Category: tunes

Music. Bands. Songs. Concerts.

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i even got to chuck a chick


What a week for writing, I’m like three entries deep in the black… I could put this thing on autopilot through Friday if I just put a little effort in. But, I’ll wrap some fresh stuff around each main bit each night – just because I can. Tonight, for instance, I mowed the lawn as soon as I got home from work. It must have been 102° outside, and I sweat sweat out a week’s worth of liquid pushing that mower around. Lawn looks good though, if I don’t say so myself. Let’s get this done.

Last Thursday night, Ben called me around 6pm on his way home from work. “Dave,” he said, “Are you near a computer?” “I can be,” I reply. “Well,” he says, “I just drove by Local Club X and the marquee says that Hot Hot Heat is playing there tomorrow night.” “Wow,” I say, as I pull up the webpage to verify. “Sure enough, they are gonna be there,” I confirm. “Let’s go,” says Ben. “I’ll talk to Sharaun,” I say, and we hang up. At the time, I was semi-excited – we don’t get a lot of local shows around here – but I wasn’t into the Heat’s latest record that much. However, they had rocked the house the past couple times we saw them, and I hadn’t been to a show since the Arcade Fire. Then, when the issue of babysitting was magically resolved by Kristi’s generosity, I called Ben back. In the end, we all ended up going (well, all but Kristi, the responsible babysitter among us).

It was fun being at the a tiny crowded show again, I’ve written about seeing the Heat at this venue before, and enjoy it every time. This time, I even got to chuck a chick. That’s right. There were some younger, fun-loving kids in front of us who were doing the whole 1996 slamdancing thing. Now, I can remember being young, and I did my fair share of elbowing and slamming and pushing at the Lush show back in 1993 – so I wasn’t too upset that these kids were enjoying themselves in front of me. In fact, I smiled at the fun they were having. After all, I’m the old guy here – I’m the one out of my element at these shows now, the one who stands out from the pierced crowd as the “straight.” I remember seeing the me in the press at shows when I was young, wondering what the “geezer” was doing just standing around not-enjoying himself on the edges of the pit. “Why would that punk even come out on the floor,” I wondered. Never once did I consider that he, himself, may once have been young – and, although he’s aged past his slamdancing prime, may enjoy a good spot in front of the stage.

Now, back to the story, one of my favorite things to do a concerts is play “pillar.” This is where I stand rooted to the floor amidst the pressing masses, an unmovable column of human body that resists all pushing and crowding and forging ahead. I hate those people who, when the band plays their “radio song,” feel the sudden urge to push their way forcefully to the front of the floor, assuming all those before them will yield. Not me; not the “pillar.” I stand my ground despite gentle hand-on-shoulder urging or rough sidling – I’m not moving. Anyway, there I was at the Hot Hot Heat show, playing pillar while these kids began to bounce off me and jump into me and stuff. Soon, I couldn’t resist holding out my elbows as pointy hazards, just for the fun of watching these kids slam into them. Kind of like that game you play with your brother when you’re a kid. You know, the one where you spin your arms around in huge circles and blame him for walking into your whirling clenched fists…

A short time later, I began to reciprocate some of the shoving – and found that I really enjoyed it. Eventually, I was full on shoving with all my might and loving it. The slamdancing kids seemed to enjoy it too – the old guy getting into the show, overcome with the spirit of Woodstock ’95 or some such rock ‘n’ roll spiritualism. For me, though, this was more a loosely-veiled way of getting these kids to back off a bit. They were stepping on my toes and bumping into Sharaun, and I was growing tired of their jostling. Soon enough, I, as I often do, got a little carried away, and was doing some downright tossing of kids.

I can remember when Sharaun finally wrapped her arms around mine in a bearhug as a subtle message to stop: It was right after I had literally chucked a slamdancing chick a few feet forward, ultimately sending her sprawling to the floor. Then, when her slamdancing partner went to scoop her up, I pushed him right down on top of her into a tangled mass. Honestly, I loved every minute of it, and, I kept a stupid smile on my face the whole time because, somehow, I thought that might keep things from turning into a fight.

It was a great show. Thanks Ben for finding it. Thanks Kristi for watching Keaton. And, thanks moshing kids for reminding me how fun it can be to shove people.

Goodnight.

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best of 2007.5


Midnight on Thursday night and I’m finishing up this entry in my boxer shorts.

Worked hard at the sawmill today: planned stuff and did stuff and worked on all sorts of things. I’ve decided that these last few weeks of work before my sabbatical are kind of like the last few weeks before summer vacation when you’re in junior high. Y’know, the slackening pace of student and teacher, the heightening anticipation, and the stashing of shaving cream and eggs just off-campus for easy retrieval after that very last bell. OK, the same sans the shaving cream part, at least. Let’s do this.

Earlier in the week, I promised two entries: one with new pictures of Keaton (done), and the other one being my “best of” list for the music of the first half of 2007. I’m glad to say that I was able to come through on both.

5. Spoon – Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga

Somewhere in my head, I’ve long known that Spoon was “kinda good.” Years ago, I got pretty hung up on the bouncy “Everything Hits At Once” from their 2001 Girls Can Tell album, and I’ll be the first to admit that I was guilty of undervaluing their last effort. With that in mind, I grabbed this new Spoon album determined to give it it’s fair chance. Turns out, I didn’t need a ton of convincing, as I could tell the record would be solid from the moment the needle locked into that 1st groove (or… the laser interprets that first “pit” as a 1 or 0… whatever). Britt Daniel’s raspy voice has always mated perfectly with the punchy guitars that punctuate the archetypal Spoon number, but on this record the guys mix it up with irresistible tracks like “You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb,” and haunting little bits like “The Ghost of You Lingers,” this album has an eclecticism that’s hard to beat. If you’re into good music, you won’t want to miss it.

Listen to Spoon at the Hype Machine.

4. Andrew Bird – Armchair Apocrypha

I first got into Andrew Bird a couple years back when someone listed his previous album, Andrew Bird and the Mysterious Production of Eggs, as one of the best overlooked albums of that past year. Indeed, I was intrigued by that album, and ended up falling quite in love with Bird’s softer tunes and thoughtful lyrics. So, when I saw Armchair Apocrypha hit my favorite legal source for purchasing music with real currency (hahaha), I snapped it up in anticipation. Simply put: this album is gorgeous. I can recall the first time I put it on the headphones. I was flying to Oregon and had only loaded it on the iPod that morning. As we rocketed into the skies, the lead track, “Fiery Crash,” a song about envisioning a plane crash, seemed to know right where I was and what I was doing. Throughout the flight the album kept delivering, track after track – and, although on a plane may not be an appropriate location for everyone to have their first “Fiery Crash” experience – I recommend you track this down and pay attention.

Listen to Andrew Bird at the Hype Machine.

3. Arcade Fire – Neon Bible

I’ll admit it: I psyched myself out with this album. I was (and still am) so incredibly enamored with the Arcade Fire’s debut record, that I expected the Earth. And, I got caught up so tight in the online hype and anticipation, that when the thing began to leak, track-by-track, I listened to each one and judged it as a standalone. This is a horrible way to experience an album as a whole. And, by the time the whole thing leaked proper, the few songs I hadn’t heard didn’t do much to weave the whole thing together for me. I had ruined it. It was only after I revisited the album months after I’d decided that Neon Bible and I needed “a break” that I truly began to appreciate the effort. I wish it would’ve happened differently, that I could’ve heard the thing in one feel swoop ala my initiation to Funeral – where I sat rapt listening to one brilliant track after another. But, I was greedy and wanted to hear hear hear. Anyway, after our time apart, my heart of course grew fonder. And, now, I love every bouncing bassline, brassy horn break, and swirling organ trill. Back when it came out, I mused that the magic of a debut album like Funeral could likely not be matched no matter how solid a sophomore effort – and I was right. This isn’t Funeral – it’s Neon Bible; and it ain’t swill… it just sure ain’t Funeral.

Listen to The Arcade Fire at the Hype Machine.

2. The Shins – Wincing the Night Away

So, the 2007 Shins album leaked waaay back in October of 2006, with a street-date of January 23, 2007. I first wrote about it here. In fact, this album gave me issues when I was working hard to compile last year’s top ten, as I had to constantly remind myself it was a 2007 album and shouldn’t rank with the other contenders, despite the fact that it was illicitly one of my favorite albums of calendar-year 2006. It’s hard for me now, actually, to get my head back where it was all those months ago and really understand the awesomeness I felt while first getting into this record. But, one reminiscent spin on the iPod and the joy comes flooding back. The Shins are one of the most consistently brilliant bands I’ve heard in a long time, and this album is no exception. Their music is fresh and wonderfully structured: just complex enough to delight music-o-philes with its interesting twists, turns, and hooks; yet “everyday good” enough to hook even the casual Top 40 minded listener. Give this a listen, and try not to swoon just a little bit at amazing moments like singular instance of a harmonized rise of “seaa legs” in “Sea Legs” – that’s a personal challenge.

Listen to The Shins at the Hype Machine.

1. Of Montreal – Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?

Oh, people… people, people people… In this particular race, the competition is just lengths and lengths behind… And, as feverishly as they may try to hasten their pace, the yen for victory so clear in the bulging of their eyes and the flexing of their muscles, they are simply incapable of outstripping the Hissing Fauna. This album is a powerhouse of modern-day psych-pop, reveling in bouncy pop beats and awash in swishing, swirling, bubbling musical accouterments. With head-bobbing synth-drenched tunes like, “A Sentence of Sorts in Kongsvinger,” this album goes down like a heaping spoonful of sugar – penetrating deep into your pleasure centers leaving the corners of your mouth no option but to upturn in a grin. Seriously tho… what can beat this for top album of the year, I ask?

Listen to Of Montreal at the Hype Machine.

And, before I get a lot of complaints (yeah, that’s gonna happen), as a technicality I’m not including albums that I really got into post-June 2007 (cough, Animal Collective, ahem Los Campesinos). And, I also purposely didn’t include the Panda Bear album that I once panned, and have since come to truly enjoy – I’ll save inclusion of that, and the embarrassment of flip-flopping, for the end-of-year list if it still holds up.

That’s it for tonight. Enjoy your weekend, and I’ll do the same.

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a segue-segue


Good evening friends. Gonna talk mostly music today, sorry if that’s not your bag.

But, before all that… Recently, I mentioned that the epic hike Anthony and I had planned for our coincident sabbaticals (sabbatici?) was “off.” Turns out, Anthony has turned around his poor luck and our hike is now officially back “on.” Unfortunately, however, we’ve had to reduce the planned itinerary due to a more limited span of overlapping available time betwixt us. Fortunately, though, we still get to do it. The current plan involves trekking only half the originally planned route, meaning about a week-solid on the trail instead of fourteen days.

Tonight, after mowing the lawn, edging the lawn, and blowing off the sidewalk, I came inside and did some hardcore music research – the likes of which I’ve not done in quite a while. Inspired by this super-interesting (to me, at least) article I stumbled on the other day, which alleges that much of Jimmy Page’s prodigious musical output was either pilfered or recycled, I decided I didn’t know quite enough about that part of the Beck/Page/Clapton lineage.

So, while at work I queued up Jeff Beck’s Truth to jog my memory, and when I got home I hit the end-all-be-all of music knowledge, allmusic.com, to attempt to figured out what Yardbirds albums I should own but didn’t. Then, list in-hand, I headed off to my favorite legitimate music download site (hahahah!) and began the deluge of bits. In the end, I grabbed the the entire Yardbirds discography, as well as a boxset, and some live and rare material. Tomorrow at work the music in my headphones will be more than a soundtrack to multitask by, it will be an education.

New tunes have their burden tho, friends… as I once again I find myself wanting a new iPod to hold everything I have. Woe to me…

Hey, speaking of mowing the lawn and music, let’s use those things as a nice segue into some reminiscing, shall we? OK!

Today, I decided to change up my normal routine of iPod on random while cutting the grass and instead put on Wishbone Ash’s 1972 classic, Argus. I freaking love that album, it somehow manages to combine the best “eerie” aspects of early Black Sabbath, the crunch of Led Zeppelin, and the progish melodies of Yes. I absolutely love that album. Interestingly enough, I only “discovered” Argus a mere ten-ish years ago. (Cue tinkly chime things and warbly-wavy video cut).

It was way back when I worked at Omni Records & Tapes in Merritt Island, Florida. Man, I loved that job. I was an “assistant manager,” which was a BS title that meant I got paid slightly more than minimum wage for the additional work of dealing with unruly customers, staying late to count the dosh and do the books, and getting the alarm code and a set of keys to the store. Even still, it was my dream job. A music freak employed in a music store, treading up and down the aisles, making recommendations, surprising the “old folk” with his knowledge, etc. Plus, I got to buy CDs at a dollar over wholesale, and I had access to almost any “import” I wanted. I swear I spent a full 50% of my paycheck right back into that store. The owner must’ve loved me, I basically worked for CDs.

Anyway, I worked there with a fellow by the name of Bob. Bob was a “true” manager, sitting one rung above my mere “assistantship” in the record store pecking order. Bob and I were fast friends from the start, sharing a common love of good music, beautiful women, and computers (my word, how’s that for a lonely-nerd resume?).

Warning, segue-segue: I had, in fact, had my first encounter with Bob years before I got my job at the record store. As a teenage student of classic rock-‘n’-roll, I had once come into Omni in search of an obscure early 70s record called Woyaya, recorded by the African rock-funk outfit Osibisa. At the time, my buddy Kyle and I had a copy on vinyl we’d liberated from his father’s LP collection – and I was trying to locate a CD copy. I can remember Bob’s quizzical look when I asked if he could special order the CD. “How’d you end up looking for that record?,” he asked, obviously familiar with it himself. I told him I had a vinyl copy, doing my best to exude the “in the know” nonchalance of a beyond-his-years music nut. Anyway, Bob managed to find that CD as an import, and special ordered it for me.

Whoa…. off-track here, let’s bring this back.

‘Twas record-store-manager Bob what introduced me to Wishbone Ash, and today’s lawn-mowing background jam, Argus. He used to use the downtime on the weekends to root through the discs in the store and turn me on to new tunes. One Sunday it was Wishbone Ash – I remember some young kid came in with his dad, and, as an aspiring guitarist, had his ears piqued by the disc on the sound system. That kid bought Argus before I even had a chance to listen to it all the way through. I did, however, immediately reorder two copies – one for restocking, and one for me. Hey, thanks Bob! Oh, and, related – ’twas record-store-manager Bob who also turned me onto Jeff Beck’s Truth, which I also mentioned above. That particular turning-on, however, happened just last Christmas when I was home in Florida. Keep the suggestions coming, my friend, I’m still happy to be your understudy.

Well, that’s it for now. Be sure to watch the blog this week for some new pictures of baby Keaton, and this years “half-best-of” list… I promise they’re all in the chute.

Goodnight.

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out loud regardless


Tonight I can’t seem to get enough to eat. We got home from dropping off Sharaun’s folks at the airport and I played with Keaton for twenty minutes before putting her to bed, Sharaun split right away for her volleyball game. And, even though we’d had dinner shortly before leaving for the airport, I came home and ate a heaping bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios (in whole milk – I’ve become addicted to its creamy sweetness ever since we’ve started keeping it in the fridge as part of Keaton’s diet). After the Cheerios, I finished off the leavings in a bag of Gardetto’s snack mix we’d taken down to the cabin with us last week. After the Cheerios and the Gardettos, I chewed a couple pulls of jerky, the sweet-hot and peppered kind; also obtained on that trip down south for the Fourth.

And now I sit here, listening to the new Animal Collective album for what must be the seven-billionth time this week (I’m not getting into it now, but let’s just say this album is waay radder than the stuff which spurred me to write this). Anyway – I think I’ve eaten enough now, and it’s time to burn some calories on the keys.

I love my time alone like this. I think it’s made even more important in this particular instance because we’ve had company the past week. Not that I didn’t enjoy our time together with family, it’s just nice to sometimes have the run of the castle. I can put on music at my preferred volume (the volume Sharaun calls, “Turn that crap down! How can you think that guys whiny voice sounds good on top of all that treble?”), I can eat sweet and salty snacks, and I can fart out loud (OK, I fart out loud regardless… don’t hate). It was kinda cloudy this afternoon, and I think I even saw a couple raindrops manifest themselves – which made it cool enough for me to open the windows when I got home: another bonus of my alone-time, the fresh air. Don’t ever let the opportunity to sneak away for some “you time” get away from you, folks. And I’m not even talking about masturbation (although that’s probably up there on the list); I’m just talking about good ‘ol leave-me-alone with my thoughts time. Get it.

In anticipation of my near four hours of travel time tomorrow (the airport time, the in-flight time, and the public transpo time from the airport to the Oregon sawmill), and, as a first for me, I’ve loaded up my iPod with some movies. I’ve got Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth (still haven’t seen it), the BBC’s controversial rebuttal The Great Global Warming Swindle, and Michael Moore’s newest, Sicko. A regular card-carrying Sierra Club Democrat’s playlist, I reckon. I’m looking forward to seeing them all, but I think I’ll begin with Sicko, mainly do to the insane amount of press it’s been getting lately all about the internets. I never figured myself as someone who’d watch movies on his iPod, that tiny screen always seemed a roadblock to my enjoyment. But after a test with some short clips I found it quite passable and somewhat convenient. I’m gonna need a bigger iPod…

Before I go, one last little morsel; indulge me: I’ve written several times about the writings of this writer, but I found this semi-recent blog entry of his simply perfect, as blogging goes, by my standards, at least, or something. Oh to write like that.

Well, as much as I wanted to mow the lawn and get a haircut before leaving for Oregon – it just ain’t gonna happen. Until tomorrow then, when I should have ample time to write – Goodnight.

iPhone. Ron Paul. Bush. Iraq.

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commiserating


This weekend, I read an article about the baby from the cover of Nirvana’s classic grunge-flashpoint, Nevermind – he’s sixteen now. Nothing can make a dude feel old like the infant on an album he loved when he was fifteen turning sixteen. Man, that’s a bummer.

Also in the bummer department, the birds in my garden have me really exasperated lately. I’ve done a good job keeping them out of the strawberries, for the most part. Well, actually, the protective cage I built over my berries caught another winged devil today – but that’s not what I’m here to write about. It seems that, having been denied my berries, the birds have developed a taste for my tomatoes.

Over the past months, I’ve been attentively watching my larger tomatoes grow fat and plump, and have been particularly happy over the past few days (before leaving for Oregon) as they started to get some color. I knew, upon returning home, I’d likely have several large ripe ones for the picking.

However, the birds once again robbed me this glory. I don’t know how they know, but it seems like they’re tuned into my brain. It’s like the day I tell myself, “Tomorrow, I’ll pick that one, it needs just one more day on the vine,” they attack. I’ve yet to be able to pick a full-size tomato before it being ravaged by beaks. Seems I can only get the cherries off before they get to them. They’ve gone through five tomatoes so far, completely gutting them on the plant. I can’t describe how frustrating it is to tend a tomato for weeks in anticipation of literally tasting the fruits of your labors – only to have the dang thing ruined right under your watchful eyes. It may seem trivial, but I want to taste one of my own tomatoes so bad.

Writing that last sentence, I couldn’t help but feel a little empathy. For whom?, you ask. Well, I’ll tell. Imagine you work hard on something, like, growing tomatoes from seeds, for instance. You sweat and work and toil over the infantile fruits as they take shape from the dirt. You watch and tend them, pulling weeds and giving them water, making sure they have enough sunshine to thrive, etc. Then, right as you’re about to pick the ends of all your work, something comes along and steals it away.

Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. Those “farmers” whose “tomatoes” are albums. Albums grown from chord progressions and words thought up randomly, worked and reworked and polished, finally perfected and fit for public consumption. And know who I am? That bird that I loathe so much. That bird that swoops in just as the tomato/album is ripe and ready to enjoy, and glibly consumes it – with nary a thanks nor a dime. All their work and effort, pecked into bits by a punk thief with no regard for the work that went into the things he consumes.

Sorry, musicians. Maybe one day I’ll learn. Or, maybe you’ll end up shooting me with a BB gun the way I plan to take care of the birds who are “torrenting” my fruit. Seriously though, check out some pictures for the heck of it.

“Knee-high by 4th of July?” I got that and then some. From seeds too!

Just look at that thing, inside my strawberry cage.

Three of the fallen, two more were too brutalized for photos.

I read online about this thin tight-woven netting stuff that you can supposedly “drape” over your plants to protect them. To me, though, draping something over tomatoes just means all the bird has to do is peck through the netting. I think, in true over-engineered fashion, I’m going to use some sort of netting to build a huge cage around my entire planter box. OK, maybe that’s extreme… but I’m open to suggestions. And, I’ll stop talking about birds and tomatoes now.

Let’s do the wrap-up paragraph now.

Got some vacation coming up next week, and I couldn’t be more ready for it. It’ll be nearly two weeks, although not taken consecutively. Vacations are always iffy for writing, sometimes they’re good for it, sometimes they’re bad for it. No promises (other than to have a rockin’ good time not-working, that is). And yes, folks, I know, lots of you have been bugging me for new pictures of Keaton. I wanted to wait until we were back from our Oregon visit before posting them, so I expect to have them up this week. Trust me though, she’s only getting cuter.

Before I go, in music news. Check out this exclusive feature on the Arcade Fire’s upcoming follow-up to Neon Bible. Also, the new Interpol has been floating around in sketchy quality, and from my first listens it sounds better than some of the other recent leaks. Oh, and, the six leaked tracks from the new Animal Collective have really grown on me. Still under evaluation: the new Thrills, the new Super Furry Animals, the new Editors, and the new Vanderslice. Oh, and, Ben got it right on his blog, the Los Campesinos EP is downright fun.

Team Campesinos trick or treating on your driveway in the middle of August; one of us dressed like a zombie, one of us dressed like a pirate, one of us dressed like a ninja and four of us dressed like schoolgirls.

Goodnight.

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good, but needs red wine and cannabis


A long blog today, about nothing but music. Well, to be fair, also kinda about my insecurities and fancies and fears of growing older. But, on the surface – today’s all about music.

The online chatter over the almost-all-the-way-leaked new Animal Collective album, Strawberry Jam, is reaching a fever pitch on the blogs ‘n’ boards. Six of the nine tracks have now leaked, and, to use a stereogumism, the “premature evaluation” is in full-swing. Most of the indie-kids seem to be likening it to the Second Coming, or some other such event of holy import. I’ve heard all six tracks (interested?), and I’m still undecided…

In fact, being honest about it – I have never been able to really “get” Animal Collective.

I was telling Ben the other day that, in the midst of all this Strawberry Jam hype, I was spurred to re-download the Collective’s 2005 effort, which was nearly universally lauded in the indie-rock world when it came out. I downloaded it then, and dismissed it as a little too “out there” for my tastes. I could live with the decision, it’s not like my tastes have to run with the crowd.

Then, Animal Collective member Panda Bear released a solo album, also the recipient of a coordinated mass-jizzing-upon by the critics. Of course, I downloaded that Panda Bear album, and tried… and I mean tried, to get into it. But, despite my best efforts, it was, again, just too far out for me. This was a tad worrisome, as I began to think I was somehow missing the boat… what was happening to me?

I don’t know if you have to be on acid to “get” these records or what, but I just can’t seem to connect with them on the level that the “other kids” do. Sometimes I feel like this means I’m getting old. Secretly, I have this huge fear that there’ll come a day when I just can’t understand “the kids’ music” anymore. I, in fact, live in unspoken (until now) terror of that day – when I realize that the “cool new stuff” that I think I’m still hip for being into is really just a bunch of trite recycling of the music I grew up on – and the real cutting edge is the junk I dismiss as artsy-freak-rock. The day when music moves on, and I’m stuck on a sound that’s decades old.

So, here I am again, once again listening to the old Animal Collective album, and the Panda Bear album, trying as I might to find their merits.

Don’t think I don’t realize that this, in and of itself, as a technique, runs a close second to the sin of losing touch with what’s cool. Desperately sprinting after the bandwagon is something I’m not really used to… but the motivating fear that I’m losing touch with what’s good is enough to make me think twice, and somehow wonder that maybe these albums are kinda like beer to a thirteen year-old (if you don’t know what I mean, I’ve tired to explain it before: 3rd paragraph here). So, I’ve done two thorough listens over the past couple days.

Sometimes, I even think I’ve got it figured out – like I can finally hear what the fuss is all about. I mean – lately I’ve been thinking that I actually dig the Panda Bear’s Person Pitch. At times I even thing I hear snatches of brilliance and beauty, like I could really fall in love with it if I had some red wine and cannabis.

But then, I second-guess my newfound affection and worry that I’m just kidding myself. Even now, I don’t know what would happen if I really did start liking it, I’m not sure I’d even be able to trust my own judgment. I mean, I wouldn’t put it past me to lie to myself so I’d feel cooler.

Guess I’m hopelessly old. Please excuse me while I put on the old familiar friend that is the Eagles’ Greatest Hits and make myself a bloody mary… shit.

But on the reals, before I move on, do me a favor and go download that Panda Bear album and give it a spin – see if you can validate me or not. It kinda kicks ass, right? It’s kinda gorgeous, right? Transfixing and hypnotic and intriguing, right? But, then, it’s kinda way-out obtuse and confusing, right? A little dense and repetitive, right? If you’re the red wine and cannabis type, try it like that too – and let me know if it “opens any doors,” OK? Thanks, I’ll be anxiously awaiting your findings.

Seriouslyforrealtho, I really do think the missing “ingredient” in this album is drugs… not kidding. Who wants to be my sitter while I try and find out?

OK, enough of that. More music…

It’s hard to believe that something as disjointed and relatively incomprehensible as this could make me any more anxious for Radiohead’s 7th LP – but it totally has. On the internet’s best source of pirate tunes, “LP7” tops the request list, the most asked-for and anticipated album of the close-knit community of music-loving thieves. I know you can’t really tell much from the audio on that video clip, but I like to think I can hear proof of yet another masterpiece.

To close this out, I’ll mention that I’m hard at work on my second annual half-year best-of list. Yeah, get in line now.

Goodnight.

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bloggin’ on the move


Happy Tuesday folks, I’m just gonna get right into it.

Blogging from among the masses in the general admission section on the lawn at the Gwen Stefani show (from my phone, no less).

The youth is in full “social gathering” regalia, young men with their baseball caps twisted sideways and half-cocked over tightly freshened-up crew-cuts, young ladies squeezed into skin-tight bits of cloth they’re trying to pass as clothes. Oh, it’s on (it’s not really “on,” I actually feel pretty old, to tell the truth).

I’m pretty much transfixed watching the chaperoning moms, the way they nonchalantly watch their pre-teen daughters “wind and grind.” I can’t tell if they’re really good at pretending not to care, all the while squirming on the inside, or if they truly don’t mind the statutory-inviting junior-stripper antics. Tell you what though, some of these girls are dancing like they have body parts that they haven’t even grown yet. Were we this bad when we were kids?

I’m actually petty amazed I’m able to blog from my phone right now; believe it or not, it’s the first time I’ve ever done it. This new BlackBerry predictive text keyboard is pretty functional, as should be evidenced by the fact that I totally wasted time typing about typing. Anyway, moving on.

Y’know, being here, seeing these kids, and, more importantly seeing these adults doing their best to look like kids, I’m actually happy to be all ‘grow’d up.” I’d hate to be “that guy:” Forty-something years old, all tatted up wearing a 13lbs silver herring-bone chain with spiked bleached-blonde hair ala “I’m thirteen and I just discovered Sid Vicious.” Hey, if I’m ever that guy, sit me down and lay it on me, OK? (The truth that is, lay the truth on me, OK?)

Well, the it’s nigh on midnight and we’re on our way home. The battery on this thing is almost gone, and I’m fresh out of things to say anyway. I know I’m totally gonna be disappointed with the length of this post when I see it on a real screen, but it looks huge squanched up on this tiny thing, so I’m calling it good.

‘Night.