"You are now in the midst of a real MC"
I’ve been introducing myself to hoards of new people recently, and when the conversation inevitably broaches the subject of music, people often say, “you have fantastic taste, not to mention you’re brilliant and irresistibly handsome, you should write for a music blog.” Perhaps I embellished that conversation a tad, but only the part about my music taste, everything else was embellished a lot. Anyway, it’s always embarrassing to admit that while I already do write for a blog, I haven’t posted in months. Apparently ladies aren’t as impressed by lethargy as I had hoped. read more…
I was at a social function last night, and a formerly mustachioed friend came up to me to ask me what the hell was up with this blog of mine. My first reaction was, naturally, what the hell is up with that late great mustache of yours, but my second reaction was “what blog?”
They say you don’t know you’ve hit rock bottom until you can see China on the other side. Well, after leaving that social function, another friend made me watch a slideshow of his abroad pictures. Was it a sign? Almost certainly. Really contrived pithy aphorisms don’t grow on trees. At least, not where I’m from.
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Dude, this guy has the best guitar/O-face of all time.
Hi kids, I’m still alive. I’m in NYC with my good friend Edward Gottfried. Being in NYC grants me access to all kinds of fun and awesome things. Like seeing Cap’N'Jazz and Lightning Bolt and No Age for free. Or eating ungodly amounts of delicious burritos. Or being bothered on the street by a shivering gentleman who is holding his nose for fear of it falling off. Or not showering and having no one notice how bad I smell because the garbage behind me is emitting the foulest of foul odors (3 week old shrimp that’s been basting in an old canvas shoe resting in a literal river of shit). Or going to Siren fest.
Siren fest was fantastic. There was a nice mix of middle-to-mainstream bands playing decently long sets for the best price: nothing. Also, it was at Coney Island, so if the bands were dull, you had an ocean to play in or a freak show to watch. Man, what a great place. Suck it Pitchfork Fest. Although I did not make it there in time to catch one of my favorite new bands, Dom, I did get to see the likes of Ponytail, The Pains of Being Pure At Heart, Apache Beat, and Holy Fuck. But my favorite performance by far was Cymbals Eat Guitars. I was ecstatic the hear them open their set with the words “we’re going to play a few new songs” because I was honestly afraid of Cymbals Eat Guitars being a one-and-done band. For those who are unaware (all of you), I was a huge fan of CEG’s debut Why There Are Mountains. Although many called it overly-derivative, I preferred to think of it as a positive expression of postmodern pastiche. In a year filled with fairly excellent releases, Why There Are Mountains is one of the only albums that continues to get regular play 1.5 years later (for the record, Edward has expressed similar sentiments). A debut as strong as WTAM that received as much press as it did often results in lofty expectations from fans and critics a like. It can also influence an artist to develop in an unnatural way, either experimenting too much or lying too dormant to be a followup worthy of similar praise. Luckily, Cymbals’ new material sounds just as strong as their previous stuff, with no influence rising above the others to pull their music in an unnatural direction. The Pavement is still there, but so is The Modest Mouse, Guided By Voices, Explosions In The Sky, Tullycraft, Cap’N'Jazz, etc. All of their songs retain the baroque-strength of WTAM while adding an unexpected maturity in both song structure and song writing that is beyond the band’s average age (25). Below the jump you will find the videos of these as-of-now-untitled songs, in decent quality, for your viewing and critiquing pleasure. All the videos were taken by Jay “Shapster7″ Sharp, who apparently like, “Glam, wacky shit, and acoustic covers.” Thanks Jay.
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It would be embarrassing to admit how long I've waited to put this image on The Show.
Each of the few reviews I’ve read of Punch Brothers‘ sophomore effort (or 3rd record, depending on how you count, which I’ll discuss more later) Antifogmatic has had a serious portion of its body devoted to the explication on the title of the album given in the press release which accompanied it. At first, I was annoyed by the repetition, and then I realized that each review had missed the mark just a little with their interpretation. Luckily, here I am to offer mine. Is it all right if I say I think I hit the nail right on its head?
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I apologize, I couldn’t resist the brainless pun, but isn’t it better than “Goodbye Cruel World?” (Don’t ask why those are your only two options, my creativity knows bounds). In terms of an answer, it is most certainly the end of something (the exact title of front man Ramesh Srivastava’s announcement). For those of you still ignorant to the premise of this article, I’m referring to the disintegration of the once (blog) celebrated group, Voxtrot. Their incendiary rise and inevitable fall were not without their glorious moments though. The tremendous hype affixed to the group was not born out of thin air, but rather the quite justifiable excitement generated by their brief yet explosive debut EP’s. A mastery of lyrics, a self-aware yet superb vocal performance, perfectly harmonious guitar and bass lines, and brilliant percussion, are all prevailing features of their early releases. Mothers, Sisters, Daughters and Wives narrowly edges out Raised By Wolves EP for my favorite of their oeuvre, but both are incredible examples of everything there is to love about Voxtrot. read more…
such a nice boy.
As Young Money and Degrassi devotees alike are no doubt aware, thespian-cum-rhymist Drake released his freshman effort Thank Me Later a week ago. Critically, it was given an almost universal “okay,” with many reviews heralding it as the first real effort in the changed world of hip-hop coming about post 808s and Heartbreaks. This is going a little overboard. Drake is not going to change your life. He’s thankfully less of a sad-sack than his contemporary (and arguably the true follower of 808s) Kid Cudi, but the album has fewer gems than the 3 smashes on Man on the Moon. It’s a lethargic slog, sort of like 808s, but without the same innovative production that is Kanye’s bag. The lone stand-out is the track Kanye produced, “Over,” which benefits from a Lupe-inspired backing track that grabs you by the throat and pounds forward with alternating Love Lockdown drumline beat and orchestral sweeps. The others need some work.
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When I woke up in Manhattan the other day, my olfactory system booted into overdrive. What was that incredibly pleasantly unpleasant odor bombarding my senses? It was too tart to be old derelict, too sweet to be subway exhaust, and too offensive to be natural. Then it struck me: this smell was summer, or, as it’s more often referred to around these parts, “garbage cooking on the curbside.” A step onto the street confirmed my hypothesis, as a black trashbag had attained temperatures high enough to singe my leg hairs as I stepped out into traffic to hail a cab to take me back south where I belong (fare for the 15 hour trip was a surprisingly affordable 1454.70, and I think it was only that high because the cabbie tried to cheat me by taking 95 — every jackass who’s ever driven knows that 78’s the only way to get to Tennessee, Idris).
Rubbing my leg in pain on the ride, I had a revelation: this summer is going to be it. You know what I mean? We’re going to do it, guys. We’re going to do it! Like all of it. I’m actually going to go to the Purple Rain singalong (look out; “I would sooner die than watch a movie with Prince” isn’t going to be compelling enough to prevent me from dragging you this year), and I’m going to teach DFJacobs how to eat oysters. That’s all there is to a compelling summer, y’all.
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Quick Quiz: Press Play Dee Jays or Frat Boys Posing?
The Animal Show literally figuratively gets millions of emails a day. Beneath the countless love letters and autograph requests, further down still beneath the multitude of emails my mother sends Edward berating him for giving me a platform to reach the world, are the emails aspiring acts send along hoping for the famous “Animal Show bounce” (or a spot on hype machine, your call). And while some of it is crap (you can stop sending us your GarageBand demos, Kenny G), every so often something comes along that renews my faith in the efficacy of the internet. read more…
