By the time you’re reading this I’ll be en route to New York City. I’ll be there until next Thursday, so no blogging all next week. Sorry. But I’ve never been save for a six hour stretch I once spent at the Met and/or waiting for a Yankee game to get rained out. And I tend to live by the general rule that if you’ve never been drunk in a city you haven’t actually been there. This doesn’t count for Mormons, Priests or Emos.
In order to adequately prepare myself I’ve been listening to Tha’ Dogg Pound’s “New York New York” on repeat. Why? Because it was my favorite song when I was in the 9th grade and because it is awesome and because I am reasonably certain that Kurupt never spit a better verse (save for “Doggy Dogg World.”) Of course, I’ve never really dug into the solo Kurupt discography, but honestly, I think that’s a decision I’m alright with. And don’t think this is some sort of West Coast subliminal, I’ve been listening to “NYC Everything” to balance things out (you always know it’s a good week when there’s two Bobby Digital references).
I’ve got a million posts I’d like to write before I leave, but as Kurtis Blow once said, “these are the breaks.” But then again, Kurtis Blow was also the first rapper to ever pose shirtless on an album cover, which means that he’s probably directly to blame for this.
And Listening Is Pain…
There’s a good half dozen or so posts I wanted to write before I left that I’m just not going to get the chance to do justice to. So I’m just going to try to do my best Skeet on Mischa or Sexy Results (RIP) imitation. Bear with me. First things first, last Saturday night I saw Poison. And no, I’m not talking about Michael Bivens, Ricky Bell or Ronnie DeVoe, I’m talking Brett Michaels, C.C. Deville and a whole lot of hairspray. I’ve never really liked metal and I’m not about to pretend to because it’s supposed to show how eclectic and open-minded musically I am.
However, I will say that after watching an hour of Poison, I can’t help but respect them. They definitely rock out and even if their music sucks, as my friend put it, you can’t deny the fact that at every Poison concert in 1987 there were at least 14 girls with “Fuck Me Brett” signs. Which makes sense when you see them live. There is no denying the fact that those guys are rock stars in the purest form. The show also left me struck with one other unmistakable conclusion, no good rock star ever loses their hair. Really. Look at Bono, the guy completely sucks yet he still has a magnificent mullet. Brett Michaels? The guy looks like a fucking rock n’ roll unicorn. Billy Joel. Hairless as the women Hank Moody sleeps with (on another note: watch Californication immediately).
After watching Poison, I drove to a friend’s Halloween party, dressed as Hunter S. Thompson while listening to American Gangster, which seemed to make sense at the time because both men seemed to confirm the veracity of Bob Dylan’s “you gotta’ be an honest man to live outside the law” philosophy. At least, if you believe Jay-Z’s stories. Anyhow, American Gangster is a very solid and respectable comeback. Not 5 mics amazing, not on the level of Reasonable Doubt, Blueprint, or even Hard Knock Life Vol. 2, but certainly on par with The Black Album in 4 mics/7 or 8 very good songs territory. Hell, I’d probably put it ahead The Black Album were it not for that godawful collaboration with Li’l Wayne. And just when I was starting to tolerate the little rapping gremlin. Honestly though, what the fuck is the guy doing on a song called “Hello Brooklyn.”
You Should Hear the Song Where Wayne Raps About the Time Baby Bought Him A Gun Rack
Halloween also made me realize how depressing it must have been to actually be Hunter S. Thompson. Just wearing aviator shades, a pith hat and a Hawaiian shirt, people expected me to dance around and start yammering about inhaling ether and guzzling whiskey. Which is cool, I’m usually up for that sort of thing, but I felt like a trained monkey being asked to recite dialogue about being in Bat Country. After about two hours of pretending to pretend, the whole thing felt exhausting and I ended up sitting in the corner of the now almost empty party reading Catcher in the Rye. I suppose there’s irony in there somewhere, but I don’t have the time nor the motivation to try to pick it out at this juncture.
Two more shows in brief: Ghostface, Rakim and Brother Ali, all backed by the Rhythm Roots All-Stars was pretty great. Granted, this was my fourth time seeing Ghostface this year and even I have my limits, but I never fail to get amped up when I hear “Fish” or “Daytona 500″ live. Rakim was Rakim. Shorter than I expected but consistently excellent and Brother Ali held his own against the other two better than you’d imagine.
I also saw Neil Young at the brand-new Nokia Theater. I really don’t want to talk about it. Before last night, I thought it was damn near impossible to go to a bad Neil Young show. But the Nokia Theater really did its best. Still, bad Neil Young is better than awesome Green Day any day of the week. Anyhow, Duke pretty much nailed the disenchantment we both felt and when I get back from New York I’m going to channel my rage into a diatribe for the LA Weekly about the sheer wretchedness of the place. Okay? Okay. I’m good. You’re good. We’re all good. Now I have to go to New York and do my best to embody the spirit of this film.
Today is my 26th birthday. Accordingly, I plan on staying as far away from the computer as possible and enjoying a full 24 hours of sloth and indolence. Regularly scheduled programming will resume tomorrow.
Also, if you’re a blogger and still haven’t updated your blogroll to the new http:/passionweiss.com site, can you please take a second to do so. Thanks.
Sometimes the personals you find in the newspaper won’t serve your needs. If you’re looking through your local personals and you aren’t sure if you’ve found the kind of singles that you’re interested in then you may be interested in free California singles listings that you can find on the Internet.
As you may have noticed, I’ve finally made the switch from blogger to wordpress in an attempt to no longer look hackey and amateurish. Don’t worry though. Despite my new fancy digs, I promise you that the writing itself will remain as hackey and amateurish as always. Please update your bookmarks and blogrolls when you have a moment. I hope you all like the new design.
Is a lead singer with a really cool hair cut. See Flock of Seagulls and/or Kid N’ Play. My Morning Jacket lead singer Jim James doesn’t really have a cool hair cut. Still, I think his band is pretty great. Labor Day has come and gone and I have neither the time nor energy for a long post at the current moment. I’m still recovering from an ill-advised trip to a NASCAR Rally on Sunday, which I hope to write about sometime soon if the ringing in my ears ever ceases.
Seeing as though today marks the beginning of Fall, there seems to be no better way to kick off the new season than with some songs from My Morning Jacket, a group whose lazy pretty Indian summer tunes seem tailor-made for the weeks that surround the harvest moon. In truth, if you really asked me my thoughts on what separates the good bands from the great, I’d probably answer that two of the most prominent marks of a great band are a deep catalogue chockful of standout B-sides and EP tracks, and the ability to cover classic songs and in the process re-write their very DNA. In my mind, My Morning Jacket succeed on both counts.
Another day, another journey into the Ameoba vortex. This afternoon, it’s siren called and by decree, I was forced to fork over the prerequisite $50 minimum. It’s going to be the only record store left in town pretty soon, which is kind of sad. But I’m pretty happy right now after this haul.
What: EPMD-”Crossover” 12″ vinyl single
Price: $6.98
Why: Because no one at Rawkus ever came close to writing an anti-commercial manifesto as good as this one. Plus, the B-Side, “Brothers from Brentwood L.I.” is one of the best of the era.
If these two could reconcile after Jay-Z fucked Nas’ baby mama and then told the world about it, how difficult could it be for me and Bradford of Deerhunter to squash our short-lived and obviously absurd beef, one most aptly summarized by Maura of Idolator as making you regret the invention of the Internet? The answer: not hard at all. Bradford sent me a very kind and apologetic e-mail yesterday and in return I did the same. In short, shit is all good. I’d explain more, but Bradford’s already done so on his own blog, so go there and while you’re at it, you ought to download some of the mixes he’s posted. They’re good. I’ll be posting a mix on their blog sometime in the next week and hopefully, he’ll do the same on the Passion. Thanks for the kind e-mails of support and for all the hateful comments that called for my head on a platter. Both were equally entertaining.
3. Because though I’ve never actually met the good folk from LA Underground, judging from the seedy connotations of their name, they would seem to be excellent people to score drugs from (and by drugs, I actually mean drugs).
2. For the opportunity to see me do a live and possibly spontaneous rant about hipsters in fedoras. And more importantly, for the opportunity to see whether or not I actually have enough pull to get the doorman to turn away the wanna-be Humphrey Bog-tards.
1. So in ten years, when all the bands on this bill are playing really big venues and engaging in Motley Crue-esque levels of debauchery, you can tell all your friends that you saw them way back when. (Provided that you don’t tell them that the show was called Now Blog This, they’ll totally think you’re awesome).
The show starts at 9 and it’s only $5. Phoenix and the Turtle go on at 9:30, Le Switch at 10:15, The Deadly Syndrome at 11:00 and Aushua at 11:45. Be there or be a quadrilateral.
The long-term status of one of Los Angeles’ beloved institutions is in jeopardy right now, after the owner of the New Beverly Cinema, Sherman Torgan passed away from a heart attack last week. (See the very good LA Times obit) For those that haven’t been to the New Beverly Cinema, it’s one of LA’s hidden treasures, the last full-time revival house left in the city, a place for movie geeks and cineastes of all stripes to come together and watch classic films on the big screen.
Few theaters anywhere can match the breadth and quality of the films that Sherman Torgan hand-picked for viewing, but even fewer can match the sense of family and community that the New Beverly has built up over the years. With Torgan’s passing, the theater will be taken over in the interim by his family. If you’ve never been to the New Beverly, now’s the the time to go, as it needs your business now more than ever. Seriously, how in god’s name can you not love a theater that shows an 80s double feature of Back to the Future and Goonies, all for $7 (July 29-31)? It’s easy to shrug and hope that places like this stay in business. It’s more difficult to get up and actually patronize them. If you get the chance, I sincerely recommend doing so. LA can’t afford to lose another one of its finest institution.
I was supposed to have a different post up today, but fate struck in the form of my cell crumbling in my palm last night. Yes, you heard me right, it literally crumbled in my palm. You see a car backfired, I juggled it, caught it in mid-air and when I opened up my hand, it looked like it had been guillotined. I didn’t even know such a thing was possible.
Naturally, I have no land-line (thanks telemarketers), so I’m forced to drop everything to go into the Verizon Store to get it fixed. I anticipate this trip will take roughly the run-time of listening to the new T.I. record back to back and will probably be even more dull (if such a thing is possible). The thing about going to a Verizon store is no matter what time of day you roll up , you can always count on a few things to occur: you will wait in a long line while listening to Fergie. Secondly, you will encounter an employee who will give you some sort of static, involving the phrase, “uh…sir your plan doesn’t cover that.” Third, mid-way through the second hour you will fantasize about committing some sort of mass murder involving a cell phone lighter charger , three of the four Black Eyed Peas (that App. D. App fellow can stay, just because) and a pack of double AA batteries. Maybe that’s just me. Either way, I’m just hoping the gods of cellphone maintenance take mercy on my soul. Pray for me.
