(I don’t think I’m ready for summer, really; but I’ve no choice, and neither do you.)
My mother’s baby gift to us was a pack-and-play – like a playpen/bed you can fold-up/disassemble and take with you wherever you go, for newborns – and last night we moved it from the living room into our bedroom, positioned on Alecia’s side of the bed. We moved the red Ikea chair out of the room and shifted the nightstands, bed, and lamps away from the windows to accommodate this tan-colored furniture (that isn’t the proper word surely but I’m having trouble arriving at a better one) – there are three little bears hanging from an attachment for Malia to bat around or just stare at, whenever she gets here.
And we’ve come to crunch time, these crucial last eight weeks where for all intents and purposes our little bundle of joy could enter our lives at any time; this is the configuration our bedroom will be in until we leave the condo for good in late September. Someday I’ll be mercilessly boring Malia with stories about life prior to her ability to retain memories, and I’ll say something like “We didn’t always live in this house – right after you were born, we resided for a time in this condo in Baltimore County” at which time I will present digital photographs as evidence of this and Malia will marvel, as children will (I know I did when my parents told me we lived in D.C. when I was a toddler) at the fact that anything existed prior to their coming into being. When introducing her to my friends, I’ll become accustomed to saying things like “Uncle Bill” or “Aunt Sanjeevani” or “Miss Pearl” other authoritative variations, just as I call my godmothers “Miss Edith” and “Aunt Ena.” When as a youth I did something I wasn’t supposed to do, I was warned “Qui Dow, Raymond” by both parents – a benign but effective threat whose provenance and meaning I forget now. It will tumble unconsciously from my lips at least once in the next several years, I’m sure. The cycle – of what exactly, I can’t say, of life? Of parenthood? -- continues, and I observe it in quiet awe.
Malia has already shown up in a few of my dreams, tiny and pinch-faced, swaddled and cradled in my arms; the recollection of her face is a blur. Which attributes of ours will she have? Will she inherit our worst qualities, our best ones, or a mixture of both? Who will she become? How will she play well with others? Can we protect her from a world that seems to be more and more morally bankrupt? When she enters this world, screaming, naked, tiny fists clenched, will I be able to hold back tears? For years I never believed that I would be a parent – that fatherhood was something I wasn’t meant to experience; thankfully, I was dead wrong.
(Forgive the awkwardness of all of this – I’ve never been much good at writing well when writing about myself.)
And, in other news: We have a second baby registry now, at Toys’R’Us; Jef (er, Thom) discovers that to make it onto Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, a would-be contestant must know too, too much about Barbie’s extended family; Doug Coupland is still a lucky idiot; John Dwyer echoes DMX circa 2000 or so – “Shut ‘em down/Open up shop” – careerwise, sorta; man, I miss Chuck Eddy being at the Village Voice more now than ever; two of my favorite records of 2006 so far are named after a “body of water” (I believe) and a child’s writing instruments; amazing what Google discovers (I think I had this link years ago but lost it); as Doug Mowbray used to say with a cracked grin: “Be leery of Timothy.” (This article actually filled in a great many blanks (didn’t even know they were blanks) for me as I’d no clue Leary was ever a Harvard professor of psychology before fringing out into the countercultural LSD evangelist/guru the public consciousness remembers him as today – also didn’t know dude got pinched, broken out of jail, or shuttled off to other countries to escape prosecution.)
Friday, June 23, 2006
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
“For tracklist and salutation, please visit...”
Greetings! If you came to Voguing to Danzig for the expressed purpose of finding this message, then you’re in possession of one of the twelve copies of MALIA’S AMNIOTIC SUMMER DAYDREAM in existence. Before I go any further, I’d like to thank my dad for graciously taking the time to burn these – it’s deeply appreciated. This compliation is intended primarily as a tribute to my unborn daughter, even though the subject matter of the twelve (there’s that number again) songs doesn’t necessarily point to childbirth or childhood or fatherhood or anything; there’s no underlying theme or parable to be found (though if you uncover something I didn’t intend, feel free to expound in the comments section). Just some music for you to listen to at your leisure – and a collection for Malia to dip into at whatsever point she finally does become interested in pop or rock or what have you and subsequently determines that dad’s CD/mp3/holographic mind cube earbud stash ain’t cool – a way for me to share something of myself with you at this particular moment in my life. I strongly doubt that everything here is to everyone’s taste, but it’s my sincere hope that I’ve managed to include something you’ll like or love to the point of wanting to learn more or some aspect will engender internal discourse or alter one angle or another for you. Listening to the finished product on the way in to work I realize that the overall tone here is somewhat darker than originally intended; this CD is probably better suited for contemplative evenings at home than for highway driving on sunny days with the windows rolled down and sweat stinging your eyes.
Enjoy – and thanks, as ever and always, for being such a great person/friend/parent/spouse/compadre. You’re eternally phenomenal, but you already knew that.
1) HENRY JACOBS “Guitar Lesson”
2) DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE “Soul Meets Body”
3) MATMOS “Stream and Sequins for Larry Levan”
4) TOM VERLAINE “Meteor Beach”
5) TORTOISE & BONNIE “PRINCE” BILLY “Daniel”
6) THE YEAH YEAH YEAHS “Gold Lion” (Nick Zinner remix)
7) RADIOINACTIVE “Tarantulas”
8) SUNN O))) “Cursed Realm”
9) THE MINUS 5 “Retrieval of You”
10) THE ESSEX GREEN “Don’t Know Why You Stay”
11) ISLANDS “If”
12) SETH KAUFFMAN “Black Biscuit”
Enjoy – and thanks, as ever and always, for being such a great person/friend/parent/spouse/compadre. You’re eternally phenomenal, but you already knew that.
1) HENRY JACOBS “Guitar Lesson”
2) DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE “Soul Meets Body”
3) MATMOS “Stream and Sequins for Larry Levan”
4) TOM VERLAINE “Meteor Beach”
5) TORTOISE & BONNIE “PRINCE” BILLY “Daniel”
6) THE YEAH YEAH YEAHS “Gold Lion” (Nick Zinner remix)
7) RADIOINACTIVE “Tarantulas”
8) SUNN O))) “Cursed Realm”
9) THE MINUS 5 “Retrieval of You”
10) THE ESSEX GREEN “Don’t Know Why You Stay”
11) ISLANDS “If”
12) SETH KAUFFMAN “Black Biscuit”
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
I'm Not Aware Of Too Many Things/I Know What I Know If You Know What I Mean
Nick's doubtful 'bout Dipset, I parlay a three-year old trip to South Carolina into a T.I. record review with limited success, Matt Fluxblog gets all Associated Press on a Thom Yorke listening party, and here's a massive, scam-detailing Clevescene cover story by Hoffman that ran the week of his wedding. Here's my first-ever book review for the Baltimore City Paper with more to come soon; I'm quite enjoying the partial shift of critical energies from one medium to the other. (In fact, I need to spend some more quality time with Cellophane as soon as I finish this post.)
Malia, Alecia tells me, is always in motion -- I have the feeling that it'll be difficult to keep up with her once she's up on two legs. That seems a long, long ways off, but then again it feels like it was just yesterday that we found out Malia was en route and now there's a little more than two months to go until she arrives, a little more than three months until we move to Pennsylvania. Still no definite job prospects; at least I've been able to grab plenty of freelance writing. Small victories, small steps.
I have a feeling that my co-workers will be throwing me a baby shower in the very, very near future -- too many whisperings and hints around here today. In case I didn't mention it, we have a registry at Target. (Which isn't a hint unless you want it to be.)
Malia, Alecia tells me, is always in motion -- I have the feeling that it'll be difficult to keep up with her once she's up on two legs. That seems a long, long ways off, but then again it feels like it was just yesterday that we found out Malia was en route and now there's a little more than two months to go until she arrives, a little more than three months until we move to Pennsylvania. Still no definite job prospects; at least I've been able to grab plenty of freelance writing. Small victories, small steps.
I have a feeling that my co-workers will be throwing me a baby shower in the very, very near future -- too many whisperings and hints around here today. In case I didn't mention it, we have a registry at Target. (Which isn't a hint unless you want it to be.)
Saturday, June 03, 2006
God Bless America!
Or, if you prefer, When Patriotism Attacks. Nationalism Gone Wild? I dunno, but I get squirmy when people have to go and plaster American flags all over everything -- it's like a passive aggressive ploy or something.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
You’ve Got Me Dead To Certain Rights
Got it too late to review it, and I wouldn’t feel qualified to in any case – their first record came out in the 1980s and I haven’t heard it – but Mission of Burma’s new, second post-reformation record, The Obliterati, is simply too solid and un-fuckwithable to just put it on my short list of 2006’s best CDs without passing comment. It’s just a perfect rock record, all around, adventurous and cluttered and attitude in-jokes galore (see “eating dinner on Matador’s dime” lyric from “Spider’s Web,” which I suspect is about confronting/facing down the machinery of the music industry) and not a moment wasted (unlike 2003’s onOFFon, which was just pretty darn good) – (relatively) new member Bob Weston’s tape manipulation abetting the two-chorded throttle and killer drums of the others, punk urgency and awesome songwriting chops wrestling and driving every song home to the point where I’m listening to this too damned much when there’s mounds of CDs I actually am being paid to review soon all over my desk right now. Sending The Obliterati to Bill this weekend is a necessity for sure.
Monday, May 22, 2006
"Silence Kits"
Q: Have you procured new management?
A: No. I am, however, involved in ongoing discussions with several management consortiums to determine whether they can accommodate my specific needs and if any benefit can be gained by one of them taking me on as a client, whether their profile will be raised, and if so, will said profile be lifted very high, or moderately high. These are important considerations.
Q: What are your needs?
A: Well, I would like to be known – or infamous, say – as the author of an infinite, or maybe near-infinite, as I don’t know that you or I or any one person is capable of anything infinite, in any event, for a just-next-to-infinite number of pamphlets. They’d be more like tracts, actually, but thicker. Like little black books, address books, with fewer pages. Fit nice in back pockets, nice and snug and at hand. Crimson leather covers, gold leaf. Tasteful.
Q: To what purpose?
A: The pamphlets – let’s call them tract-pamphlets, for now – could provide a distraction, or a laugh, or counsel, a diversion from the mundane. Not too much, mind, just a little jolt, like an intellectual Snickers bar one never finishes eating.
Q: What would the content be?
A: I’m not sure yet. Religion, architectural theory, observations about the culture at large, some gardening tips, advice my uncle, a taciturn World War II veteran, imparted to me during our infrequent quail-hunting trips, recipes, art history minutae. I – I shouldn’t be telling you this, we could both be disappeared, but I have a CIA friend who passed along some translations of wiretap transcriptions of phone calls between suspected domestic terrorists, innocent stuff really unless it’s in some complicated code, meaningless, but it’s interesting. There’s one lengthy thing where a little girl is describing to her father – who must have been away on business or something – her horrific, Kafka-esque recurring nightmares, like one where she’s stranded naked in the tundra with only an American flag and it comes to life and starts devouring her. But getting back to my project, you know, I’d throw in a little bit of everything. As you may be aware, I am a blistering Quonset hut of knowledge and wisdom, and I want to share my bounty with the general public. I want to be curled up, waiting, kinetic, and psychoticly brilliant, in warm dungaree pockets worldwide.
Q: What would you call these tract-pamphlets?
A: “Wagner’s Epistles.” Or is that too narcissistic?
Q: No, no, not at all.
Q: Is the contraction dead?
A: Excuse me?
Q: Is the contraction –
A: I heard you, I heard you. I just couldn’t quite believe that you asked me that. What kind of question is that, to ask me? I mean, who do you think I am, Jacques Derrida?
Q: I thought it was a clever question, something unusual, a means of opening a new avenue for this interview, which to this point has been conventional, dull, a retread of your other recent interviews. Don’t you ever get tired of being asked about your films?
A: My films are like my children. Are you a parent?
Q: Yes.
A: Do you ever tire of talking about your children?
Q: No.
A: Well, there you are. There you are.
Q: Derrida is dead, you know.
A: Then you’ll be waiting a long time for your answer, about contractions, about the expiration of grammatical concepts. Why don’t you ask me about the influence my new, fully-stocked wine cellar is having on my present work?
Q: What are your vintages?
A: No. I am, however, involved in ongoing discussions with several management consortiums to determine whether they can accommodate my specific needs and if any benefit can be gained by one of them taking me on as a client, whether their profile will be raised, and if so, will said profile be lifted very high, or moderately high. These are important considerations.
Q: What are your needs?
A: Well, I would like to be known – or infamous, say – as the author of an infinite, or maybe near-infinite, as I don’t know that you or I or any one person is capable of anything infinite, in any event, for a just-next-to-infinite number of pamphlets. They’d be more like tracts, actually, but thicker. Like little black books, address books, with fewer pages. Fit nice in back pockets, nice and snug and at hand. Crimson leather covers, gold leaf. Tasteful.
Q: To what purpose?
A: The pamphlets – let’s call them tract-pamphlets, for now – could provide a distraction, or a laugh, or counsel, a diversion from the mundane. Not too much, mind, just a little jolt, like an intellectual Snickers bar one never finishes eating.
Q: What would the content be?
A: I’m not sure yet. Religion, architectural theory, observations about the culture at large, some gardening tips, advice my uncle, a taciturn World War II veteran, imparted to me during our infrequent quail-hunting trips, recipes, art history minutae. I – I shouldn’t be telling you this, we could both be disappeared, but I have a CIA friend who passed along some translations of wiretap transcriptions of phone calls between suspected domestic terrorists, innocent stuff really unless it’s in some complicated code, meaningless, but it’s interesting. There’s one lengthy thing where a little girl is describing to her father – who must have been away on business or something – her horrific, Kafka-esque recurring nightmares, like one where she’s stranded naked in the tundra with only an American flag and it comes to life and starts devouring her. But getting back to my project, you know, I’d throw in a little bit of everything. As you may be aware, I am a blistering Quonset hut of knowledge and wisdom, and I want to share my bounty with the general public. I want to be curled up, waiting, kinetic, and psychoticly brilliant, in warm dungaree pockets worldwide.
Q: What would you call these tract-pamphlets?
A: “Wagner’s Epistles.” Or is that too narcissistic?
Q: No, no, not at all.
Q: Is the contraction dead?
A: Excuse me?
Q: Is the contraction –
A: I heard you, I heard you. I just couldn’t quite believe that you asked me that. What kind of question is that, to ask me? I mean, who do you think I am, Jacques Derrida?
Q: I thought it was a clever question, something unusual, a means of opening a new avenue for this interview, which to this point has been conventional, dull, a retread of your other recent interviews. Don’t you ever get tired of being asked about your films?
A: My films are like my children. Are you a parent?
Q: Yes.
A: Do you ever tire of talking about your children?
Q: No.
A: Well, there you are. There you are.
Q: Derrida is dead, you know.
A: Then you’ll be waiting a long time for your answer, about contractions, about the expiration of grammatical concepts. Why don’t you ask me about the influence my new, fully-stocked wine cellar is having on my present work?
Q: What are your vintages?
"Let's Knoll"
These words trickle, anymore
I’ve husks, not kernels
Pop pop pop pop pop
Corks, weasels, bottled bubbly
Silences molten down
The hatch and cheers,
Everyone: what’s imparted
Here is ballast, uncertain, coded,
Backmasked language
As confined, unassignable
Noise, shakey re-entry or
Nonsense made manifesto
I’ve husks, not kernels
Pop pop pop pop pop
Corks, weasels, bottled bubbly
Silences molten down
The hatch and cheers,
Everyone: what’s imparted
Here is ballast, uncertain, coded,
Backmasked language
As confined, unassignable
Noise, shakey re-entry or
Nonsense made manifesto
Friday, May 19, 2006
100 Fine Recordings
1. The Amps, Pacer
2. Animal Collective, Sung Tongs
3. Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti, The Doldrums
4. Autechre, Confield
5. B-52s, Time Capsule
6. Bad Religion, All Ages
7. Beat Happening, Jamboree
8. The Beatles, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
9. Beck, One Foot In The Grave
10. Blast Off Country Style, C’mon and...
11. Blur, Think Tank
12. Boards of Canada, Music Has The Right To Children
13. The Breeders, Last Splash
14. Buena Vista Social Club, s/t
15. Can, Tago Mago
16. The Chemical Brothers, Come With Us
17. The Chemical Brothers, Brothers Gonna Work It Out
18. The Circulatory System, s/t
19. Billy Corgan, TheFutureEmbrace
20. Cub, Betti-Cola
21. Kimya Dawson, I’m Sorry If Sometimes I’m Mean
22. The Dead C, The White House
23. Dead Machines, Futures
24. Aaron Dilloway, Bad Dreams
25. Double Leopards, A Hole is True
26. Eminem, The Slim Shady LP
27. Excepter, Throne
28. Faust, The First Two Albums by Faust
29. The Fiery Furnaces, Gallowsbird’s Bark
30. Foo Fighters, s/t
31. Free Kitten, Nice Ass
32. Fugazi, Red Medicine
33. Fur, Fur
34. Garbage, s/t
35. Garbage, Version 2.0
36. Gate, Golden
37. Ghostface Killah, Supreme Clientele
38. The Grateful Dead, Live/Dead
39. Green Day, Insomniac
40. Guided By Voices, Alien Lanes
41. Polly Jean Harvey, Rid of Me
42. The Halo Benders, God Don’t Make No Junk
43. Helium, Pirate Prude
44. Hole, Live Through This
45. Jawbreaker, Dear You
46. The Jesus Lizard, Liar
47. Kraftwerk, Minimum-Maximum
48. Lagwagon, Double Plaidinum
49. The Lemonheads, It’s A Shame About Ray
50. Lightning Bolt, Wonderful Rainbow
51. Courtney Love, America’s Sweetheart
52. Madonna, The Immaculate Collection
53. Stephen Malkmus, s/t
54. M.I.A., Arular
55. The Microphones, Mount Eerie
56. The Misfits, s/t
57. My Bloody Valentine, Loveless
58. Nautical Almanac, Cover the Earth
59. Neutral Milk Hotel, On Avery Island
60. New Order, Substance
61. Nine Inch Nails, The Downward Spiral
62. Nirvana, Roma (live, night before overdose)
63. Ol’ Dirty Bastard, N**** Please
64. Pavement, Watery, Domestic
65. Pavement, Wowee Zowee
66. Pearl Jam, Vs.
67. Liz Phair, Whitechocolatespaceegg demos
68. R.E.M., Up
69. Radiohead, Amnesiac
70. The Ramones, s/t
71. Lee Ranaldo, Amarillo Ramp
72. Shellac, At Action Park
73. Sightings, Absolutes
74. The Silver Jews, Bright Flight
75. The Silver Jews, The Natural Bridge
76. The Smashing Pumpkins, Adore
77. The Smashing Pumpkins, Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness
78. Graham Smith, Final Battle
79. Snoop Doggy Dogg, Doggystyle
80. Sonic Youth, Dirty
81. Sonic Youth, Murray Street
82. Sonic Youth, Silver Sessions...
83. Sonic Youth, Sister
84. Sonic Youth, Washing Machine
85. The Strokes, Is This It?
86. Soundgarden, Superunknown
87. Stereolab, Cobra and Phases...
88. The Swell Maps, Jane From Occupied Europe
89. Aoki Takamasa and Tujiko Noriko, 28
90. Tilt, ‘Til It Kills
91. Mary Timony, Mountains
92. Tortoise, TNT
93. Tortoise, Standards
94. The Unicorns, Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone?
95. Various Artists, Pulp Fiction soundtrack
96. Weezer, Pinkerton
97. Kanye West, The College Dropout
98. Wolf Eyes, Slicer
99. The Yellow Swans, Psychic Secession
100. Neil Young, Greatest Hits
2. Animal Collective, Sung Tongs
3. Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti, The Doldrums
4. Autechre, Confield
5. B-52s, Time Capsule
6. Bad Religion, All Ages
7. Beat Happening, Jamboree
8. The Beatles, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
9. Beck, One Foot In The Grave
10. Blast Off Country Style, C’mon and...
11. Blur, Think Tank
12. Boards of Canada, Music Has The Right To Children
13. The Breeders, Last Splash
14. Buena Vista Social Club, s/t
15. Can, Tago Mago
16. The Chemical Brothers, Come With Us
17. The Chemical Brothers, Brothers Gonna Work It Out
18. The Circulatory System, s/t
19. Billy Corgan, TheFutureEmbrace
20. Cub, Betti-Cola
21. Kimya Dawson, I’m Sorry If Sometimes I’m Mean
22. The Dead C, The White House
23. Dead Machines, Futures
24. Aaron Dilloway, Bad Dreams
25. Double Leopards, A Hole is True
26. Eminem, The Slim Shady LP
27. Excepter, Throne
28. Faust, The First Two Albums by Faust
29. The Fiery Furnaces, Gallowsbird’s Bark
30. Foo Fighters, s/t
31. Free Kitten, Nice Ass
32. Fugazi, Red Medicine
33. Fur, Fur
34. Garbage, s/t
35. Garbage, Version 2.0
36. Gate, Golden
37. Ghostface Killah, Supreme Clientele
38. The Grateful Dead, Live/Dead
39. Green Day, Insomniac
40. Guided By Voices, Alien Lanes
41. Polly Jean Harvey, Rid of Me
42. The Halo Benders, God Don’t Make No Junk
43. Helium, Pirate Prude
44. Hole, Live Through This
45. Jawbreaker, Dear You
46. The Jesus Lizard, Liar
47. Kraftwerk, Minimum-Maximum
48. Lagwagon, Double Plaidinum
49. The Lemonheads, It’s A Shame About Ray
50. Lightning Bolt, Wonderful Rainbow
51. Courtney Love, America’s Sweetheart
52. Madonna, The Immaculate Collection
53. Stephen Malkmus, s/t
54. M.I.A., Arular
55. The Microphones, Mount Eerie
56. The Misfits, s/t
57. My Bloody Valentine, Loveless
58. Nautical Almanac, Cover the Earth
59. Neutral Milk Hotel, On Avery Island
60. New Order, Substance
61. Nine Inch Nails, The Downward Spiral
62. Nirvana, Roma (live, night before overdose)
63. Ol’ Dirty Bastard, N**** Please
64. Pavement, Watery, Domestic
65. Pavement, Wowee Zowee
66. Pearl Jam, Vs.
67. Liz Phair, Whitechocolatespaceegg demos
68. R.E.M., Up
69. Radiohead, Amnesiac
70. The Ramones, s/t
71. Lee Ranaldo, Amarillo Ramp
72. Shellac, At Action Park
73. Sightings, Absolutes
74. The Silver Jews, Bright Flight
75. The Silver Jews, The Natural Bridge
76. The Smashing Pumpkins, Adore
77. The Smashing Pumpkins, Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness
78. Graham Smith, Final Battle
79. Snoop Doggy Dogg, Doggystyle
80. Sonic Youth, Dirty
81. Sonic Youth, Murray Street
82. Sonic Youth, Silver Sessions...
83. Sonic Youth, Sister
84. Sonic Youth, Washing Machine
85. The Strokes, Is This It?
86. Soundgarden, Superunknown
87. Stereolab, Cobra and Phases...
88. The Swell Maps, Jane From Occupied Europe
89. Aoki Takamasa and Tujiko Noriko, 28
90. Tilt, ‘Til It Kills
91. Mary Timony, Mountains
92. Tortoise, TNT
93. Tortoise, Standards
94. The Unicorns, Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone?
95. Various Artists, Pulp Fiction soundtrack
96. Weezer, Pinkerton
97. Kanye West, The College Dropout
98. Wolf Eyes, Slicer
99. The Yellow Swans, Psychic Secession
100. Neil Young, Greatest Hits
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
"We Love The Jams/And Jams/Run Free"
(Sonic Youth referenced here for no other reason that I'm lovin' me some Rather Ripped this month -- light and bright and easy and fun.)
Cryptic Warning did not, sadly, make it through their second go in the Emergenza festival the weekend before last, but they gave it an awesome try. The band that followed was a horrible generic emo band where the guitarists all did this thing where they jumped in unison while playing. And I realized with a blinding clarity: emo is the new nu-metal, the inescapable mall rat soundtrack, to the extent that nu-metal is all of a sudden more palpable than emo, a genre so pervasive that I can’t even name more than three whiny bands that fall into the category but can’t get away from no matter how hard I try to escape.
You will piss yourself reading this – I almost did.
Cryptic Warning did not, sadly, make it through their second go in the Emergenza festival the weekend before last, but they gave it an awesome try. The band that followed was a horrible generic emo band where the guitarists all did this thing where they jumped in unison while playing. And I realized with a blinding clarity: emo is the new nu-metal, the inescapable mall rat soundtrack, to the extent that nu-metal is all of a sudden more palpable than emo, a genre so pervasive that I can’t even name more than three whiny bands that fall into the category but can’t get away from no matter how hard I try to escape.
You will piss yourself reading this – I almost did.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Scattering Seeds
1) A stumble down memory lane. This is remembered graffiti from the walls of my college newpaper's office, which were cruelly repainted a few years back. Woefully incomplete, but then again, we're all getting older.
2) I still need a job. Last night I applied for six different positions online (including "business development coordinator" at one job and some sort of environmental lobbyist thing somewhere else_, including one at the SAIC branch in Harrisburg -- to be a subcontract administrator, something I don't think I have the ability to do, but Alecia suggested that it couldn't hurt to give it a go. Can everyone reading this keep their fingers crossed for me until, say, October? I'll pay for the Icy-Hot.
3) Last weekend we went record shopping, and I picked up this record by a new band named Bleeding Kansas based on a blurb in Alternative Press (the first time that magazine's ever caused me to buy anything, probably). Had enough money to get that or AFX's Hanging Bulb (or whatever the title was) and after a few minutes of consideration the fresh won out over an update of a former favorite -- whenever I start to get excited that Richard D. James has something new out I have to check myself and remember that I don't listen to the dude's music anymore, ever, and that it hasn't felt even remotely thrilling to me since college! (well, I heard Drukqs in a store when it came out and twasn't horrible but I never bothered to investigate further) So Bleeding Kansas it was; google 'em and you'll get this, which is the movement they named themselves after. Noble. They sound like Nirvana, if Nirvana had a second guitarist and dug on Jesus Lizard as much as they dug on R.E.M. and Black Flag and the Beatles and the Melvins. Heavy punk-metal with hooks under the BALCO'd guitars and bass and the slammin' drums, the singer's flaying his throat muscles and you can't understand him (the record's titled Dead Under Decor and it's apparently -- I haven't had a chance to really study the liners -- about how bands who are obsessed with fashion are empty suits, wannabe emporers with no clothes) at all. I've never understood why bands like this even bother with lyrics when it's next to impossible to discern what they are. Why not just flat-out scream? Too heavy, I think for my wife, but not heavy enough for my brother-in-law.
4) Asobi Seksu and Serena Maneesh = My Bloody Valentine, 2006. Kevin Shields, take yr time.
2) I still need a job. Last night I applied for six different positions online (including "business development coordinator" at one job and some sort of environmental lobbyist thing somewhere else_, including one at the SAIC branch in Harrisburg -- to be a subcontract administrator, something I don't think I have the ability to do, but Alecia suggested that it couldn't hurt to give it a go. Can everyone reading this keep their fingers crossed for me until, say, October? I'll pay for the Icy-Hot.
3) Last weekend we went record shopping, and I picked up this record by a new band named Bleeding Kansas based on a blurb in Alternative Press (the first time that magazine's ever caused me to buy anything, probably). Had enough money to get that or AFX's Hanging Bulb (or whatever the title was) and after a few minutes of consideration the fresh won out over an update of a former favorite -- whenever I start to get excited that Richard D. James has something new out I have to check myself and remember that I don't listen to the dude's music anymore, ever, and that it hasn't felt even remotely thrilling to me since college! (well, I heard Drukqs in a store when it came out and twasn't horrible but I never bothered to investigate further) So Bleeding Kansas it was; google 'em and you'll get this, which is the movement they named themselves after. Noble. They sound like Nirvana, if Nirvana had a second guitarist and dug on Jesus Lizard as much as they dug on R.E.M. and Black Flag and the Beatles and the Melvins. Heavy punk-metal with hooks under the BALCO'd guitars and bass and the slammin' drums, the singer's flaying his throat muscles and you can't understand him (the record's titled Dead Under Decor and it's apparently -- I haven't had a chance to really study the liners -- about how bands who are obsessed with fashion are empty suits, wannabe emporers with no clothes) at all. I've never understood why bands like this even bother with lyrics when it's next to impossible to discern what they are. Why not just flat-out scream? Too heavy, I think for my wife, but not heavy enough for my brother-in-law.
4) Asobi Seksu and Serena Maneesh = My Bloody Valentine, 2006. Kevin Shields, take yr time.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Cleveland, Belated
There was something oh-so appropriate about cruising the Cleveland, Ohio streets en route to Kevin Hoffman’s wedding reception in a rented silver PT Cruiser with Ghostface Killah’s Fishscale as our soundtrack – cue “L.L. Cool J drives a leased accord” reference from Might Magazine, circa. the late 1990s, no-one will get what I’m saying here but who cares – Bill driving with his girlfriend Jenny riding shotgun, Alecia and I in the back seat, Ol Dirty Bastard barking about the "Brooklyn Zoo" from somewhere beyond the grave. That scene – the whole weekend, for that matter – felt like a perfect intersection of past, present, and future. It takes a life-changing event like this for us old Washington College/Elm/Collegian/drinking buddies to be able to meet up or even really to be able to talk at length, and it ain’t cheap, and time off is hard to come by in the face of life’s relentlessness and harsh realities; it’s difficult to listen to and enjoy hip-hop when your spouse, who doesn’t share your love for some of what the genre has to offer, is sitting next to you, and when asked you can’t explain what’s uplifting or positive about a guy who is sort of glamorizing drug-dealing; it’s odd and false-feeling to hold forth on your present job and life when in a few months everything you’ve said will have been turned over by relocation and a baby. And these aren’t necessarily bad experiences, merely ones that underscore the fact that 1999 is many moons behind us and that the nature of friendship and of self is static, unfixed. I vividly remember Kevin’s sister, Kelly, as a silent, scowling, high-school age punker trailing her brother through the crowd at a Washington, D.C. Sonic Youth show we all attended in the fall of 1995; this past weekend she was a young woman in a nice dress who smiled and served as our usher at the Old Stone Church. Until we were getting ready to leave the reception, I’d never noticed hair on Kevin’s face – a concession to aging his genetics appeared to allow him to avoid – on Saturday, there were finally whiskers. And there he was – matched (finally!) with an uncompromising woman his equal, managing editor at Clevescene at age 29, elated that the deed was done, that all of the planning and fretting was over and done, glowing, sucking on a beer bottle and leaning against the open bar. I’d always known he was capable of taking over the world, and he’s now on the verge of doing just that. And I didn't know that Bill would ever get married back when we were all buying cases of Olde English 40-ouncers, and then at the reception he was babbling about whether or not New Year's Eve's a good time for a wedding.
Whew.
Earlier in the day, Alecia and I had spent a couple hours at the fabled Rock and Roll Hall of Fame -- an amazing place that one really needs an entire day to really appreciate -- and alongside the B-52s' and Duran Duran's and the Rolling Stones' old stage costumes, John Lennon's schoolboy doodlings and postcards and passports, Michael Jackson's sequined white glove encased in glass, and Jon Bon Jovi's motorcycle, among hundreds of other rock artifacts, was a display on grunge, which finally brought home how dead and buried the early 1990s are: Alice In Chains lyrics on notebook paper, a copy of the first issue of Subterranian Pop (which would blossom into the Sub Pop label), old out-of-print vinyl singles, all up on the walls, it's over and done and trivia for a new generation.
Later, as we spent a couple hours ripping on the cheese-horror of Anaconda (Eric Stoltz, Jennifer Lopez, Ice Cube, Jon Voight working the worst hispanic accent ever) in our beautiful-but-expensive hotel room with Jenny and Bill, I fought to keep up with the conversation and not think about the liklihood that it'd be years until we'd all be able to do something like this again.
All in all, a great weekend that flew by much too quickly. No time to use the weirdly shaped pool at the hotel, but that's no big deal; Cavs were in the playoffs so every other person was in a basketball jersey which was kind of creepy. Thanks to Bill for the burn of the new Tool record I haven't had time to listen to more than once, and for giving us an early ride back to the hotel when we needed to leave the reception.
Alecia can feel Malia kicking a lot more these days; my mom joked that we're got another soccer player on our hands. The pregnancy takes a lot out of Alecia -- it's increasingly difficult for her to bend over, to turn in bed, or to be active for long periods of time -- but she's in good spirits nonetheless. She's gonna be a great mom, and when she talks about Malia at home or while we're rummaging though baby sections in department stores (eventually all baby clothes look alike, don't they, and those racks upon racks of onesies and tiny shorts and shirts and jackets and such blend together into one overpriced forever of fabric that will only be worn once or twice, and then thinking about that you think about how people always say "they grow so fast!" and then it's like Malia's already been in the womb for five and a half months or so and before we know it she'll be out here with us) a glow comes over her and she's somehow a different person than she was before.
Heh heh.
That new Fiery Furnaces record? Don't bother. Really.
Whew.
Earlier in the day, Alecia and I had spent a couple hours at the fabled Rock and Roll Hall of Fame -- an amazing place that one really needs an entire day to really appreciate -- and alongside the B-52s' and Duran Duran's and the Rolling Stones' old stage costumes, John Lennon's schoolboy doodlings and postcards and passports, Michael Jackson's sequined white glove encased in glass, and Jon Bon Jovi's motorcycle, among hundreds of other rock artifacts, was a display on grunge, which finally brought home how dead and buried the early 1990s are: Alice In Chains lyrics on notebook paper, a copy of the first issue of Subterranian Pop (which would blossom into the Sub Pop label), old out-of-print vinyl singles, all up on the walls, it's over and done and trivia for a new generation.
Later, as we spent a couple hours ripping on the cheese-horror of Anaconda (Eric Stoltz, Jennifer Lopez, Ice Cube, Jon Voight working the worst hispanic accent ever) in our beautiful-but-expensive hotel room with Jenny and Bill, I fought to keep up with the conversation and not think about the liklihood that it'd be years until we'd all be able to do something like this again.
All in all, a great weekend that flew by much too quickly. No time to use the weirdly shaped pool at the hotel, but that's no big deal; Cavs were in the playoffs so every other person was in a basketball jersey which was kind of creepy. Thanks to Bill for the burn of the new Tool record I haven't had time to listen to more than once, and for giving us an early ride back to the hotel when we needed to leave the reception.
Alecia can feel Malia kicking a lot more these days; my mom joked that we're got another soccer player on our hands. The pregnancy takes a lot out of Alecia -- it's increasingly difficult for her to bend over, to turn in bed, or to be active for long periods of time -- but she's in good spirits nonetheless. She's gonna be a great mom, and when she talks about Malia at home or while we're rummaging though baby sections in department stores (eventually all baby clothes look alike, don't they, and those racks upon racks of onesies and tiny shorts and shirts and jackets and such blend together into one overpriced forever of fabric that will only be worn once or twice, and then thinking about that you think about how people always say "they grow so fast!" and then it's like Malia's already been in the womb for five and a half months or so and before we know it she'll be out here with us) a glow comes over her and she's somehow a different person than she was before.
Heh heh.
That new Fiery Furnaces record? Don't bother. Really.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Better Late Than Never
A roffle-tastic link I've been meaning to post for a while:
Cam'ron straight-to-video movie sucks, but is probably still worth your dough. I almost burst into maniacal laughter reading this at work, and I have no idea how I could have explained to co-workers why.
Cam'ron straight-to-video movie sucks, but is probably still worth your dough. I almost burst into maniacal laughter reading this at work, and I have no idea how I could have explained to co-workers why.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Dropping Links
Cleveland was a blast! Thanks and congratulations to Kevin and Erin on theirlovely wedding; photos and a more thoughtful commentary will come later in the month (promise).
Only rock-crit geeks will care, but Chuck Eddy was relieved last week of his duties as music editor of the Village Voice. I never had the chance to write for him, but he was kind enough to accept and thumb through my clips and later respond cordially to my pitches and failed on-spec attempts. He ran a diverse section/stable for seven years – every week there were a couple of reviews/features/blogs worth spending time with – and will be missed, at least until he finds gainful employment elsewhere (and he will, believe it). Some conversation about that can be found here.
Amal’s wedding photos can be viewed here, though like me, you may not recognize her at first (i.e. she’s wearing serious makeup and no blue clothing whatsoever).
Hooray for captivating noise: the Yellow Swans, Fat Worm of Error, and Panther Skull are brightening my year right now. Islands are on an altogether different trip, but are equally deserving of everyone’s limited time and resources. Played to death but fathomlessly enjoyable, “You’re Beautiful” is definitely this year’s “You’re Gorgeous.” Played to death but fathomlessly enjoyable but dripping with sap: “Had a Bad Day.”
Only rock-crit geeks will care, but Chuck Eddy was relieved last week of his duties as music editor of the Village Voice. I never had the chance to write for him, but he was kind enough to accept and thumb through my clips and later respond cordially to my pitches and failed on-spec attempts. He ran a diverse section/stable for seven years – every week there were a couple of reviews/features/blogs worth spending time with – and will be missed, at least until he finds gainful employment elsewhere (and he will, believe it). Some conversation about that can be found here.
Amal’s wedding photos can be viewed here, though like me, you may not recognize her at first (i.e. she’s wearing serious makeup and no blue clothing whatsoever).
Hooray for captivating noise: the Yellow Swans, Fat Worm of Error, and Panther Skull are brightening my year right now. Islands are on an altogether different trip, but are equally deserving of everyone’s limited time and resources. Played to death but fathomlessly enjoyable, “You’re Beautiful” is definitely this year’s “You’re Gorgeous.” Played to death but fathomlessly enjoyable but dripping with sap: “Had a Bad Day.”
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Springtime, and the Dying's Easy
I'm a cold-blooded killer, a murderous bastard, an assassin itching to strike. My bodycount this weekend in Selinsgrove is inching into the 30-plus range, and the carcasses are everywhere, crushed and oozing, bent and bruised and broken, in trash sacks and on the ground and behind furniture. Remorse shouldn't be an issue here but I have to admit that at some level I'm concerned that, after all of this willful, vengeful violence, my swift, brutal dispatching of so many clueless victims could swing back to me like a boomerang. Will I suffer karmic reprecussions of some sort, or be eternally confronted in the afterlife by those who met death by my heavy hand?
Hard to say, hard to say.
Hard to say, hard to say.
Pretty as a Picture
No, not this Malia, silly goose.
Malia has Native American roots ("bitter") and Hawaiian ones ("honey"). Research turns up a slew of other definitions -- "peaceful and calm waters" or "perhaps, probably" (Hawaiian); "queen" (South African). All of 'em sound pretty good to me.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
All Up In Your Hard Drive Like A Typhoid PC Virus
(Not an MC Barman lyric; twas the only blog post title I could come up with on short notice. Do you like it? Does it sound flippant yet commanding yet “street” all at once?)
It’s been too long since I posted here, for all of the reasons you’d imagine given recent events. In short: life is expensive and I refuse to be caught without the dough to move, to pay bills, to eat, to buy formula and diapers and so on. Junior will be along, according to Alecia’s OB-GYN, in a little less than five months. Tomorrow I’m accompanying her to the doctor for a check-up, and at that time we’ll learn whether we’re having a Nodin or a Malia. A lot of you have been asking about this and trust me, you’ll know as soon as I do – promise.
Our landlady, Sonya, graciously gave us a “money tree” for good luck and what I guess you’d call a feeding seat this past weekend. (There’s a proper term for this but it escapes me at the moment.) I’ll miss her when we move; she’s been a lot easier and more pleasant to deal with than the myriad. evil landlords (companies) we’ve sparred with over the last half decade or so. We presently have the high chair (that’s it, right?) in our guest room and it’s more tangible proof that everything’s about to change very drastically for us.
Despite the somewhat disparaging tone I took here, I want to thank the Silver Jews for coming to the Ottobar last Wednesday night – finally getting to see David Berman and Co. perform many of the desolate, literate songs I’ve stuck on mix tapes or sung to myself in the car or shower while depressed or in great spirits was a long, long-awaited pleasure (even if having to scribble notes in half-darkness during the show meant I couldn’t enjoy the proceedings as much as I could have otherwise). Thanks to Doug Mowbray for coming along with me, for the world-weary damn-we’re-old-and-relationships-are-HARD-but-rewarding conversation, for the CDs, for helpfully dissecting the finer points of opener Heumann/Bell (I have a feeling I went to school with Dave Heumann’s sister a lifetime ago, but maybe not) even though the part of my review pertaining to them didn’t make it to print. (They were flat-out fantastic and you should support them if possible.) Doug stuck around for a while to get his copy of Actual Air signed by Berman, and was successful – I bugged out cuz I was exhausted and my back ached from crouching down for hours in a space that was too cramped for 6’5 me. Berman wrote “better shit’s coming” on the poetry book which bodes well for humanity, methinks.
Alecia is increasingly tired and sore and itchy and looks forward to this whole pregnancy thing being over and done; increasingly I’m psyched about parenthood and all it entails: Play dates! Car seats! Gerber’s! Baby babble! Reading to the tyke! Ooohing and ahhhing strangers! (Well, not so much that last one...)
Multiple Sclerosis Walk this weekend in Towson! (No rain, please.)
It’s been too long since I posted here, for all of the reasons you’d imagine given recent events. In short: life is expensive and I refuse to be caught without the dough to move, to pay bills, to eat, to buy formula and diapers and so on. Junior will be along, according to Alecia’s OB-GYN, in a little less than five months. Tomorrow I’m accompanying her to the doctor for a check-up, and at that time we’ll learn whether we’re having a Nodin or a Malia. A lot of you have been asking about this and trust me, you’ll know as soon as I do – promise.
Our landlady, Sonya, graciously gave us a “money tree” for good luck and what I guess you’d call a feeding seat this past weekend. (There’s a proper term for this but it escapes me at the moment.) I’ll miss her when we move; she’s been a lot easier and more pleasant to deal with than the myriad. evil landlords (companies) we’ve sparred with over the last half decade or so. We presently have the high chair (that’s it, right?) in our guest room and it’s more tangible proof that everything’s about to change very drastically for us.
Despite the somewhat disparaging tone I took here, I want to thank the Silver Jews for coming to the Ottobar last Wednesday night – finally getting to see David Berman and Co. perform many of the desolate, literate songs I’ve stuck on mix tapes or sung to myself in the car or shower while depressed or in great spirits was a long, long-awaited pleasure (even if having to scribble notes in half-darkness during the show meant I couldn’t enjoy the proceedings as much as I could have otherwise). Thanks to Doug Mowbray for coming along with me, for the world-weary damn-we’re-old-and-relationships-are-HARD-but-rewarding conversation, for the CDs, for helpfully dissecting the finer points of opener Heumann/Bell (I have a feeling I went to school with Dave Heumann’s sister a lifetime ago, but maybe not) even though the part of my review pertaining to them didn’t make it to print. (They were flat-out fantastic and you should support them if possible.) Doug stuck around for a while to get his copy of Actual Air signed by Berman, and was successful – I bugged out cuz I was exhausted and my back ached from crouching down for hours in a space that was too cramped for 6’5 me. Berman wrote “better shit’s coming” on the poetry book which bodes well for humanity, methinks.
Alecia is increasingly tired and sore and itchy and looks forward to this whole pregnancy thing being over and done; increasingly I’m psyched about parenthood and all it entails: Play dates! Car seats! Gerber’s! Baby babble! Reading to the tyke! Ooohing and ahhhing strangers! (Well, not so much that last one...)
Multiple Sclerosis Walk this weekend in Towson! (No rain, please.)
Friday, March 17, 2006
Homies Be Bloggin'
Oh yeah. Kevin, Thom (Jef), Pearl, and my wife, Alecia (who manages a band, Cryptic Warning -- they advanced to the next stage in last night's Emergenza band face-off at the Ottobar, congratulations! It was a good time, but I'm totally exhausted today -- four hours in a tiny club full of cigarette smoke, attention-hungry hipsters, and drunken bimbos will do that to you.). Matthew Perpetua, who I’ve known online for almost a decade, runs the ever-thriving, sometimes-maligned Fluxblog mp3 empire.
Seriously, I've felt like a zombie all day today, like I'm sleepwalking through life and work -- two beers, four hours of sleep, and some of the conditions described in the paragraph above were to blame. But I'm glad I went along; I met the CW dudes for the first time, watched them kick up serious metalheaded dust onstage, and some of the other bands were okay too: in particular Odd Girl Out, who reminded me of several 90s riot grrl groups but without the feminist politics (unless I missed them). The singer wasn't great, and looked a lot like Liz Phair, which was kinda weird. Their fans seemed to fit into two categories: 1) friends and possibly relatives of the female, mini-skirted asian-american lead guitarist or 2) out-and-proud lesbians (who can count among their number OGO's drummer and bassist, if haircuts and manner are anything to go by).
Seriously, I've felt like a zombie all day today, like I'm sleepwalking through life and work -- two beers, four hours of sleep, and some of the conditions described in the paragraph above were to blame. But I'm glad I went along; I met the CW dudes for the first time, watched them kick up serious metalheaded dust onstage, and some of the other bands were okay too: in particular Odd Girl Out, who reminded me of several 90s riot grrl groups but without the feminist politics (unless I missed them). The singer wasn't great, and looked a lot like Liz Phair, which was kinda weird. Their fans seemed to fit into two categories: 1) friends and possibly relatives of the female, mini-skirted asian-american lead guitarist or 2) out-and-proud lesbians (who can count among their number OGO's drummer and bassist, if haircuts and manner are anything to go by).
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Job Hunt
This is your music news section on Donald Barthelme.
As many of you know, Alecia and I are moving to Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania after our child is born, and we've spent a considerable amount of time and effort trying to find work for me in the closest big cities -- namely, Harrisburg and Bloomsburg; pickings are slim. Does anyone have ideas/suggestions as to what sort of non-editor/non-proofreader/non-reporter jobs someone who has experience with the aforementioned positions might be qualified to do outside of those arenas? I have a couple months to get this going, but damn if time doesn't fly like the dickens. (I'm even considering going into public relations if nothing more preferable materializes.)
As many of you know, Alecia and I are moving to Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania after our child is born, and we've spent a considerable amount of time and effort trying to find work for me in the closest big cities -- namely, Harrisburg and Bloomsburg; pickings are slim. Does anyone have ideas/suggestions as to what sort of non-editor/non-proofreader/non-reporter jobs someone who has experience with the aforementioned positions might be qualified to do outside of those arenas? I have a couple months to get this going, but damn if time doesn't fly like the dickens. (I'm even considering going into public relations if nothing more preferable materializes.)
Monday, March 06, 2006
Lazy Monday
Running off the riff raff, George Clooney gave a great Oscar acceptance speech last night, a compelling case made for articles of impeachment.
Also, the obligatory music-related comment: Sunn O)))'s Black One = crunchy, doom-y, best listened to on a car stereo for some reason. (More on for-best-effect music-listening scenarios soon.)
Also, the obligatory music-related comment: Sunn O)))'s Black One = crunchy, doom-y, best listened to on a car stereo for some reason. (More on for-best-effect music-listening scenarios soon.)
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