The bassist thing

On a sidenote, I discovered three bands that broke my theory (if it's a band with a chick in it, she's a bassist). They, however, also made me realize I need to add a caveat to my theory.
If the band isn't from the UK, and they have a chick in the band, then she is the bassist.
The Zutons: (saxophonist)

The Magic Numbers: (keyboardist)

Glasvegas: (drummer)

Ash: (ex-guitarist)


The Big Pink: (drummer)


Now, the Zutons have the dubious honor of being both dropped from their record label about a year ago this time, as well as just being terrible. As such, I'm a little reluctant to include them on the list, as in doing so, I am promoting a band that I would very much like to see ended. But they further my theory, so I shall persevere.

Additionally, the Magic Numbers have both a female bassist, and a female non-bassist, but it's a family of four children, so I put less stock in whether or not they have a female bassist.

Now, this made me question. Is there a reason for this division? The Raveonettes are from Denmark, so there's not much in the argument that it's an American thing. Is there something so radically different about the greater United Kingdom that inspires its female musicians to play actual instruments? Or, is it the opposite, and there is some force present in the United States and mainland Europe that encourages (if not forces) its lady parts (poor word choice, that was) to pick up the bass?

Now, I suppose this could be a record label conspiracy thing. Maybe the bands with women on guitar exist, they just get relegated to the back of the pack, never get signed, never get promoted, never succeed.

Then again, this could all be coincidence. I'll investigate.

No music today, but I finally updated the rest of the posts to feature their proper music, so that's enough for you.

Until next time,
Stay with a guitar on your lap,
--WF
Chick w/ Uke

I Effing Hate Christmas

It's true. Now, I know a lot of people declare their hatred of Christmas and all things Santa, but in my family it's become a sport: who can have the crappiest Christmas. I'm going to tell you why, and I promise it's interesting.
1) Our commute
It used to be that between Christmas Eve morning and Boxing Day night we'd spend about 20 hours in the car for about 10 hours of family bonding (the remainder being for sleep, of course). Things have since thinned out so that we spend Christmas Eve in Connecticut, come back that night to spend Christmas day here, and then drive down and back to New Jersey on Boxing Day.
That's a shit ton of driving to do with people you don't get along with.

There was the time a few years back when, after sitting behind the wheel of a car for the first time, I bottomed out going over a speed bump, and three days later when we drove down Christmas Eve to CT, our muffler half fell off, and we had to drag it the last four miles to my uncle's house. In case you aren't familiar with what that sounds like, imagine this, but literally forever.

2) The People
My mom's a WASP, and my dad's a Irish/Italian Catholic. Oil and water, dude. There's a lot of undiscussed tension between the more conservative and less conservative factions of each side, and subsequently it becomes a lot of what-can-you-say-without-somebody-yelling-at-you, including the time I may or may not have snapped at my then-70-year-old aunt for calling all Muslims violent because they are violent by nature and Islam is a violent religion*.
It sort of ends up a lot like this, only with more blood and crying. So, I guess like this with different hats.

Also, the men in my family tend to die around major holidays. One grandfather died around the fourth of July, the other died on Christmas eve, my great uncle died just after Thanksgiving, and my uncle died on Father's Day two years ago. So with each major holiday, my family collectively holds its breath to see who'll drop. (I should note one grandfather had cancer, the other was in his nineties, and the great uncle was 95. It is only the one who died on father's day that kind of came out of no where).

3) The music
Christmas music blows. If I have to hear fucking Kenny G playing some saxophone-ridden tripe one more time, I'm going to die. That fucking Waitresses song makes me want to hurt someone. Really the only good one is Dominic the Italian Christmas Donkey, and that's more for it's What the Fuck qualities than anything else.

All of this brings me to my point: like everything else about the season, the best Christmas music will make you wholly forget what time of year it is, and where you are.


And so, on that note, here's a little wishin' of happy-let's-not-murder-our-family-the-presents-haven't-come-yet.

Also, here are some really good songs. Some are vaguely Christmas related. All are I'm-cold-and-this-weather-bloody-sucks related.

Sufjan Stevens - Sister Winter
The thing is, I know ole Sufjan has done plenty of Christmas-themed songs, but as I previously elaborated, the last thing I want to think about on Christmas is my family or Jesus.

The Walkmen - No Christmas While I'm Talking
I dare you to walk with this plugged into your wee ears on a bitterly cold day with the faint, dead sun casting your shadow in a waist-high snow bank and not feel like the whole world simultaneously wants you dead and supports you. Just like family.

Bon Iver - Wolves Act I and II (Live at the Parish 3/13/2008)
The name means Good Winter, and given that JV spent the better part of a Wisconsin winter wedged in a cabin pouring his heart out after his life fell apart, the irony (accuracy?) in the name seems pretty fitting for the given theme. Also, if you don't have this on record already, get the fuck out of here.

Fleet Foxes - White Winter Hymnal
Like most of my picks, this is totally un-Christmas. In fact, it's kind of screwed up. A troop of people marching through snow, their heads (literally?) only supported by scarves, and one of them dies, leaving the snow bloodied. Again, I think the world has heard this song, but have you ever really listened to it? [/douchebag]

The Needs - Winter Gardens
This band used to be called the Special Needs. This wasn't such a good PR move, so they changed it to the Needs. Then they broke up. A damn shame, considering this little fucker is still catchy, some five years after they wrote it, and some four years after the band's demise.


Until I think of something relevant,
Stay warm,
--WF
New England Winter :(


*My mom also refused to convert for my dad (she comes from a long line of Methodist ministers, so I guess I can see her reluctance) and that comes up a lot, and I feel like this was my aunt's way of not-so-subtly jabbing at anything that isn't Catholicism. But, I mean, come on. The Crusades? The Inquisition? Under the Moors, Spain had the first street lights in Europe, and Britain was still trying to finish genocidin' all the Scots and Irish!

Gimme a T

So technically Tally Hall and Rooney (note the order) was Sunday. I was with siblings so I'm not really sure it counts. But I'll count it.

1) The place:
The Middle East Downstairs

2) The people:
It was all ages, but the short little high schoolers were pretty great. Lots of bounding up and down. Lots of screaming. Win.

3) The Performers
First were Crash Kings. We came late--about twenty minutes into their set. I'm mad we were that late. If we had come only a half hour later, we could've spared ourselves that whole set, and the night would've been that much better for it. For the most part, it waggled between radio-friendly pop jams and weirdly almost-Wolfmother pseudo-psychedelic shroom rock. The only track I remember not wincing at was the one from the Zombieland soundtrack, which I'm too lazy to find because frankly, it wasn't that good.

Second were Tally Hall, and honestly, it would seem most everyone was there for them. Five dudes in matching suits, each with a signature-colored tie. Dark blue (AKA Zubin, AKA the bassist) was my favorite, but let's face it; they're five endearing fellas that sing songs about working at the mall in matching suits and do four part harmonies stretched tight over very cute guitar/synth/uke. Everyone is your favorite. New material appeared to span some sort of concept album involving a medieval theme, but old stand outs blended in pretty seamlessly.

Third were Rooney. I felt kind of bad for them, tell you truth. Tally Hall owned the night, and once they finished, a pretty decent chunk of the audience fled for the hills. Following a literally overnight jump of 400% in sales following an appearance on The OC back in the day, Rooney have hit some hard times. Despite being a band for a decade now, they've managed two releases and an EP, with a third LP coming in the new year. Record label come, record label gone. New material...not so good. Every old track (The OC-era, 2003 self-titled release) was the heart breakingly cute pseudo British invasion I love. 2007-era Calling the World and beyond...less so.

They did a decent job. Not great. But alright. I always feel awkward when (Ash opening for the Bravery) the opener outshines the headliner. It's like a super hot bridesmaid and a tolerable bride. It's just weird.

So sorry, Rooney. Maybe next time stick with the crappy Crash Kings.

Until next time,
Stay chili (fries)
--WF
Or, write better.

Rooney - If it Were Up to Me
Tally Hall - Two Wuv

I DON'T CARE ABOUT TIGER WOODS OR ANOTHER 30,000 TROOPS IN A WAR ALEXANDER THE GREAT LOST THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO, ALL I CARE ABOUT IS WHETHER MORRISSEY IS ALRIGHT.


(No but really, the last news I heard was a month ago. A follow up would be appreciated)

--WF
Not bloody kidding

Waffle Fries Perkins in Loveland

So I just got back. Oh Jesus.

1) The Place
The Paradise

2) The People
The most unremarkable bunch of chaps I've ever met. There was no theme about them. No clearly defining features. Just a bunch of people. They clapped when they should've, they sang when they should've (albeit a few behind me really shouldn't've).

3) The Performers
Up first was Dave Godowsky. Although he claimed they had an album finished (which they'll send out to chippies who give them their emails (I am a chippy)) based on the one-minute verse-chorus-outro style they employed, I was led to believe otherwise. Regardless. It was decent folk music, but not really anything to write home about. This isn't home, by the way, so it's okay that I'm writing about it.
Bowerbirds continued the slow train to sleepyville with a painfully long, painfully slow set of music that would nicely suit alt-car commercials and little more. I could do without.
And then, thank God, appearing from the corner in the distance, came the Men in Dearland, who preceded to approach the stage from the audience after making a tour of the venue. The trumpet, slide trombone and drums were a bloody gift. Elvis Perkins, closer to seven feet than six, closer to 100 pounds than 150, slithered up to the mic from the traditional backstage, and what transpired next could only be called A Very Satisfying Set. Behind tiny glasses and a (quickly weakening) voice that warbled between a crooner and a folker came mostly new stuff (...In Dearland) but, a few covers from the Sacred Harp and some oldies and some off of the Doomsday EP.
Highlight:
It's just our fella up there, beard dripping with sweat, once-slick hair drooping in his face. "It's your turn to tell me what to do. What do I do next?" followed by a chorus of 'While You Were Sleeping' (and the requisite Freebird, as well as one for 'My Sharona' that he (almost) obliged)) to which our little hero replies "I don't think I could survive that one right now."

AND THEN DURING THE ENCORE HE PLAYED IT. OH. Poor guy shooting up chloraseptic like it's binaca and he's got a hot date. Poor guy turning the mic to us so we can fill in where his voice has failed him. When the boys all bowed and left (and then returned. and played. and then left again) we all understood, I think, that Elvis really had put all his everything into it, and when he left he wasn't coming back. He couldn't.

And we were okay with that.


Again, I'll attach music (particularly the Sacred Harp tracks. Holy god (no pun intended) those were good) when I get to my own laptop.
But for now, just appreciate how bloody good EPID is:
Elvis Perkins in Long Hair Land - Weeping Mary

Until then,
Stay madly in love with a man 13 years your senior,
-WF
Or more, actually.

Edit: Turns out, Dave Godowsky (now performing under the name John Shade) really does have songs that short. In which case, he totally gets props. The record's pretty good, if a wee on the short side. So props John Shade/Dave Godowsky, I dig you. I would like to know about the name change, though. Bit of a mystery, him.

John Shade - Kingdom Come
John Shade - Lullaby
Bowerbirds - Human Hands (LITERALLY THE ONLY BOWERBIRDS SONG THAT DOESN'T FILL ME WITH BILE-RIDDEN RAGE)
Elvis Perkins - While You Were Sleeping

RUN CHICKEN, RUN!

So let me try to get through this as quickly and effortlessly.

1) The place
The Paradise.

2) The people
Initially mostly non-ironic beards and sixteen year olds (how they got in to an 18+ gig I will never understand) but then drunks came out of the woodwork and by the end of Poor Willy Mason's set they were yammering away whilst sucking down their PBRs. Less fun than you would imagine.
Highlight:
White trash couple behind me.
Lady: You could totally sing better than him. He sounds like Johnny Cash.
Fella: Shut up.
NICE DATE, EH?
3) The players
Willy Mason, as it turns out, I heard of some time ago and then totally forgot about, which is a real damn shame because he's pretty good. A little dry on stage presence (didn't help the audience was talking all through a very quiet set) but he was one helluva guitar player and he had that same freight train voice like Johnny Cash.
And then came the Felice Brothers.
There was stomping. There was a washboard. Simone Felice, in what was maybe the single greatest moment of rolling with the punches I have ever witnessed, ran off to get a beer, missed the intro to the next song, ran back on stage, ran mouth first into the microphone and chipped a bloody tooth. He finishes singing the verse. He pulls out the chunk of tooth. He looks at it, shrugs, throws it over his shoulder and continues on to the chorus.
Every band member sang a song. Sometimes (see: James Felice on 'Whiskey in my Whiskey') this was great and the whole audience swelled. Sometimes (see: Christmas on whatever the hell he sang) this was kind of weird. Turns out, as revealed through some of the most awkward banter I've ever witnessed, Christmas (bassist) not only has a pretty weird sense of humor ("this is from my new band. we play techno.") but is generally a pretty weird damn guy.
Farley was decent, I have to admit. Doesn't mean I didn't want to give the kid a sedative every time he flew from one end of the stage to the other fiddle in one hand, bow in the other.
But, it was glorious nonetheless. There was stomping. There was mass audience participation. The two sixteen year olds (along with almost all of the audience) were brought up on stage for the last song. This is of note, given A) earlier in the gig a fella jumped on stage, did a dance and was quietly asked to leave the stage and B) when a fella did that at the Manic Street Preachers gig a few months back he was ripped off stage like he had a bomb strapped under his Welsh flag.


Until next time,
Reporting from Dearland,
-WF
Elvis Perkins ahead

Willy Mason - Hard Hand to Hold
Willy Mason - Where the Humans Eat
Willy Mason - When the River Moves On
The Felice Brothers - Whiskey in My Whiskey
The Felice Brothers - Frankie's Gun

SILVERSUN PICKUPS THAT'S ANOTHER WITH A CHICK BASSIST.
Fact: If it's an indie band, the chick's a bassist (with the occasional exception, admittedly).
Fact: If it's a medieval-style army, the chick's an archer.

In terms of the latter, my theory is thus:
It's a passive weapon. As in, lady with a bow and arrow'll never have to actually stab anyone. It's like in the story of Pyramus and Thisbe. Thisbe doesn't stab herself at the end. She throws herself on Pyramus' sword because she's too much of a pussy (literally?) to hurt herself intentionally. Same with archery. Arwen and Kate and fucking Kiera Knightley and Susan are such fucking pussies they can't actually inflict pain on people directly. They have to fling something at someone else.

The noteable exception, of course, is when Kate (Juliette Lewis) grows a damn pair and shoots her brother and he explodes out of joy that his sister isn't a total coward. I would've preferred a nice kick to the face, but given the amount of vampires attached to her brother at the time, I guess I can understand her reluctance to get close. And for the record, a gun is okay. A bow and fucking arrow is not.


The other exception, of course, is when Eowyn swords the crap out of a Nazgul and is partially responsible for swording a Ring Wraith. But she doesn't really count because she spends most of the movie trying to get in Aragorn's pants and failing.


This has fuck do with shit. It's just been bothering me for a while.

And I went to the Felice Brothers at the Paradise a week back. I'll write a review at some point...

Until then
Don't hate, procrastinate
-WF
(Chick w/ sword)

Friends Don't Let Friends Be Unhygenic

I guess I don't remember middle school very well. I mean, I know it happened, I know I was probably smelly. But to that one kid who busted in front of me (two people from the stage) halfway through Islands' set: FUCK YOU WASH YOUR HAIR I ALMOST THREW UP ON YOU, YOU LITTLE PUKE.

The concert went better than that, though.

1. The place
The Middle East Downstairs.

2. The people
It was all ages, but comfortingly it was mostly my age group, and the small pockets of teenagers were mostly ecstatic and jubliant without the fear of looking like idiots in front of other people. To the big-haired ginger at the front singing her heart out: I love you. Nick from Islands will probably never date you, but goddamnit if you didn't make it a fun night.

3. The performers
So Toro y Moi was like a successful version of that abomination that opened for Ganglians when they opened for Wavves. One dude, some synths, a little move-busting. Jemina Pearl bloody brought it. I mean, her moves were textbook Karen O*, but she was so damn happy about everything it didn't matter. The whole band was bouncing. GREAT.

Also just discovered she was the lead singer of Be Your Own Pet, so she gets double points for that. This outfit, however, was significantly poppier/tweenier/bouncier than anything BYOP ever put out.

And then there was Islands. On a personal note, I started listening to the Unicorns about six months before they broke up. I fell madly in love, and I fell hard when they fell apart. Subsequently, seeing Islands was for me an event I'd been waiting for for ages. Generally when I like a band, I later find out at least one (if not many) members are foxes, thus making their greatness even more great. Because who doesn't like a fox?

Anyway, Islands/Unicorns was never like that. I never really investigated what they looked like, and frankly I didn't really care. They were so incredibly good that I didn't need a visual.

But now, I am totally bloody in love with Nick from Islands. Striding upon the stage in all white, bearing a cape and wraparound adhesive sunglasses, he was totally straightfaced. There was no humor, no irony, no joke in his attire. He was just a dude in a cape. He danced. We danced. He clapped. We clapped. We all sang together in a throbbing, rocking mass, despite virtually no banter or demanded audience participation. When one overenthusiastic fan bleated "You're awesome!", Nick Islands' only response was "No, you're awesome."

Until next time, which I think isn't until Rooney/Tally Hall in December,
Stay salty
--WF
WHO DOES THAT?!

Jemina Pearl - I hate People (feat. Iggy Pop)
Jemina Pearl - Ecstatic Appeal
Islands - Creeper
Islands - Vapours

Friends Don't Let Friends Be Ironic

While most things are crumbling to shit, I did, on the plus side, discover why I've been on this folk music binge as of late.

It is totally free of pretension. Or, at the very least, that god-awful Irony that seems to creep up in everything indie made in the past 15 years.

When Scott Avett sings about...well when Scott Avett sings about just about anything, it's totally bare. As someone who was a much better writer than I once put it, "If the Avett Brothers are sex, they are sex with the lights on. With your wife." And it's TOTALLY TRUE.

When Langhorne Slim squeaks to holy hell on 'Lord', it works! There's no layer of autotune or overproduced nonsense to coat everything with a slick of butter. You are dragged across that vocal canyon, face down on the rocks.

Even on I and Love and You, that much-lauded Rick Rubin behemoth, the slick layer of producing and maturing the Avetts and Rubin provided could not stifle the honesty of four guys with instruments.

In essence, I have grown so tired of this ironic thing, that hearing somebody's bare voice with simple lyrics that come from a good place in their heart makes me want to sob and hug them hard.

Wavves are shitty for shittiness' sake. At this point the damn kid could really afford a halfway decent guitar and a halfway decent recording studio. He just chooses not to. It's part of his thing.

There's sort of a cute parallel between Wavves being shitty for shittiness' sake and kids buying clothing at Urban Outfitters that looks like its been torn, destroyed, aged, weathered and worn for decades. Faded shirts. Ripped jeans. Worn-in flannel. It's an added layer of character without the work or dirty thriftstores. Bloody disgusting.

Not that I'm exclusively insulting Wavves here. Or even the genre of crappy music (take note, Times New Viking et al). Vampire Weekend citing soukous or the existence of Aesop Rock are all in this same category of gross, sticky irony.

Not that I'm exclusively insulting Jewish rappers here.

With someone like Matisyahu, yes, there is a kitsch value. He's a Hasidic rapper. There's a risk of becoming a novelty, sure, but at the same time, there's an honesty behind Matisyahu's work. He makes rap music because he loves it and has always loved it. Aesop Rock isn't that kind of kid. Aesop Rock is the kind of kid that started listening to it when he calculated that his parents wouldn't approve, and that kids in school would do a doubletake when he started blasting Wu-Tang or NWA. He did it for attention, and the little bitch is still doing it for attention.

So, for all the Aesop Rocks of the world, who do it because it'll draw attention as a commodity, and for the Wavves of the world, who do it because there will always be kids wanting someone else to rip their jeans for them: grow the holy hell up.

And, for all the Matisyahus and Avett Brothers and Langhorne Slims of the world who do it because they love it and they don't mind being a little honest with total strangers every time they sing and will bare their scars in public: thank you.

Next concert is Islands w/ Jemina Pearl @ the Middle East Downstairs November 4

Until then,
Stay True
WF
Honesty = Best Policy

The Avett Brothers - Distraction #74
The Avett Brothers - Slight Figure of Speech
Langhorne Slim - Lord
Matisyahu - So Hi So Lo

THESE ENTRIES ARE SO LONG WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME

Andrew Bird @ the S. Portland High School Auditorium

1. The place
A massive high school auditorium, fabulous sound and strangely I got good seating, despite it being general admission and I arriving just as the house lights dimmed. It looked like a high school auditorium.
2. The people
Maine is a bloody weird state. Lots of grandmas and some hipsters, almost all high school lookin' (the hipsters, not the grandmas) some little kids with hands on ears and the most 'this-is-my-daughter's-play' atmosphere ever (attn: you do not need to vocalize laughter every time Andrew Bird or Annie Clark talk).
3. The performers
So Andrew Bird used almost the exact set list he used when I saw him this summer in Boston, even the same banter between songs (IE: him trying to verbalize something only explicable through music, IE: the impossible IE: he rambled) but this time it was actually funny! He had wit! It was just him too--no backing band--so when he looped himself into a light coma it was pretty magic.
St. Vincent I think was a little too much for an opener--a little too much PBR, not quite enough NPR, but some of the grandfolks seemed to get with it, what with the flute and the sax and the clarinet. Plus, at the end of Bird's set, Annie Clark came back out and they did a duet of a new song, along with some St. Vincent, along with St. Vincent coming back out for the most stirring, thumping rendition of Scythian Empires I've ever heard. Swoon. During the sort-of encore, they performed potentially the sexiest rendition of Bob Dylan's 'Oh Sister' I've ever heard. In short: they have super duper chemistry, and need to get on the baby making soon.

I'm willing to step aside and let Annie take 'im, so long as she treats him like she did last night.

So maybe the $10 in tolls between here and Maine, and the numerous near-death experiences in that rainy, foggy drive were a bit much, but the concert made up for it.

Until next time,
Stay NOT KETCHUPY,
WF
I Love AB

4. I'll go back and put up MP3s for these reviews when I'm certain people are reading this. Which they aren't, so it just seems like unnecessary work. Rawr.

Heart: Meet Hands

So hopefully this one doesn't take the three days the last one took, as tomorrow is another concert and I just don't have time for this tomfoolery.

The Avett Brothers @ the House of Blues, Sunday October 18

1. The Place
The House of Blues, as somebody funnier than I once put it: the Starbucks of concert venues. It's true, but I got in early enough that I was close, which is good given it's apparently like 2500 people, so that would've sucked. It's big, it's well lit, the sound's good. Not generally a common combination of details.
2. The People
It was an all ages show (I think HOB might actually be an all ages venue, which is nutso but sort of logical) so there were scrawny little 12 year olds with their dads and a gaggle of middle aged women with bleached hair and even a good smattering of people who CAME FROM NORTH CAROLINA FOR THE SHOW AND THE SHOW ALONE. Everyone was, like at Langhorne Slim, blindingly happy, ceaselessly energetic and knew the words to every song. If the fans are always this great I'm going to country/bluegrass/post-Civil War rock concerts more often. During 'Living of Love', one of the more ballady-type songs in the Avett repertoire, a woman in front of me, previously jovial and bouncy as they come, was smearing away tears, screaming at the top of her lungs. The concert was that good.
3. The Players
So the openers were Nicole Atkins and the Black Sea, and in addition to being kind of a precious looking 16-year-old (who's actually like 30, so good on her whatever's doing that) they were decent pop types. Nothing new, but she had a strong enough voice to keep it from drifting into Michelle Branch territory. Not a whole ton of energy though. A little drab.

But lo, then came the Avett Brothers. Darting between a keyboard and an electric guitar and a drum kit and a bass drum and a banjo and an acoustic, the brothers, assisted by Bob (switching between electric and upright bass) and Joe (switching between cello and not being on stage) it was two hours of sweaty, happy joy. The heyday of songs about cheatin' on your woman and runnin' off rang a little sour as their wedding rings (Scott and Bob are daddies now too) glinted in the spotlights, but goddamn if it wasn't a great show. Again: if all concerts had that much energy, I wouldn't be wasting my time chronicling them, because I could just write AWESOME AWESOME across a piece of paper all the time.

Plus, those are some damn good looking men. Oh my god are they good looking.

1. That photo is blatantly stolen from Rachel A and is a couple years old. Scott looks the same. Maybe a little less facial hair.
2. Soon, I will start putting up my own photos of concerts. Once I can afford a camera. That is a vital part of the equation.
3. Tomorrow is Andrew Bird at the Portland High School Auditorium WHAT?

Until then,
Stay beside some nice chicken fingers or something,
WF
I know, right?

Nicole Atkins - Neptune City
The Avett Brothers - Paranoia in B Flat Major
The Avett Brothers - Living of Love
The Avett Brothers - Gimmeakiss

I HUGGED HIM

So a first. Again.

1. The place
I've never been to TT the Bear's before, but I really, really like it. It's painfully small--turns out, the smallest venue in Boston I've been to. The whole building is shaped like a sideways uppercase I, with the ends being bars (yes, two bars) and the middle being the stage. It was so cute. Oh my god glory glory.
2. The people
Literally I was one of six people under 21, pretty much everyone was mid to upper twenties or older. OH EXCEPT THE 45 YEAR OLD DRUNK DUDE GRABBING MY ASS. That was great. But then he got ejected from the place and I bonded with the other two women he was bothering. ROCKIN'. Plus, the whole audience was totally uninhibited; screaming, jumping, crying, singing at the top of our lungs. I want all audiences to be that happy and loud and joyous.
3. The performers
Rare is the occasion when a band picks openers worth seeing. Sometimes, they pick one that's decent, but that probably means there's a total turd between them and the headliners (see: Ash picking Kind of Like Spitting over Circle and Square to go on before them, We Are Scientists picking Bear Hands over Bad Girlfriend to go on before them). This didn't happen. There was a clear progression in quality from the opening openers (whose name I unfortunately can't find) to Dawes to Langhorne Slim, this is true, however, both openers were still good. Plus, by the second to last song of Dawes' set, the soul-stirring 'When My Time Comes', the drunk ass grabber had been ejected, so the song's jubilatory tone was all the more fitting. They were a little on the pop-soul side (The Fray) but the lead singer was so fucking cute I didn't mind. Plus they were, y'know, good. I pogo'd to an opener, dude.

Langhorne Slim, subsequently, destroyed a venue of less than 300.

For every scream we emitted, the band screamed back. Heartbreakingly cute saxophonist wailing away, bobbing around, the man himself pulling some bizarro faces and moves that made me LAUGH AT A CONCERT HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN SINCE I'VE DONE THAT. This is the way concerts should be--the audience gives high energy back to a band giving out just as much high energy in a great reciprocal ring of joy. He brought up the audience onstage for the second to last song and jumped into the audience for the last one--little wonder, given he had lost his voice. But it didn't matter. The backers (the War Eagles) and the audience were singing so loudly that he didn't need to any more.

I was tired by the end of the show. And not by boredom like at the Dodos. By sheer expenditure of energy.

He stayed around after everyone had cleared out, and we talked. Well, he hoarsely whispered in my ear, I talked. We hugged.

Until next time,
Stay sweet (potato)
WF
Bloody in Love

Dawes - When My Time Comes
Langhorne Slim - Loretta Lee Jones
Langhorne Slim - Cinderella

Dead As

Okay so Thursday night was the Dodos at the Middle East. Some strangeness went down. It was supposed to start at 9, with doors at 8, but in reality it was doors at 9, started at 9:45. I missed the bus from here to Central Square, so I walked. It was like 40 and raining, so I was pretty grumpy by the time I got there. Anyway, review:

1. The Place
The Middle East downstairs is growing on me, I guess. The ticket taking staff are a helluva lot nicer than some places (read: the Paradise) but I didn't have any cash on me, so drinks were off limits. Suxors, but not so bad.
2. The People
Despite being under 21, for whatever reason, when I go to a concert and see a sea of black Xs on the hands of the populace, it makes me angry. It makes me judge. And, well, this was no exception. Because of what amounted to this two hour delay, a lot of kids had taken to sitting on the floor, which was kind of cute, actually. It was like a sleepover, but much more pretentious, and much more PBR. Rare was the over college-age kid. More non hipsters than hipsters, but again, every beer was a PBR, so we're talking people who want to be hipsters but aren't. Me, basically. Kind of lame.
3. The Performance
So...this was a first. I am a strong believer that you should get what you pay for. Meaning, if a play sucks, I will stick it out, because I already bought my damn ticket. Meaning, if the movie is Wanted or Vantage Point, I'll sit through the entire thing, because I already paid $10 to see it. Ruby Suns were first, and I really wanted to like them. They seem to be following that AfroBeat thing that Friendly Fires and Vampire Weekend are all about, except they were all drums, which was odd given they had no drummer. They were cute, they were Kiwis, and every old song they played was rockin. Every time they announced a song as new, I got kind of bored. You can only hear synths wailing over a droning singer's wail for so long before you lose interest.

It wasn't really fair to the Dodos. The concert I had been to previous (Manic Street Preachers) has been seven years in waiting, and was blisteringly, blindingly fucking great. Two drummers and a Joseph Gordon-Levitt knock off with my last name couldn't possibly match up, and they didn't. They were too chill, the music too vague and uninteresting, the audience too static.

What I'm trying to say is, I left early. What I'm trying to say is, it wasn't entirely the Dodos fault, but they sure as Hell could've made it harder to leave.


Anyway, now on to better days.
Stay dunked in malt vinegar, cuddling your fishy friends
WF
Brighter horizons, yeah?

No Surface, Still Reeling

So if you want to be a petty, pedantic bitch, yes, the Manics concert was six days ago. I actually decided to wait this long, and here's why.

When I was in sixth grade, by some freak crossing of ectoplasmic streams, we cable-less lot picked up MTV2, then a new station. It played music videos. All the time. They used to have this program called Control Freak wherein viewers could vote via a webpage for what music video would come up next. Lucky for me that A Life Less Ordinary by Ash off of the little-appreciated soundtrack for the film of the same name, got picked once. And thus began my Anglophilia. I suddenly had to hear every Ash song ever made, again lucky for me that their most recent album (Free All Angels) had just been released, so there was a good deal of it.
Then one day, perusing their website, I joined their messageboard. I met people--almost exclusively English--who liked Ash as much as I did, and had all these other bands in their hearts I had never heard of. Enter Suede, Pulp, Blur, and the likes of the Manic Street Preachers. Their music had been everywhere--loud and angry and political, quiet and sentimental--they had even had the requisite member disappearance, the true hallmark of any decent band. They became the soundtrack of my awkward middle school years, a damn good thing given most kids my age were listening to crap like Nickelback. I had a band quoting Sartre and Chuck D in the same song.
When I discovered that they didn't tour the US much, in that in their then-eighteen year career they had toured twice, I broke a little. I'd probably never see them live, unless I happened to study abroad at the right time. Or something.

Flash forward to this summer. Depressed that I'm going to end up at BU, a crappy film program with no future, I had decided I was going to fill my fall with concerts--a small consolation prize for my life being over, at least in my mind. And then I saw tickets were on sale for the Manic Street Preachers first American tour in a decade. Attending BU or no, I was going. I'd live on the street if I had to.

So here it is, my review for a band I thought I'd never see live, much less at a venue of like 500.

1.The Place:
The Paradise is nothing new. 'Nuff said. However, James Dean Bradfield did do an instore gig at Newbury Comics earlier in the day, and he marveled repeatedly at the fact that a place like it still existed, which made me pretty happy. Sometimes I forget not every city has a Newbury Comics.
2. The People:
I'll say me and the three other under 21s were pretty much the youngest people there by a decade. I met a couple of super awesome people, one of whom is in college across town, but by and large, the Manics fans were over 30, quite a few were British expats, and one woman, Jo (we talked) had flown from England to see them, because she said she would've paid the cost of the flight and the ticket just to see them that close up in Britain. Nutso. Great crowd though, lots of energy, lots of love for a band that has sometimes been a little short on reciprocation.
3. The performers
Bear Hands opened for the Manics. Saw them open for We Are Scientists in July, and while their sort of cranky whiny dance rock made sense there, here it was one of those "what the fuck" moments. But honestly, I think any opener would have gotten the same response. You're opening for a band that has toured the United States like three times yet still somehow gathered a rabid following.
The Manics were flawless. Poor James had come down with a cold that morning, but you couldn't tell. He's still the loudest singer in music, and he and Nick were bounding around stage for the entire gig. They were funny, there was a ton of banter between the two of them, they did sort of a greatest hits gig (every other song was from Journal for Plague Lovers) and the audience was singing along so loudly you could hear them over the speakers.

Bloody brilliant.
Until next time,
WF
Don't judge yrself


(Thursday night was the Dodos, so that'll be next, but tonight is Langhorne Slim and Sunday night is the Avett brothers. Oh boy.)

Flawless

I know this concert was Saturday night, and today is Monday. Fuck you for judging.


Ra Ra Riot, the Paradise Rock Club, 10/3/09

1. The Place
I won't wax poetic about the Paradise more than I have to, seeing as I already have (see: Sondre Lerche). It was, however, very darling that one of the bands mentioned the bizarre metal columns that dissect the room. They're sort of stylized trees, but even that seems a little too nice. They suck and they're huge.

2. The Performance
I don't like calling things perfect, if only in part because I'm too young and too dumb to be able to definitively determine whether it's true, and I will probably feel that way until the day I die. On my deathbed, I will make a list of the perfects, and pass it down to my children so that they may forever know what to eat, where to live, and which concerts it is their grave misfortune they weren't born in time to see.

This is one of those.

Up first was Princeton, a California quartet. The answer to all of the following questions is yes.
Were they heartbreakingly cute, despite featuring a set of twins (one of my big fears)? Did they sound like something out of a John Hughes movie? Did they do a duet with Alli from RRR? Were they catchy 80s synth pop the likes I haven't heard and enjoyed in ages? Am I seriously considering seeing them in a couple weeks when they come to the Middle East with Art Brut, despite making that four concerts in four days?
Strangely, Maps + Atlases, the next guys up, weren't quite as good, despite the higher billing. Hyper intricate guitar work that I didn't really get on record made much more sense live, but they were still lacking the sort of blind youthful joy the other two bands gorged themselves on. A bit of a buzz kill, in essence.
Being the last night of the tour, Ra Ra Riot seemed on the verge of bursting the whole show. It wasn't just the physical energy of six musicians running and hugging and tousling each others' hair between songs and an audience reciprocating, but rather the emotional energy of being six college friends who've made it in the closest sense of the term. I've never been proud of a band before, but two nights ago I felt like a damn parent at my kids' recital. Cellist Alli's bow was almost fully shredded by the end of the night from the pounding it took, but when all three bands shared the stage to maybe the happiest cover of Kate Bush's Hounds of Love, it made total sense. Over a dozen musicians, fitted with every species of noisemaker, stringed creature and childish excitement, after a long , successful tour, screamed and jumped and romped for four minutes.

Needless to say, we all left grinning like idiots when the houselights came up, the bands included.

Or so we hope.


Up next is Manic Street Preachers at the Paradise, Thursday October 8.

Until then,
Stay golden (brown),
--WF
I Princeton - Sadie and Andy

Oh I'm Bad

Okay so admittedly this is a week late. Fuck you, I have things to get done. This is a double bill too, so prepare yourself for greatness. Tonight, we dine in Hell...

Wavves, Great Scott, Sunday September 27th

As a note, I'm doing this in a different order. You'll see why.

1. The Place:
The Great Scott, like all tiny bizarro venues in Boston, is relatively odd in shape. From a bird's eye view it's a lowercase D, with the tallest point being the stage and the rounded bottom, the bar. Subsequently, fans get pretty well funneled into a straight line from the exit to the stage, myself at the latter (a decision I would come to regret). It was clean, people were nice, and when I bitched on Twitter that I didn't get to keep my ticket stub, not one but three different people from GS either Direct Messaged me or replied with apologies. So that was pretty nice.

2. The Players
I don't know what the fuck that first thing was. There was a projector with kaleidoscopic images of what appeared to be a dead body dressed as a scarecrow interspersed with a small child picking fruit. Sort of a Jesus-meets-Tom-Joad thing. There was a guy with a keyboard and what looked like the CPU off something from the 80s. He made sounds for forty five minutes. Laughter was barely stifled on my part. Ridiculous. Ganglians, a shaggy but relatively neat and twingly sort of trio from California were next. Scuzzy California surf rock, but still with a little bit of polish. Stood like mannequins of the dead but could have been worse. Wavves had some technical difficulties, but for all his reputation as a psychopath, Nathan Williams was pretty swell about the whole thing. Arm still partially slung from a skateboarding mishap, he bashed the holy fuck out of his set, which barely clocked in at an hour, difficulties included. He apparently was recovering from a cold (or so he said) but at that volume you couldn't tell. If there was anything new in there, it was drowned in feedback, but was still easily the most enjoyable thrashing I've had in a while.

3. The People
There are things I can and cannot rock at a concert. Non-committal indie arm swinging I cannot. Head banging and pogoing, I can. Taking a phone call during a concert, particularly during a song, I cannot. Shouting odes of admiration or witty commentary I may be able to, depending on the statement (IE: YOU'RE SO HOT at Keith Murray is not okay, but SONDRE LERCHE COULD DESTROY THE WORLD at Sondre Lerche I totally could). Damn concertgoers challenged me a bit here. I remember at a fairly awkward Ted Leo concert, TL himself totally dissolving any momentum they had had by stopping and asking people to stop moshing. He did it eloquently, which just endeared his 45-year-old-ass to myself further, his words being something like "There's a certain dumb-jock element in all of us, I know, but come on. They say Boston is the land of 1,000 dances, and you're going to tell me that's the best one you can come up with."

Muse was all headbangers and devilhorns at the Avalon, back when there was an Avalon. Nary a foot was lifted.

Wavves...well, to be honest, Wavves was fifty minutes of kicks to the neck and elbows to the teeth I'm actually pretty chuffed with. Some of the more fluffy bunny elements in the crowd seemed genuinely hurt and upset over the amount of would-be stage diving going on, but come on. Wavves is the closest thing to punk rock this side of 1980, indie rags be damned. The next morning I couldn't really turn my head to the right, but that faded with time. I lost my shit a little bit, I will admit. Somehow I ended up moving from the center of the crowd to up against the wall on the right, which ended up being fortuitous in that I missed out on the melee that ensued in the middle, plus I was dead in front of NW. Guy's simultaneously the cutest and the funniest looking motherfucker I've ever met.

Overall, despite the bruises, despite a hipster peeling himself out of a flannel jacket to reveal a flannel shirt in the exact same pattern, despite the technical difficulties, the show was pretty fucking great. I probably wouldn't even say despite. Perhaps, like all things Wavves, it is because of, rather than in spite of, those imperfections that make them so good.


Up next is Ra Ra Riot, two days ago, at the Paradise.

Until then, stay lovingly soaked in vinegar.
--WF
Ketchup's just gross

Wavves - So Bored

RE: Lying Bloggers

So last night was my first official gig as concert reviewer, which is really for myself and posterity more than anyone else, which is a damn good thing given no one will ever read this. At any rate, Sondre Lerche was just lovely. But here, let me break it down for you
1. The Place:
The Paradise Rock Club is probably one of the stranger-shaped venues I've been to in my day. It's sort of a perpendicular Middle East, in that rather than being a long, skinny venue, it's a very wide but very shallow sort of affair. Meaning, everyone is sort of pressed very close to the stage but can waggle more or less to the left or right basically to the horizon. Not bad.
2. The People:
I have literally never been to a concert with that many girls (not women--girls) and so few guys EVER. Even Andrew Bird, who's basically chick porn, was a solid 60/40. I counted maybe ten guys within the first ten feet of the stage, all the way across. I mean, Sondre Lerche is pretty heart breakingly sweet, but nevertheless, it's ridiculous. Basically all college freshman types, planning their trip to 'Regina'. Fuck them, but everyone was mostly near sober. However, had I seen one more couple using Sondre as an excuse for hanky panky, I actually would have punched them, madly in love with Lerche or not.
3. The Players:
Despite being one person, despite never using loops, and despite barely scraping 5'7'', Sondre Lerche not only dominated the stage but totally held the audience captive for an hour and a half or so. He had cute-awkward-my-English-isn't-perfect banter, and he pounded the ever loving hell out of a beautiful little Gretsch. He played some new stuff, but kept it light with old standards and any musician with multiple sing alongs is totally worthy of praise. Oh good God, there was a whistle-a-long.

In summary, Sondre bloody rocked it.

Next time would have been Maximo Park, however they canceled their entire damn American tour, so it'll be Wavves at Great Scott on the 27th.

Until then,
Stay crisp, stay crunchy
--WF
RIP Patrick Swayze

Lies and the Lying Bloggers Who Tell Them

I SKIPPED OUT ON MUCCA PAZZA BECAUSE THE WEATHER SUCKED AND THEY REALLY AREN'T THAT GOOD TO BEGIN WITH.

Sondre Lerche, 9/13 @ The Paradise, coming up in like six hours when my life isn't in shambles. Get pumped.

FACT: Fiction

So this summer has made me decide to take this contraption in a different direction. I got no friends here at BU, so rather than sit and angst it out, I'ma go to more concerts. And here I will review them, for posterity. However, I hate writing big things, so it'll break down into three p's:
1. The Place: How's the venue? Smelly? Huge? Strangely sticky?
2. The People: All emo kids? Over-30s reliving their glory days? Pregnant?
3. The Players: HOW IS THE BAND?

For example, We Are Scientists at the Middle East, July 30 (ish):

1. The place: The Middle East is generally cute, generally not sticky but louder than holy fuck. My bad for standing so close.
2. The people: A nice mix of moms with 25 year old Keith Murray lookalikes (which made for one awkward as hell autographing moment) and college kids. Met two students from Mexico visiting for this show and All Points West, which I think is RIDICULOUS BECAUSE THEY CAME FROM MEXICO FOR TWO CONCERTS. By the time WAS came out (11:45? Midnight?)the volume of tit-bearing drunkards was a little much, but otherwise people were people.
3. The Players: Bad Girlfriend, Keith Murray's girlfriend's band, opened, with Murray on drums. Quite the hoot, despite having 5 tracks to their name. Somebody was number 2, they were alright, but immediately forgettable. 'Scientists were naturally funny, played a few new songs, DESTROYED the place with the classics. Generally awesome, I will say.

So there you go, 'Fries on the case, this is now a concert review blog. Up first:
Mucca Pazza, oddly enough also at the Middle East, Friday 9/11. I'll keep you posted.
-WF
Who fricken cares?

Happy Lief Ericson Day!

Let's not even talk about the inactivity of FDLFBH. WHO CARES?

Any way. New vibe I wanted to explore. Well, there are like thirty. First off, an explanation:

I've been busy amongst other things, turning down an acceptance into Tisch for film due to a lack of finances, and the angst alone took up most of my time. I've also been editing something I made in school and making these for my sister. I made a third one too, but she never put that up. Which is a real shame. It's pretty rad.

Since the last entry, a mouse died, a hamster died, and we got a new hamster. Neighborcat, being the sadistic bastard it is, dug up deadhamster once, couldn't open the box (no thumbs), dug up the box again, took out the hamster (developed thumbs?), left the box and then knocked on the door until I came out to discover what he had done.

Anyway, theme:

Yodeling. I'm totally serious. As I discussed not so long ago, I feel folk music today has become more of a faux-folk music thing. For a total lack of recognizeable, singular culture, in an environment today where a single family's history involves half a dozen languages and twice as many countries, middle class mutts (such as myself) cling to some semblance of 'history' by chugging nouvelle-folk music like Kefir samples at a Whole Foods.

As an extension of said chug, I've noticed a trend in indie music as of late wherein the singer, like the folk musician add-ons of yestermonth, tends toward the yodeling side of singing. Well, more like a semi-yodel yelp. While it may simply be a stylistic choice, I'm definitely feeling a cultural vibe here.

Examples:

Drunk Yodel: Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood

Indie Yodel: Yeasayer - Tightrope

Incidentally, I hate CYHSY, but they definitely win for best song titles of all time. They're Dave Eggers/Ray Bradbury level good, I think. Also, Tightrope is off of maybe the best compilation album I've ever heard: Dark Is the Night. Great title, better music.

Well, that's all for today. More tomorrow. Or, maybe later.

Love
WF
Realistically, much later.

I evidently have terrible commitment issues when it comes to stupid hype-related bandwagon-like activities.

I have a pretty sweet excuse though, why I've not been updating. List is as follows:

1. I've been shooting two different films simultaneously. Nothing big but still. I'll link when they're finished. More or less what I did for my application film is part of this trilogy. Part one is missing a place you haven't left yet (IE the application film, IE 'Little Things'), part two is looking back in retrospect and the final days, and part three is the journey home. So, naturally, I can't really finish filming part three until, well, I'm home.
2. There's also a third movie I'm going to shoot end to end before I leave, involving We Are Scientists and muppets. Just as a side note.
   
3. I was in Chicago/Milwaukee. Both great. We went to the zoo in Milwaukee and maybe my favorite building in Chicago that I would gladly bear the children of, were it looking to copulate, met a kitten in a bookstore in said building and generally spent the week happy and well fed. Glen Ellyn, despite being a suburb, has more of my happier memories than most other places.
   

That's it. Not a very sound argument, but there nonetheless.

Also, oddly while I was picking out the music (which, technically, inspired the movie, rather than the other way around) I happened upon a video wherein someone similarly applied moving images to music, thus making a music video, but not necessarily in the traditional sense. Moreover, it's Andrew Bird, who I have not only been going googly over for a while now, but additionally is the music for both the second and third parts of the triad. NUTSO.

At any rate, that about covers it. Maybe someday I'll start writing relevant entries again.
--WF
Maybe someday, ha.

A Timeline of Nonphenomenal Lineage

Moments that blew my mind:

Finding out from an old Richey Edwards interview that it's Van Goff, not Van Go.

Hearing Andrew Bird reenact the mournful little four year old on a plane that inspired the song (more or less) Oh No.

That's more or less it.

-WF
I'll Update...Later...

Rostrum Batmanglij, the newest Spice Girl

Again, pardon the post, but it needs to be said:

- .-. ..- . ... - --- .-. -.-- ---... . ...- . .-. -.-- --. ..- -.-- .. .... .- ...- . . ...- . .-. -... . . -. .- - - .-. .- -.-. - . -.. - --- .... .- ... .-. . -- .. -. -.. . -.. -- . --- ..-. .--- . ..-. ..-. -... ..- -.-. -.- .-.. . -.-- .-.-.- -.-. --- .. -. -.-. .. -.. . -. -.-. . ..--..

Si tu (pa)tois a partir

DeVotchKa is so good it makes me embarassed for all the times I saw their name in magazines and wrote them off as a crappy metal band, because that's what I figured they were.

Something I think I want to explore later:

I listen to so much pseudo-folk music because I have no folk of my own and thus no folk music of my own heritage so I try to make up for it with the likes of DeVotchKa and Andrew Bird. Now, when I say folk, I mean it like Macon Dead II means people when he says he doesn't have any people. I have family, but I don't have any history. We're mutt people. Someone at some point in time emigrated from somewhere and eventually ended up giving birth to a relative of mine. Were they Irish? Well, they left Co. Cork, but they had an English last name, so they were probably Scottish shipped to Ireland to make it less 'wild' back in like 1200 so we're not really Irish even though that's like 650 years of intermingling with the Irish and if that doesn't make you from a country I just don't know what does, and according to Aunt Ann everyone in Co. Dingle looks like my great Aunt Margaret so maybe we're from Dingle originally and moved to Cork shortly before moving to the States? And then we might be Dutch, too. Probably Welsh because we were coal miners in Pennsylvania for a good long while. Italian on Gramma's side, but we don't talk about that so Fuck knows where we're from.

We're loose. We're islands. We have no long term roots. Most Americans don't. You give up some of that. The US is a weird amalgamation of countries, rather than a country. It isn't igneous or metamorphic, it's conglomerate. We don't form naturally over time--we flee somewhere or get thrown out of somewhere, move to a place we think is safer only to find out there's just as much persecution here as anywhere else, lose all of our history and culture and customs in order to assimilate and in the process cut down all of our roots so we form a straighter tree.

When is that dividing mark between being from the home country and the new one? My father's ancestors lived in Ireland for 650 years and were still outsiders because they were of Scottish ancestry. My mother's side has lived here for 350 years yet we still say we're English. The fact that we're virtually every other possible permutation of relation is of course totally irrelevant. We want roots. We want them so badly we do silly things like call ourselves English and French when we're American and listen to DeVotchKa because if we don't have any ancestral music, maybe we can fake it and listen to someone else's and no one will tell the difference.



Maybe someday I'll move back to one of the homelands, and 350 years from now my descendents will be saying "Well you see, I'm American and Irish and French..."

--WF
Explore later, huh?

Exception:

Charlotte Hatherley, formerly of Ash/Nightnurse, now solo type of gal, never been a bassist. BOOM. ROASTED.

The Veils. Chick bassist. All I'm saying.

And You Tell Me that I'm too Abstruce, I Just Thought It Was a Kind of Bird

Ottoman from that crap movie with Michael Cera*. Jesus that's 5 songs from a record that's not due out until September. Half of the record has already been in the ether since last February. IS THIS NOT RIDICULOUS TO ANYONE ELSE?!

--WF
WTF Vampire Weekend.

*Nick and Nora's Infinitely Long Self-Fellating Hipster Fest

**See previous post for explanation.

Fulsome prison blues

No new posts until finals, yeah?

Anyway, here:

Dear Vampire Weekend:
Please release your new album already so I can stop listening to the four potential new songs (Ladies of Cambridge, White Sky, Little Giants and Arrows) thus starting this whole album-gets-big-before-it's-released-to-an-absurd-degree-so-that-the-backlash-starts-around-the-time-of-its-release thing, because the songs on the debut had been around for minimum two years (and by that I mean out, not just in existence) and the new songs have been around for over a year at this point, meaning they aren't new they're just SOON TO BE RELEASED. This is silly. I really hope none of those songs are on the record, just to freak everybody out. We all know the sophomore album is going to be a let down, because the bigger the hype the smaller the result, so just get it over with and release those four songs with six filler songs and be done with it. Good sophomore albums don't come without severe alcoholism, crippling leg operations, cocaine addictions or the addition of a new member or subtraction of an old one. We know it. You know it. Move on.
Love
People Who Listen to Music Sin Justicimiento ni Sin Ser Hipsters

-WF

On love, in madness

I love Boston, and I love being from Boston, and although I often proclaim Boston as the best city on the planet periodically I remember that the only notable music ever to come out of my fair city on the bay is terrible hard core and ska with Mighty Mighty Bosstones and Dropkick Murphys being the two noteable examples.

--WF
And This Event

The Arcane Fire

So this isn't a real post, and by that I mean it won't be seven pages of incoherent self indulgence. Two things:

1) My vocabulary has been seriously slumping since I entered college/became allowed to swear more often than not swear, so to combat said loss of perspicacity, I've been doing FreeRice with the hopes that maybe if I do it often enough I'll start actually using the words, because I am no slack-jawed swear-spewing ninny. At least, I hope I'm not.
2) I have another chick to add to my 'chicks only play the bass' rule: Mustard Gas from Fucked Up. Technically they're not an indie band, but neither is Auf Der Maur and I counted them/her so what the hell. I'll expand it to all genres. In which case the Germs have to go up too (Lorna Doom being the bassist).


Tidbit for the day: Prior to the Pretenders, Chrissy Hynde was for a short while in a band then called Masters of the Back Side which upon her leaving became the Damned. Prior to that she was in a band with Mick Jones called My Cunt's Honorable Discharge which upon her leaving became the Clash.

-WaffleFries
I KNOW, RIGHT?


As a reward, here's a song, not yet released and blatantly ripped from youtube that I love love love:

Vampire Weekend - White Sky

While I do worry that things like posting links to songs not yet released does sort of promote weird albumness as happened with VW on their first record (the record's only been out a year, but the songs have been out since like 2005), it's too damn good, and anyway no one reads this, so I'm not too worried.

I want a blog, that will blog for no one else

God I even hate the word. Blog. It is word vomit in it's most extreme form. In fact, a girl down the hall was definitely blogging down the porcelain telephone for most of last night after partying a little too heartily. Anyway, here are three things:

1) There seems to be a bizarre phenomenon in the world of indie rock I would like to explore. Some would say that rock n' roll in general is not the most female-friendly species of animal. I am not one to disagree with that statement. That being said, I've noticed an odd trend with female musicians, particularly in indie bands: if you're gonna have a chick in your band, she's going to play the bass, or no instrument at all. Proof:

Smashing Pumpkins (D'arcy Wretzky, pre-crack)


stellastarr* (Amanda Tannen)


Auf Der Maur (but I'm pretty sure she's a witch anyway)


Rainer Maria (She's in the back! can you see her? No you cannot.)


The Raveonettes (Sharin Foo)


Zwan (Paz Lenchantin, formerly of a Perfect Circle)

Exceptions:
Metric (she plays the piano/synth)
Asobi Seksu (she plays the piano/synth)
Yeah Yeah Yeahs (she doesn't play anything)

Now, I've tried formulating theories as to why this might be true, and I've only come up with a couple that hold any sort of logical basis in reality.

1) When a band featuring a woman is forming, the male members, assuming she is an inferior musician, give her a pretty easy role while simultaneously trying to not insult her intelligence.
Now this one seems a little too harsh to be real, but my inner raving feminist won't let me put it down.

2) Billy Corgan hatez the ladiez.
This one I'm willing to get behind if only because I think Billy Corgan is one of the most self-obsessed egomaniacs still producing music. And he wields enough psychic power that he could totally be the cause of all these other bands fucking shit up (why else would he stay bald, if not to amplify his psychic powers?)


3) Ladiez have tiny baby fingers and guitars are just too complicated for such tiny little fingers to play properly.

This one I just thought up because I have tiny baby fingers, but guitars really aren't that complicated and most ladiez don't have tiny baby fingers. Besides, James Dean Bradfield, arguably one of my favorite guitarists of all times has infamously stubby fingers and he doesn't let it get him down. And then there's Tommy Iommi who lost parts of two of his fingers in an industrial sheet metal-cutting accident type dealie. His fingers were literally stubs, and he's still considered one of the best guitarists of heavy metal. So this theory is about as sound as Converse in a rain storm.

2) Despite some of the more recent news about who's-the-bigger-ass-level-beef between Win Butler and Wayne Coyne, I still like both bands (Arcade Fire and Flaming Lips for the uninitiated), probably with a slightly higher level of affection going toward Arcade Fire. And despite that being the one Maurice Sendak book I didn't memorize as a child (which I kind of feel like is like eating pie crust your entire life without having ever eaten the filling) Where the Wild Things Are still looks pretty effing beautiful.

3) We watched Twilight last night, and we all knew it was going to be terrible, and it was, but I was the only one who actually spoke up about it, spending long periods of the movie criticizing the acting, the dialogue, even the basic tenants of the film (the weird sort of daddy-loves-daughter vibe the whole movie emits, for example*). People hated me. I am not ok with this but the movie was SO BAD AND THEY DIDN'T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND WHY.

Finally, the MP3 of the week. In perhaps the most awesome case of cultural syncretism/cyclical referencing, The Very Best (aka Malawi's own Esau Mwamwaya and Radioclit) sample none other than Vampire Weekend's Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa on a song aptly titled Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa. Vampire Weekend reference African guitar music, an African rapper references Vampire Weekend. Amazing.

So here it is, enjoy.

The Very Best (Esau Mwamwaya and Radioclit) - Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa

-WF
Suck it, Koenig

*He's literally a century older than her, she dances on his feet at prom like daughters do with their fathers when they're little, she in no way can defend herself and turns to him to do so, he carries her ass around the whole time.

Not a girl, not yet a vegan

Fuck it. I was going to wait and post this later, but that's not happening so let's not fool ourselves. Three things:

1) stellastarr* are like lucky charms. When they're great, they're the best things in the world, but when all of the marshmallows are gone, all that's left is a pile of cheerios unsuitable even for rabbits (more on this later). Two examples of the former, happier, marshmallow-ridden days are included, for your auditory pleasure.

First is Jenny, a relatively bland song with two hidden gems that make it glorious. Jenny firstly features an amazing 'woah-oh-o-o-o-oh' thing. It's inexplicably the best noise I've ever heard the backup singer to any band ever make. The other thing is where the song ends, given where it begins. What starts as something most average rock bands can and have created dissolves into this hysterical (in no small part due to lead singer Shawn Christenen's already shrill voice) psychotic rant listing off words in rapid fire succession. When the words finally space enough to be understandable, it's already the end of the song, and the last line leaves a strange burn mark as the guitars come tumbling down: Jenny I bet you'd make your mom so proud / I need my cell!

The other, My CoCo, has much less to it. Whereas with Jenny I picture a disturbed high school-era ex returning from the dead carrying the guitar you pawned at twenty three and brutally murdering the chino-wearing ass you have become by bludgeoning you with said guitar, My CoCo is simply a dance number. It's a confession of love, it's a confession of wanting sex in the simplest way, and it makes your hips move independently of the rest of you. It's alright. The bassline does its job, your ass does its.

2) This makes me so excited I'm not sure how to handle it. I hope Bruce Campbell gets a decent role in it somewhere. Also the pictures confirm my thesis of Sam Raimi being the most adorable (if certainly not most attractive) director of all time.


3) I have a beef with vegans, perhaps pun intended. It's not that I'm against not eating meat. If anything I'm actually for it, if only because meat is easy to do wrong but vegetables aren't, and if meat here is cooked badly it'll end in sitting on a toilet launching a rocket out of your ass for three days but if vegetables are cooked badly it just doesn't taste good. Being vegan in my experience seems like a douchebag's way of acting like your older sibling: suffering so you don't have to suffer, playing the thankless martyr.

'No...it's ok, I'm vegan so I can't have ice cream or cake for dessert. I'll just eat something later it's fine.'

What really gets me is the meat-substitute market. Veggie burgers: socially acceptable. Vegan haggis: literally not possible (except it is?). There's vegan caviar too. These are just stupid. Veggie burgers replace a vital component of the human diet: crap from a grill that tastes like smoke. Vegan haggis replaces a foodstuff with an already Ado Annie-level of unnecessary with essentially solidified vegetable soup (note the ingredients and tell me that's not soup). Stupid stupid stupid.


-WaffleFries
And Burger


stellastarr* - Jenny

stellastarr* - My CoCo

Day One: the Hatred Begins or, an Introduction of Sorts

First things first:
I hate bloggers. I hate blogs and I hate bloggers, and were it not for the music I would probably never get near the internet again. That being said

I guess you're pretty good looking...for a blog.

Second things second:
I hate hipsters. I hate hipster clothing, I hate hipster people, I hate hipster dances at concerts that push me out of the way with their noncommittal arms but hyperactively overenthusiastic shoulders and knees. That being said, every damn thing I like some hipster has already gotten their little Urban Outfitters-clad paws all over. Nothing I can do about it but accept that as long as there is air in my body I will be a self-loathing hipster who dresses a helluva lot better.

I wasn't ever going to do this. This blog thing. After seventh grade I vowed to never start another blog type thing because Myspace is for paedophiles and Livejournal is for weirdies of the Avril Levigne designation that I don't ever want to think about again. I vowed to never step in another Hot Topic and dammit all of I'm not going to keep that one promise true*.

So here's what happened:
I'm with music the way normal people are with love interests; super duper passionate the first couple of months, waining tapering half hearted enthusiasm in the following months and or years, followed by only a vague acknowledgement after a while. The difference is a) mine makes me mentally more stable and b) mine can go in reverse. I can forget about a record and reacquaint myself with it years later and rekindle our passion and it'll be good--genuinely good, not make-up-sex-because-you-feel-guilty-good--for another year or so.

So I'm in round two of my relationship with Vampire Weekend...we're past the humping all the time stage and are at the point where I hum it on the quad, I think about it while I'm painting and I listen to it when I can but it's not new anymore, just very comfortable and pleasing to the mind and body. I'm cheating on VW a little bit with my newest reacquaintance Bon Iver (how many times did I say bonne eye-ver before a hipster corrected me? seven.) and stellastarr* but at the end of the day I come home to that loveable Upper West Side Soweto.

Anyway, I find Ezra Koenig's blog from his days at Columbia through a ridiculous series of events. It's eye opening: funny, well written, insightful. It's me, if I cared more, put in effort or tried. I decide that very moment (well, after having read virtually all of his back entries) that I too will write a funny, insightful blog of some capacity, for some other weirdie to uncover three years from now when I'm doing fuck knows what fuck knows where. So here goes.

I will post music that I love. I will suggest movies that have made me. I will bitch. I will rant. I will bleach my hair (some day).

Soon this:
Old songs that deserve a second chance at love
Movies that will change a life
Why hipsters are destroying America
The blogotheque phenomena and why it's alright
The chick-as-bassist phenomena and how it's always true and rarely good

-WaffleFries
The End

Ida Maria - Oh My God

*I wanted to point out that I was never actually an Avril Levigne mall goth. I was a punk rocker of the thrift store-LA circa 1977-Darby Crash sort of punk rocker, but Hot Topic had cheap band shirts and who was I to judge when sometimes I accidentally wore all black. Fuck them. My combat boots were actual combat boots, and my plaid was plaiddier than all of their plaids combined.