Instead of doing work, I came across this funny mix tape app as a tip from my friend Chris. It allows you to pull uploaded songs off the web, compile them into your own playlist and puts them behind a cute little tape graphic so you can, as Chris says, “feel like you’re 16 and it’s 1989.”
On Monday I went down to the Casbah to see 94.9 FM’s “Anti Monday League” show that featured one of my favorite bands, Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s. I picked up their album (so to speak, as I purchased it online) “The Dust of Retreat” some time ago; it’s a solid record and I enjoy nearly every track on it, which is rare. The band seems to have found their sound, a harmony-laden, poetic brand of acoustic-y indie rock. Acording to good ol’ Wikipedia, they are what is known as “chamber pop.“
At the show, I found that the So and So’s are comprised of seven people; keyboardist Emily Watkins, bassist Tyler Watkins, guitarist Andy Fry, drummer Chris Fry, trumpeter Hubert Glover, violnist and lap-steeler Erik Kang and frontman Richard Edwards.
The show was a solid one, though the band pretty much stuck to the album and didn’t stray too much from the original composition of the songs. Most striking was Casey Tennis, who put his whole body behind his drumming, whacking the back-lit, moon-like standing bass drum with gusto.
If the So and So’s are in your town, I highly recommend you see them. But, bring earplugs–Tennis and Fry tend to hit the cymbals a little hard, especially Tennis, who has a few set up on a steel plate for added effect.
Oh, and there is no Margot to be found… It’s a nod to The Royal Tennenbaums.
Riding the car with my friends Jenn and Samir, I heard this great track off of Rilo Kiley’s Initial Friend EP. As always, Jenny Lewis’ voice is clear and clean, the song half admission (”I never fall in love”) and boast (”but I can do the Frug”) and is entirely too catchy for its own good. It’s well-mixed, guitars and drums loud enough to be well showcased but remain behind Lewis’ soft vocals, and the song has a sense of humor, adding well-harmonized backup vocals that echo Lewis’ line “I cannot do the Smurf.”
Plus, it starts with hand-claps, a nod to songs of the Frug dance craze era.
Yesterday, The Washington Post ran an article that, centering around Senator Edward Kennedy’s recent malignant brain tumor diagnosis and his public handling thereof, sought to describe and critique both the reactions of the masses and the media.
“The papers quickly filled with laudatory stories about Kennedy’s life,” writes Robin Givhan, a staff writer for the Post. “Web videos were pieced together describing the effect he has had on American society. Editors sifted through the photo archives hunting for the black-and-white images that would remind everyone of what used to be and that would also imply that it is all coming to an end. The only thing separating all of this mournful reportage from an obituary is verb tense.”
The article continues on to discuss the relationship the public has with the famous; Givhan writes:
“We have a strange kind of intimacy with celebrities. Once they reach a certain level of fame, we tend to believe that we are owed something. They better pony up the details of their wedding, the results of their pregnancy tests, the facts about their eating habits and exercise regimens. We won’t cover our ears if they want to talk about their sex lives or their dysfunctional childhood. It’s all part of the brokered deal. They pay for the adulation, the success, even the so-called free stuff with their privacy.”
I will admit right now that I do cruise through the flak and dubiously “factual” smut in Star magazine (only at the gym, only at the gym!) and will, on occasion, catch the latest celeb buzz on Perez Hilton. It’s like that old car-wreck analogy–I can’t tear myself away.
But should it be part of the “pre-brokered deal”, as Givhan puts it? For as much fun as Star and its ilk are, the potential for damage is there. The idea that no publicity is bad publicity goes out the proverbial window; take Britney Spears, for example, her studio-created all-American image shot to h-e-double-hockey-sticks by (arguably) herself, her handlers and… The (tabloid) media. What should be very personal matters–mental illness, divorce, addiction, etc–have shot to front-page status on grocery store rags across the country–nay, world!
I’ve noticed that a lot of the music I listen to of late is made by Canadians. I’m not sure if this is a coincidence or not but, in any case, thought I would share the fare.
The Tragically Hip: While considered “indie rock” in the US, the ‘Hip are a Canadian music staple in their home country, as evidenced by stadium audiences filled with, sadly, the white-ball-cap frat-boy crowd. But fear not. Unlike many acts with “bro”-infested fan-bases, the Tragically Hip employ complicated, poetic lyrics and a mix of blues-driven and anti-folk acoustic melodies. They’re two parts whiskey, one part daydreams.
The New Pornographers: These guys are the newest on my Canadian list and what an addition! Rotating singers within their band of eight (or so), they offer sweet songs with multi-part harmonies reminiscent of older groups like The Mamas and the Papas and The Beach Boys (Carl Newman, who writes most of the band’s stuff, lists Brian Wilson as one of his biggest influences) but with a contemporary twist.
Metric: I hesitate to call Metric dance pop but it has that element. Bouncy beats and rhythmic synth piano accompany Emily Haines’ pleasantly distant, quasi-throaty vocals. Metirc’s rock sensibilities come out on tracks like “Monster Hospital” and “Soft Rock Star,” while “Raw Sugar” keeps the neo-New Wave flavor.
Ashley MacIsaac: A child prodigy gone wrong, MacIsaac turned to rock violin with his 1995 album “Hi(TM), How Are You Today?” 12 tracks of pure energy, the record thrashes through traditional fiddle tunes, setting them to ’90s-era power rock, dance-y drums and, on a few songs, beautiful and haunting piano intros.
Weeping Tile: Weeping Tile is weird. There’s no denying that. With thrumming cello intros and off-kilter vocals, it’s a bit much at first but worth pushing through. Sarah Harmer, lead vocalist of the now (I think) defunct band, has gone on to do her folk thing but Weeping Tile nonetheless remains in my heart. Indie rock with rambling vocals and a tendency towards loosely composed story-songs, Weeping Tile eschews cute in favor of a more driven, timeless rock feel without the typical convention female-fronted band often succumb to.
The Weakerthans: Another new addition to my rock roster, the Weakerthans offer an unlikely blend of punk and folk-ish goodness. Lyrically gifted, their songs tell tales in an often melancholy manner, conjuring pictures from their words.
It’s coming on summer here, which means the world smells like sunblock and surfwax, un-watered lawns bleach to a khaki brown and the ‘T’ section of your face burns a nice shade of pink.
But it’s not always all barbecue parties and beach trips, sand in your hair and quick rinses off in cinder-block public showers. Sometimes it’s nights spent gasping for breath, trying to keep your head above water in a sea of sheets amidst post-apocalyptic heat. Sometimes it’s mornings where even a cold glass of whatever can’t quench the thing that you’re thirsting for. Standing alone in your underwear in the middle of your unkempt living room, you wonder “what exactly am I doing here?”
It’s considerably harder being sad in summer. Everyone expects melancholy to creep in in the middle of winter but, in places where there really is no cold weather to speak of, it crops up elsewhere.
Like in the middle of a sun-drenched street, the scent of jasmine filling the air, each step forward a considerable effort.
Like in a fan-cooled cafe, where your sandwich sits like a rock in your stomach.
Like stumbling down the block, eyes blurred with too-easy tears.
And then, in a flash, it’s gone.
The figurative clouds clear and your sanity is returned and you look up at the sky, seeing what there is to see. A nice, summer day.
The other day I had the pleasure of interviewing Suze Randall and her daughter, Holly Randall, at their homestead/office in Calabasas, CA. Both mother and daughter are photographers and their subject matter is, well, pornography. Suze made a big splash in the late sixties-early seventies by being one of the first females to shoot for Playboy and Holly joined her ten years ago to help with her website. Now she shoots her own sets and has been featured in all the big porn mags as well as on the internet.
In any case, they were terribly, terribly sweet and offered me lunch and gave me a book, written by Suze’s husband, Humphry Knipe, who is also a part of the family biz inasmuch as he webmastered SuzeRandall.com when it first went up.
photo from USA Today, part of a series taken by me
Two years ago today–or perhaps tomorrow, the days blended so much at the time–my dear friend and honorary aunt, writer Judith Moore, died of colon cancer. She battled it long and battled it hard, all the while working from her funny little flat in Berkeley, CA. Despite chemo and nausea and through transfusions and surgeries, she always had a bit of sage advice, quick wit or, best yet, a few sweet words for me.
She always signed her notes “Auntie J” because, well, that’s who she was.
Here is a small piece I wrote about her that appeared earlier this year in the Reader:
Point-blank, Judith is the reason I’m here. When she found out that I, at 20 years old, had a love for writing, she wanted to see for herself. A piece I’d written for another magazine some years before fell into her hands, and she promptly programmed it as a reprint for inclusion in one of the Reader’s collaborative features. From then on, whenever I’d visit her, we’d sit on her couch and talk shop. Dizzy from jet lag and the gorgeous air that streamed through her window, I’d listen as she made lists of things she wanted me to write. An article on an album I really love. A piece about my favorite teachers. On and on.
So, with Judith as my editor, I began to write.
She always wanted more from me, Judith did, more, more, more. “More middle, more activity,” she’d say, in the comments she’d send back to me. I knew what she meant by this, what she wanted. Nothing extraneous, just…More. “Moore wants more,” I would joke to myself, sitting back down at my desk, a makeshift, graffiti-covered plank from IKEA I’d bought off a girl in Brooklyn. I was in Boston then, writing as I finished up my last year of college. Judith, dying slowly in Berkeley, communicated to me almost exclusively via e-mail, though sometimes we’d talk over the phone. Her slow, Southern-laced voice would lull me as I lay on my futon bed, night dark outside; three hours earlier, dusk would be just beginning for her in California. But it was mostly e-mail between us, sometimes four or five a day. There were quick ones to see how I was doing, loving ones peppered with kisses, and business ones declaring deadlines, but they all blended together, all distinctly hers. Her notes would come at all hours, computer chiming as they zipped in from the Internet ether.
But that was her thing, more. I have a vision of her as a small child, hand outstretched, blue eyes waiting as though to ask a patient question, make a silent request. And her desire was genuine; she truly wanted it, wanted to hear more of what went on, what was said, done, eaten, drunk, spilled, tripped over, who was repulsed, enraptured, or simply left behind. A piece I wrote about a nightclub in Boston elicited this response: “Great atmosphere, great suspense, write more. Tell us about what went on, who got laid or didn’t, anyone weeping in despair, conversations, more drinks, your own longings for the perfect flame, etc.” And back to the computer I would go.
It was this that shone through from her, that made me do more, that made me think about it. I’d sit back and roll through the day, the night, the experience, whatever it was I was writing and pick out things to put down, little things I’d missed at first pass. The color of a cocktail, how it caught the light on the dance floor and made a reflection. The way the little spokes on a film uptake reel looked like teeth. How my grandmother’s eyes watered. Things that picked up the story, filled it in. “Just go nuts on the page,” she said, “just close your eyes and type, sweetheart.”
A few weeks ago, I found myself outside an Ocean Beach bar listening to a young man attempt to execute what I can only assume was the approximation of a freestyle rhyme. Surrounded by a gaggle of drunken white kids–boys and girls alike–this kid spat lame line after lame line, all of which were eaten up by his onlookers.
And I thought this was the death of hip-hop, on a distinctly white Southern California corner, a good half hour after last call.
But no.
Salon’s Iowa-born Paul Kix has declared that, finally, the entire genre is no longer cooler than him and is thus on its last legs. Flush with money and popularity, it has taken a turn for the worse, he argues, via lacklusterly choreographed dance crazes even middle aged basketball coaches can master and a poor attention to lyrical composition.
“Hip-hop hasn’t always had the most discerning taste; witness the electric slide and M.C. Hammer,” he writes. “But the music’s coolness used to be matched by the culture it inspired: break dancers working to DJ Grandmaster Flash; horny kids grinding to ‘Pac and Dre; poor kids krumping as a way out, every move informed by the street and its music. The problem today is that the newest dances are informed by nothing more than their potential profit margins. And in that grab for accessibility, the songs lose their credibility.”
And that is, apparently, its death rattle. Read the rest here.
With a rhythmic backing guitar, the swell of what sounds like a small string section and the occasional appearance of a banjo, this track delivers close harmonies and snappy lyrics in a manner reminiscent of melodically-intense bands like the Mamas and the Poppas.
Smacking tambourines and folksy-pop vocals. Delicious. Go onward to iTunes!
