A few notes and additions to Rob and Ezra’s posts of the day:

Indeed the Dodos were impressive, as was the turnout for a Tuesday show at Doug Fir. The band certainly didn’t strike a rock-star posture—they had very little to say between songs—but held the crowd on a string. They did it was an immaculately conceived and expertly executed set—most songs segued into each-other without really stopping. There were breathing points, and it was obvious when a song had concluded, but the music rarely stopped. The guitar would wrap around and the riff would twist into the next, or the beat would continue. Long’s voice was very strong live, and as a whole the band took please playing with the songs, warping them, rather than deliver carbon copies from their records. At times long switch chords in musical breaks, adding a touch of dissonance or just a little shock. His guitar playing is quite impressive. He’s fast as hell.

And for all that has been said about drummer Logan Kroeber’s innovative beats, dude looks somewhat mellow in comparison to speed at which he’s playing—certainly he doesn’t thrash emotively like a Keith Moon, even when his rumblings are thick and busy as hell.

The idea of Dodos as a two piece is cute and marketable but indeed the third member was, for the most part, indispensable, whether it was banging on his delayed floor tom, vibes, gong or whatever. Although he did leave the stage occasionally, dude deserves to become a full time member.

Rob makes the comparison between the Dodos and Au as folk v. pop and I’m going to disagree, slightly. Live, the Dodos are very much a rock band (on record, yes, they are a sort of meta-folk). Long’s guitar was amplified and distorted, and the speed at which he rammed through his fingerpicking offset it’s traditional roots. All in all, a pretty hot show.

But indeed, Au—like it’s music—was something altogether different. We arrived at the top of the mountain, so to speak—the orgiastic, orgasmic climax of the whole thing. I wonder what the payoff/release would’ve felt like has we climbed the entire creshendo, rather than having arrived near the top. Still, it was unbelievable. That happy, life-affirming collective come-together shit—you know, drum circles and shit.

Having the 20-odd person choir standing in front of the stage, rather than on it, was a huge help. It blurred the line between audience and performer almost completely. I—and many of those around me—couldn’t help but clap along and yelp occasionally. It was one of those rare musical moments where Everyone rode the same wave. And goddamn, it took it’s time to crest. All those harmonies kept soaring. A skillful expertise in restraint, Au mastermind Luke Wyland conducted the thing teasingly along to combustion (and for the record, the drummer, who’s name I unfortunately don’t have, is a fucking monster—and quite a singer to boot).

Lovely show. I feel lucky to have been a part.

It’s a goddamn shame that the 20-member ensemble wont be joining Au on the road—it’d be on hell of a chautauqua. But hey, it was a one-time-deal. A moment and a feeling insanely difficult to re-create.

And finally, ending this ramble, let me again trumpet the absolutely gorgeous, airy, and stunning new album from Sigur Ros, Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust. The title’s definition: “With a buzz in our ears we play endlessly.” Holy Shit! It couldn’t be more perfect. I learned that, and a whole lot of other cool shit—like the band, which often records for months and months, blew this one out in 11 days—in this great article by Nate Chinen.

This summer sure is a slow starter. Every time it shyly peeks its head out from behind the clouds, somebody shrieks or claps or farts or laughs, and frightens it away. I’m realizing now why this keeps happening—we haven’t yet found the good summertime album that’ll soundtrack the Summer of ‘08.

You know what I’m talking about. Every summer needs that one album, to get played constantly throughout, serving to identify and tag the season forever in the history books and memory banks. This can be an intensely personal thing; it can also be an entirely arbitrary decision. Most times, the summertime album just happens. No one plans it, there’s no premeditation; the summer just rolls along and voila—there’s the album to go along with it, played over and over.

However, I don’t think this will work for ‘08. Maybe it’s due to the desperately long presidential primary cycle, or all the catastrophe happening around the globe. Maybe it’s just a slow year. But this summer needs every bit of encouragement it can get. So we need to come up with some ideas and start crankin’ the tunes. The ideal summertime album will be a record with at least one foot in the melodic pop kiddie pool—tunes matter—and I think, one that almost everyone can agree on, no matter what kind of taste they have in music. It can’t be too morose or gloomy, nor too angry and confrontational, and definitely not too mellow—although moments of mellowness are certainly needed. It’s got to be something for hot weather, so it either needs to be hot itself, and boil right along with the sunny heat and match it, or it needs to be cool and refreshing, like a cool breeze or a dip in the pool.

It’s a tough job, and frankly most albums—despite being worthy on all other counts—aren’t up to the task. Know of one that is? Put your nomination in the comments, and let’s start spinning those summertime tunes.

One of the original pillars of emo’s second wave—back before the genre wasn’t shameful or riddled with “suicide cults”—Chicago’s Joan of Arc have always been a tough act to pin down. It’s hard to ignore their bulletproof pedigree (namely the wildly influential Cap’n Jazz), and the fact that the lone true member of the band (the enigmatic Tim Kinsella) has a voice that will either draw you in, or send you running to the hills.

Most likely the second one.

But Joan of Arc’s memorable legacy is not solely based on the fact that Kinsella can’t sing worth a damn. The band was one of the first smalltime indie bands to utilize lush recording methods alongside a solid base of math-rock leanings (Minus the Bear thanks you for this), which worked perfectly alongside the approachable nature of Kinsella behind the mic. They were the know-it-all art-rock kids slumming it in the punk rock landscape, and because of this Kinsella’s wake is littered with as many enemies as it is friends.

Their earliest records (by my rough estimate, there are about 24 releases) showcased a more polite band that wasn’t a grand departure from the adorable Midwestern charm of their pals, and then labelmates, the Promise Ring.

MP3:
Joan of Arc - Post Coitus Rock
(from 1997’s A Portable Model Of. Buy it!)

And while the band hasn’t quite mellowed over the past decade-plus, their latest Boo Human possess a clarity not seen on their past few recordings. But things aren’t all that clear, since the song I am posting is called “A Tell-Tale Penis.” Um, yeah. Have fun shouting that request out at tonight’s show.

MP3:
Joan of Arc - A Tell-Tale Penis
(from 2008’s Boo Human. Buy it!)

Kinsella, never one to avoid controversary—he once named a record In Rape Fantasy and Terror Sex We Trust and has a new song titled “9/11 2”—has staked his reputation on being one of the most painfully honest, and often hilarious, figures in the indie music scene. His 2006 guest essay for Alternative Press is downright genius (you can read it here), as he makes a pretty compelling case for every single band in the magazine to break up for the greater good of our country.

So my point - I do have one - is that in our world, the most basic requirement we share is kept in balance only if it’s shaken in many directions at the same time. And what can any of us do to help rectify the situation? We must integrate our politics into our lifestyle, acknowledge that every bridge, hook, melody and sales strategy has political dimensions.

In short, I am asking that every band that appeared in the August 2006 issue of Alternative Press break up.

Sorry.

Joan of Arc perform tonight at Holocene. You can read our interview with Kinsella right here.

Last night I watched Heavy Metal in Baghdad, the Spike Jonze-executive produced VICE documentary, which is screening in Portland one night only, this Tuesday at 8 pm at the Someday Lounge. I’ll have my review of the film up tomorrow, but if you haven’t already heard, or at least heard of (in addition to VICE coverage they’ve been featured on NPR, BBC News, etc) “the only Iraqi metal band,” Acrassicauda (named after a deadly black scorpion found in the deserts of Iraq), this clip from Al Jazeera gives a synopsis:

Acrassicauda isn’t exactly the greatest sounding metal band out there (hear the three songs they managed to record (with the help of VICE) while living as refugees in Damascus on their MySpace page), but their story is amazing: Plucked from a population of millions of refugees fleeing Iraq, their esoteric (by Iraqi standards) music preferences might save them. VICE has been collecting donations, through which the band has already managed to get to Istanbul after foreign visa policy changes in Syria threatened to send them back into the belly of the beast (er, Baghdad). Plus, as they themselves point out in the film, they came up playing metal in a place where life is really like this:

Nice little story in the New York Times Magazine this weekend: “Return Of The One-man Band”. It focuses, of course, on the single, technology-assisted performer through the workings of Final Fantasy, St. Vincent and Panda Bear.

All and all, a nice little piece, but there is one thing I take issue with: St. Vincent (Annie Clark) isn’t really a one-man (or one-woman) band. With a supremely talented group of musicians behind her live show, Clark is a fairly traditional performer (and a staggeringly good one to boot).

Sure, Clark composes her music via laptop recording, but that really isn’t new. Ever since multi-track tape machines became available, musicians have been building songs by themselves (Stevie Wonder and Prince are two terrific examples—they both played most everything, down to the drums).

Using a laptop only changes two things:

1.) It’s cheaper. You don’t have to buy tape and a whole bunch of out-board effects.

2.) There’s no waiting for the tape to rewind for each take.

…ok, there’s sequencing too…but whatever…

So yeah, I believe Clark is fairly traditional. I remember an encore she gave at the Doug Fir some months (maybe a year?) ago. Just her and her acoustic guitar in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the crowd, covering Nico’s “These Days.” No microphones. Intimate and brittle, yet strong and full of feeling. Hot damn, she killed it.

Once it’s all said and done, I think I understand why writer John Wray wanted to include Clark in his piece—he got to hang out with her. And goddamn, sure as there’s blood running through my veins, so would I. What an intoxicating mix of beauty and skill, that Annie… She makes me shiver…

Songs that are often cute, charming, meaningful, and/or weighted? Check.
Songs divided equally among two beautiful tape-hiss filled sides? Check.
Streaming audio of said songs? Check.
Funny and quasi-awkward recounts of past relationships? Check.

If all of the above sound good to you, please drag yourself over to Cassette From My Ex, a new blog devoted to, you guessed it, mix tapes from old lovers. It’s kind of like Rob Sheffield’s book, Love is a Mix Tape, but for those of us who sometimes forget that they still make, you know, books.

Last Friday’s hot, hot, hot show from the Kills got me thinking about Alison Mosshart’s other band, Discount.

I doubt anyone can accurately map the distance between a forward-thinking Gainesville, FL punk band (Discount) and Mosshart’s surprisingly personal reinvention as the sexy, chain-smoking, faux-Brit fronting, Royal Trux’ing band, the Kills. Plus, it wasn’t long after Discount hung up the hoodie for good that Mosshart suddenly reappeared overseas in this new persona.

It was like she had an evil twin.

But while she fronted Discount—who rolled deep with the likes of Hot Water Music and Dismemberment Plan—Mosshart was the reclusive fanzine scribbler who would rarely face the crowd and was like a ghost after the band went off stage. It wasn’t quite “damaged goods” material—she wasn’t a backstage cutter or anything—but Mosshart’s shy presence added a great deal of heft to the band’s intelligent stab at killing pop-punk dead in its Chuck Taylors.

At first the band was one of many borrowing from the Tilt franchise, although even their earliest songs (see “Portrait of a Cigarette” below) showed a band who, if they managed to harness the songwriting of Mosshart, could evolve far behind the normally rigid rules of suburban punk rock.

The band did just that with 2000’s Crash Diagnostic, an excellent J.Robbins produced album that found the quartet restless with three chords and some empty ideas. While they might have bid farewell to their pop-punk fanbase (Although looking back on it now, the record doesn’t seem that different. It’s kind of like the ridiculous anger over Jawbreaker’s slick Dear You which was such a huge deal years ago, but now just seems trivial. That record is great, too bad it took me half a decade to realize it.), they did gain the attention from some cooler indie bands (see the aforementioned Dismemberment Plan) and were poised for some crossover success. But their label, New American Dream, went tits up and the band disappeared back to Florida, eventually breaking up after a farewell tour that came nowhere near Portland.

Here’s hoping that some Kills fans do the work to unearth Discount’s catalog. It might not be as hip, but there’s something a whole lot more authentic about Mosshart back when she was a punk kid battling stage fright while cloaked in a hoodie.

MP3:
Discount - Portrait of a Cigarette
(from Singles Collection Volume 2, buy it here)

Discount - Math Won’t Miss You
(from Crash Diagnostic, buy it here)

Ezra’ post earlier today got me thinking.

He mentions that Dave Sitek and Dave Bowie both lent their “cred” to Garbage Scarlet Johanson’s album. This is true, but it moved me on to another place:

Why is Sitek considered such a fabulous producer?

I thought so too for a time, but I’m starting to reconsider. Have you heard the new Foals record? It’s terrible! The whole thing just sounds flat and empty and lifeless (which cannot all be Sitek’s fault). So what else has he got to his name? Of course, there are the TV on the Radio albums, of which I would argue Return To Cookie Mountain is the only truly special work of production.

So that leaves the Liars (who’s best produced album, Drum’s Not Dead, they did without Sitek), Yeah Yeah Yeahs (good big drum sounds), and Celebration (uhm, who cares?). And, save for a handful of remixes, that’s really the width of Sitek’s notable production credits. I haven’t heard anything truly characteristic—something you could call a “Sitek Sound” except maybe for a smattering of expensive keyboards and the inclusion of some popular New York friends.

Now Brian Deck, there’s a producer with an identity. Have you heard Red Red Meat’s There’s a Star Above the Manger Tonight? It’s full of fucking awesome and often confounding studio experiments. Good God. He killed it on all those Modest Mouse records as well.

I don’t write this to take shot at Sitek as much as to ask you to consider what constitutes a great producer? Is Sitek one? The jury’s still out. So let’s leave him out of the pantheon for now, OK? But after working on the Garbage Johanson abomination perhaps a little tongue-lashing is due. Certainly it begs the question, “does dude have any idea what he’s doing?”

Seriously, why get involved in that clap trap? To hang lustily around the voluptuously untalented? Or is there actual belief in the project? Now, Bowie’s involvement I get. The White Duke probably had her licking cream out of a saucer and polishing his boots with her scrumptious knockers the moment he floated across the threshold. But Sitek?

Well… buddy, if I’m wrong and you got up in there, the joke’s on me.

It never seemed intentional, but the VSS were a gleaming beacon of hope to the dyed black haired masses, the white belters, the spock rockers, and any restless hipster kid who felt out of place in the cartoon uniformity of punk music or the lazy slack predictability of indie rock. Fronted by Sonny Kay—who, along with MacKaye and Biafra, was a culture changing lead singer whose influence wasn’t just limited to the stage, his label (GSL) was a longtime frontrunner of the independent scene before shutting down last year—the band took a page from the Gravity Records (a label they once were a part of in their previous incarnation, Angel Hair) playbook and kept things short, sweet, and loud in their brief run.

Their masterwork was Nervous Circuits, released a decade ago, and now (thankfully) getting the reissue treatment via Hydra Head. The record captured the band at what they did best, the unsettling blasts of goth keyboard heroics, the raw guitar tones, Kay’s desperate howls, and the thumping drums of Dave Clifford (a former Portland who has played in Pleasure Forever—that’s a good thing—and written for WW—that’s a bad thing). On the few tours that followed Nervous Circuits it seemed that the VSS were changing the face, and dress, of modern punk music, as their crowds, no matter how big or small, were being seduced by the band’s dark sound and style. Hell, I was one of them. After seeing the band I desperately wanted to crawl onstage and be one of them in the worst possible way. It was punk’s rebellion repackaged for the kids who couldn’t really give a fuck.

After they unplugged the light show and packed away the keyboards for good, you could hear the VSS in everyone from Ink and Dagger, to the Locust, and—god, I am so sorry to even write this—even less worthy bands such as AFI or Atreyu. But don’t blame them for that, the VSS’ contribution to the underground landscape is far more important than some clowns dressed in black with a soft smear of their mom’s eyeliner running down their faces.

MP3:
The VSS - In Miniature

PURCHASE:
Nervous Circuits, the special reissue version with a bonus CD.

Thanks to Rubin Recommends for the help.

Hey, End Hits readers, if you don’t read the Mercury’s regular blog, I am currently in a pissing match with my boss over the quality of Celine Dion’s music. He, wrongly, thinks it is worth defending. Isn’t that hilarious? (And cute, in a brain-damaged-baby-squirrel sort of way?)

Mosey on over to Blogtown for the lowdown. You can read my original post here, and Mr. Humphrey’s psychotic ranting defense of Celine here, and finally, my gloriously composed rebuttal here.

Lots of buzzing around the lineup of All Tomorrow’s Parties in New York. Me? I think it stinks. The nineties are over. So it goes.

The majority of those bands are WAY past their prime. I learned when I saw the Pixies a few years back that reunions are mostly a waste of time and money. Either you saw the magic back in the day or you didn’t—there’s no comparison in recreation. I mean, I’m pissed that I my parents were children when Bob Dylan was killing it, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to see him now. I prefer the magical picture painted in my head to the ugly reality of today’s situation. That’s fine. I’ll deal with that.

There comes a time when a band crosses a certain threshold and they become a charicature of themselves—that’s what it felt like the Pixies were doing. They hated each other for God’s sake. I have a sneaking suspicion My Bloody Valentine fits in this boat somehow. (Granted this doesn’t happen to all bands, and to the effect, I’d totally go see Neil Young today.)

As far as live music goes, I’d rather watch bands performing new material they’re excited about. I remember seeing Sonic Youth at the Crystal Ballroom a few years ago. The crowd went wild for songs from Daydream Nation, but the band seemed much happier playing their newer material—and those new songs popped with life, not yet sapped by 10,000 performances. Unmoored. Immediacy. Yes. And by sticking together, or more importantly, steadily writing new music, Sonic Youth avoid the trappings of a shlocky reunion tour ala Pixies and perhaps MBV.

Now, back to ATP. A number of the big names are playing classic albums straight through and this give me a shiver. I like the spontaneity of a concert set. I like not knowing what’s next, and I like a band’s ability to adapt the set to the feeling of the moment. Some songs are great bookends for albums, but live, they could sink. I’d bet dollars to dimes that when Built to Spill originally toured on Perfect From Now On those songs rose higher then than the will now. It sucks, but that’s the way it is.

That’s how I feel, anyway. I’d like to know what the ATP lineup ilicits from you.

One final note before we close the book on the long songs.

Looking for “As Slow As Possible” yesterday I came upon a list of the Longest non-repetitive piano pieces. Damn if it wasn’t impressive and, frankly, staggering. That said, I’m not sure how sitting down for a five or six hour concert would fly. Still, people have done it.

Michael Finnissy has performed “The History of Photography in Sound,” a five-plus hour piece a number of times, though he does it in sections, the dexterity is still quite impressive (the longest continuous chuck lasts some 75 minutes). Compositions like “The History of Photography” aren’t just extended jams either—they’re fully written. You can even buy the entire sheet music for a mere £160.00 (too bad page count isn’t mentioned).

There are numerous others pieces of this nature, some longer, although it isn’t clear the duration or intervals in which they are performed live, but British composer Kaikhosru Shapurji Sorabji’s “Symphonic Nocturne” contains an uninterrupted two-hour stretch. Wow. That’s all I can say. Fucking wild.

Yesterday’s post about the continuously playing piano got me thinking. And it also reminded me of something…

Really, that piano’s endless prattling has NOTHING on “As Slow As Possible,” John Cage’s 639-year composotion. That’s right. IT TAKES 639 FUCKING YEARS TO PLAY!

Right now, and for the last few years at the Sankt-Burchardi Church in Germany, “As Slow As Possible” is being hammered out on a church organ. The piece began in 2001, but the first audible note didn’t come until 2003 as the first 17 months consisted of air sucking into the organ’s bellows.

Notes on the composition:

“There are eight pieces, any one of which must be omitted and any one of which must be repeated. The repetition may be placed anywhere (even before its appearance in the suite) but otherwise the order of the pieces as written shall be maintained.

Neither tempo nor dynamics have been notated. Time proportions are given (just as maps give proportional distances). Accidentals apply only to those pitches they directly precede.”

And, get a load of a partial schedule of changing notes (of course, organ’s sustain notes indefinitely so someone doesn’t have to be sitting there the whole time, obviously):

July 5, 2004 July 5, 2005 January 5, 2006 May 5, 2006 July 5, 2008 November 5, 2008 February 5, 2009

This project is absolutely awesome and totally crazy. It’ll be quite a triumph if future generations finish this thing… So mark your calendars for, uh, September 5th, 2640. Shit… too bad we all know the world ends in 2012…

Can I plead my case that this isn’t some sort of ’90s revisionism post? While it’s hard not to miss the healthy music industry of that decade—one which was built upon the back of the consumer ($18 for a CD? Really?)—there isn’t much about those ten years of music that I miss too terribly. But, at the same time, Possum Dixon was very much a band of that era. I’m not saying their off-kilter brand of rock—one which teetered between the tags “indie” (as in a killer Ben is Dead review), and “alternative” (as in Lewis Largent wants them to co-host 120 Minutes with him)—couldn’t be the product of this decade, but it just seemed like they belonged in the Clinton-era.

While Possum Dixon had a near-hit single, viewable here, the band primarily focused itself around frontman Rob Zabrecky’s quirky ability to birth a pop melody from the everyday slacker minutia of being an underemployed young man, fresh from school, slumming it in Los Angeles. So, instead of the possible hits, we’ll focus a bit more on a couple deeper tracks from their stellar self-titled debut from ‘93.

“I’m Rocking the muthafuckin’ laptop y’all!”

That’s right! You too can be hot shit global party DJ like Girl Talk. All you’ll need is a laptop, some dance moves and a moderate to large ego. And that’s it! Hot Damn, simple huh? Just follow these easy steps and you’ll be saying things like “I’m only here for a hot minute so LET’S PARTY!”

1- Download a bunch of hit songs You’ll want to mix in current hits (maybe some Lil Wayne) with a few ironic classics (think classic rock commuter radio station).

2- Choose a musical key I suggest ‘D’, the happiest of all keys. Take the songs you’ve downloaded and shoot them through a digital pitch shifter (many available for free download). Now when your ready to overlap the songs, they’ll shake hands, musically speaking. You can easily shift pitch with or without affecting a song’s speed, just be sure to hit the right options in your processing application. Hot Tip: speeding up ironic songs to get “chipmunk voice” is a must—don’t take it from me, just ask Kanye.

3- Set your beats per minute (BPM) You’ll want to choose something fast, but not too fast. Many DJ websites suggest somewhere in the 120BPM range. But here’s your chance to get creative! Mix it up! Once you’ve decided on number, use a time shifting application to make them match (Logic is good for this, but there are other free downloads to be found). Group the songs you like by their new beats per minute. (This is the boring math part of being a computer artist, but don’t worry, things are about to get HYPHY!)

4- Start chopping! It’s time to trim the fat! Who needs all those bridges and intros and all that other whack shit? All we want here is the hook. Get into some looping/sampling software like Syntrillium’s Cool Edit Pro (not free, but more savvy users should be able to find other software, or hell, just pirate the thing like all those MP3’s you just illegally downloaded). Be sure to keep you cuts to 30 seconds or less. The audience doesn’t have time for ENTIRE SONGS(think RINGTONE, in fact, repeat it like your mantra).

5- Layer Now that we’ve got a bunch of songs with matching beats and pitch, it’s time to start draping them over each other! Here’s your chance to be funny and creative. Kenny Loggins over Dr. Dre? Brilliant! Metallica backing up Biggie Smalls? You don’t say. Kanye West and John Lennon? Genius. It’s your chance to play producer God, so go nuts—it’s like you’re Phil Spector and you’ve got the gun (just not all the musicians and skills and talent and studios and cocaine). Do something that, at first taste, will make your audience look at their friend with a cocked brow and say, “what in the WORLD!? This is CA-RAZZY! But you know what? I’M LIKE, TOTALLY FEELIN IT BRAH!”

*These next two steps are for advanced superstars only Find them after the jump.

I only have one question for you: Who better than blonde sex bomb Scarlett Johannson to do an album of Tom Waits covers? Well, don’t waste your breath, because ScarJo has already done it, and a few songs have leaked (dripped, dribbled) onto the internet. Want to hear one? YES, YOU DO!

Here’s Scarlett’s cover of “Anywhere I Lay My Head,” that I automatically hated, then liked, and then felt ambivalent about. But more importantly, what do YOU think?

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN!

Anywhere Scarlett lays her head—including inside this tree trunk—is where she calls home.

Hat tips to Bring Me Up.

I know, I know… it’s probably in my best interests to let This Thing die, but, well, it’s not really about my best interests, is it?

There’s been a lot of feedback, and it runs the gamut from great to hate. But there’s one piece of the puzzle I haven’t been able to find yet. I’ve been told of an essay by Ian Svenonius (of Nation of Ulysses, Make Up, etc.) where he tackles the issue, or at least one of it’s relatives (ie: technological advances are making musicians less collaborative). I tried to find it, but no copies of any of Svenonius’ essays seem to be available online. Does anyone know where I might find a copy?

Perhaps it is included in Svenonius’ collection of published essays, “The Psychic Soviet.” I may have to head down and see if I can find this sucker at Powell’s. Brace yourselves for what could be the first End Hits book review.

The one thing I found regarding the essay is this video (from The Stranger!). And jesus, if you thought I was bad, this sucker makes even Zac Pennington look humble:

Here’s the new video for “4 Minutes” from Madonna (featuring Justin “EEEEE!” Timberake, and Timbaland). I’ve heard some grumblings about this song, but I really think it’s bumpin’, especially when teamed up with this video—but I’d love to hear what you have to say!

SUGGESTED TOPICS:
• Madonna’s plastic surgery: Acceptable or botched?
• Justin Timberlake: Super duper gorgeous or merely extremely gorgeous?
• Madonna’s nude corset: oui or non?
• Hopping around on top of cars: moral or immoral?
• That girl at the 1:07 mark: Starbuck?
• Flesh eating diseases: Attractive on celebrities?

Watch it and discuss (quick before they yank it off the web)!

Saturday was seeming like a strangely slow night when a friend called with news of a party with bands. What bands? I asked.

“Beats me,” she said.

Well, what the hell. With nothing else to do I went. As luck would have it I caught the first set of a band new to Portland who, mark my words, are going to be fucking huge.

They’re called Nurses, and they’re from Idaho. Or Chicago. Or something… They’re living on couches, or in the van… There’s four of ‘em, but there’s two of ‘em, really. Well… Ok. Here’s what I know:

Nurses have two original members, who seem to have been traveling a lot lately. They have two new members, from Portland. They live here now. They came because, “It seemed like Portland was the place to be.” There’s more to this story that I don’t yet know, but it’s not important now.

Here’s what is: This band is incredible. Through heavy reverb all four of them are singing. The harmonies are amazingly welcoming. They’re bopping around, they’re catchy, the song-writing is solid and there’s a beautiful mix between tight and loose.

Nurses, in their newest iteration, have been around for two weeks. As mentioned, the two principal songwriters have been together for some years, but the two new players add a whole new dimension. They don’t yet have any more shows on the books but as soon as they do I’ll be sure to let you know.

There are a bunch of tracks online, and this whole set up is confusing too. You should check them out, but before you do please understand that they’re not quite doing this new line-up, with the four-part harmonies justice.

Ok, so there is Nurses myspace, which features some older songs. Then there is Rocky Mountain Steam, which are demos of newer Nurses songs, then there is a Daytrotter session.

If I were you I’d listen to “Apple’s Acre”, “Technicolor” and “Man At Arms” on the Rocky Mountain Steam site. All those songs found their way into Nurses short set on Saturday.

Sometimes the internet blows my mind. Today is one of those days.

Signing into my Gmail account today, the sponsored link at the top of the page boasted Born To Run pint glasses for sale. Little did I know I was about to stumble onto quite possibly the greatest website of all time.

Ladies and gentlemen, behold the glory that is Tenth Avenue Productions and their signature line of Glassic Lyrics Heavy Pub Pint, Billy Tumbler, and Double-Old Fashioned Rock glasses.

That’s right. Now you can get drunk and live your life like you’re hiding on the backstreets, like you’re holding Kitty’s black tooth, or like you’re living in some sort of apocalyptic jungleland that is equal parts The Warriors and West Side Story.

I am going to order the entire collection, and I am never going to let another glass touch my lips ever again.

And hey, OK, you’re not a fanatic Boss fan like myself, and you’re more interested in, say, the Beatles, or maybe even hot cartoon ladies. Well, don’t worry: Tenth Avenue Productions has your back.

I love you, internet.

What a nice surprise this morning to find an editorial from Billy Bragg gracing the pages of the New York Times—and lord, how brilliant it is. Bragg makes a strong point about social networks profiting off musicians without sharing the wealth. Not much I can add. A great read. An excerpt:

The musicians who posted their work on Bebo.com are no different from investors in a start-up enterprise. Their investment is the content provided for free while the site has no liquid assets. Now that the business has reaped huge benefits, surely they deserve a dividend.

…

The claim that sites such as MySpace and Bebo are doing us a favor by promoting our work is disingenuous. Radio stations also promote our work, but they pay us a royalty that recognizes our contribution to their business. Why should that not apply to the Internet, too?

The whole thing is solid. Read it.

Also, if you want to know more about the rad work Bragg has done, which essentially forced Myspace to change it’s terms of service that “made it seem as though any content posted on the site, including music, automatically became the site’s property,” check that out here.

Never really taken much notice of Bragg’s music, but hot damn if I don’t love him now…

Did you know Ryan Adams has a Tumblr page? It’s called TOTALLY BORED the musical, and it’s just about the best thing ever.

I know a lot of people who jumped the Ryan Adams ship once Gold was released, as I almost did, but here’s the thing: his last few albums have been stellar, and his shenanigans have been even more entertaining. Don’t believe me? Try deciphering this diatribe and then tell me that this man is not a complete genius.

I hit the Glass Candy/Chromatics show on Friday night at Rotture, two of the best looking and most popular bands in town. It was crammed, and I must have run into about 70 people I know, including the Mercury news intern, who scored many points in my book when he rescued me from fighting through the crowd with two full vodka sodas that were getting jostled and sloshed by carrying them over the crowd for me. Now that’s an intern. Anyhow, Merc photog Minh Tran was there too, and was nice enough to pass on some of the images he snapped:

(Here’s Ruth. She likes it that in Chromatics all she has to do is stand there and sing and look pretty even though she can play guitar better than any of her bandmates. Don’t ever forget it, she totally shreds.)

(Here’s Johnny. He built the “deco” stage you can see in the other photos.)

(Here’s Ida, who begs the question: pigtails, yes or no?)

Onwards and upwards I say—towards that ninth crescendo, the sweat soaked shirt, the fighting duets at the top of the mountain, and one ball-bursting climax after another. These are the homes of my main man, Meat.

And so we continue, down Meat Street as it were… and man, I’m learning too. It’s a fucking incredible journey. Check this shit out (from Wikipedia):

While (in Texas) Meat was called in for an Army physical which he tried to fail by gaining sixty-eight pounds in four and a half weeks. They determined that he was fit despite being colour blind, having a trick shoulder and being very concussion prone; he has had 17 of them from allowing a Volkswagen to roll over his head on a dare, which garnered him the nickname Meat Loaf when a friend who was present remarked afterward he must have “meatloaf for brains”.)

I’m fucking speechless. Can you believe this? Meat PURPOSELY TRIED TO GAIN 68 POUNDS IN FOUR AND A HALF WEEKS!

HE LET A VOLKSWAGON ROLL OVER HIS FUCKING HEAD ON A DARE!

Jesus. This is incredible. Meat Loaf is more badass than I thought. We’re getting dangerously close to the realm of hero… I might have to go own down to Powell’s and pick up the autobiography. Meat Week may just turn into Meat Month… or at least Meat Fortnight.

There’s so much more to tell, and yes, for me to discover. But it’ll have to wait until tomorrow, as MEAT WEEK continues.

But of course, it would be wrong to leave you without a song. So here’s one from the 37 Million strong Bat Out of Hell. The track is called “You Took The Words Right Out Of My Mouth (Hot Summer Night)”. And for those of you who are wondering, that crazy dialogue IS indeed on the record as well. Could that be the first rock skit? That would make Meat an influence on hip hop as well… Jesus… this thing just won’t stop.

What a $4300 blowjob looks like

Alright. Still no word from the rest of End Hits. And frankly, it still doesn’t matter. I’m killing it today. I mean, there’s MEAT WEEK!, and if that wasn’t enough, I present to you, fresh from the Eliot Spitzer Sex Scandal, Ashley Alexandra Dupré! (or, “Kristin”).

SHE’S A SINGER!. That’s right. At least, that’s what Drudge says. Man, this is too good. Not the music, but I have a remedy—Ashely, if you’re out there I’m ready to make you new beats. That’s right—I will save your career.

Becaues, Ash, as a music critic, unless you team with me in some sort of, I Wear The Colonel Outfit And Call The Shots way, you’re in trouble. My professional, critical opinion: if the rest of your songs are like the generic, ballin’, stay-strong junk track you’ve got up there, you should just keep your day job.

(Man, I’M ON FIRE!)

All kinds of ideas flowing here… maybe it’s time to start End Hits records? I bet with my beats and Ash’s newfound celebrity we could outsell MGMT and Yeasayer in one week! Hot damn.

Call me, honey. Let’s do it.

Now, I’m not for the big Brooklyn blowjob aspect of this piece from Sunday’s New York Times, but there are some interesting components, namely that a lot of hyped out bands aren’t vying for major label support.

(Really, the Brooklyn bit feels tacked on—more a reason just to stay home and off the phone by interviewing the bands in town… Jesus, it’s time to move on and just accept that fact that New Yorkers are superior to everyone else… Good God, FUCK OFF! And really, to call a lot of the bands “New York” bands is a cop-out anyway. That’s like saying someone is an “L.A. actor”. How many New York bands were born and bred there? If I had an intern I would send them out on this task. But since I don’t we’ll just have to go with my gut, which says almost none of them are real New Yorkers… OK, this isn’t what the post is supposed to be about… Moving on…)

Here’s the crazy bit of the article:

For the most part those low sales expectations have been borne out by the marketplace. Yeasayer’s “All Hour Cymbals” — released on the label Now We Are Free, created specifically for the group by Mr. Foster — has sold only 15,000 copies, and MGMT’s “Oracular Spectacular,” even with the backing of Columbia, has moved 21,000 since it became available in October.

Wow. Those numbers are fucking sad. Those bands are arguably two of the hottest in the scene right now (which anyone who was turned away at sold-out shows can attest to — and on that note, those who got in can also attest to MGMT being fucking TERRIBLE live. They owe producer Dave Fridman all the pussy they’re getting… Yeasayer, on the other hand KILLED IT—a real shame that they were somehow forced from their headlining slot down into opening because MGMT had the better single, or because they were on Conan, or whatever).

Now, let’s look at those numbers again:

MGMT: 21,000 CD’s
Yeasayer: 15,000

Atrocious. It’s done. The tire isn’t flat, the piston just rammed through the block. It’s not fixable. It’s totaled.

It’d be nice, however, if we could somehow see some download stats, both legal and illegal. I wouldn’t be surprised if the bands had MORE illegal downloads of their albums than actual physical CD sales. Has that every been looked at? Has it ever happened? (If not before, I bet these two bands are the first potential candidates…)

Back to the The Times article for a moment. It also asserts that the lack of major label pressure and/or involvement is a boon to indie music in that creativity is more free to flow in earnest. I’d like to know what some touring, CD selling musicians think about that. From my most recent interview with Panther, I know they’d disagree.

But there’s a point to what Sisario is saying, I suppose.

And without all the internet downloads would there be all the hype? Would the shows be bursting at the seams across the country? Are the bands making more off the tour? I’d sure bet that more than 15,000 people watch them play up close and personal on this go round…

Alright. Signing off from the land of rhetorical and/or unanswerable questions.

As a compliment to my Panther article in this week’s paper, I give you this: a whole lot of crazy quotes from my interview with Charlie Salas-Humara and Joe Kelly. They touch on art, money, cocaine, kids, Vampire Weekend and more… a lot of gems here. Check it.

On watching a tape of his solo performance

Charlie: “Yeah. I don’t like it. I’ve seen it and I feel like I’m watching a tape of me and my friends from a fifth grade birthday party acting awkward and saying really shitty, stupid things.”

Charlie on changing his role:

“Eventually I’d like to be not this person in charge—I’d like to be the background guy. I want to be the noodler—what’s the guy in the Grateful Dead? Not Jerry Garcia, the other guy. What’s that guy’s fucking name? He’s my hero. I want to be that guy.”

HEY GRANDPA! GRANDMA WANTS HER SHIRT BACK!

While the paper this week recommends the New York Dolls shows tonight at Berbati’s, I’m going to have to go ahead and put a spike in that. This show is pure and total cash-in garbage. Watching David Johnason mince around the stage like grandpa before bath-time is a goddamn joke.

For some time I’ve had a saying: Kill Mick Jagger.

Blashemphy, you say! Hang on, hang on. Allow me to explain: I love the Stones as much as anyone, but they just need to stop putting on ruinous legacy tarnishing geriatric, lukewarm Superbowl performances and the like. Such amazing artists should know better. Show some class! And for gods-sake we don’t need to hear “Satisfaction” for the 8-millionth goddamn time. You think John Lennon would be licking corporate boot were he alive today? Hell no, he’d know better.

And so should the New York Dolls know better. Disagree with me all you want about my poorly explained Stones-theory (I haven’t eaten yet and just feeling twisted up in general… so this whole thing may be a stream-of-conscious mess) but at least their important members are ALIVE! Good goddamn… When will people learn? When the most important members of the band kick the bucket, LET THEIR MEMORY REST IN PIECE! ALL THINGS MUST EVENTUALLY END, EVEN IF YOU HAVEN’T YET.

And Jesus, Glam, of all musical styles, does not lend itself to a bunch a wrinkly old coots strutting around the stage as if they’re on the forefront of anything…. Give me a break. Knocking on Death’s door is only cool if you’re young.

I saw the Dolls on OPB recently (yeah, PBS, how fucking crazy punk rock is that?). It just made me cringe. I couldn’t even laugh. It wasn’t funny. It was sad.

So find a new band to see tonight, rather than pretending tonight you’re seeing a vital one. Johnny Thunders would be proud.

You’ve never heard the Pretty Things? Have you listened to David Bowie’s Pin Ups? He covers a couple Pretty Things tunes on that album. The Nuggets 2 box set? A handful are on there. But if you’re totally in the dark, I really recommend going out and getting your hands on a copy of their 1968 album S.F. Sorrow. It is the greatest psychedelic album of all time (really, it is), and quite possibly the first story-concept-album, just beating out the Who’s Tommy. The CD version has a couple of great singles tacked on as bonus tracks, some of their best songs: “Deflecting Grey,” “Walking Through My Dreams,” “Talking About the Good Times.”

Or just go to the band’s MySpace and listen to some old goodies.

But today’s post is no history lesson! No sir, because the Pretty Things are touring! Yes, they’re back, and they’re visiting Portland on March 24th, with a show at the Wonder Ballroom. This is the same day that Jens Lekman and Bon Iver have shows in town–which sucks, but I’m gonna have to skip those potentially terrific shows in favor of a rare chance to see one of the greatest bands of all time. And it’s pretty close to the original line-up! You’ve got Phil May and Dick Taylor, which is absolutely neccessary, then you’ve got Jon Povey and Wally Waller, who each joined the band in ‘67. And according to the MySpace page for their new single, Skip Allan (who replaced original wildman drummer Viv Prince in 1965) is onboard as well.
Nothing says class like pairing sandals with a suit.

“Wait. New single?” you ask.

MP3:
The Pretty Things - All Light Up

The song is not bad. It’s actually halfway decent! It’s a damn sight better than anything from the most recent records of the Stones or the Who, or any members of the Beatles for that matter.

But what is “All Light Up” about? (A quick visit to alllightup.com with tell you.) It’s a protest song! Against what? The ban against smoking in the pub! That’s right! We’re not going to take this oppression from Big Brother any longer! Light up a ciggie and Fight the Power!
Yes, it’s a ridiculously shrill and stupid argument. Still, the Pretty Things are back! And they’re coming to Portland!

Remember when Homer joined Hullabalooza?

“Who is playing with the London Symphony Orchestra? Come on people, somebody ordered the London Symphony Orchestra… posssibly while high. Cyprus Hill I’m looking in your direction.”

And as they have so many times before, the Simpsons foresaw the future.

It’s happening tonight in New York as Joanna Newsome is to perform Ys in its entirety along with the Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra. As an ethereal, mellow harpist with a cutting voice, the pairing seems to make sense. (And even though Portland’s music scene is just killing it right now, it’s strange events like these that occasionally make one pine for the Big Apple.)

But this meeting of indie and oldie (ok, classical) shouldn’t be the only one. Apparently the Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra has a short list of artists they’d like to collaborate with including The Decemberists, Cat Power and Grizzly Bear. (What!? Grizzly Bear? They’re music is flat as an afternoon nap after weak tea…)

While the Cat Power collaboration sounds interesting, I can’t help wonder what else could be done. Let’s get real wild and pair ‘em with Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings. Or how about mixing the Orchestra with some electronic music… LCD Soundsystem perhaps? Wanna go way out? Try the wailing future weirdness of Apes and Androids.

Any other suggestions?

A huge double high-five to former Mercury Music Editor Julianne Shepherd, who scored a piece in New York Times earlier this week (on a Sunday no less). Along the way she’s contributed to the pages of the Village Voice, Spin, Vibe and even lent a hand to those cocksucking nerds at Pitchfork.

I think I speak for everyone here when I tell you how happy, jealous and hopeful this makes me.

Julianne was the one who first gave me a chance to write here at the Mercury. We met a barbershop on MLK where she was interviewing Libretto. I was a photo intern and I told her I wanted to write. She gave me a chance, god bless her.

So thanks, Julianne, and continued success in the world of giants. (Now where do you go from here? And what’ve you got, Pennington?)

The flames of Yaphet Kotto flickered out sometime around 2005, and their breakup was a hushed affair. There was no final tour. No posthumous odes to their greatness. All that is left is a tribute MySpace page, oh, and the actor of the same name.

The real Yaphet Kotto is doing fine, living in Baltimore, and voting republican.

More on Yaphet Kotto after the jump.

This one was supposed to be go up yesterday, but technical difficulties w/ the mp3’s kept that from happening. So consider it an afterparty. Peace Greace

Here’s one for all my brothers and sisters headed out to the Phil Lesh show tonight!

YAH BRAHS! Say “high” to Jere Bear for me!

If you’d acted fast you could’ve scored some dank tickets to this show on craigslist for only $200

Or you could be a kind and help out these poor kids (also fr