Looking over my traffic info, I see that someone from Miami searched "nicole chambers sonic youth" on Yahoo search and found my blog. Following this path, I see that such a query brings 17 results, of which this blog accounts for 3.
Nicole is (maybe was) a friend I haven't spoken to in a few years; we met at a Sonic Youth concert and for a time wreaked Pop Tart havoc on the bands official forum. She's for all I know still in the Midwest, trudging in the noize, making tapes, and honing her creativity.
I definitely wouldn't mind hearing from her again, in whatever capacity.
Sonic Youth Nicole Chambers
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
A Fifth Day of the Factory: The Music of Shonen Knife
Whenever a Shonen Knife post appears on this blog, it's like a fresh batch of lemon cookies in Antarctica. That's not me tooting my own writerly horn, that's just the natural conclusion I've come to.
The first such post was a review (and upload) of the Knife's legendarily scarce Minna Tanoshiku cassette, followed months later by a live review. Most ambitious of all was "Four Days of the Factory", both a career overview and discography review. Every one of these offerings brought grateful comments and emails from Knife Collectors worldwide; the Minna post even earned a Wikipedia link that continues to pay dividends in daily traffic.
Two fans were nice enough to send me rare Shonen tunes in return. First, I received a fantastic compilation disc featuring some hard-to-get covers, singles, and soundtrack tunes. A month and a half later, the post brought a gift that necessitated I take the work suit out of mothballs and tally-ho my ass back to the factory for another day: Shonen Knife's latest album.
Fun! Fun! Fun! (July 2007, Blues Interactions Japan)
The first such post was a review (and upload) of the Knife's legendarily scarce Minna Tanoshiku cassette, followed months later by a live review. Most ambitious of all was "Four Days of the Factory", both a career overview and discography review. Every one of these offerings brought grateful comments and emails from Knife Collectors worldwide; the Minna post even earned a Wikipedia link that continues to pay dividends in daily traffic.
Two fans were nice enough to send me rare Shonen tunes in return. First, I received a fantastic compilation disc featuring some hard-to-get covers, singles, and soundtrack tunes. A month and a half later, the post brought a gift that necessitated I take the work suit out of mothballs and tally-ho my ass back to the factory for another day: Shonen Knife's latest album.
Fun! Fun! Fun! (July 2007, Blues Interactions Japan)
- 重力無重力
- Barnacle（ふじつぼ）
- Flu（インフルエンザ）
- Ramones Forever
- Las Vegas
- Birthday
- ポップコーン(Popcorn)
- クッキーたべたい (I want to eat cake!)
- みなみのしま (Everyone's island)
- おやすみ(Goodnight)
The album cover reminds me of the hysterical Japanese variety show Downtown no Gaki no Tsukai ya Arahende!!, which for over a decade has provided seemingly endless proof that we as Americans really settle for a safe sort of comedy, bowdlerized by politically correct finger-wagging and the rampant litigiousness of the easily aggrieved. Getting teabagged by young boys is but the least of it, friends. Come to think, why haven't the girls covered this song yet? Tomato Head needs to get them going on that, pronto.
"重力無重力"--Translation, anyone? No English words pop up on the lyrics sheet scanned for me in the package (thank you!). Whatever the subject, this first song is frizzled and frazzled punkish pop, a hearty bite of funnel cake post-Tilt-a-Whirl.
"Barnacle"--Hearkens right back to the Burning Farm days with a simple tale about an animal. Here, Naoko animates the titular crustacean with a sincere hope that it will somehow grow beyond just a free ride on a crab. However, "it couldn't escape from its fate" and ended up in the trash along with the crab post-grub. "Its hope didn't turn into reality." It's a metaphor, right? Sure. A metaphor for people who over-allegorize song lyrics.
"Flu"--Having heard this live, I knew this would be a barnstormer on record. It's in the classic vein of "Shonen Knife goes metal, bananas" tracks such as "Antonio Baka Guy", "Buddhas Face" and "Mosquitoes" but the new facts of Knife Life impact the formula profoundly. Only Naoko remains from the original lineup, with new Knife Etsuko upon the throne. In addition to youth and heart-skipping cuteness, she brings loose feet and hands to the party, providing a beat that skips with chin aloft under Naoko's infectious barrage.
"Ramones Forever"--This feels like a culmination for Shonen Knife. The Ramones provided such obvious inspiration to three unassuming girls from Osaka that just their continued existence seems like a sublime tribute; their undying devotion to making music that sets off a rainbow display of fireworks inside the hearts and minds of all who open up to it seems an unfuckwithable answer to the question, "Where the Ramones really that important?"
"I'll never forget/They are the best." That's all Eddie Vedder needed to say.
"Las Vegas"--A dichotomy for sure. Can you imagine li'l ol' Shonen Knife enjoying themselves in the Land That Decency Forgot? "Even if you say it's decadent/I don't mind 'cause it's fun." Slot machines are just shiny land-roaming bananafishes to Naoko.
"Birthday"--The Beatles song it is not. While having Naoko's daughter take a vocal turn here is "aww" and all, it's not a song that really grabs me.
"Popcorn"--There ain't a goddamn thing the matter with popcorn. The song or the food. It's just common sense. The key is expansion: too much heat too quickly leaves partially popped corn with hard centers; too little heat too slowly, it won't pop at all. Shonen Knife has a history of rich, heavy, full bags.
"I Want to Eat Cake!"--From the sound of it, a sludgy cake with the icing thick and sloppy. German Chocolate, perhaps? Best part is the sudden ascension into the soundtrack from some universe-spanning video game still stuck somewhere in the recesses of Shigeru Miyamoto's mind.
"Everyone's Island"--This is...OK. Average. Especially compared to the rejuvenated stuff that's come before. It's like playing Yar's Revenge immediately after Super Mario Galaxy.
"Goodnight"--A ballad with soft "little drummer girl" percussion and some delayed guitar work that sends precise, icy signals off the soul satellites. A gorgeous way to end it.
Verdict overall? Fun! Fun! Fun! is not a retread of what has come before, although it relies on the power of personality to merely stretch, bounce and in general frolic within firmly established boundaries and still make it sound like the best shit no music magazine or site puts on a year-end "Best Of" list because well jeez, doesn't that Arcade Fire record just scream innovative? Considering the magnificence of the Shonen template, diminishing this album on some sniveling charge of "no new ground broken here, move along folks" is either childish or brick-headed, take your pick.
There exists those listeners who demand progress of all musicians in all genres at all times. This is not only impossible--thus assuring plenty opportunity for indignation in print, on the Internet, and during songs you're trying to hear at a gig--but unfair. Unfair in the extremis to both artist and fan.
One of my favorite hip hop albums of the past several months is Ritual of Battle by Army of the Pharaohs. Like their equally fantastic debut, The Torture Papers, it consists of verses depicting typical genre braggadocio, almost-cartoonish violence, surprising references (from Lars Ulrich to Eddie Brock to Billy Dee Williams) and even some thoughtful wordplay. The beats are uniformly epic, be they driven by samples of furtive strings, Russian choirs, or filtered prog-rock. As a whole, it's hard to deny. Yet many have, decrying the "predictable" subject matter and "tired" production. Given more of same, they suddenly reject what previously they found irresistible. A listener that has moved on and wants more to take from music is one thing. But to expect (or even demand) concurrent growth in the artist is ridiculous. The creative impetus is too unique to set to a schedule. Accept or reject what it births, but to second-guess the very process is purest folly.
If you are a Shonen Knife wondering if you should pay the import price for this album, I ask: did you like Genki Shock? Heavy Songs? Yeah? Then put your money where your mouse is. I know I am.
Shonen Knife
"重力無重力"--Translation, anyone? No English words pop up on the lyrics sheet scanned for me in the package (thank you!). Whatever the subject, this first song is frizzled and frazzled punkish pop, a hearty bite of funnel cake post-Tilt-a-Whirl.
"Barnacle"--Hearkens right back to the Burning Farm days with a simple tale about an animal. Here, Naoko animates the titular crustacean with a sincere hope that it will somehow grow beyond just a free ride on a crab. However, "it couldn't escape from its fate" and ended up in the trash along with the crab post-grub. "Its hope didn't turn into reality." It's a metaphor, right? Sure. A metaphor for people who over-allegorize song lyrics.
"Flu"--Having heard this live, I knew this would be a barnstormer on record. It's in the classic vein of "Shonen Knife goes metal, bananas" tracks such as "Antonio Baka Guy", "Buddhas Face" and "Mosquitoes" but the new facts of Knife Life impact the formula profoundly. Only Naoko remains from the original lineup, with new Knife Etsuko upon the throne. In addition to youth and heart-skipping cuteness, she brings loose feet and hands to the party, providing a beat that skips with chin aloft under Naoko's infectious barrage.
"Ramones Forever"--This feels like a culmination for Shonen Knife. The Ramones provided such obvious inspiration to three unassuming girls from Osaka that just their continued existence seems like a sublime tribute; their undying devotion to making music that sets off a rainbow display of fireworks inside the hearts and minds of all who open up to it seems an unfuckwithable answer to the question, "Where the Ramones really that important?"
"I'll never forget/They are the best." That's all Eddie Vedder needed to say.
"Las Vegas"--A dichotomy for sure. Can you imagine li'l ol' Shonen Knife enjoying themselves in the Land That Decency Forgot? "Even if you say it's decadent/I don't mind 'cause it's fun." Slot machines are just shiny land-roaming bananafishes to Naoko.
"Birthday"--The Beatles song it is not. While having Naoko's daughter take a vocal turn here is "aww" and all, it's not a song that really grabs me.
"Popcorn"--There ain't a goddamn thing the matter with popcorn. The song or the food. It's just common sense. The key is expansion: too much heat too quickly leaves partially popped corn with hard centers; too little heat too slowly, it won't pop at all. Shonen Knife has a history of rich, heavy, full bags.
"I Want to Eat Cake!"--From the sound of it, a sludgy cake with the icing thick and sloppy. German Chocolate, perhaps? Best part is the sudden ascension into the soundtrack from some universe-spanning video game still stuck somewhere in the recesses of Shigeru Miyamoto's mind.
"Everyone's Island"--This is...OK. Average. Especially compared to the rejuvenated stuff that's come before. It's like playing Yar's Revenge immediately after Super Mario Galaxy.
"Goodnight"--A ballad with soft "little drummer girl" percussion and some delayed guitar work that sends precise, icy signals off the soul satellites. A gorgeous way to end it.
Verdict overall? Fun! Fun! Fun! is not a retread of what has come before, although it relies on the power of personality to merely stretch, bounce and in general frolic within firmly established boundaries and still make it sound like the best shit no music magazine or site puts on a year-end "Best Of" list because well jeez, doesn't that Arcade Fire record just scream innovative? Considering the magnificence of the Shonen template, diminishing this album on some sniveling charge of "no new ground broken here, move along folks" is either childish or brick-headed, take your pick.
There exists those listeners who demand progress of all musicians in all genres at all times. This is not only impossible--thus assuring plenty opportunity for indignation in print, on the Internet, and during songs you're trying to hear at a gig--but unfair. Unfair in the extremis to both artist and fan.
One of my favorite hip hop albums of the past several months is Ritual of Battle by Army of the Pharaohs. Like their equally fantastic debut, The Torture Papers, it consists of verses depicting typical genre braggadocio, almost-cartoonish violence, surprising references (from Lars Ulrich to Eddie Brock to Billy Dee Williams) and even some thoughtful wordplay. The beats are uniformly epic, be they driven by samples of furtive strings, Russian choirs, or filtered prog-rock. As a whole, it's hard to deny. Yet many have, decrying the "predictable" subject matter and "tired" production. Given more of same, they suddenly reject what previously they found irresistible. A listener that has moved on and wants more to take from music is one thing. But to expect (or even demand) concurrent growth in the artist is ridiculous. The creative impetus is too unique to set to a schedule. Accept or reject what it births, but to second-guess the very process is purest folly.
If you are a Shonen Knife wondering if you should pay the import price for this album, I ask: did you like Genki Shock? Heavy Songs? Yeah? Then put your money where your mouse is. I know I am.
Shonen Knife
Monday, January 14, 2008
Revisited: "Bouncing off the Satellites" by the B-52's
The B-52's are a band whose music transports me to specific childhood moments. I grew up the youngest of seven children, with all six siblings significantly older, so the house was a sonic jungle, vinyl and tapes scattered and stacked and shelved in various rooms, a multitude of genres represented.
It was Brenda who had the taste for the so-called "80s new wave": Talking Heads, Devo, The Cars, Oingo Boingo, The B-52's. For whatever reason, only the B's captured my pre-teen imagination. It had to be the songs; my visual reference points began and ended with the album covers (MTV wasn't touching them with a 10-foot-high bouffant wig at that time). This is why I still defend them as a great band. It would be easy to assume a young child would be instantly fascinated by a group with such a garish, inflammable image, all ridiculous hair and bright everything. But my sisters tapes were all I had.
(As I aged and my ears matured, I would rediscover and appreciate the other bands mentioned above; except for Oingo Boingo, fuck that trash.)
The tape I remember most vividly was Whammy!, their 1983 synth-dance experiment. It was an event for me, Brenda, and brother Doug to blast that on the third floor, the largest free-roaming space in the whole house. Seriously, we did pantomime routines to "Butterbean" and strained our ears against the boom box to make out every single word to the instant classic "Song For a Future Generation". My six-year-old mind found it so wild that a band would record what is basically each member reciting personal ads for the benefit of aliens on Jupiter. (That same six-year-old mind did not, however, pick up on how effeminate all three male members sounded. Oh, youth!)
It took another half-dozen years for the B-52's to crash into my mental runway once again. That was 1989, when "Love Shack" exploded onto the charts, fresh and unexpected, an ass-shaker and brain-puzzler (I shudder to imagine what the misinformation superhighway would have convinced people "Tin roof rusted!" meant, cf. "Superman dat hoe"). Like millions, I bought Cosmic Thing and replayed that heat till all the popsicles melted. The songs pulsed with rejuvenated spirits, absurd creatures, peace, love, green and heart.
Inspired, I bought all the older albums, including one I missed entirely the first time 'round--1986's Bouncing Off the Satellites. During the recording process, guitarist/visionary Ricky Wilson became ill and soon thereafter died. (It would take years before the world would learn that Wilson did not die of cancer, as was initially reported, but rather the still-misunderstood AIDS virus.) Practically under duress, the band finished the record and retreated. The album itself was released and widely panned by critics and ignored by consumers.
Twenty-one years on, Bouncing Off the Satellites deserves revisitation and reevaluation. The B-52's are set to release an overdue new album called Funplex in March. In the context of a band that both defies and defines odds, BOTS should be viewed no longer as some dour epitaph or unfortunate schizophrenic episode, but rather as...a record in a band's catalogue.
"Summer of Love"--The hit that shoulda been, and a sparkling example of the Fairlight done right. (To hear it done wrong, see the last three Devo albums.) The harmonies of Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson are uniformly fantastic, belting out some rather deceptive lyrics:
"I've been waiting for the man
Just buzzin' around...downtown
Waitin' for that very special
Comes in to see what I got
Orange popsicles and lemonade"
"Girl From Ipanema Goes To Greenland"--I always thought a song blessed with such a title should sonically resemble a spastic crackhead battle royale, but it stays in a spaced, spacey niche. Pointless, but fun.
"Housework"--A Kate solo vocal turn. Actually, the only other member credited on this song is Keith Strickland. Hmm. You don't get many Kate solo tracks. Cindy, sure; out the ass. A Cindy Wilson spotlight moment became a quick hallmark of the B-52's albums. Why Cindy and not Kate? This song helps explain why. Asinine and forgettable, the words and music evaporate from your head at a two-second clip. Far and away the nadir of the album.
"Detour Thru Your Mind"--Finally, at track four, we hear some Fred. Incredible; on the earlier albums, he's already crashed a party, spotted some pink air, done all sixteen dances, ran around, and gone down down doowwwn by this time.
He tries his best to make up for it here, a spoken word psychedelic sojourn that manages to rhyme "orange" and "large" and inject the best back-masked message on a record to date. Great guitar solo, too.
"Wig"--This is to BOTS what "Butterbean" was to Whammy! A song where they are clearly trying too hard to be the tackiest, wackiest band on Earth, yet somehow succeeding despite the slip showing.
"Theme For a Nude Beach"--Featuring all five members on vocals, a loose-limbed frolic around Beach Bowl Galaxy that keeps evoking sandbars in the lyrics. It succeeds at the attempted graceful sounds, but the B's of 1979 would have been far kookier with this, making it sound closer to a real nekkid party.
"Ain't It a Shame"--As out of place on this album as a Whole Foods Market in Hagerstown, Maryland. The entire song is one long, heavy sigh, from the lazy guitar swashes to the resigned harmonica to Cindy's syrup-y vox gone mournful and bitter as she serenades deadly apathy. (Even Keith and Ricky's backing vocals seem afraid to wake the neighbors.)
In a case of "real recognize real", Sinead O'Connor did a cover of this song for her She Who Dwells... album. I've yet to hear this version, but if ever a female singer could out-break Cindy's heart on this one....
"Communicate"--Jumps out like fire from an exposed manhole after "Ain't It a Shame". Fred pops back in to deliver an imitation of Paul Lynde as a (fill in the blank) instructor while the girls with kaleidoscope voices shimmy behind him. The most positive song on the album (don't hold it in!) is also the most tightly structured and effortlessly executed, with perfect pacing and dearth of tacky keys.
How does one resist a tune that spells out the title within the lyrics? One doesn't, so stop Googling for the answer. Just listen to it over and over until you enter such a state of giddy other-than you start making up your own chant. (My favorite variation pays homage to my favorite musculoskeletal disorder "C-O-S-T-O-C-H-O-N dritis".)
"Juicy Jungle"--A horn-y Fred solo number that foretold the group's interest in environmental issues. Great cause; annoyingly trite song. All that money spent in the studio recording this claptrap could have been donated to Greenpeace. That had to cross Fred's mind at one point.
"She Brakes For Rainbows"--(Hip hop crate digger alert: sampled by the Majesticons for their track "St. Tropez Party". ) Written by Keith and Ricky and given to Cindy so she could pull a heart of a fuzzy hat. Gorgeously arcing chorus. Tells the story of "Brenda Holiday", a woman who doesn't speak much but knows more. "She knows where the rain goes/She brakes/She brakes for rainbows". The last song on the last album with Ricky Wilson isn't supposed to suffuse the air with unbearable sorrow--we're supposed to admire this Brenda--but as the chorus fades into the clouds, it's difficult to not think of Ricky Wilson following right behind.
This album is not, by any stretch of the cosmic rubberband, up to the quality of the first two albums or Cosmic Thing; it is, however, a sight better than Whammy! (which coulda been the bestest EP of all time ever with judicious pruning in the studio) and Good Stuff (the title of which is such a damn lie I don't know where to start). It succeeds despite an over dependence on the Fairlight synthesizer and an undeniable disjointed vibe. (Session musicians are sprinkled liberally throughout, and Fred Schneider's sprechgesang is almost nonexistent.) Conventional wisdom paints BOTS as a dud. It is not.
B-52s
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Leave the Toy. Take the Burger.
Earlier this week, I discovered that Burger King was bagging Snoopy toys in their kids meals alongside the 380-calorie cheeseburgers. While this humble blogger shies away from consumption of the likes of the Whopper, I have within my family people who honestly don't give a shit. My mother, for instance, eats almost as an afterthought. Despite this absentmindedness (and a recent shift towards healthier meal preparation) she's always suffered high cholesterol and blood pressure. Whereas my father stuffed his gullet with fatty meats, sugar and starch and lived 72 years, felled only by the aftereffects of cancer treatment last October. Such headscratching circumstances long ago led my mother to proclaim, "I think people can resolve to take care of their bodies all they want, but not everyone has a body that wants to listen."
It was a typical Saturday spent shopping with my mom, then, except when I offered to buy her a Burger King kids meal. Naturally, she wondered aloud why the hell a 69-year-old woman would want a goddamn fast food meal for children.
"It means lunch for you", I explained, "and a Snoopy toy for me." As I have indoctrinated every last member of my immediate family into the Snoopy Collection Army Unit 21740-23, Being For the Benefit of JJ, she instantly understood the urgency of my request and duly committed to the consumption of some unpalatable gruel to make her youngest child happy. Truly, mothers sacrifice so much. Especially mine. This is why I love her. Except when I don't. Which is never.
This booklet was on the BK counter. I like the back, which among other things encourages children to act more canine. Hey, they're already eating slop.
And here's the toy. Flying Ace. Isn't it glorious?
I hope mom doesn't get sick of kids meals every Saturday. I'm getting all eight of those toys, damnit.
Burger King Peanuts Snoopy
It was a typical Saturday spent shopping with my mom, then, except when I offered to buy her a Burger King kids meal. Naturally, she wondered aloud why the hell a 69-year-old woman would want a goddamn fast food meal for children.
"It means lunch for you", I explained, "and a Snoopy toy for me." As I have indoctrinated every last member of my immediate family into the Snoopy Collection Army Unit 21740-23, Being For the Benefit of JJ, she instantly understood the urgency of my request and duly committed to the consumption of some unpalatable gruel to make her youngest child happy. Truly, mothers sacrifice so much. Especially mine. This is why I love her. Except when I don't. Which is never.
This booklet was on the BK counter. I like the back, which among other things encourages children to act more canine. Hey, they're already eating slop.
And here's the toy. Flying Ace. Isn't it glorious?
I hope mom doesn't get sick of kids meals every Saturday. I'm getting all eight of those toys, damnit.
Burger King Peanuts Snoopy
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Alexander Ovechkin Goes From Rich To Richard
(On his grown man shit...)
The Washington Capitals have wisely given star winger Alexander Ovechkin a contract that will enable him to drain the Russian rivers that drain into the Arctic Ocean and refill the divides with sweet sweet Stolichnaya (Planet Earth: The Dance of Drunken Polar Bears).
“Alex is the cornerstone of our franchise, and I fully believe that he will help us achieve our ultimate goal of being a Stanley Cup team,” chairman and majority owner Ted Leonsis said. “Like all Caps fans, I look forward to coming to Verizon Center or turning on the TV each night and seeing what he will do next, and I am sure we will continue to be amazed at what we see for years to come.”
The Washington Capitals have wisely given star winger Alexander Ovechkin a contract that will enable him to drain the Russian rivers that drain into the Arctic Ocean and refill the divides with sweet sweet Stolichnaya (Planet Earth: The Dance of Drunken Polar Bears).
“Alex is the cornerstone of our franchise, and I fully believe that he will help us achieve our ultimate goal of being a Stanley Cup team,” chairman and majority owner Ted Leonsis said. “Like all Caps fans, I look forward to coming to Verizon Center or turning on the TV each night and seeing what he will do next, and I am sure we will continue to be amazed at what we see for years to come.”
By "cornerstone", Mr. Leonsis of course means "only hope". Not that Ovechkin is their only outstanding player; Mike Green has turned into a wonderful surprise, Nicklas Backstrom is developing his playmaking skills, and even Michael Nylander remembers every once in awhile why he was so sought after last off season. Still on pace to have plus/minus that matches his age, though.
By committing to a superlative talent, the Capitals are proclaiming their desire to not merely be one of the 30 teams in the National Hockey League, but to be a contender. This should help the teams chances in picking up key free agents during the offseason, and keeping the players they already have and need.
Only one thing left now that the organization has thrown down the gauntlet: I want to see a renewed interest from the fanbase. No more of this being out numbered 3 to 1 by mental deficients in yellow and black at the Verizon Center. Start going out to games during the week. Fill the gap until next football season with hockey talk. Make it your mission to convince someone why Donald Brashear is tougher than Clinton Portis. Stop saying that believing the NHL has the best playoffs of any sport in the world is just your opinion.
NHL Washington Capitals Alexander Ovechkin
By committing to a superlative talent, the Capitals are proclaiming their desire to not merely be one of the 30 teams in the National Hockey League, but to be a contender. This should help the teams chances in picking up key free agents during the offseason, and keeping the players they already have and need.
Only one thing left now that the organization has thrown down the gauntlet: I want to see a renewed interest from the fanbase. No more of this being out numbered 3 to 1 by mental deficients in yellow and black at the Verizon Center. Start going out to games during the week. Fill the gap until next football season with hockey talk. Make it your mission to convince someone why Donald Brashear is tougher than Clinton Portis. Stop saying that believing the NHL has the best playoffs of any sport in the world is just your opinion.
NHL Washington Capitals Alexander Ovechkin
Saturday, January 5, 2008
A Weekend in Hagerstown
I'd be lying if I ever said Hagerstown was devoid of any worth. I'd also be stupid for believing such a statement and continuing to live in the city.
My way of treating myself in this life, of relieving stress, of indulging my whims is rather pedestrian on the surface. I read; I write; I listen to music. It's the substance of these hobbies that provides spice.
A 120-minute chunk of Saturday afternoon was spent at the Centre, AKA "where the Wal Mart is". First I had to buy the Norton Antivirus 2008 so my computer wouldn't catch bird flu and explode (I've had that happen before, to my much-missed laptop), then I departed for Borders, a frequent sanctuary. I made a tidy haul, although I have made much tidier in the past and hope to in the future.
Only two magazines for me in one trip is pretty meager--I often purchase upwards of five or six. The selection for the week ending January 6th was lackluster. No Spin, no XXL, but many copies of the recent issues of Harp and Paste. I did learn something new, though, from a man nearby scanning the racks with a friend. An average of 12 new magazines debut per week in America. By the time a year has elapsed from conception, an average of 1 are still printing. His source was a "friend in New York". Hey, beats Wikipedia. Still.
For me to drop the requisite 10 bucks on a Brit mag like Mojo takes some potent bait. Not even Wire measures up much these days. Throw in the atrocious cover subject--Amy Winehouse--and it's pretty obvious that this worm came wrapped around tiger shrimp.
It's the "best of" year-end issue, which means their top 5 albums looks like everyone else's in the music media: In Rainbows, Neon Bible, Magic, Favourite Worst Nightmare and Sound of Silver. (Well, four of them anyway; only the English really truly give a shit about Arctic Monkeys, like they're a last surviving male heir.)
Did the Arcade Fire album increase sales for the John Kennedy Toole novel? No? Well, off to the cellar with it, then.
Okay, so why in hell's name did I buy this bound-to-gag issue? The answer is contained within a section spread across several pages, "The Best Thing I've Heard All Year", wherein Mojo-anointed luminaries give brief blurb in boost to the music that made them giddy. It's an amusing insight into whom the English press finds "relevant" to their readership--Arctic Monkeys, Kings of Leon, James Taylor, Johnny effing Marr, the somehow-alive Shaun Ryder, Kim Gordon. Wait...the Kim Gordon, Sonic Youth-er supreme, the greatest woman on Earth not named Virginia? Mojo actually cares what this visionary artist thinks? Set my phaser to stunned. Seriously, Polly Jean Harvey couldn't be reached in time?
"Can I say Thurston's record? No? Okay, I also really loved Charalambides' Likeness." Aw, I love me some Kim G.
As for SI, well...nice pictures. Couple good articles, proving that they can do in-depth writing far better than ESPN Magazine anyday. I wish they'd get rid of Peter King, though, so readers can be spared his hack-style of writing and he can marry Brett Favre without hearing protests of "conflict of interest".
The two books pictured are Notorious C.O.P. by Derrick Parker and Love is a Mixtape by Rob Sheffield. I was able to finish both over the weekend, a testament to both my speed-reading abilities and the easily-digestible styles of both authors.
Parker's tome is a fascinating look at the career of the former detective who spearheaded the NYPD's so-called "Hip Hop Police", keeping tabs on the sordid past and present of numerous rap stars. The bulk of the text examines the infamous trio of murders that stain the genre to this day: Tupac Shakur in 1996, Notorious B.I.G. in 1997, and Jam Master Jay in 2002. His prose is unglamorous even as he's describing the gaudy, greedy world of the hip hop superstar, much less the impoverished boroughs ravaged by crack cocaine in the 1980s. Using inside info and instinct, he confidently offers the names of triggermen in the Tupac and JMJ cases.
Love is a Mixtape is one I had to be sold on by Internet reviews. (Yeah, those actually work sometimes.) It's been out for months, and I originally wrote it off as some barely-necessary extension of Sheffield's Rolling Stone column. Turns out, it's a cleverly-constructed, heart-rending true story of love found, reveled in, and suddenly lost. The love shared between two people, for each other and for music, is the raison d'etre for this book. I knew the sad twist already even without spoiler-free reviews (I won't ruin it for you here), but in this thoughtful context, it now seems less unfortunate than actually unfair. Sheffield's writing vibrates on the page even when its dealing with the emotional dregs and lees of life.
(That said, I still haven't entirely forgiven dude for that review in Details where he gave Washing Machine a 4 out of 10. That had him on my Top 5 Shithead Critics list for a few years. I think he dropped off the very same year I renamed it the Brent DiCrescenzo Award for Outstanding Ineptitude in the Field of Music Journalism.)
Would it be me if I didn't buy something Peanuts?
Unbelievable; I bought the Peanuts Christmas Uno set a month ago after sleeping on the Great Pumpkin set. What do you know, Borders brought them back out, and I snatched one up.
Yes, I collect Snoopy items, but I am not so tight-assed about the whole thing that I worry about having every little thing I buy remain in its original packaging. If I buy Peanuts Uno, or Monopoly, or Hungry Hungry Hippos, I'm damn sure gonna open it up and have fun. What joy would I feel taking my Uno case and sticking it behind a glass case?
Best card? I'm partial to the Skip and 3 cards, especially the googly eyes on the latter.
Throw in the Redskins forgetting to control their own destiny (worst...cliche...ever) against the Seahawks, and this was a class weekend.
Peanuts Snoopy hip hop police Mojo Rob Sheffield Hagerstown
My way of treating myself in this life, of relieving stress, of indulging my whims is rather pedestrian on the surface. I read; I write; I listen to music. It's the substance of these hobbies that provides spice.
A 120-minute chunk of Saturday afternoon was spent at the Centre, AKA "where the Wal Mart is". First I had to buy the Norton Antivirus 2008 so my computer wouldn't catch bird flu and explode (I've had that happen before, to my much-missed laptop), then I departed for Borders, a frequent sanctuary. I made a tidy haul, although I have made much tidier in the past and hope to in the future.
Only two magazines for me in one trip is pretty meager--I often purchase upwards of five or six. The selection for the week ending January 6th was lackluster. No Spin, no XXL, but many copies of the recent issues of Harp and Paste. I did learn something new, though, from a man nearby scanning the racks with a friend. An average of 12 new magazines debut per week in America. By the time a year has elapsed from conception, an average of 1 are still printing. His source was a "friend in New York". Hey, beats Wikipedia. Still.
For me to drop the requisite 10 bucks on a Brit mag like Mojo takes some potent bait. Not even Wire measures up much these days. Throw in the atrocious cover subject--Amy Winehouse--and it's pretty obvious that this worm came wrapped around tiger shrimp.
It's the "best of" year-end issue, which means their top 5 albums looks like everyone else's in the music media: In Rainbows, Neon Bible, Magic, Favourite Worst Nightmare and Sound of Silver. (Well, four of them anyway; only the English really truly give a shit about Arctic Monkeys, like they're a last surviving male heir.)
Did the Arcade Fire album increase sales for the John Kennedy Toole novel? No? Well, off to the cellar with it, then.
Okay, so why in hell's name did I buy this bound-to-gag issue? The answer is contained within a section spread across several pages, "The Best Thing I've Heard All Year", wherein Mojo-anointed luminaries give brief blurb in boost to the music that made them giddy. It's an amusing insight into whom the English press finds "relevant" to their readership--Arctic Monkeys, Kings of Leon, James Taylor, Johnny effing Marr, the somehow-alive Shaun Ryder, Kim Gordon. Wait...the Kim Gordon, Sonic Youth-er supreme, the greatest woman on Earth not named Virginia? Mojo actually cares what this visionary artist thinks? Set my phaser to stunned. Seriously, Polly Jean Harvey couldn't be reached in time?
"Can I say Thurston's record? No? Okay, I also really loved Charalambides' Likeness." Aw, I love me some Kim G.
As for SI, well...nice pictures. Couple good articles, proving that they can do in-depth writing far better than ESPN Magazine anyday. I wish they'd get rid of Peter King, though, so readers can be spared his hack-style of writing and he can marry Brett Favre without hearing protests of "conflict of interest".
The two books pictured are Notorious C.O.P. by Derrick Parker and Love is a Mixtape by Rob Sheffield. I was able to finish both over the weekend, a testament to both my speed-reading abilities and the easily-digestible styles of both authors.
Parker's tome is a fascinating look at the career of the former detective who spearheaded the NYPD's so-called "Hip Hop Police", keeping tabs on the sordid past and present of numerous rap stars. The bulk of the text examines the infamous trio of murders that stain the genre to this day: Tupac Shakur in 1996, Notorious B.I.G. in 1997, and Jam Master Jay in 2002. His prose is unglamorous even as he's describing the gaudy, greedy world of the hip hop superstar, much less the impoverished boroughs ravaged by crack cocaine in the 1980s. Using inside info and instinct, he confidently offers the names of triggermen in the Tupac and JMJ cases.
Love is a Mixtape is one I had to be sold on by Internet reviews. (Yeah, those actually work sometimes.) It's been out for months, and I originally wrote it off as some barely-necessary extension of Sheffield's Rolling Stone column. Turns out, it's a cleverly-constructed, heart-rending true story of love found, reveled in, and suddenly lost. The love shared between two people, for each other and for music, is the raison d'etre for this book. I knew the sad twist already even without spoiler-free reviews (I won't ruin it for you here), but in this thoughtful context, it now seems less unfortunate than actually unfair. Sheffield's writing vibrates on the page even when its dealing with the emotional dregs and lees of life.
(That said, I still haven't entirely forgiven dude for that review in Details where he gave Washing Machine a 4 out of 10. That had him on my Top 5 Shithead Critics list for a few years. I think he dropped off the very same year I renamed it the Brent DiCrescenzo Award for Outstanding Ineptitude in the Field of Music Journalism.)
Would it be me if I didn't buy something Peanuts?
Unbelievable; I bought the Peanuts Christmas Uno set a month ago after sleeping on the Great Pumpkin set. What do you know, Borders brought them back out, and I snatched one up.
Yes, I collect Snoopy items, but I am not so tight-assed about the whole thing that I worry about having every little thing I buy remain in its original packaging. If I buy Peanuts Uno, or Monopoly, or Hungry Hungry Hippos, I'm damn sure gonna open it up and have fun. What joy would I feel taking my Uno case and sticking it behind a glass case?
Best card? I'm partial to the Skip and 3 cards, especially the googly eyes on the latter.
Throw in the Redskins forgetting to control their own destiny (worst...cliche...ever) against the Seahawks, and this was a class weekend.
Peanuts Snoopy hip hop police Mojo Rob Sheffield Hagerstown
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Patti Smith in DC, 12/28/07
On the way down to see Shonen Knife in DC, my stomach suffered an unfortunate turn of contents while Patti Smith's Easter blared from the car stereo. With the aftertaste still fresh in my mind a month later, I shared with Patrick my hunch that our ride down to see Patti Smith in DC should not be accompanied by a Shonen Knife record, lest peristalsis occur yet again. Perpetual bud nippers, we opted for The Hot Rock by Sleater Kinney.
It was a pissy rainy Friday when 'Trick's sleek black Honda left the driveway around 7:30 for the familiar trek to the 9:30 Club. Anyone who's read a few of my DC concert reviews knows that the path to any venue in our nation's capital as laid by the J & P Show runs down Georgia Avenue, and that the closer we get to our destination, the more urban the surrounding area becomes.
You might think that after innumerable times passing by illuminated, haphazardly decorated chunks of buildings, my passenger seat wistfulness would have ebbed into nothingness. Yet every time my eyes catch hold of a multi-tasking eatery, I smile in wonder. You know 'em--those overreaching establishments that offer up any combination of the following foods while almost never boasting any as a specialty: "seafood, soul food, Chinese, chicken, pizza, subs, burgers, wings". I adore these joints for their desire to be so much to many, sacrificing quality for quantity because they can.
Not like I'd ever eat at any of those places. Or would I?
And it was just as we passed the illustrious Wonder Chicken that I was struck. What if...I gathered a group of friends for a weekend in DC spent bouncing place to place, each of us tackling different food types and giving grades? (And no one would try the same food twice, i.e., if you had Chinese grub in one place, you couldn't have it anywhere else.) The end results would make a fun survey for the blog and gnarly greasy chow for the clog.
Yeah, on my way to see the grand poetess of punk and that is what's gripping my imagination.
----------------------------------------------------------------
The steady rain unearthed the 9:30 Club's scarcely-seen compassionate side. Right as Patrick and I exited the parking lot at the rear of the venue, we saw folks being granted early access via the "Back Bar" at the side of the club. So there we stood, in our non-B boy stance, umbrella-less, waiting. My brand new black jacket with the thick buttons was heavy enough to provide significant warmth but it increasingly made me feel like a boll weevil as I gazed around at all these petite broads in my mist. Eventually, the bar filled, and us sundry unluckies were ordered back to the club facade. The precipitation continued, and I found myself having to frequently remove my glasses and wipe them down.
"They should make windshield wipers for glasses."
"They did...do," Patrick said. "I've seen them."
"Yeah, but those are novelty right? I mean like wipers for prescription glasses."
"Ah, yes. Not yet."
The oldest crowd we have ever been a part of, that much was certain even before they let us in. There was a strong presence of people I don't hesitate to call "hippies", but not in the way a surface-satiated mass would identify the members of said group. These were "mental hippies".
One was in front of us yakking with some friends, and wouldn't hush whether you called his name or not. He saw Patti 30 years ago in Central Park! She was way drunk and wayer determined to methodically strum her guitar until every string snapped clean off. She succeeded!
His best story had to do with the 9:30, though. I missed how long ago it was, and the acts performing that night, but here's the gist.
He and some good friends were in the crowd, waiting around for the headlining act to take stage. Things were wine and candy till one of the guys had to head off to the toilet. He asked a pal to hold his beer. Fine; except this woman clutching the non-bubbly had forgotten her ID and thus did not have a hand stamp permitting her to enjoy alcohol in any way. She was swamped down upon by eerily vigilant security, who informed her that she had violated club policy and would have to vacate the briar patch posthaste. Her friends protested, and the subsequent stink was so foul that club management was summoned. Thankfully, a compromise was reached.
Just when we thought the story had served its purpose of revealing the inflexibility of the average rock club, dude delivered the punchline. The woman of the story, the one at threat of being kicked out because she dared hold a beer in a hand that lacked a stamp? She was 60 years old.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Front row was out of the question. I staked out a spot on the floor while Patrick sought relief. I stood off to the left, clocking no more than 30-40 peeps gathered 'round the front. No one very tall, either. I exhaled and reminded myself of Concert Rule 283. What's that?
283: If you decide to claim a spot on the floor--the most crammed and thus amorphous area of a typical club gig--do not definitively place yourself anywhere until you have subjected it to the following test: from wherever you are, imagine yourself six feet in front of, behind, and on either side of. Would any of these spots still be adequate by your standards? Would sight lines suffer? Would acoustics suffer? This is not a "what-if" scenario, friends; this is an inevitability. As people pour in and mull around, as they brusquely maneuver through the breathing forest before them, you will be relocated. Resolving to stand firm is unnecessary and fruitless, albeit still rather cute.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Patti Smith--aided and abetted by a whip lash band consisting of Lenny Kaye, Jay Dee Daugherty, Tony Shanahan and son Jackson--put on a show approaching 2 hours and 20 minutes in length, the longest I have ever seen for one performer.
The setlist was a mix of originals and covers (clearly Patti is still in the "redo" state o' mind evoked last April with the release of her all-remakes collection Twelve). It was Smith's own anthemic treats that most galvanized the gathered, songs like "Redondo Beach", "Because the Night"' and "People Have the Power" (last song of the eve, dotted with exhortations to use the vote), inspiring middle-aged concertgoers who knew better to scream themselves hoarse as they propelled their careworn bodies into the air.
For me, though, the covers stole the show. "Are You Experienced?" was exotically intoxicating, buoyed by fucking clarinet, of all instruments (not necessarily stoned...but classical); "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was slowed to a strut, an ideal platform for a woman aged 60 to take wrought lyrics penned by a grimey geek in his early twenties and loft them back up into the air with hoarse grace, seeing if they can float with all the added weight. As she is wont to do, Smith added her own spoken word, referencing tiger maulings at one point. I don't think that had anything to do with the recent San Francisco zoo tragedy, but it made me proud of the DC Zoo, for sure.
"White Rabbit" was hilarious, Patti waxing rapturous over a recent Italian production of Tristan and Isolde that included a recapping of the plot ("King Mark?") and a fuzzy yarnball wherein she approached the set after the play was done, partook of the prop potions and began eating the Jello-seeming setting. The director reproached her until he realized: "Oh--Patti Smiths!" After a few more minutes of devouring the planks, she noticed his head turn white and fuzzy, with long ears hanging down the side and, well--"Aren't you late?" Then straight into the song, Patti and crowd exhorting "Feed your head!" until one imagines even Ian MacKaye was converted. (Yes, he was there.)
The only cover that didn't surpass the source material was "Perfect Day". Don't mistake me, it was wonderful in the way you would expect one poet laureate covering another would be. But it came up short due to two factors, the first being the utter sublimity of Lou Reed's original, and the second being Smith's admittedly amusing inability to remember some of the lyrics ("It's such a perfect day/This is the part of the song where I can never remember the words/So I always make something up/Isn't it fun").
Not only was the whole band in near-peak form, Patti's stage banter was a veritable clinic in audience engagement. Not like she had to win anyone over, but she was clearly thrilled to be in DC, making her a rare bird indeed. When she wasn't dissing Romper Room or detailing her flirtations with Tom Verlaine ("'Why don't we go to the bathroom and poop in the toilet at the same time?' That's how I got him"), she was owning some super-tall redheaded shoulda-been-a-stepchild near us who kept yelling what he thought was witty stuff in between songs. He finally stopped over his "oh-isn't-that delightfully-funny!" exhortations to "play something with some heart!" first caused Patti to wonder if he was yelling about a "hard on" and then ended with her making fun of him. "Har har har! I can't understand this guy." Humbled, he moved from in front of me, and scurried to some other remote area of the venue, where, hopefully, he was able to enjoy the show now that he could not successfully interject himself into it.
Lenny Kaye got a solo turn with "Pushin' Too Hard", under the pretext of Patti going to the bathroom. Upon her return, she admitted that she actually used the time out to "check out boys".
"I'm lookin' for a man. I need someone to build me bookcases." Which is probably the hardest I've ever laughed at a concert. Wonder why they call you Goddess!
Mostly the people around me were all right, even the 40-ish dude in the backwards white Navy ball cap who kept guzzling beer after beer, and responding to every high energy song by loudly asking his wife and daughter (?) if they were "feeling it". I was feeling it for awhile, certainly. "It" being the desire to grab one of them in the Von Erich claw, push them up against the speaker stack and increase the pressure till all the blood vessels in their head popped and they started shrieking like a Redead.
Midway through the set I was briefly joined to my left (and in front of Patrick) by a couple that looked about our age. The dude looked perfectly Pitchfork with his short cut and glasses, while his girlfriend had even shorter hair and wobbled back and forth with a red cup. They only stayed around for one song, during which time the drunk bitch decided to talk to the older woman and her daughter in front of us. "My mom died yesterday", she slurred, met with a response of clinking cups in sympathy and the words of semi-concern that only a complete fucking stranger you just met at a concert can muster. I was fortunate, I suppose, that no one caught my smirk. Your mom died, big fuck deal. My dad died this year, too, day before my birthday in fact. Who gives a shit. It's a goddamn concert I paid for, not your life story.
Some of the crowd reaction was good. I loved the girl in the way back who yelled "Eat my pussy!" But some of them were trying too hard, slightest provocation and they're off: "We're not Republicans!" Or, "It's not all about the money!" Which, you could put those two statements together and they'd fit, huh? Heh.
Throughout the night, Patti apologized for her "rough" voice, which was hilarious for a couple reasons. First off, she has never been known for dulcet vocals, and second, she did a shocking, heckler-proof version of "O Holy Night", probably the Christmas song that proves once and for all if a singer has chops or not. Does Patti have chops, then? Straight barbecued pork! As weird as it may have sounded for the woman who wrote "Jesus died for somebodys sins/But not mine" crooning an ode to the birth of the babe Christ, it was also captivating and even comforting. No fear guides this woman. None whatsoever.
Somehow, the guy with the Navy cap and his wife slow-dancing and lipsynching in front of me throughout certified those minutes as perfect. I'll never forget it.
Patti Smith 9:30 Club
It was a pissy rainy Friday when 'Trick's sleek black Honda left the driveway around 7:30 for the familiar trek to the 9:30 Club. Anyone who's read a few of my DC concert reviews knows that the path to any venue in our nation's capital as laid by the J & P Show runs down Georgia Avenue, and that the closer we get to our destination, the more urban the surrounding area becomes.
You might think that after innumerable times passing by illuminated, haphazardly decorated chunks of buildings, my passenger seat wistfulness would have ebbed into nothingness. Yet every time my eyes catch hold of a multi-tasking eatery, I smile in wonder. You know 'em--those overreaching establishments that offer up any combination of the following foods while almost never boasting any as a specialty: "seafood, soul food, Chinese, chicken, pizza, subs, burgers, wings". I adore these joints for their desire to be so much to many, sacrificing quality for quantity because they can.
Not like I'd ever eat at any of those places. Or would I?
And it was just as we passed the illustrious Wonder Chicken that I was struck. What if...I gathered a group of friends for a weekend in DC spent bouncing place to place, each of us tackling different food types and giving grades? (And no one would try the same food twice, i.e., if you had Chinese grub in one place, you couldn't have it anywhere else.) The end results would make a fun survey for the blog and gnarly greasy chow for the clog.
Yeah, on my way to see the grand poetess of punk and that is what's gripping my imagination.
----------------------------------------------------------------
The steady rain unearthed the 9:30 Club's scarcely-seen compassionate side. Right as Patrick and I exited the parking lot at the rear of the venue, we saw folks being granted early access via the "Back Bar" at the side of the club. So there we stood, in our non-B boy stance, umbrella-less, waiting. My brand new black jacket with the thick buttons was heavy enough to provide significant warmth but it increasingly made me feel like a boll weevil as I gazed around at all these petite broads in my mist. Eventually, the bar filled, and us sundry unluckies were ordered back to the club facade. The precipitation continued, and I found myself having to frequently remove my glasses and wipe them down.
"They should make windshield wipers for glasses."
"They did...do," Patrick said. "I've seen them."
"Yeah, but those are novelty right? I mean like wipers for prescription glasses."
"Ah, yes. Not yet."
The oldest crowd we have ever been a part of, that much was certain even before they let us in. There was a strong presence of people I don't hesitate to call "hippies", but not in the way a surface-satiated mass would identify the members of said group. These were "mental hippies".
One was in front of us yakking with some friends, and wouldn't hush whether you called his name or not. He saw Patti 30 years ago in Central Park! She was way drunk and wayer determined to methodically strum her guitar until every string snapped clean off. She succeeded!
His best story had to do with the 9:30, though. I missed how long ago it was, and the acts performing that night, but here's the gist.
He and some good friends were in the crowd, waiting around for the headlining act to take stage. Things were wine and candy till one of the guys had to head off to the toilet. He asked a pal to hold his beer. Fine; except this woman clutching the non-bubbly had forgotten her ID and thus did not have a hand stamp permitting her to enjoy alcohol in any way. She was swamped down upon by eerily vigilant security, who informed her that she had violated club policy and would have to vacate the briar patch posthaste. Her friends protested, and the subsequent stink was so foul that club management was summoned. Thankfully, a compromise was reached.
Just when we thought the story had served its purpose of revealing the inflexibility of the average rock club, dude delivered the punchline. The woman of the story, the one at threat of being kicked out because she dared hold a beer in a hand that lacked a stamp? She was 60 years old.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Front row was out of the question. I staked out a spot on the floor while Patrick sought relief. I stood off to the left, clocking no more than 30-40 peeps gathered 'round the front. No one very tall, either. I exhaled and reminded myself of Concert Rule 283. What's that?
283: If you decide to claim a spot on the floor--the most crammed and thus amorphous area of a typical club gig--do not definitively place yourself anywhere until you have subjected it to the following test: from wherever you are, imagine yourself six feet in front of, behind, and on either side of. Would any of these spots still be adequate by your standards? Would sight lines suffer? Would acoustics suffer? This is not a "what-if" scenario, friends; this is an inevitability. As people pour in and mull around, as they brusquely maneuver through the breathing forest before them, you will be relocated. Resolving to stand firm is unnecessary and fruitless, albeit still rather cute.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Patti Smith--aided and abetted by a whip lash band consisting of Lenny Kaye, Jay Dee Daugherty, Tony Shanahan and son Jackson--put on a show approaching 2 hours and 20 minutes in length, the longest I have ever seen for one performer.
The setlist was a mix of originals and covers (clearly Patti is still in the "redo" state o' mind evoked last April with the release of her all-remakes collection Twelve). It was Smith's own anthemic treats that most galvanized the gathered, songs like "Redondo Beach", "Because the Night"' and "People Have the Power" (last song of the eve, dotted with exhortations to use the vote), inspiring middle-aged concertgoers who knew better to scream themselves hoarse as they propelled their careworn bodies into the air.
For me, though, the covers stole the show. "Are You Experienced?" was exotically intoxicating, buoyed by fucking clarinet, of all instruments (not necessarily stoned...but classical); "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was slowed to a strut, an ideal platform for a woman aged 60 to take wrought lyrics penned by a grimey geek in his early twenties and loft them back up into the air with hoarse grace, seeing if they can float with all the added weight. As she is wont to do, Smith added her own spoken word, referencing tiger maulings at one point. I don't think that had anything to do with the recent San Francisco zoo tragedy, but it made me proud of the DC Zoo, for sure.
"White Rabbit" was hilarious, Patti waxing rapturous over a recent Italian production of Tristan and Isolde that included a recapping of the plot ("King Mark?") and a fuzzy yarnball wherein she approached the set after the play was done, partook of the prop potions and began eating the Jello-seeming setting. The director reproached her until he realized: "Oh--Patti Smiths!" After a few more minutes of devouring the planks, she noticed his head turn white and fuzzy, with long ears hanging down the side and, well--"Aren't you late?" Then straight into the song, Patti and crowd exhorting "Feed your head!" until one imagines even Ian MacKaye was converted. (Yes, he was there.)
The only cover that didn't surpass the source material was "Perfect Day". Don't mistake me, it was wonderful in the way you would expect one poet laureate covering another would be. But it came up short due to two factors, the first being the utter sublimity of Lou Reed's original, and the second being Smith's admittedly amusing inability to remember some of the lyrics ("It's such a perfect day/This is the part of the song where I can never remember the words/So I always make something up/Isn't it fun").
Not only was the whole band in near-peak form, Patti's stage banter was a veritable clinic in audience engagement. Not like she had to win anyone over, but she was clearly thrilled to be in DC, making her a rare bird indeed. When she wasn't dissing Romper Room or detailing her flirtations with Tom Verlaine ("'Why don't we go to the bathroom and poop in the toilet at the same time?' That's how I got him"), she was owning some super-tall redheaded shoulda-been-a-stepchild near us who kept yelling what he thought was witty stuff in between songs. He finally stopped over his "oh-isn't-that delightfully-funny!" exhortations to "play something with some heart!" first caused Patti to wonder if he was yelling about a "hard on" and then ended with her making fun of him. "Har har har! I can't understand this guy." Humbled, he moved from in front of me, and scurried to some other remote area of the venue, where, hopefully, he was able to enjoy the show now that he could not successfully interject himself into it.
Lenny Kaye got a solo turn with "Pushin' Too Hard", under the pretext of Patti going to the bathroom. Upon her return, she admitted that she actually used the time out to "check out boys".
"I'm lookin' for a man. I need someone to build me bookcases." Which is probably the hardest I've ever laughed at a concert. Wonder why they call you Goddess!
Mostly the people around me were all right, even the 40-ish dude in the backwards white Navy ball cap who kept guzzling beer after beer, and responding to every high energy song by loudly asking his wife and daughter (?) if they were "feeling it". I was feeling it for awhile, certainly. "It" being the desire to grab one of them in the Von Erich claw, push them up against the speaker stack and increase the pressure till all the blood vessels in their head popped and they started shrieking like a Redead.
Midway through the set I was briefly joined to my left (and in front of Patrick) by a couple that looked about our age. The dude looked perfectly Pitchfork with his short cut and glasses, while his girlfriend had even shorter hair and wobbled back and forth with a red cup. They only stayed around for one song, during which time the drunk bitch decided to talk to the older woman and her daughter in front of us. "My mom died yesterday", she slurred, met with a response of clinking cups in sympathy and the words of semi-concern that only a complete fucking stranger you just met at a concert can muster. I was fortunate, I suppose, that no one caught my smirk. Your mom died, big fuck deal. My dad died this year, too, day before my birthday in fact. Who gives a shit. It's a goddamn concert I paid for, not your life story.
Some of the crowd reaction was good. I loved the girl in the way back who yelled "Eat my pussy!" But some of them were trying too hard, slightest provocation and they're off: "We're not Republicans!" Or, "It's not all about the money!" Which, you could put those two statements together and they'd fit, huh? Heh.
Throughout the night, Patti apologized for her "rough" voice, which was hilarious for a couple reasons. First off, she has never been known for dulcet vocals, and second, she did a shocking, heckler-proof version of "O Holy Night", probably the Christmas song that proves once and for all if a singer has chops or not. Does Patti have chops, then? Straight barbecued pork! As weird as it may have sounded for the woman who wrote "Jesus died for somebodys sins/But not mine" crooning an ode to the birth of the babe Christ, it was also captivating and even comforting. No fear guides this woman. None whatsoever.
Somehow, the guy with the Navy cap and his wife slow-dancing and lipsynching in front of me throughout certified those minutes as perfect. I'll never forget it.
Patti Smith 9:30 Club
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