March 26th, 2009
Almost 25 years have elapsed since the Rick Rubin-helmed, Licensed to Ill found the Beasties staking their claim as the first major rap group to incorporate guitar-hero rawk (”Rock Box” aside). Such juxtaposition seems prosaic today, but it’s almost impossible to grasp how revolutionary sampling Led Zep, The Clash, and Sabbath once seemed—and that was just on the first track, “Rhymin’ and Stealin.”
Throughout their career, the Beasties have been unfairly maligned as ciphers manipulated by mastermind collaborators–from Rubin, to the Dust Brothers and Matt Dike, to the Dalai Lama (dude is lights out on the wind chimes)–an assumption that trivializes their abilities. Do you know how hard it is for ex-Bar Mitzvah’s to be that good at rapping? It’s on some Augean labors type shit. Trust. But beyond the peerless discography, including three classics (Check Your Head, Paul’s Boutique, Licensed to Ill, two very good albums (Ill Communication and Hello Nasty) and one post 9/11 aberration that no one shall mention by name, the Beasties remain the gold standard of rap-rock fusion.
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March 25th, 2009
Along with sets from Dirty Projectors and Akron/Family, Grizzly Bear’s performance under the pale icicle-lit eaves of the Cedar Street Courtyard, made for one of the most memorable moments of the festival. Particularly, this collaboration with Beach House’s Victoria Legrand on Vecktamist stand-out, “Two Weeks.”
In administrative news, expect part two of the Rap-Rock piece by tomorrow, with a full SXSW wrap-up due Friday. In the meantime, enjoy this video and the MP3 for “Cheerleader,” which the band recently made available for free download. And yes, if you were wondering, Vecktamist is my current front-runner for AOY.
[Via Gorilla V. Bear; h/t You Ain’t No Picasso]
Download:
MP3: Grizzly Bear-”Two Weeks” (Live on Letterman)
MP3: Grizzly Bear-”Cheerleader”
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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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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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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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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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April 8th, 2008
It was my third night in Austin. Devin had just blazed through an epic set that had been celebrated in the appropriate fashion , El-P was currently on-stage and I was wandering around the Def Jux party with four cups of Jack in my stomach, a head full of smoke and the strange desire to approach people and ask if they had also expected everything to be “1984″ themed and staffed entirely by surly robots. But I held my tongue, instead approaching a ornery, heavily tatted bartender at the Scoot Inn, noting the sign above his head that read: “Sorry We Do Not Have Redbull, Wine coolers or Smirnoff Ice, Please Don’t Even Go There P.S. No Shiner Either.” So I did the only sensible thing, I ordered a Jack on the Rocks with a Zima chaser. The barkeep didn’t find this funny and come to think of it, neither did I.
Luckily, I ran into my friend, Will, who was whispering weird gibberish about Del tha Funky Homosapien. As that’s not a name you want to say sotto voce, there was a slight misunderstanding but when things were finally straightened out, I learned that he had canceled his interview with Del moments earlier because of a bout of laryngitis. Naturally, I volunteered for the assignment.
“It won’t be a problem, I rambled. “No one needs prepared questions. Performing interviews without questions is like the freestyling of journalism. Chris Matthews, Larry King, Ellen DeGeneres, they all do it.”
“Maybe I can help you think of some questions?” he said. I could tell that he was a fan of common sense and this frightened me. After all, Finding Forever was terrible.
“Nonsense. I freestyle questions all time,” I scoffed. “It’s part of my plan to improvise everything, release my interviews as mixtapes and win the 2008 Pazz & Jop poll. It’s foolproof.”
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March 21st, 2008
Unlike Sasha Frere-Jones, my main gripe with indie rock don’t stem from it’s lack of blackness. More than anything, I have trouble dealing with the idea that Jenny Lewis is indiedom’s official pin-up girl. No joke, I think she won first in the 2006 Stereogum poll and came in second in 2007. The winner last year, of course, being Feist, therein proving the voters themselves have bad taste in both senses of the word. Nothing against J-Lew though, she’s certainly attractive and the fact that she was the star of The Wizard gives her enough street cred to play Super Mario Bros. 3 at my house anytime she wants. But let’s all be honest with ourselves, Jenny Lewis looks like the kind of girl who fakes it every time. Granted, my only evidence is that last godawful Rilo Kiley album that had her singing the world’s least believable sex songs. But really, you could almost hear her yawning.
VV from The Kills, doesn’t need to write tacky and tawdry pop songs about porn stars because everything she does is indistinguishable from the notion of sex. She could recite the phone book and you’d be turned on. To say nothing of the back of the LA Weekly. On-stage, this notion is inescapable. She’s got a a damaged, Suicide Girl beauty, raven hair, cream-colored skin. That prettiest girl in art-school look, immaculately put-together. silverly jangly bracelets, skin-tight black jeans, leather jacket, and a robin hood hat slung low over a searing stare.
From the moment The Kills took the stage at Antone’s, you half expected VV to rip off her jacket and strip, instead she grabbed off her hat and flung it behind her, all id, grabbing the microphone violently, spitting on-stage, lost in her velocity of her own mind. Wavering from a luring purr to a plaintive howl, her voice full of life and death and a whiskey-washed, nicotine-scorched blues. Another guy plays on-stage. I think he goes by Hotel but his real name is Jamie. Apparently, he used to date Kate Moss or something. You won’t notice. Of course, the songs themselves are great, inverted blues riffs, staccato drum machines, grimy, stabbing guitars, urgent, sounding tunes that ring with a smoky air of desperation. Midnight Boom, the Kills’ third jaunt, is a great record, one of the best released this year and with Sleater-Kinney gone, VV is probably the best female front-woman in rock. Plus, I imagine she’s incredible at Super Mario Bros. 3. So to speak.
Download:
From Midnight Boom
MP3: The Kills-”Cheap and Cheerful”
From No Wow
MP3: The Kills-”Love is a Deserter”
From Keep On Your Mean Side
MP3: The Kills-”Kissy Kissy”
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March 20th, 2008
Bloggers are every journalist’s favorite whipping boy. If a shitty band gets too popular, blame the bloggers. If the standards of professional journalism have eroded too much, blame the bloggers. If by 2010, Vampire Weekend has inspired legions of college freshmen to dress as ironic yachters, blame the bloggers. Ultimately, it’s as easy to scapegoat the blogosphere as it is to blog and at worst, blogs are benign (at least music ones), at best you discover a lot of good music for free. The horror.
Most importantly, the blogosphere knows how to party, which I discovered at the blogger-promoted Hot Freaks party on Saturday afternoon, a place where Al-Queda could’ve wiped out 82 percent of the game had it gotten enraged by one post too many about the peace-promoting qualities of the Arcade Fire (Osama hates Neon Bible). I’m not exaggerating either, the place was a veritable Elbo.ws chat room (for those keeping score, that may have been my nerdiest joke ever). While watching Islands, Lykke Li, and Japanese cartoon psychos Peelander-Z, I stumbled across My Old Kentucky Blog, Gorilla Vs. Bear, Aquarium Drunkard and Rock Insider. Other bloggers in attendance who I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting included Chromewaves, Largehearted Boy and You Ain’t No Picasso, who was presumably searching for Picasso.
As I am half-blogger, half-journalist, a rare combination that also allows me to breath both underwater and on land, the Hot Freaks collective handed me a VIP badge that allowed me to carve a wanton path of destruction through the festival and/or gorge myself on the free and very delicious tacos and open bar with kegs of Fat Tire, whichever came first. The weather was warm, the food was good, and on the main-stage, the bizarre candy-colored Japanese three-piece, Peelander-Z lived up to the freak component of the party nomenclature. Indeed, Frank Z. himself would’ve gotten a kick out of these half-awesome, half-retarded nutjobs who played like the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers crossed with the Boredoms, crossed with cover-boys for the Japanese version of Fruity Pebbles. I’m not sure how much I’d enjoy one of their LPs, but they were entertaining as hell live, with a bat-shit crazy lead singer running around the party, hooting and hollering all sorts of strange Japanese gibberish.
Sadly, Chef Ra’s Presidential Campaign was De-Railed Amidst Allegations That His Minister Performed Several Anti-Weed Sermons
After watching Lykke Li solidify her bid for the 2008 Annie Award for Swedish “Chanteuse” Most Likely to Win the Hearts of Indie Kids, I scuttled out of onto the street, the voodoo strains of the Islands’ “Where There’s a Will There’s a Whalebone,” following me out onto Red River. With more food and drink on my mind, I suddenly remembered that the High Times party was going on right next door. It was crowded, surprising, considering that I’d assumed that everyone would’ve been too stoned to remember to come. But as it turned out, they’d remedied the problem by doing their burning in a back patio while 60s stoner-metal pioneers Blue Cheer ripped off some psychedelic guitar licks. Within five minutes, someone handed me the joint and told me they worked for NORML.
Weeding my way further into the festivities, I discovered a corner with a small semi-circle of people toking up (hippies only “toke”). In the middle stood a man in his early 60s, white hair, High Times badge and long gray ponytail. He looked just like Willie Nelson. Passing me a pipe, someone whispered, “that’s the editor of High Times.” Glancing up, someone handed Willie a nug of weed which he held up to his eye and scrutinized like a gemologist. I half-expected him to pull out a monocle and a microscope. Before I could petition him for the job of official West Coast Bureau Chief, Blue Cheer ended, and the editor vanished into a cloud of smoke.
That night would probably need a few thousand words more to describe and as this is a blog and not a short story, I’ll spare the details. In brief, they involve Roky Erickson, Okkervil River, a french Parisian noise band called Cheveu, Wooden Shjips, a dozen Shiners, the rest of the Devin the Dude supply and enough fungus to top half of a small Domino’s pizza. It was the last night in Austin and everyone was out, tired but propped up on I’ll Sleep On the Plane-adrenaline, the music tourists mixing in with Austin frat kids and the weird flotsam and jetsam out on a Saturday.
The 2000s Are Almost Over, Right?
Somehow, I found myself completely wrecked but surprisingly coherent at 1:15 a.m. using my finest negotiation tactics to try to get into see White Denim, who judging from what I could hear, are a much better band than they are a textile. Repeatedly explaining to the bouncer who I was (Pacey’s youngest brother on Season 5 of Dawson’s Creek), she seemed unimpressed and I wound up in the worst situation possible: drunk with nowhere to go. Luckily, thanks to several text messages and my infinite network of spies, I discovered that there was a Perez Hilton after-party going down where N.E.R.D. was supposedly playing. Though still-recognizing the inherent evil of Perez Hilton, somehow the liquor swayed me to the theory that attractive girls would undoubtedly be at his party. After all, girls that read that shit, right? Wrong.
The place was 85 percent dudes and when N.E.R.D. and their phony rap-rock machismo came on-stage, the level of homo-eroticism spiked somewhere between the writing staff of Desperate Housewives and a Lil Wayne and Birdman Photo Shoot. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but I figured that it was my cue to step outside. Several drinks later, I discovered myself outside, delivering an extemporaneous tangent about the merits of Ghostbusters. Suddenly, the person I was talking to pointed.
“Look, there’s Perez Hilton.”
“You mean Zuul”
“No, Perez Hilton.”
“Same idea.”
“You know he just got a label deal,” the girl told me and smiled.
“I also hear he has celebrity juice not made from concentrate,” I dead-panned.
She bobbed her head. Suddenly, I felt very sober and realized where the hell I was and understood that it was time to go home.
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March 15th, 2008
A Pitchfork party without Sparks? That’s like Eliot Spitzer without whores: fatigued, thirsty and miserable. And rest assured, Sparks flowed like the River Ganges, even going as far to sponsor the bash, which wasn’t really as bad as it was boring. A bunch of people sitting in bleachers trying to look affected and disaffected all at the same time. Granted, I arrived late and didn’t stay long, but this had to do mainly with Yeasayer and my aversion towards their Spin Doctors brand of hippindie rock (caused by a collision of the hipster and hippie comets sometime around the year 2006). Inside, Times New Viking delivered a set of ear-drum fracturing noise, but as I’d seen the Matador-signed trio absolutely kill it the night before at the Siltbreeze show, I had no need to stay.
That’s the thing about festivals like this, you’ve got to approach them with the mentality of a baseball player, where hitting safely three out of ten times makes you a Hall of Famer. But there’s something about being surrounded by all this great music that leaves you impatient and fidgety. It’s the same iPod phenomenon of having thousands of songs at your disposal, none of which you want to listen to longer than 90 seconds. Accordingly, Day 4 was dominated by a supreme case of Musical ADD. Or I as saw it, I was taking the buffet approach, not a very difficult prism to assess things through, considering all my childhood Sundays spent at The Soup Plantation.
With no amount of Sparks capable of carrying me through the Yeasayer set, I bounced in favor of Oakland, Ca-based Anticon act, Why?, whose new album Alopecia, has pretty much not left my car stereo since I got it a few weeks ago. It’s a weird, often off-putting break-up record sung by a nasally Jewish guy named Yoni, so I can see how it might not be for everyone, but it’s probably my favorite record released this year. I’d seen the band at the Natural History Museum shortly before skipping town but this set was far better, with the acoustics perfect and the band’s folk-skewing indie hip-hop sounding much more brilliant than folk-skewing indie hip-hop should be capable of sounding.
The Soup Plantation: Useful For More Than Just Soup and Salad
At night, this dilettantish streak continued, with the ADD seemingly worse than before. Out of some weird sort of journalistic responsibility, I felt vaguely obligated to see Vampire Weekend’s headlining performance at Antone’s. Then I realized mid-way there that I’ve already written about Vampire Weekend twice now and the last thing the world needs is another absurd declaration of their genius nor another mean-spirited screed about them being rich kids that invoked the phrase “prep rock.” The end.
Moving on, I popped my head into a set from a lamely named group called The Parisians from you guessed it, Paris, France. If they had been from Paris, Texas, their nomenclature would’ve been outstanding, but the show was about as original as their name. They played some competent meat and potatoes guitar rock that was nice but no different than any one of the 24,321 bands playing here this weekend. After two songs and a cursory scan of the room for any sultry French women, I rambled on, ducking into a dingy but very cool bar, hoping to catch the end of Mika Miko.
Unfortunately, they were done and instead, I caught the first 15 minutes of San Francisco-psychedelic outfit, Clipd Beaks. Like many of the Smell bands they’re associated with, they seemed to operate under the principle that louder=better, a decent theory when conducted properly and despite their youth, the group seemed to understand what they were doing, even if they didn’t really understand what they were doing. Moving, I next stuck my head in at Eagle Seagull, a group from the music metropolis of Lincoln, Nebraska, who have recorded a few songs that I really like. Unfortunately, their lead singer sounds just like Win Butler and since I immediately wanted to put on a dark black suit and expatriate. As that didn’t seem like much fun, I decided to leave.
The Parisians Wondering How You Say Hipster In French
Booking it to the Sub Pop showcase, I caught 45 minutes of Pissed Jeans, a band who I will never be able to appreciate because of the fact that I strictly can’t be down with a group named Pissed Jeans. Sorry. However, the mushroom angus burger with cheddar cheese, tomatoes, lettuce and grilled onions that I devoured while they were playing was delicious. My compliments to the chef. Sub Pop: Putting Out Zach Braff approved indie As Well As Hamburgers Since 1986. By now, everything was starting to blur and I really wanted something off the beaten path. Off a tip from editor Randall Roberts, via Voice boss-man John Lomax, I stomped back down 6th towards The Elephant Bar, buried in a small cellar on Congress.
The reason for the jaunt and the night’s sole revelation was New Orleans brass band neo-revivalist, Glen David Andrews and the Lazy Six. I’m too short on time to really dig into the logistics (and hey, their full bio is right here), but essentially the band, featuring a bellowing Sousaphone player, faithfully channels Louis Armstrong, with a little bit of Cab Calloway scatting, and modern lyrics about needing Sony Playstation’s and Jack Daniels to survive. Glen David Andrews is a master showman, moving the seemingly staid crowd to its feet, heading down the aisles to serenade women, his voice at 27, a booming tuba blast, a rich foghorn wail t that sounds more than a little like the ghost of Louis Armstrong. If Amy Winehouse can win a Grammy dusting off the Girl Groups of the 60’s and mentioning Nas and weed-smoking in her lyrics, these guys deserve at the very least some notoriety. So check them out if they come through your city, you won’t be disappointed. In the meantime, I’ve got one more day of this madness. Tallyho.
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