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.)
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
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
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
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
Monday, September 14, 2009
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
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.
Sondre Lerche, 9/13 @ The Paradise, coming up in like six hours when my life isn't in shambles. Get pumped.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
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?
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?
Thursday, July 16, 2009
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.
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.
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