|Sunday, September 28th, 2008|
2:29a - My 5-Cent Review of the Built to Spill "Perfect From Now On" Shows in New York.
1) The Meat Puppets play better than I remembered.
2) The curly-haired skinny guy in the Meat Puppets is better-looking than I remembered.
3) Yes, it's possible (2) contributed to (1). Shoot me.
4) Dinosaur Jr. is still awesome and hearing them takes me right back to being spun in three dimensions during their set at Lolla whatever-number-they-played.
5) J now looks like a stoner's ghost, but plays as angelic as ever.
6) People like J and Bobby Pop make me less afraid, perhaps even UNafraid, of growing old.
7) Lou Barlow limited his stage patter, BOTH nights, to a couple lines of "Hey how ya doin? Thanks for coming out!" in marked contrast to a previous time I saw them and he wouldn't shaddap. Thanks for that, Lou. Keep up the good work and one day I might actually listen to Sebadoh.
8) Although Built to Spill are not really my thang, musicwise (translate: people sit through whole entire long records of this? really?), they do have some purty toons.
9) Doug Martsch looks kinda like __satori with a bendy note guitar.
10) I pretty much hate extended jams no matter who's doing them.
11) However, BtS's light show was aces and boosted my enjoyment level by approximately 30 percent.
12) BtS sure has some nerdly fans. I can see pogoing up and down to some fast song with a beat, but during some mellow song about "Movie Dreams" or such, having a guy in a baseball hat jump up and down for the whole song, or dance spastically while screaming "Woo!", is a tad offputting. Especially when they're screaming in your ear or pogoing in your vision line. Le sigh.
13) Best part of both nights was dancing to "Little Fury Things" and "The Wagon" on Thursday. I'm the original Little Fury Thing-Rabbit, and "The Wagon" is one of those songs that probably saved my life more than a few times.
There you are and here I stand,
Tryin' to make you feel my hand.
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1:27p - Field Trip to (Karaoke) Hell, or Hieronymus Bosch Was a Rapper.
Many coughcoughinteresting things have happened to me over the last 48 hours,one of which being I went to the latest incarnation of Uncle Bob's Traveling Salvation Show (pack up the babies and grab your old ladies and, you get the drift), where I decided to stay sober front row center and as a reward for my fine efforts was hi-fived by The Uncle and drunkenly/ lovingly mauled by The Dancingman, The Rev, and The Boh. Mr. Boh was Hammered to the point of becoming Ecstatically Hammorous and proceeded to seize me and kiss me numerous times straight on the mouth. I don't normally carry on like that at shows but given that Boh is a handsome young specimen of B'More manhood and also one of mah bros and this was All in Good Fun with no weirdness implied, uhh I'll cop to kinda diggin' it. Boh calmed down a lot after two large security guards tried to forcefully eject him for smoking indoors but were fortunately called off by the manager lady who I guess knew he was a friend of the band. (Plus, Bob and Tommy Keene started it by firing up some illegal butts onstage.) The Rev also yanked and messed my hair for about a half hour in between bearhugging and strangleholding me from behind till I almost fell over. Before the show started I also hugged the Decemberists' drummer who I had met before and who everyone else was hugging, but I mistook him for another bearded guy from Heedfest and asked him,"Refresh me on your name again," and he said "I'm John" and it took another two minutes for the light to go on in my icebox. WOOP WOOP INDIE RAWK FAIL.
Show was really good with many Everlasting Big Kicks. Boston Spaceships/ The High Strung, go see 'um.
The other tail I wanted to recount was wha'appened Fri nite after I survived the sold-out second show of Meat Pupz/ Dino/ BtS. I say "survived" because by the time that show ended, I'd had 4 hours of sleep, 3 Amtrak rides, 2 depos and Danny Partridge in a pear tree in my stomach for the last two days, and seriously just wanted to get to Les and Rob's place and crash bigtime. (In my fatigued and overloaded state I also failed to take the proper steps to hook up with Bamboo and the Flon and a couple other ppl, which doesn't make me happy.)
In checking my cell fone after, I found a msg from Les asking "how did I feel abt karaoke?" Given that I happen to hate karaoke even when awake and alert, in my exhausted state that question was sorta like asking "How do you feel about disembowelment?" I left her a voice message saying uh I'm very sorry but I REALLY Do Not Like Karaoke DO NOT WANT, only to get a text back from her saying her fone wasn't working and could I meet her and Rob in Room 11 of "Sing Sing" on Avenue A. So I had no choice but to hie my sleepy self into a cab and off to the aptly named "Sing Sing" at the other end of the island.
Upon my arrival at 2 am, I found this joint that looked like a regular karaoke bar up front, with drunk twentysomethings loudly murdering songs off a big screen, and then in the back there was some tall punk Asian dude checking people in and out of numbered rooms like an hourly rate bordello. In each of the rented rooms was a karaoke machine blaring accompaniment at earsplitting levels with drunk ppl (you can have beer sent in) attempting to sing along. Wandering the bright pink and green corridors in search of Room 11, I discovered that the mike setup projected each singer's voice out into the hall while keeping most of the soundtrack inside, so the resulting hall noise includes many disembodied off-key drunk voices badly warbling Britney Spears (or as Rob calls her "Spittinme Beers") and rap. It was like being trapped in the hall of an insane asylum or in a Bosch painting reinterpreted in neon pastels by Mark Ryden, and listening to the shrieks of the damned.
I finally found Room 11 in the basement, where Rob, Les and bwana aka Peter were boozily belting out "My Sweet Lord" (Lesley's having a big George Harrison phase). Les tried to get me to sing but on four hours of sleep with a sore throat and both ears shut (I need to see the doc, this infection isn't going away), I just couldn't, even if I could get past the creepy horror I feel abt karaoke generally. My friends have good voices and I don't mind listening to them sing if they were just singing in their loft or in a practice space or even a regular bar, but I didn't wanna be stuck in pink and green KARAOKE HELL at 2:30 am. I just wanted to be home in bed.
Fortunately after about an hour they called it a night and went to haggle with the desk guy over the bill while I fell asleep leaning against the wall to the dulcet tones of a gang of girls crucifying "I Think We're Alone Now" in the front bar. We then stumbled back to R and L's loft (five flights, no elevator) where I discovered I had got my period (oh joy) and collapsed on their showroom couch amidst a dozen mannequins with their doggies Boo and Prudence. The next day after getting some actual S-L-E-E-P, I felt much better and we all went for yummy vegetarian dim sum and onward to furthur advento0rs, but OH MI GWAD KARAOKE HELL! 'twas like a bad dream.
current mood: weird
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