March 25th, 2009
As I wrote the bio for local folk outfit, Eagle Winged Palace, I’m in no objective position to review “Hand of Doom,” their debut EP on Park the Van (Dr. Dog, The Spinto Band). Then again, I wouldn’t waste my time writing a one-sheet for a mediocre group–so there’s that. The words in question are below. It’s good stuff–I promise.
(((Eagle Winged Palace))) are folk as ghost story. Spooky tales of weird edge of the earth California: Spanish ship wrecks slammed into the rocks of Big Sur; moon faced spirits of silent film stars darting through haunted Mediterranean palaces in Hollywood; migrants aching in the ruined farms of Salinas. A shambolic blend of magical realism, campfire legend and encroaching darkness that blot the mind of the Los Angeles folk act.
Originally the solo project of Cashew, the former lead singer of The Prix, (((Eagle Winged Palace))) was structured around a singular aesthetic: skeletal acoustic folk stories about dead and gone, black and white California. When the Prix parted ways earlier this fall, the project became Cashew’s main artistic focus and he soon decided to recruit a full working band to help carry out his vision. Turning to his friends, all Los Angeles natives themselves, he quickly recruited a group of kindred spirits. First came Michelle, a local poster artist, musician, and songwriter blessed with a bluesy voice and skillful finger picking abilities. Next came Mimi, a trapeze high-flyer model with a voice channeling the Elysian beauty of deep Joshua Tree desolation. Then came Karma, whose own band (Super Karma) evokes the shadowy beauty of Elliot Smith while still maintaining her own knack for writing unique melodies and hooks. Finally, and ironically least predictably, came Cashew’s wife, Uncle Rhea, a classically trained musician herself willing to step away from a high-profile scholarship to return to music for this new project. Recently, local photographer who is sometimes referred to as “shutterface” Sterling Andrews, has worked her way into the permanent lineup after sitting in for Uncle Rhea as she had her and Cashew’s son this fall.
Think spare, sinister folk in the vein of Fleetwood Mac or The Good, the Bad, and the Queen. Download it. Stream it. Give it to your girlfriend as a present and tell her you recorded it yourself.
Buy Eagle Winged Palace-Hand of Doom EP
Download:
MP3: Eagle Winged Palace-”Hand of Doom”
Posted in Are You From the Lester Bangs School of Thought? | 2 Comments »
March 24th, 2009
Other than freshman Delta Sigma Theta rushes at Cal-State Chico, no substrata of the American population has worse taste in rock than rappers. Sure, your little brother likes Fall Out Boy, but eventually, he’s going to grow up and discover The Clash, then weed, then hopefully Junior Murvin and Lee Perry, until ultimately he’s repudiating his past like a music writer with Jim Morrison posters still taped to the walls of his childhood bedroom (I stand by them). Your dad* might take his tips from Paste Magazine, and laud the wood-chip lull of Sky Blue Sky, but at least when he retreats to the basement to filch out a roach and wallow nostalgically, he’ll probably spin Springsteen, Dylan, or Hendrix.
But whenever journalists asks rappers what rock they’re listening to, it’s ultimately some milquetoast mediocrity: Phil Collins, Journey, Coldplay, Linkin Park, John Mayer, Maroon 5, The Killers–and that’s just Kanye. So why should anyone be surprised that when B.o.B. and Lil Wayne play rock star kabuki, they do it with a crude caricature suggestive that the Shop Boyz aren’t the only ones who still think of rawk, as a mire of aggro-douchebag overcompensation set to Wes Borland riffs. Then again, this would explain Nickelback.
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Posted in SXSW | 15 Comments »
March 21st, 2009
Maybe we ought to blame Kanye–even though this trend started well before him, and will likely persist long after he retires to pursue French anime interior spaceship design. Like it or not, ‘Ye’s massive success re-removed a lot of barriers into the major label rap game. No longer did you need street cred, or an ice-grilled veneer, no longer did you need to kick raps about the bodies under your belt, the weight you push, or the clips you hold (though–of course–doing so didn’t hurt).
The game had ossified and theoretically, lifting arbitrary notions on what it means to be a “real rapper,” should’ve been the the best thing to happen since Biggie and 2Pac got shot and hip-hop turned mausoleum–yet all it did was create a new set of problems. Namely, that a new generation emerged with “Can’t Tell Me Nothing,” as their mantra. Thing is, it’s not that “kids today” are inferior to their forebears, but rather that they need editors, or at least a legitimate set of checks and balances.
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Posted in SXSW | 18 Comments »
March 20th, 2009
Last year was my first year in Austin, so I can’t really speak to nebulous notions of the SXSW “good ol’ days.” Anecdotal evidence suggests that the place has expanded exponentially each year since the rise of the Internet, and the demolition of the quasi-mythological monoculture. In layman’s terms, this boils down to: the web created a lot more institutions, some legit, some bastardized, and ultimately, all this tidal wave of taste-makers has led to is a lot more parties.
Right now, as I type this, I’m glancing to my left at a 65-page guidebook to day parties over a scant four-day stretch. If I want to, I can attend the “People In a Position to Know Recordings” Party (a label I’m unfamiliar with), “3rd Coast Magazine” Party (a magazine I’m unfamiliar with), the “Full Irish Breakfast Party” (a culinary delight I’m unfamiliar with), and the “Sonicbids” Party (a type of music-cum-real estate transaction firm I’m unfamiliar with)–and that’s just half of the first page. With ankle-high bars for entrance, nearly anyone can come out here, throw out a welcome mat, and cross their fingers that The Pains of Being Pure at Heart will play their Aloha Ice Cream Social, sponsored by Urban Outfitters.
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Posted in SXSW | 4 Comments »
March 19th, 2009
I have this theory: like most things, greatness at music generally* requires an alloy of natural talent, providence, and an Outliers-like tenacity requiring 10 years hard labor in dingy crackerbox clubs, or snagging a Best New Music on Pitchfork–whichever comes first. The corollary being that forming a mediocre “indie” band is one of the easiest things to do, save for possibly Countrywide Mortgage jockey (00-07), cast member of Sunset Tan (R.I.P.), and professional music scribe.
Stumbling through the Austin Convention Center Wednesday morning seemed to bear out this half-baked hypothesis. Bands everywhere. Big ones. Short ones. Tatted ones. Bearded ones. Mustached ones. Mutton-chopped ones. Should the combination of global warming and nuclear winter ever turn America into a frozen tundra, it’s nice to know that the flannel-clad masses will keep cozy while churning out recycled riffs from Modest Mouse, Pavement, and R.E.M. Skulking woe-be-gone troubadours loomed around every corner, guitar strapped to their backs, scowl scarring their faces, “Will Ape the Jesus and Mary Chain for Food,” intent evident in their eyes.
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Posted in SXSW | 7 Comments »
March 18th, 2009
Sandro Colacicco also takes fantasy football tips from a taxi driver named Federico.
Everyone loves this time of year: the days get longer, the weather gets nicer, girls start wearing tank tops and miniskirts, and you get to gamble at the wee hours of the morning and it’s almost socially acceptable. Yes, I will be in Vegas sipping on a bloody mary in a couple days, crying in the corner of the sportsbook about how I just lost all my beer money on North Dakota St—ohh, what was I thinking? I thought those farm boys could shoot. Could UNC, Louisville, or, dare I say it, Washington or Gonzaga go all the way? The debate rages on.
Starting Points:
The last two years have gone pretty much according to plan. In other words, most high seeds defeated their feeble lower seeded opponents and naturally, a favorite went on to win the tourney. Therefore, I believe this year will be slightly crazier with a few more upsets in the works if for anything else than the fact that we are “due.”
You might be saying, but where do I go crazy on my bracket Sandro? How do I win my office pool? Well, I have no fucking clue, I only pretend to know. But what I can say is that March madness is labeled as “madness” because of is unpredictability (words of wisdom, I know). Hence, I can guarantee you that the winner of your pool will probably be an asshole who picked Utah St to make it to the elite 8 and had Illinois going all the way. For instance, my secret weapon is a dishwasher named Julio who just arrived to this country last week and doesn’t speak a lick of English. Though I’m pretty sure he thought we were asking him about the Mexican D-League, he gave astute predictions (by pointing at the New York Post that we shoved in his face) to the Big East tournament, having West Virginia make it to the semis and for Syracuse to beat UCONN. Yes, Julio knows the value of underdogs.
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Posted in Smokin' Dro, Sandro Colacicco | 1 Comment »
March 16th, 2009
Sach O ate fries with mayo and two burritos while researching this story.
In the mad dash towards Tropicalia, Hindi-Pop, Afrobeat, and every other hastily discovered internet-approved form of non-Anglo pop music, there hasn’t been much room for humor. Seriousness begets authenticity, authenticity begets that warm fuzzy feeling of self-importance in a record nerd and anything remotely funny reminds everyone that we’re still all dealing with pop records and NOT discovering some long-lost culture. Our foul decade was one with irony as a defining virtue, but oddly enough while the “wink-wink-nudge-nudge” so-bad-its-good ethos works for shitty electro, everyone wants their (ahem) “foreign records” to represent an ideal, authentic representation of another culture, sans giggles. Why else would you bother with stuff that isn’t in English?
(Note: I guess I shouldn’t complain. Apparently Irony+Afrobeat=Vampire Weekend, a band that makes the paternalistic accidental colonialism of 80’s “world music” look downright appealing in comparison.)
Chakachas’ Jungle Fever is a funny record. It’s also inherently inauthentic, a funk album by a band of Belgian session musicians specializing in Latin styles already well past their due date among connoisseurs. This would be enough to damn it to the cut-out crates of history, to be dug up by Madlib for some obscure mix-CD except for one important detail: the title track was such a monstrous funk jam that when Polydor released it States-side in 1971, it went on to be a dance floor smash.
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Posted in Diggin' in the Digital Crates, Sach O | 2 Comments »
March 16th, 2009
Contemporary KY-R&B isn’t typically my cup of Chamomile. But last week, the Times had me on double Dream duty, penning a preview for his Kanye West-aided, Myspace-sponsored show, and writing a review of said show. Suffice to say, I find The-Dream somewhere between Hakeem “The Dream” Olajuwon,” and The Cranberries single, “Dreams.”
But in an R&B market starved for compelling voices (especially commercially bankable ones), Terius Nash is the best of the new jacks, blessed with a preternatural knack for melody and innate pop gifts. Love Vs. Money might be over-long and solipsistic, but in a singles-driven genre, “Rockin’ That Shit” and Kanye-collabo, “Walking On the Moon” are two of the most iTunes friendly things I’ve heard all year. My money’s on the latter to emerge as this year’s “American Boy.”
Yet there’s something disconcertingly faceless about The-Dream, with his discography finding him mostly vacillating between hero worship of Prince, R. Kelly, and Timbo. That said, the iconography is vivid and faithful. Truthfully, I tend to prefer the classic Stax/Motown model, (see last year’s Raphael Saadiq album, anything on Daptone or Now-Again), or singers struck with a streak of off-kilter gonzo humor like T. Pain and late-model R. Kelly.
Ultimately, compared to his competition–cornballers like Akon and J. Holiday–The-Dream seems like a revelation. Still, I’m just biding my time for the Jodeci comeback. More photos below the jump, courtesy of Myspace.
Download:
MP3: The-Dream ft. Fabolous, Ludacris, Juelz Santana & Rick Ross-”Rockin’ That Shit Remix”
MP3: The-Dream ft. Kanye West-”Walking On the Moon”
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Posted in LA Times | 5 Comments »
March 16th, 2009
The slender hippie wearing jeans and an aloof gesture, was replaced by a crisp suit and the makings of a middle-aged gut. But as the third installment of the Timeless series proved, Arthur Verocai’s music continues to wield an indelible power that will ensure survival until we’re watching music holograms in our own private hyperbolic chambers (yes, my vision of the future essentially looks like a cross between 2001: A Space Odyssey and the Neverland Ranch.)
If you aren’t familiar with the Rio De Janeiro-raised Verocai, his epononymous 1972 masterpiece, and the hapless backstory that led to him being something akin to the Tropicalia Vashti Bunyan, I have a brief but hopefully useful synopsis at Pop and Hiss. If you’re too lazy to click over, think a synthesis of soul, classical, funk, folk, samba, rock and jazz, occupying a psychedelic middle ground between Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On,” Miles Davis’ “Bitches Brew” and Frank Zappa’s “Hot Rats.” I also had the auspicious fortune of interviewing Verocai–as always, leftovers below the jump.
Thanks to faulty intel, I missed a DJ set from Madlib with an appearance from MF Doom (he, of the just-leaked and awfully good, Born Like This). As for Verocai’s performance, what stood out most wasn’t the music, as bewitchingly beautiful as it was re-created live by a 36-piece orchestra including Brazilian royalty, Ivan “Mameo” Conti, Airto Moreira, Jose Bertrami, and Carlos Dafe. Instead, the moment occured slightly after the encore, with Verocai soaking up the spotlight, submitting to the roaring crowd with “we’re not worthy” bows, slightly uncomfortable, but absolutely awestruck by the reverence and admiration–the accretions of lean years and deferred dreams suddenly vanishing from the creases and sharp angles of his face. Though he spoke little English, his coruscating expressions intimated the fulfillment of visions first illumined nearly 40 years ago.
If you aren’t familiar with Verocai’s music, it’s absurdly recommended. Scoop the songs below, saunter over to Soul Sides for two more, and cop the rest from your favorite Russian MP3-monger. Bible material–as printed in Portugese.
Download:
MP3: Arthur Verocai-”Presente Grego”
MP3: Arthur Verocai-”Karina [Domingo no Grajau]”
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Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 3 Comments »
March 13th, 2009
Photos at West Coast Sound.
Like The Editors and the Shitty Beatles, Cut Copy practically begged for derision the moment they named themselves. Let’s be honest, these guys aren’t exactly re-inventing the synthesizer, openly cribbing from New Order, Duran Duran, and Human League. Had they signed to Island and been unable to wrangle DFA linchpin Tim Goldsworthy to get behind the boards, the Australian trio’s lack of originality would surely be used to paint them as another faded dance-punk outfit leftover from the ‘03-’04 pandemonium — when hipsters discovered, “hey, maybe this whole moving-in-rhythm thing isn’t nearly as bad as Stephen Malkmus made it out to be.”
So at a time when bands like We Are Scientists, Hot Hot Heat, and Every Move A Picture are stranded by the side of the road holding up faded cardboard signs reading “will play cowbell for food,” Cut Copy are flourishing. Last year’s phenomenal, In Ghost Colours cracked every stateside year-end Top 10, and proved once and for all that Americans find a certain charm in an excessive use of the letter “U.” Meanwhile, this is their third-go-round to Los Angeles in the last 12 months, following stops at Coachella, LA Weekly’s Detour Festival, and now, two sold-out dates at The Henry Fonda.
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Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 3 Comments »
