Ah, October. CMJ stands for College Media Journal, but it also stands for a time when certain groups of music-lovers and goers get their panties in a twist and freak out like its the prom, homecoming, and the week they got pubes all rolled into one. “Oh my god, you going to CMJ?! ackackackackacckckkkkkk!” Is common parlance at this time, but really I think it’s over-rated. I seriously enjoy going to concerts, going to see new bands, and I like me some free stuff to make me feel marginally important, but really it’s just overkill in one week while wearing a lanyard like a latchkey kid. Anyhoozles, this week also coincided with me getting the worst sickness of all time, but I did get to see some interesting stuff when I wasn’t laying in bed in a Nyquil-enduced fever dream. Music and booze bring people together! let’s check it out!
Discerning which continental persuasion it’s referring to is a waste of time, bottom line is Neon Indian’s ‘Psychic Chasms‘ is thirty minutes of technicolor after-school synth that’s really catchy. Clearly there is a lot of dance-y, electronic-y stuff going around like the H1N1, but this is 80’s straight from Oates’ stache. Barely legal Alan Palomo has gotten it right, with pleasant highs and lows at his fingertips, all intricately layered to warrant repeat plays. ‘I Should Have Taken Acid with You’ is a toe tapping lament with cascading beats like so many planetarium shows, where ‘Laughing Gas’ really doesn’t have any words, but boy if only nitrous could sing. In a genre hated (or perhaps closetedly-loved) the main complaint is no variation; Palomo defies this and keeps the listener interested by trying something a little different after each track break. Taking cues from Daft Punk here, a little LCD soundsystem here, and the underlying current of that good ol’ NYC dance music (and no Le Bouche there) it may be called manufactured nostalgia, but damn it’s a toe-tapper of quality.
You can see Neon Indian at Roots Studio on Oct. 24th
Okay, so the block party was yesterday, and it was pretty awesome. Insane noise. Insane burgers. Insane jams inside the Ocropolis. But if I’m not mistaken, there’s still some pretty great art hanging around Monster Island and its neighboring galleries, especially “Fit for Habitation”, a collaborative installation at Live With Animals (210 Kent) that’s like bringing your grandma’s back yard into your living room. Take drugs and go see it!
Friday night in San Francisco. The formerly seedy stretch now known as Polk Gulch teems with wine bar patrons and pabst-thirsty hipsters yearning to be seen. At the corner of an alley I have puked all over is the Hemlock Tavern, a cavernous scenester bar with a free, mostly inaudible jukebox packed with garage rock and seminal punk albums.
On line to see the night’s line-up of scrappy, hard to pigeonhole bands, I forked over my eight dollars and turned around to see some dude wearing a suspiciously ironic bright red Brooklyn cap. “Are you from Brooklyn?” I said. “No” “Well you really shouldn’t wear that hat man.” “I shouldn’t?”.
After a mediocre set by San Diego’s Christmas Island, the crowd warmed up- and believe me, it was fuckin’ sweltering in the 10’x 15’ back room- to see the Lamps’ rock out. As the band set up, John Dwyer heckled singer Monty Buckles. “Monty! Don’t fuck up Monty!”
The Lamps ripped through their set, about ten songs long, kickin’ ass and swaggering every so slightly. The crowd was wiping the condensation off the lenses of their thick black Buddy Holly frames and nodding disaffectedly. Up front, a few of us were doing the pogo, enjoying the dirty-gumball punk energy of this great band.
After a while, Mayyors stepped up. It took about twenty seconds for the crowd to erupt and about 2 songs for John Pritchard’s shirt to come off. He tweaked his nipples, grimaced and flailed about, yelling at the crowd and sweating profusely. Chris Woodhouse, a lanky Cousin It-meets-Slash mop of hair, burned rubber and jumped into the crowd for half of a song. I was immensely pleased to see that the douchebag with the giant flash camera was being tossed around in the crowd. Centerstage, Pritchard smacked some dumbass kid in the head who grabbed his stomach.
Mayyors fuckin’ rawked, as usual, surprising the decidedly indie, waifish crowd, and leaving the room a lovely mess. After the last song, Pritchard, glistening with perspiration, walked straight through the crowd and presumably went to get a beer.
I did not stick around to see if Wounded Lion would show up, as some of the members were stuck in traffic, but rather opted to go back out into the night, legs aching from holding my ground in the pit, and throat parched from the beautiful heat of a noisy, thrashed-out show.
It’s story time late Friday at Cake Shop. The the gin and Yuengling-soaked crowd silently folded onto the floor, as Kurt Vile picked along his first song, a thick curtain of hair slightly muffling this lyrics. Although seemingly out of nowhere, (actually Philadelphia, by way of Boston) the band leader of Kurt Vile and the Violators has been emulsifying his sound for years, and has garnered him a dedicated following, and a fall release on Matador Records.
“My dad was into bluegrass and stuff, and he used to play it all the time, but it didn’t really hit me until much later that it influenced me. Old timey old folk music– my dad played a lot of that. But he also played a lot of Beatles records,” said Vile. [He]bought me a banjo when I was fourteen; I really wanted a guitar, but he bought me a banjo, and i just kind of played it.” It’s this kind of anecdotal memories that explain Vile’s performance style. He brings a marriage of old-tyme folky jukes and low-fi distortion and effects that is purely instinctual; like floating down a lazy river while watching a distant airshow. (more…)
When I was working at a ‘Natural Foods’ store this guy used to come in very early on Sundays and would berate me incessantly for his foodstuffs, screeching for peanut butter and ‘MIEL!’ from the bulk section, and demanded it be stored it in a ritualistic manner reminiscent of a scene left on the cutting room floor from an Indiana Jones movie. As if listening to the Decemberists for three hours straight wasn’t enough.
Complete with his ramshackle ‘utility cord’ where he slings his well-worn plastic bags and a yamulke made out of the shoulder of a t-shirt, in this swampass heat, I’m starting to think he’s onto something.
Japandroids: a far cry from another similiarly-named duo, have melodies are undeniably catchy, and manage to pull it off with half the members of their influences from the early alt-rock nineties (insert corny recession joke here). But, I can’t fight the feeling that I’ve heard this somewhere before: the heavy ka-hunk ka-hunk drumming and earnest vocals of these Canadians is reminiscent of so many other bands that have that ‘we’re too big for our town and we’re too angry, but overall, we drink a lot of two-fours and have girl problems’ kinda thing. But by the grace of Geddy Lee, their musical chops and pop-indie ‘crossover’ sound have garnered them success, and will get to “French kiss the French girls.”
This movie is French and came out in 2007, but I caught it on Netflix Instant the other day, and proceeded to have problems relating to people for the rest of the evening. It’s a gory homage to Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (reclusive cannibalistic “family” traps unsuspecting travelers), except that it’s so brutal and relentless that you will more than likely suffer a momentary bout of PTSD after watching it.
Holy shit… Until I met you, only in my nightmares did zombies fuck vampires.
I love a skinny New York bitch, but damn, eat something! Hopefully, not my brain…
So, mapping brain waves could lead to the diagnosing of ADHD and more effective stroke treatments. Betterment of man. Altruism. Yawn.
In more exciting EEG news, DARPA has budgeted $4 million for similar research. But the goal of their program (dubbed ‘Silent Talk’)? Mental telepathy on the battlefield. Duh. I’ve never been more FOR a Defense Department program in all my life. Just think of the possibilities beyond the military uses. No more boring conversations. No More bad poetry. No more having to buy dynamite when you want to blow something up because, of course, telepathy leads to telekinesis. It’s so beautiful I want to cry. It’s like the opposite of Orwell. It’s Llewro and I like it.
I feel like a sports fan jumping up and down when that t-shirt cannon comes out. I wish I could be more eloquent about it but all I can think to say is “I want that” over and over again. In short:
Dear, Pentagon. One telekinesis, please. Thank you.
So today 40 years ago man walked on the moon, which, don’t get me wrong, is pretty awesome considering the New York Times had previously published an article stating it could never ever happen. Children were in awe, Pa pulled himself away from his scotch and Lucky Strikes for a minute to put his arm around Ma and all was sunshine and rainbows, affirming that America was better than everyone else. We’re in space, assholes!
But what is so significant about celebrating it 40 years later, as every freaking newspaper trips over themselves to have a commemorative issue or article? And since then space exploration is about exciting as the time I went to the planetarium for the Harrison Ford-narrated space show drunk. What we need is another cold war of some kind so we actually have some goddamn competition up there again and we can get some people on the liquid surface of Jupiter, son. Jupiter 2019!
My roommates are used to being woken up by me screaming at the television all like: “That is not the same person! You cannot get six pack abs from taking a pill!” or “Those are fake scars in that mederma commercial!” “Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit!” Testimonials are almost always written by advertising departments and then delivered by poor out of work actors who feel a little dirty when they allow the really bad animator to create a “before” picture where they weighed 200 pounds. But, this really takes the cake: Ben and Catherine Mullany were murdered on their honeymoon in Antigua last July. Murdered. But, MyDishBiz, a satellite company in Ohio used a pre-wedding photo of the couple to plug their business. “We are very happy with this program. This is the best opportunity we’ve seen online ever. Thanks again”, the couple is quoted as saying. Well, unless they were so stoked on this satellite business that they sent a letter down from heaven, it looks like someone cut and paste their photo from an internet tribute to the slain couple. So wrong. The company claims that they are “trying to track down who sent the testimonial and picture for inclusion on our website.” I would start in the office where the company has interns posting testimonials for $7 an hour. That’s where I would start.
“If someone said to me five years ago when this all started that I would one day make the New York Times Best Seller List, I wouldn’t have believed it.”-Lauren Conrad
Well Lauren, that makes two of us. But, here it is: LC (otherwise known as the narrator on “The Hills”, the fakest reality show on television) “wrote” a book called LA Candy which is loosely based on her life. I can safely say that I will never read this book. Ever. So I can only guess that it’s about a kinda dim girl who is famous for no reason except being friends with douchebags like Spencer Pratt of the flesh colored beard. The fact that I know all of this pisses me off. What pisses me off even more is that with the publishing industry crumbling to pieces and really talented writers struggling to get their shit printed, this girl has been on the top of the best sellers list for 2 weeks. And, there are two more books in the works. Someone needs to track down her ghost writer and kill him. Stat.
Maria del Carmen Bousada was 66 when the Spanish woman tricked a US fertility clinic into giving her in virto fertilization by telling them that she was 55, which was the facility’s maximum age for single women receiving in vitro. She became the oldest woman on record to give birth when she delivered twins in December 2006. Wow, what a miracle. Except that now she’s dead at age 69. Hmm, isn’t that kind of why the AARP set are not supposed to have kids? Because they die and leave the poor little orphans behind? Allen Pacey, secretary of the British Fertility Society said the organization recommends that assisted conception not be available to women beyond the natural age of menopause, around 50. “I think nature is trying to tell us something”, he says. Ya think? Menopause means no more. That ship has sailed. You snooze, you lose. It does not mean pump yourself full of hormones and shoot out multiple spawn. Nope, it doesn’t mean that at all. In other news, Molly Ringwald had twins. But, she’s only 41. Nine more years before you’re cut off Molly.
Raekwon spent the day at Chief! Look at all the awesome shit we played with. The interview will be released soon- some intern slave should be transcribing as we speak…
Twenty-five years ago, He-Man met Medusa at a VCU Metallica concert in Richmond, Virginia. The whole night He-Man was telling his friends how he was going to “fuckin’ pound three bottles of Jack as soon as they started playing ‘Seek & Destroy,’ I swear to God, bro!” His friends were all like, “Chill, man, you’re gonna crash your Battle Cat into a tree.” Whatever.
Anyway, Metallica opened with “Seek & Destroy” that night. He-man is a man of his he-word, so he took down three bottles of Jack before the chorus hit without so much as a hiccup. What He-Man didn’t know was that this chick, Medusa, was lurkin’ in the cut the whole time eyeing his sword, herself a little fucked up on benzos and red wine.
“Dude, I think that babe over there with the dreadlocks wants me,” He-Man slurred to Skeletor.
“Those are fucking snakes, bro,” replied Skeletor.
“I know, right? Dreadlocks are so hot.”
No one really knows what happened immediately after that. He-Man and Medusa disappeared. Skeletor found He-Man later that night passed out naked in the back of the Battle Cat with puke all over him. As for Medusa, well, nine months later she gave birth to GWAR.
GWAR’s new album, “Lust In Space,” is slated for an August 18th release date. And uhhh…it’s pretty good. “Let Us Slay” is my favorite song. “Metal Metal Land” is good, too.
Analog worship goes to new extremes in Brooklyn-based label Damage Rituals’ new, debut, cassette-only compilation, The Dead Hand: Human Machines. Reuniting the storied couple of sci-fi/horror and music your parents would hate, DR001 features 27 visceral cuts by Burmese, Weasel Walter, Zs, Child Abuse, Maw, and other constructively deconstructive/destructive artists from all over. A limited release of 500 (one of which sits on my cluttered desk as I wait for the perfect moment to shatter my room mates’ peaceful slumbers), at $6.50 a pop, this compilation is a total collector’s item and features art by Alexander Perrelli and Tony Gedrich. Get yours here.
“The transhumanist (H+) values set forth herein defy mankind’s pervading sense of futility; a silicon-based godhead must not eventually seize power…”
My inner editor says there’s no need for the word “eventually” there, but knowing the nature of the anti-singularity movement, its probably some sort of code that blows up robots. Maybe I should ask Ed. I mean, he’s so anti-singularity that the majority of his possessions are canned food and sharp objects. The occasional firearm, sure… but I think that’s part of his other war… against high-waisted pants.
Christ on a Bicycle-what a weekend! Captured Tracks and Woodsists joined forces to bring Bushwick a two-day extravaganza of music on July 3rd and 4th. Although both days were scheduled to be in the bucolic splendor of the 979 Broadway Backyard, with the threat of rain they moved day one into sweat lodge Market Hotel, with day two outside. Good or bad, I have to especially give props to those who played day two; any band willing to play a vacant lot populated with teeny pointy rocks all over the place has courage….not unlike our founding fathers? The only downside was that Tyvek (featured in this issue of Chief!) had to cancel due to medical reasons. All and all it was probably the most efficiently-run festival I’ve been to in a long time.Nothing says Independence day like Cuban sandwiches and Canadian tall boys.
]
Market Hotel on day one.
Little Girls at Market
We are Country Mice at Market
Real Estate played a damn good set early on in day two, setting a relaxed vibe (yes, vibe) for the afternoon.
Ganglians
Woods
A rare shot of Kurt Vile’s actual fayce. This guys been tearing up the blogosphere faster than dancing cats in a cardboard box, and for good reason.
Thee Oh Sees closed out the evening, and were as explosive, if not moreso than smuggled fireworks. I was introduced to them via our writer Andres, and I always was like ‘yeah they’re pretty good’ but when they played Saturday night, my friend and I just kept turning to each other like, ‘OH SHIT! OH SHIT! this is awesome!’ The conclusion of my report is that the whole thing was incredibly-well run, with little lag time between sets, and I am going to make a dance party remix of Todd P’s canned statements. I’m thinking a really deep house beat to ‘if you’re going to go outside, take a walk around the block, don’t stand outside the venue’. But seriously, well done, and gold stars for all involved.
If you’re kicking yourself because you got stuck at Aunt Tina’s pool party, not to worry; many of the acts that played are performing all over New York for the next couple weeks or so. Ganglians are playing Monster Island Wednesday, Real Estate is playing the Whitney for FREE on Friday, Woods and Real Estate are playing the Bowery Ballroom next Wednesday, Kurt Vile is playing Bruar Falls next Friday, and Thee Oh Sees (together with Spank Rock, Monotonix and others) are playing the Siren Festival for FREE in Coney Island next Saturday.
-All interior shots by Andres Jauregui, outdoor shots by Amanda Scigaj
Not feeling too clever this morning, primarily on account of all the free tequila I drank last night. Don’t complain, just drink, right? Honestly, between that and the crowd at Thee Oh Sees show at Glasslands last night, I’m surprised I got a single shot off. But as you can tell by that (almost) totally accidental beaut up top, great things can happen when you chase clear (NOT GOLD!) well tequila with garage rock.
John Dwyer, whom I interviewed for Chief Magazine’s music issue, pulled some serious rock moves last night during a short and sweaty Oh Sees set: chomped microphones, climbed stacks, cut his knee open, and smashed the fuck out of that lovely green flood light with the headstock of his guitar.
Yo. Fucking sweet guitar.
But before all this happened, me and about twenty other people got approached by some circling van cops and told to produce IDs. Never a good sign, right? We all got summonses for “blocking the bike lane” outside Glasslands! I don’t know about anyone else, but in my case, unless that bike lane is on the sidewalk thirty feet away from the venue entrance, that’s bullshit. Damned quotas… they smelled blood when they saw a congregation gathered on an otherwise empty stretch of Kent and cruised down looking to bust people. They got someone for open container early, but the rest was just crap.
Worst of all, the cops tried to make it sound like it was the people using the bike lane that complained about the crowd, but no one was in the street until the NYPD showed up and started taking peoples’ IDs!
Remember that time that Japan and I were hanging out in my apartment and Japan asked me what I felt like doing? Well, that bastard stole everything I said and made it into a movie.
]
