hipsters Warm
But for all the criticism I have for hipsters, the truth is that not all hipster bands are bad. Sometimes, hipster bands can be very good. Which brings me to the band of merry hipsters pictured above, Brightblack Morning Light, whose epononymous Matador records album is offically The Passion of the Weiss Stoner Record of the year (thus far). If 2004 was the year of the Secret Machines and if 2005 was the year of Dungen, 2006 without a doubt belongs to Brightblack Morning Light.
I’m not neccesarily telling you guys that the band sounds a lot better after four or five or six bong rips, ehhh…who am I kidding. Of course, I am. Seriously. Even the band’s press release describes the album as “extraordinarily chill.” Which means fire up the ol’ vaporizer. At any rate, this album is the real deal, one of the best of the year thus far and it’s a definite contender to make my top 20 albums of the year list. They sound sounds sorta’ like Atom Heart Mother-era Pink Floyd, if Pink Floyd hadn’t been cool and cantankerous Brits and instead were two hippies from Marin County via Alabama who call themselves Nabob and Rabob. Yeah, that’s how good the album is, I’m not even gonna’ mock their names
Check out an MP3 (yes that’s right, I’m slowly making my way to the MP3 age) from the album. If you like it, chances are you’ll like the entire album, because basically every song sounds the same. In a good way.
And if you’re still stoned than buy the album here
In other news, this post over at Goldenfiddle might be the funniest thing you’ll read all year. It needs to be read immediately.
Also check out Chuck Klosterman’s list of the Albums That You Need To Hear (via Large Hearted Boy) Klosterman might be a hell of a writer and for the most part he has some outstanding taste in music, Wilco’s “Being There,” and the Hold Steady’s “Separation Sunday,” make his list. But he’s got some really shitty bands on there. Boston? Thin Lizzy? If I ever hear “More than a Feeling,” again there’s a good chance I might gouge someone’s eyes out. It’s a long story, involving my college baseball team, a mix CD we made and the fact that for some reason “More Than a Feeling,” and assorted weird trance songs used to come on way more than anything else. Needless to say, no matter how good your baseball team is, you ain’t gonna’ look very cool when Alice DJ and Boston are playing on the loudspeaker.
I don’t know why everyone’s making such a big deal about Tower Records closing. Honestly, if they really wanted to stay in business, couldn’t they sell used CD’s? Who wants to pay $17.98 for a new CD when you can download it for free. If anything, I feel bad for the small indie record stores getting driven out of town by the Amoebization of Los Angeles.
Lastly, a month or two ago, I wrote a concert review on Edan and discussed why white hip hop fans don’t like white rappers. If I’d just waited a little while longer, I could’ve just linked to this NY Times article on MC Problem Child, aka Harrison Schneider of Great Neck, Long Island, pictured below.
That’s Harrison Schneider….of the Compton Harrison Schneider’s
According to the article, “most of Problem Child’s stanzas heap contempt on his suburban environment and are laced with obscenities. (“Haven’t used a word phrase without a curse since the third grade,” he rants in “Got You Beat.”)
In another line, he says, “I ain’t a little dumb white kid who thinks he can rhyme.”
The word “legend” might be the most improperly used word in the English language. Journalists and bloggers alike rush to call anyone with even a modicum of popularity, a legend. In 25 years, it’s highly likely that some ignorant writer will call Britney Spears a pop legend. In reality, only a few artists per generation are worthy of being called legends. Sadly, last Thursday a true musical legend passed away, Love’s Arthur Lee.
In Densmore’s piece, he recalls “a drive down from Laurel Canyon to the Chinese restaurant next to Greenblatt’s Deli to get egg fried rice for breakfast. On one of those excursions “My Little Red Book” came on the radio, Love’s cover of the Burt Bacharach-Hal David song. “If we could make a record as good as that,” Jim said, “I’d be happy.”
I’ve posted the song above, gleaned from a 1965 or 1966 appearance on American Bandstand. As it has been mentioned numerous times in the press, Love never became stars the way their LA counterparts, The Doors, The Byrds and Frank Zappa did. However, this lack of star wattage was no way a barometer of Arthur Lee’s remarkable talent and ability.
In just three years, Lee and Love recorded three of the finest albums of all-time, with their epononymous 1965 debut, 1966’s Da Capo and their acknowledged masterpiece, 1967’s Forever Changes. The first two are nearly perfect albums, but Forever Changes is easily one of the 10 best albums ever made. I can’t begin to capture the fractured brilliance of its poetry, the shimmering complexity of its arrangements and its overwhelming, back-breaking genius. If you don’t own it, you must own a copy. I’m not being hyperbolic, it’s that good.
In many ways, Arthur Lee’s story was tragic. Jim Morrison regarded them as his favorite band of all-time and in fact, Lee recommended that Electra sign The Doors. Within a year’s time, The Doors had become Electra’s main priority, leaving Love out in the cold. It didn’t help matters that Lee was known for a domineering controlling streak which helped contribute to the original lineup’s demise after just three albums. His life was plagued by drug abuse and jail time, but over the past few years he seemed to have picked up the pieces and began to tour again.
I was fortunate enough to catch two Love shows in this later incarnation of the band (which was really just Arthur Lee and Baby Lemonade). The first show was at the 2004 Sunset Junction festival, the second the next day at Spaceland. They’re the only band I’ve ever paid to see twice in as many days and they were worth every penny. Their concert at Spaceland was probably one of the five best shows I’ve ever seen. Despite being 60 years-old, Arthur Lee was incredibly dynamic, his voice remarkably ageless, his energy levels high, his talent on the harmonica and the guitar still prodigious.
Perhaps the saddest part of his untimely death is the fact that he still possessed formidable skills even at his advanced age, yet he never had the full chance to reach the wider audiences that we undoubtedly deserved. A legend is dead and he will never be replaced. In my eyes, Love will remain the quintessential LA band and Lee the quintessential eccentric Los Angeles individual. R.I.P Arthur.
Okay, so to quote Marty McFly, the stuff above was pretty “heavy.” However, I saw Talledega Nights this weekend and wrote the review for Stylus.Talladega Nights was definitely not heavy.
Though the Stylus score says “B.” I actually awarded it a B+/B, but Stylus doesn’t do the slashes, so the “B” will have to suffice. You can read the review to find out more, but basically I probably went into this film with much too high of expectations. I heard about a NASCAR movie starring Will Ferrell and Sacha Baron Cohen and produced by Judd Apatow and I immediately concluded that this was going to be a comedy of world-beating brilliance. Turns out not so much.
Nonethess, the film was solid and I recommend it to anyone who likes smart dumb comedies. Skeet on Mischa also has his take on the film today and I’m pretty sure he came to the same exact conclusions I did, only he came in with very low expectations and ended up liking it more than he thought he would.
By now you’ve probably noticed that the film made $50 million this weekend, which me thinks to be good news for Hollywood. While you may or may not find Will Ferrell’s schtick a bit old, I’ll take a movie like this anyday over the same tired action cliches being recycled in dreck like Miami Vice. And by the way, did anyone notice that went from 1st to 4th over the weekend, with a whopping 62.4 percent drop from the week before, making it a certifiable flop, proving once again that Colin Farrell might just be the least bankable star in all of Hollywood. This is fine by me, as I’m no Farrell fan. It’s rare that I disagree with the Neil Young of the blogosphere, Uncle Granbo, but we’re gonna’ have to agree to disagree on Colin Farrell. He’s like Sean Connery if Sean Connery really really sucked.
Lastly, I finally got around to seeing the Strangers With Candy movie and left the theater with mixed emotions. It wasn’t that I found the TV show so much better, in fact I’m ashamed to admit it but I’ve never actually seen the show (hey…I don’t even own a working TV…I make due). However, like Talladega Nights, Candy was a series of skits, some of which worked, some of which didn’t.
The truth is I just don’t find Amy Sedaris all that funny. It’s not that I find her unfunny, it’s more that her sense of humor is a more gross-out and crude than I typically find funny. In a way, she’s like a poor man’s Tina Fey. She’s inevitably a great character actress, but probably not able to carry an entire movie.
On the other hand, I found every scene with Stephen Colbert, laugh-out-loud brilliant. Right now, Colbert is in a heated battle with Sacha Baron Cohen for the title of funniest man on earth.
The movie also has some surprising cameos, including a hilarious turn by Matthew Broderick, one of the most underrated comic actors of the last 20 years. I don’t know why no one ever mentions Broderick’s all-around excellence. If his performances in Ferris Bueller and Election aren’t enough to put him on the short-list of funniest actors around, I don’t know what will.
Strangers With Candy is a decent, funny film. It’s tone is rather uneven and one gets the sense that they put this together on a very low-budget in a very short amount of time. Undoubtedly, it’ll turn out to be a solid rental that will give you some satisfying cheap laughs and won’t require you to think much. However, anytime you see written by Stephen Colbert in the titles, you expect something of unadulterated genius. I suppose this is what led to my slight disappointment with the film. Either way, there’s always the Colbert Report. Speaking of which, check out this op-ed about the Report in the LA Times today from Nebraska congressman, Lee Terry. Terry was mocked on the show and obviously understands its brilliance. In the opinion piece, he basically calls for all congressman to appear on the show. Needless to say Lee Terry =definitely alright in my book.
Fine. I’ll be the first one to admit it. These guys are not in their prime. In fact, I’m not sure if Graham Nash ever even had a prime. Either way I don’t care. In spite of the fact that Stephen Stills wears more Hawaiian shirts than a fat insurance salesman from Iowa taking his first vacation to the big island. In spite of the fact that David Crosby looks identical to the walrus from Alice in Wonderland. In spite of the fact that some of Neil Young’s lyrics from Living With War might be some of the most simplistic and hastily cranked out anti-war lyrics ever written. All that matters to me is that even in their 60s Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young live can still blow 99 percent of bands today out of the water. End of story.
I’d never been to a CSNY concert before, but I knew what I was getting myself into. A greatest hits show interspersed with tracks from Young’s new disc, Living With War, and a crowd predominantly filled with aging hippies. I think there were more bald spots per capita at this show than any other that I’ve been to in my life. Needless to say, there’s nothing more sad than people about to become eligible for social security, getting wrecked and dancing in the aisles to “Our House.” Furthermore, no amount of drugs can sedate you to the sight of said hippies, turned yuppies in designer clothing and the latest electronic gadets on their hip, chanting “fuck Bush,” while sipping on a $100 bottle of wine from Patina. Rock N’ Roll man!!
That’s like 2 Large Pizzas, maaann…..whoah…I’m like totally baked.
My point is, as much as I lament the predominantly hipstery crowds that tend to frequent the concerts I attend, I’ll take a bearded and bespectacled Art Brut fan any day over this rat-pack of “Moms With Low Self Esteem” and “Dads Gone Corny.”
Trivial mockery aside, nothing else matters much when Neil Young is on-stage, the essential “Y” part of the CSNY equation. As far as I’m concerned, people have two choices for the greatest living songwriter. Neil Young or Bob Dylan. (and I’m not the only one). Say what you want about Bruce Springsteen, he can’t touch the other two. It’s not a knock against Bruce, that’s just the way it is. Then again, I’ve never been a Springsteen guy, so I’m biased.
Despite the fact that I own roughly 20 Neil Young albums, I’d never seen him perform live other than a cover of “In My Room,” that he did at a Brian Wilson tribute a few years ago. (which made up for the fact that he followed the Backstreet Boys…I kid you not).
So what I saw last Monday at the Hollywood Bowl was nothing short of revelation. Even at his advanced age, Neil Young might remain the greatest guitarist on the planet, as he delivered a wild riot of thrashing raw guitar licks traded off effortlessly with partner Stephen Stills.
Rumor Has It These Guys Like the Hippy Grass
I’ll say one thing about a CSNY concert. They might be wildly overpriced at $65 with Ticketmaster extortion costs for the cheapest seats, but you definitely leave feeling like you got your money’s worth. Running three hours, not including an intermission, the only dull points of the set were when Crosby, Stills and Young felt bad for sad-sack Graham Nash and let him perform his own songs. The only positive point about watching Graham Nash play his corny and saccarine garble was getting to see aging hippies dance rhythmlessly. Seriously, watching them dance looked like a propaganda film trying to sway white people to never dance again.
Everyone knows the reason why Nash got in the band: he and Crosby do harmony well. Real well if you ask Crosby. And he’s probably right as this talent was on display on Monday. Shockingly, the voices of the bandmates have held up well over the years. Despite the fact that David Crosby has done more drugs than any other living person on the planet (Keith Richards excluded.)
Graham Nash and David Crosby Singing “Almost Cut My Hair” As the picture above shows, Crosby’s high point of the show came on “Almost Cut My Hair,” which managed to not sound ridiculous despite the fact that Crosby is very very bald. Follicular difficulties aside, the man can still sing and Neil Young’s presence seemed to really energize his performance.
Stephen Stills also seemed to benefit a great deal from old Shakey’s wild and frenetic demeanor, as the Hawaiian shirt-wearing former Buffalo Springfielder delivered a rousing rendition of “For What It’s Worth,” among other tracks. Stills’ performance definitely displayed his place as one of the more underrated guitarists of all-time.
In a way, seeing CSNY reminded me a bit of seeing The Raconteurs a few months back. I have nothing against Brandon Benson, and I think David Crosby and Stephen Stills are first-ballot HOF’ers in my book, but when you’re in the presence of a genius like Neil Young or a Jack White, that person should be front and center for the majority of the show. Clearly, CSN realize this, as the concert seemed to be a centerpiece for Neil Young’s new artistic work and searing guitar pyrotechnics.
The Man, The Myth, The Ugly Jacket
The band played most of Living With War(see the setlist here), which as I mentioned held up well live. Young’s latest work might be a tad undercooked, but there’s no mistaking his heartfelt sincerity and raw intelligence. He’s no died-in-the-wool-progressive, after all, the man was a big fan of Reagan, so his clear-cut evolution of thought carries a great deal of meaning in my book.
Not many artists get a critical free pass, but Neil is one of them. And while, I tend to find a lot of Living With War strident and clearly rushed, live there was no mistaking Neil’s heartfelt emotion towards ending the war and for the soldiers in Iraq. Indeed, the war and the political turmoil in the Middle East hung heavily over the proceedings. The tour itself was calling the Freedom of Speech ‘06 Tour. Outside the venue, progressive organizations tried to mobilize the concert-goers into spending more of their money. And inside, the “Freedom of Speech” channel ran in the background during the Living With War material, listing death tolls from the war.
As one might expect, the high points of the show came from Young. From his fiery rendition of anti-war classic “Ohio,” to his cover of Hendrix’s “Star Spangled Banner,” to the concluding song, “Rockin’ in the Free World,” Neil Young displayed that even at 61 years old he still may be the best performer in rock music. Where Bob Dylan’s voice has been ravaged over the years, Neil’s frail slightly off-beat falsetto still rang clear and crisp up into the starless Hollywood sky and for a moment every withered hippie in the bowl believed that it was 1969 all over again. But in spite of the tragic similarities of the two eras, a war with no end, an incompetent president and a youth becoming more alienated and cynical by the day, there was at least one good similarity between the two. Neil Young and the rest of CSNY. Past their prime or not, their message and music still resonates and you’d be hard-pressed to find a better live act today.
The year was 1982. The country was Austria. The man was Falco. The verdict was definitive awesomeness.
So I’m at the gym today, doing my best not to be bothered by the onslaught of people working out on their cell-phone, when I look up at one of the gym’s televisions to see perhaps the strangest and most deliriously outstanding music video of all time. I’m talking about Falco’s “Der Kommissar.”
For those unaware of the epic greatness of Falco, he’s perhaps the biggest pop star to ever come out of Austria. Born Johann Holzel in Vienna on February 19, 1957, Falco was a classically trained child prodigy, but after graduating from the Vienna Conservatoire, he relocated to West Berlin and began fronting a jazz-rock band. Rechristening himself Falco in honor of the German skier Falko Weissflog, he returned to Vienna in time to play bass on the punk outfit Drahdiwaberl’s 1979 album Psycho Today, penning their best-known song, “Ganz Wein.”
But who cares about such trivial facts. More importantly, Falco will go down in the history books for two songs, “Rock Me Amadeus,” and “Der Komissar.”
One of the first European musicians to be inspired by rap music, Falco decided to make music history with “Der Komissar” by spitting German raps to the techno beats (do they have any other kind in Germany).
Do I know what the song’s about? Definitely not. This is even after having read the translated lyrics. However, I do know that it’s a whole lot more fun to just make up stories as to it’s actual meaning.
Let’s start with the video, commencing with Falco being chased by the coppers, doing some kind of gawky hobbit hop along with the beat. From this one can infer that Falco is clearly a bad motherfucker. In a good way. Does he care about the coppers? Fuck no. Falco is a scofflaw and what a scofflaw. In all likelihood, he’s the head of an international diamond/drug smuggling ring consisting of men with slicked back hair, white t-shirts and leather jackets. Take that Young Jeezy and your so-called “Snowman.”
If German Techno Pop Doesn’t Work Out, Maybe I’ll Just Try Out For Melrose Place
Judging from his devil-may-care attitude and tone, his oh-so-cool smirk and his impressive epileptic dance moves, Falco is clearly the king of West Berlin. Contradict me and feel the wrath of Falco. Not to mention the guy sort of looks a little like Scott Storch, but much more Teutonic and much cooler.
At approximately the 50 second mark, the listener learns the fact that young Falco misses his “funky friends Jack, Joe and Jill.” Perhaps this is a Rosetta Stone into the cryptic mind of Falco. Perhaps Jack is crack cocaine, Joe is heroine, and Jill is Crystal Meth. This would explain Falco’s peculiar yet disturbingly outstanding fashion choices.
But the apex of the brilliant video comes at the 1 minute and twenty second mark when Falco pops his collar and gives his best seductive pose to the camera. Collars had been popped before. Collars had been popped since. But no one could pop a collar like Falco. No one.
But then Falco doesn’t have any more time to collar pop. He has to duck the cops and he has to dance spastically, two things that he is devastatingly good at. The cops are inevitably screaming “damn you Falco,” the entire chase, having no doubt been made jealous of Falco’s all-consuming coolness and kick-ass tendencies.
And do they ever catch him? Never. Why? Because you can’t stop Falco, you can only hope to contain him. In the end, Falco saves the day, probably to go home with a nice West German girl, where the two of them will have efficient German sex. And who can blame her for succumbing to his charms? He is Falco. A man so excellent that he decided to a make a music video consisting of one endless long shot of him being chased by the cops while dancing and lip syncing.
And you know what, that’s okay by me. If you don’t laugh at least once while watching this video, you probably have no soul. But you know who does have soul? Falco. Best. German. 80’s. Rapper. Ever.
And for those who desperately crave more Falco:
Special Bonus Round: Rock Me Amadeus (Anyone who can tell me why Falco is wearing a tux when everyone else in the video is in period costume, wins my eternal respect)
(pic.via You Ain’t No Picasso)
But for all the criticism I have for hipsters, the truth is that not all hipster bands are bad. Sometimes, hipster bands can be very good. Which brings me to the band of merry hipsters pictured above, Brightblack Morning Light, whose epononymous Matador records album is offically The Passion of the Weiss Stoner Record of the year (thus far). If 2004 was the year of the Secret Machines and if 2005 was the year of Dungen, 2006 without a doubt belongs to Brightblack Morning Light.
