The Secret Machines rock an LSD sound system in 3-D

November 18, 2008 at the Music Hall of Williamsburg
photo credit:
Elizabeth Payne

If there’s anything The Secret Machines learned while on tour with U2, it’s that 3-D is still very, very cool. Bono and company may have revived the ‘80s trend with a larger than life three-dimensional IMAX production, but last night in Brooklyn at the Music Hall of Williamsburg, the Secret Machines housed a similarly prismatic effect — in the flesh. 3-D glasses were passed out to concert-goers, just moments before the outer-space rockers took the stage. Even the most elite of hipsters couldn’t resist, donning the stellar geekwear with pride.

The effects of three dimensional visuals could be detected before the heavy rainbow strobes even began. Strips of white rubber latex draped like a three-sided canopy overtop the trio’s set, allowed every color to transmit from the light spectrum in its true and vibrant form like a real-life refracting prism. The Secret Machines are known best for their brooding krautrock performances, massive Floydian crescendo and most recently as pioneers of the social networking bandwagon. The psychedelic mavericks have taken their progressive nature a step further, finding themselves in rainbows, with a new guitar player in tow. Without necessarily encouraging experimental drug use, TSM share their discoveries of what’s behind those locked doors by providing fans with a set of kaleidoscope eyes. A photographer’s flash only enhanced the vivid trip.

Three songs into the set, the rose-colored glasses came off. “You’re Gone”, a haunting ballad from their latest self-titled release, demonstrated front man Brandon Curtis’ vocal maturation, as he pounded away at the keys. “The Walls Are Starting to Crack”, another new track spanning just over ten minutes, mesmerized the crowd with the hypnotic wails of Phil Karnats’ guitar. “Atomic Heels” the anticipated first single with an equally spellbinding video set to accompany, revitalized the still-for-a-moment energy with power-stomp drum and bass. The unreleased masterpiece “Dreaming of Dreaming” was a spiritualized flow of heavy-on-the-kickdrums, characteristic of drummer Josh Garza’s typical beat.

Much like the Oct. 18th Webster Hall gig that kicked off the current North American tour, the set list was heavy on their latest and oldest material. While the machines may have had a few screws loose during their own opener as Karnats struggled to keep his guitar in check, their overall performance remained electro-charged through the encore, “Nowhere Again” as they bade Brooklyn psychedelia farewell, finishing the tour in their own ‘hood.

Aside from the hit single “Lightning Blue Eyes”, and the melodrama of “Alone, Jealous, and Stoned” not much else was played from sophomore album, Ten Silver Drops. Also missing that night were fellow prog-rockers TK Webb, who opened for TSM the first leg of the tour. Joining the band in the ‘burg to wrap up the jaunt were TV on the Radio’s current project, Dragons of Zynth. Although DOZ were slightly DOA, the mood was elevated when the lead singer jumped into the pit of five or six bystanders, knocking a beer out of one lucky winner’s hand. The Bloc Party on Acid uber-hip quartet surely has a promising future as a TVOTR cover band, if all else fails.

The Decemberists Salute the President-Elect and Barack ‘n Roll in NYC

November 5, 2008, at Terminal 5

The post-election party continued at Terminal 5 in Manhattan’s Upper West Side Wednesday eve, when The Decemberists brought a life-size cardboard cutout of President-Elect Barack Obama onstage. Plenty of “Yes We Can”, followed by countless “Yes We Did” sums up the strong sentiment of the politically charged performance. The Decemberists may have jumped on the Obama victory bandwagon to enhance the energy of the show, but this was hardly a first for the progressive indie rockers. The band played at an Obama rally for the Senator and a crowd of nearly 75,000 on their own Portland soil in May of this past year.

Rifling through plenty of old material, namely 2003’s Her Majesty and 2005’s Picaresque (Kill Rock Stars), Colin Meloy and company paraded themselves as fantasmical storytellers, characteristic of their whimsical and quirky nature. “We Both Go Down Together” known as the tale of a drunken suicide, was played in an uber toned down flat acoustic, sounding more R.E.M. than Arcade Fire. The band’s classic showmanship suggests a post high school theater-nerd bond -- their dramatic sea chanteys and Irish jigs would under normal circumstance fare better with Broadway-goers and those who typically dabble in the arts. Regardless of whiny tones and nonsense lyrics, the Decemberists did far more than entertain the sold-out show, with Mr. Obama’s replica as their sixth bandmate.

“Ever see anyone play a guitar solo with a peacock feather?” Meloy asked, “well there’s a first time for everything, so stand back!” Keeping the feather mostly intact, Meloy shredded his guitar with feather during a tribute to Governor Sarah Palin,… you betcha! After dropping to the stage and playing dead, the feather found its way to the nuts of Nick Query’s bass neck, before assuming its final resting position behind Mr. Obama’s head for the remainder of the set. Pausing for a sip of red wine, Maloy learned that near everyone in the audience was celebrating their birthday that night, before borrowing a pink cell phone from another lucky patron to make a call while he delved into another tune. Comic relief and banter continued with accordion/keyboardist Jenny Conlee about the smell of a possible electrical fire. Perhaps it was all just a part of the act.

Masterpiece theatre continued with the new single, “Valerie Plame” a Beatles-y “Hey Jude” type ballad about the infamous C.I.A. undercover operative scandal. The track is set to release on their upcoming, Always a Bridesmaid (Capitol), a first time release for the band on a major label. Back and forth like ocean waves, a cover of The Velvet Underground’s “I’m Sticking With You” elated mood while the woeful tale “The Engine Driver” sank into somber aesthetic. “Ohhh, you like the abuse!” Meloy joked as he elevated the atmosphere once more with multi-instrumentalist Chris Funk—the two engaged in a behind-the-head guitar solo challenge. Meloy earned extra points for balancing his acoustic atop of his head.

“The Mariner’s Revenge” marked the sound-off to the encore, as the entire band marched side-by-side for the fictional number about living inside the belly of a whale. At the show’s finale, the crowd was urged to partake in the sing-along, “Sons and Daughters”. The masses joined together with the band, most swaying back and forth and linking arms. Over and over they sang in proud and patriotic declaration -- “Hear all the bombs fade away…”

*****

SVIIB

School of Seven Bells
Alpinisims
Ghostly International
10.28.08
****
Brooklyn psychedelia has fostered a new class of alchemists. School of Seven Bells, fronted by harmonious twin sister vocalists Alejandra and Claudia Deheza (On!Air!Library!), flourished upon departure of guitarist Ben Curtis from his former band of brothers, The Secret Machines. Conjuring up mysticism, SVIIB employs their debut, Alpinisms (Ghostly International) urging those who cannot see what they see to wear “designer rose-colored glasses”.

“How does someone with nothing end/ up with so much to show for it?” The disco-laden “Connjur” is backed by Curtis’ electro avant-garde licks, reminiscent of the former sibling alliance. Rest assured, however, SVIIB are not TSM. The Bells are futuristic laptop magic meets monastical choir chant. The Machines are heavily brooding and progressive. Both bands fared well by the amicable split to opposite sides of the psychedelic spectrum — light versus dark.

SVIIB generates transcending white light through cosmic sound, awakening the mind’s third eye with airy timbre and warming the soul through looping rhythm. “White Elephant Coat” conveys their surreal musical vision, as sisters Deheza endow mesmerizing accompaniment to a prowling Blonde Redhead bass line. Strapped in by sleigh bells, Claudia creates tribal percussion with maracas and tambourine while Alejandra bestows snakecharming keyboard hooks. The Deheza’s layered neo-Celtic mantra is evocative and ghostly. Echoing chords from Curtis offer a meditative mood and higher spiritual awareness. White elephants are good omens.

Good karma has kept these students ahead of the class. School of Seven Bells are “…undernodisguise”, divulging centered realist ideals and lateral thinking. “I am neither breather or speaker/ I am neither walker or sleeper/ I am neither sister, brother, son or daughter…” Influenced by the moment, these young, modern existentialists need not a school of thought. Alpinisms is a boycott of shallow hipster values and talentless electronic melody. Catchy Ladytron beats, angelic hymns and guitar wizardry make for an evolution of laptop smart-pop that has no doubt found its place in the future of music, knocking seven bells out of the BK psychedelic realm. Groovy.

"That's Kunt"

Justin Tranter of Semi Precious Weapons and DIY jewelry artist extraordinaire.

Magnetic since birth and ready for his close-up, a star was born in the suburbs of Chicago. “Kunt is my mother’s favorite word,” Justin Tranter said, clarifying the self-proclaimed catch phrase, “always has been since I was a babe.” I got up close and personal with the front man of new New York glam band, Semi Precious Weapons at Lucky 13 Saloon -- a skuzzy punk rock dive in Park Slope, Brooklyn — no doubt a fitting locale for the interview. Tranter loved me as much as he loves you (and himself) and reveals that “Magnetic Baby”, the single from the band’s debut album We Love You (Razor & Tie) is about more than just being fabulous. “If you’re a magnetic person you get all the benefits, both positive and negative.” And much like bitchin’ and phat, Tranter also found the good in kunt.

Between coordinating a taping of MTV series, Made, with an album set to drop Oct. 30, and an extensive tour in the works, how does the 28-year-old ever find the time to incorporate a jewelry business into the mix? “Its been pretty much an 18 hour a day job,” Tranter explained. The budding rock star has kept himself busy building a ton of hype for his bands’ debut, alongside a jewelry empire coined Fetty — a hybrid of ‘fucked-up’ and ‘pretty’. What’s unique about Tranter’s lucky charms, aside from being the perfect merch for his gigs and selling like hotcakes at Urban Outfitters and Hot Topic, is that he started this biz before he reached fame. Tranter has personally touched over a hundred thousand pieces in the last year alone, with a little help from his friends of course. “Too many celebrities and rock stars start putting their names on things after they get famous, just to make more money,” he said. “I’ve done it all myself”. Fetty and new line Fame paid for his record deal and even caught the eye of Kate Moss and accomplice, Princess Beatrice.

The high-end collection of diamond Braille bangles and pendants can be found at Barneys. The Princess waltzed into the 5th Ave shop in New York and asked for Fetty, as per the request of her supermodel friend. Tranter’s buzz also grabbed the attention of famed producer Tony Visconti (David Bowie and T. Rex) and publicist turned DJ, BP Fallon (Death of Disco Parties). The legends took the rocker and his band under their wing. Even Perez Hilton wants a piece of the Weapons — he’s asked them to join his upcoming CMJ music showcase.

More Velvet Goldmine than Hedgewig and the Angry Inch — the gender-bender boasts a high energy balls-to-the wall show and can carry a shrilling F-sharp soprano better than any other man. Yet even with heavy black eye-makeup and four-inch stillettos, he won’t identify as trans. Sure, Tranter digs on cock rock like AC/DC and Led Zeppelin, but as a kid of the ‘90s he can’t help but succomb to sultry lyrical gangsta rap like ‘Lil Kim. “The shit she says is so ridiculous,” he laughs, “like how she compares herself to 9/11 — she has such big balls!” FYI, Tranter’s also got a case of Rihanna-mania.

His friends call him “Precious”, and MySpace fans are already stopping him in the street. Plus, they love him in Canada. Watch out for this star-bangled bender and his dazzling chest of treasures. After all, everyone needs a little more love in their lives. “There’s no heartbreak in jewelry,” Tranter revealed. Now that’s what I call, kunt.

Top Secret Machinery

The Secret Machines
Self- titled (TSM Recordings)
10/14/08
*****
“Now you’re gone, it’s too late / the world is starting to spin”. The nostalgic lexis of Brandon Curtis’ haunting lyrical prowess in “Now You’re Gone” divulge into layers of abstract romanticism and explore the fervor often associated with time-stopping encounters. The Secret Machines have come full circle, boasting a self-titled release on their own DIY label (TSM Recordings) with new and heavily experimental lead-guitarist, Phil Karnats in tow. Guitar gap filled, the band deemed an album title unnecessary. Even sans other-brother Curtis, they’re still The Secret Machines. Benjamin Curtis left the band in early 2007 to focus on his project School of Seven Bells.

Their third album to date, the New York based trilogy seems complete -- sounding more brooding than ever. The band’s new 3rd element probes into otherworldly licks that saturate atmosphere and generate a seemingly flawless transition for the band. “He’s kind of a dark guy,” Curtis revealed about his long-time friend Karnats on a dismal and rainy Manhattan afternoon. “But that was always the direction we were headed.” Curtis may feel akin to gloomy weather but his music is intent on taking an uplifting and positive tone. “The world is in a dark place right now,” Curtis said, “so what we want is to make people more aware of it, without being cynical.”

These days, it’s hard not to be political. The space rock single, “Atomic Heels”, is fueled by electro avant-garde psychedelia and already has a video in the works. Not since David Bowie’s “Space Oddity”, have we heard the likes of “I Never Thought to Ask” transcend from sub Area 51-type counterculture to mainstream. “Last Believer, Drop Dead” launches Faust arpeggios reminiscent of the Machines debut, Now Here is Nowhere, and fuses early ‘70s West German experimental rock. “The Walls are Starting to Crack” progresses into a vast Floydian finish parallel to The Wall itself.

“The Fire is Waiting” is characteristic of TSM’s lengthy instrumental breakdowns. Running just over eleven minutes long, its hard not to succumb to renaissance drummer Josh Garza’s dance with the devil. Play the record loud and much like the band’s early Texan heydays, you’re ears will ring for hours -- but your heart will be OK. In other words, synchronize the aftershock of a My Bloody Valentine show with futuristic noise rock, and call it a close encounter of the new third kind. Houston, do you copy? Over and out.

Guyatus: The New Sexual Revolution

Abort operation manhunt and stop wasting your time.

NYC is notorious. It’s the city that never sleeps and the city where dreams are made; yet lo and behold the vast concrete jungle that set forth as the perfect playground for adults. It doesn’t take long before a single gal to comes face-to-face with the ruthless city of one-night stands. Single women of New York, I urge you to take a Guyatus.

The idea is simple. Take a break from men and do it now. Focus on yourself and good things will follow suit. Elizabeth Payne, 26 had given up on men completely before she found the hunk of her dreams. “I was broken,” Payne confessed, “but I refused to let my happiness be dictated by having a man in my life.” Single women know this old wives tale all too well. Falling back into old behavioral patterns and repeating the same mistakes. “It was a challenge,” Payne said, “but obviously you can’t be upset forever.”

Guyatus means empowerment, because you call the shots. 23-year-old Brooklyn artist, Jesse Lackowitz, has recently sworn off men and claims to have never felt better about herself. “When its all over, you feel kind of used,” she admits. Now, Lackowitz boasts that her newfound sexual freedom has enabled her to be happy on a consistent basis. “He couldn’t ever make enough time for me”, she said, “so I had to move on even though I liked him.”

Happiness aside, Guyatus can also bring personal fulfillment through professional enrichment if you so choose. Former model, Dee Matthews, 28, showed up sans beauty rest for an US Weekly photo shoot after an infamous New York one-nighter that she thought seemed like a good idea at the time. “He’s only going to distract you and get in the way,” she revealed. “You’ll be on the couch cuddling instead of focusing on your career.” Matthews believes that women are but a mere conquest for men. As soon as they’ve won us over, they get bored and move on. So why waste our time trying? Matthews mentality has changed and now, she’s moved on.

“Why is it that we always have to change for them?” Andrea Senyitko, 24, asked. “Its not like they ever change for us!” Senyitko humbly admits that she continues to pursue the hunt and be succumbed by the chase because she wants a relationship. After all, what woman doesn’t? She also knows that at the current rate, its not going to get any better or be any different. “I’m just looking for that connection, but each time I find it, I get hurt again”. Senyitko came to New York looking for love, but found it in all the wrong places. The vicious cycle repeats itself as the surplus of single women in the city is recycled over and over again.

“In New York, there’s just too many options,” states Ikuko Mizutsubo, 27. “Whether its restaurants or women.” And like any good New York restaurant, there’s another good-lookin’ New York woman right around the corner — likely at the next bar down the block. And with five women for every one man in this city, this makes our predator weak to commit and hungrier for his next victim. “I think the problem might be NYC,” she adds, “everybody is constantly looking for something better.”

True, the Big Apple attracts the big dreamers. Those who take the big plunge to swim with the big fishes and hit it big are probably a bit different than small town U.S.A. suburban settlers. Its possible that those of us who dream bigger, climb higher and aspire for more could be of the same breed who may also trade up for something or someone a little better. New Yorkers are busy-bodies, too. While we trust our man that its work-related, we can’t help but wonder its unsanctioned relations. Whatever the case, no one man or woman wants to find themselves on the other side of the spectrum, left behind in their lover’s dust.

Perhaps its not entirely New York’s fault either. From the dozen or so women interviewed for this article, none of them were older than 30. “Call me crazy, but I’m convinced it’s a generational thing,” explained Amy Winter, 27 — a product of swingin’ parents from London. “My folks grew up in the ‘60s and ‘70s when the idea of free love was engrained in everyone around them.” Interesting. So who do we point the finger at now? Do we mom and dad for being too easy on the boys?

If the act of chivalry is dying and dating has become obsolete, is there hope for single women? “It’s a horrible cliché,” Winter adds, “but when you least expect it you really do meet someone.” Winter speaks of the end result of her own Guyatus — proof that love isn’t found only in fairy tales. However, don’t necessarily sit around waiting for Prince Charming to show up, and certainly don’t go out looking for him either.

This is not another tragic New York love story, and no, I am not Carrie Bradshaw. These are true accounts of no more sex in the city with promising end results. With the hype of said blockbuster faded and the series embedded in our memories as reruns, women must face the real reality of being single, and its not-so-fabulous side effects.

Some pointers? Never question if it’s a date or not. If you’re on Guyatus, a romantic dinner for two counts, while meeting for drinks at a bar past midnight does not. A true Guyatus will allow you recognize the old jerks with a clear head, and restrain you repeating old mistakes. If you claim you’re on Guyatus and meet someone new, and are convinced that this one is different, then you’ve likely fallen off the Guyatus wagon. Bear in mind that many New Yorkers (namely men) are not looking for long term relationships. Flings are instant gratification — a characteristic intrinsically common to the nature of this beast.

Your Guyatus begins when you leave the bar alone at 4 a.m. and proves effective when being single no longer means feeling lonely. Jump on the Guyatus bandwagon and join the revolution — trust me ladies, you’ll be glad you did. ***

The Stills get back to their Brooklyn roots

September 18, 2008, at Williamsburg Music Hall

Vive le Quebec! French Canadian new wavers the Stills have a soft spot for the ‘burg. It was here the band recorded their first record and played their earliest gigs. “This song’s about Williamsburg,” guitar/vocalist Dave Hamelin said beaming midway through their set, “It’s called ‘Being Here’.” And here I had thought they just wanted to make us feel special. The uplifting power-pop track may have been written for the likes of the hipster elite but still, the Stills are no Interpol and no, they don’t wear suits.

The Montreal rockers flaunted a stage presence strikingly reminiscent to the Clash. It’s no wonder an encounter with Joe Strummer was the second best day of their lives (the first being a recent Quebec City gig where they opened for Paul McCartney). It was obvious the five-piece entourage pride themselves on being true musicians and I always find it refreshing to see a live act sans the laptop — especially in Williamsburg. Two Gibson guitars, a Fender Jazz bass, a mean set of keys and massive hypnotic drum lines made for the kind of aesthetic that we oftentimes find missing from live shows today.

Musicianship continued when Hamelin put down his guitar and busted out a snare was for the brooding Floydian track “Snakecharming the Masses”, another track off their newly released album Oceans Will Rise (Arts & Crafts). Mesmerized, the hipsters were almost dead silent by the end of the song. “It’s awfully quiet in here,” smirked frontman Tim Fletcher as he attempted to wake the crowd from its daze. The combination of soft glowing gold microphone stands, rotating white star lights, and a skull on the face of the drum kit only added to the effect.

Under the spell of the Stills and fully succumbed, I was dancing to the notoriously wicked rock stomp single, “Still in Love” before I even knew it. “Je t’aime!” I joked like a teenager as they delved into “Retour a Vega” a little number en Français of course. Who would have thought French Canadians could be so friendly. The Stills were all smiles — interacting with the crowd and articulating their wit, all the while astounding us with their prowess. “Thank you New York, you guys are always the most beautiful people,” Fletcher flattered us with his charismatic French accent. Aw, shucks. “See you Saturday at Bowery Ballroom!” The band is set to play another New York gig at one of their favorite venues.

The show finished with “Hands on Fire” another track expressing the symbolic and political nature of their new record. “This is a song about guilt and I know you guys are all guilty people,” Fletcher teased, “ and so am I.” Not so political were the opening bands. The Kiss Off kicked off the night sounding a little more on the Yeah Yeah Yeahs side than revolutionaries — although they did encourage us to register to vote after their set. Chief was the band of brothers for blue collar ‘70s throwback rock. True working class heroes indeed. The Stills quality show rendered the missing link and proved they’ve still got it. Merci beaucoup, au revoir!

***

The Dandy Warhols do the Time Warp Again

September 17, 2008 Terminal 5, NYC

Probing into new material from Earth to the Dandy Warhols (Beat the World) at Terminal 5 left Courtney (self-proclaimed) Taylor-Taylor no choice but to stop a few bars into the single “Mission Control”. “Sorry, I forgot my glasses,” he sneered. Luckily Taylor-Taylor was always a charmer-charmer. It’s always easy to forgive a minor slip-up when psychedelic Goth pulls you into its vortex. Taylor-Taylor’s vocals took on deep-seated Peter Murphy (Bauhaus) baritone as the crowd was lured over to the dark side of the cosmos and into a trance.

Although keyboardist Zia McCabe kept her shirt on the entire set, the Dandy Warhol’s music (both old and new alike) stayed true to its classic fusion of ‘60s and ‘70s inspired hippie rock. The Dandy’s have come along way since their notorious reputation with The Brian Jonestown Massacre, particularly the 2004 documentary, DIG — a skeleton the band would prefer remain locked in the closet for good. Matured from the earlier heavily drug induced heydays, the Dandy’s are doin’ just fine and dandy thank you very much. Boasting their first release as an independent label and a show packed with electro-charged LED visuals – the band is thrilled about the current tour.

Amidst the lightshow of circuitry illusion and television static that conquered the foreground, a colossal navy flag sporting a gold-lettered Dandy Warhols logo (eagle, pirate ship, VW bus, snow-capped mountains, pine trees and moose) completed the backdrop. The crest was only visible in its full entirety when heavy strobes somehow managed to put it all into focus. Taylor-Taylor busted out the bongos and a vast sea of hands twirled the air in belly dancer fashion underneath the stars cast by an oversized shiny disco ball. Crashing cymbals and thunderous guitar distortion flooded the atmosphere, drowning out any and all sense of normalcy. The pungent smell of grass resonated throughout the three-level labyrinth of a venue. “What —‘Lou Weed’?” Taylor-Taylor asked the audience for requests during the opportune moment. All that was missing was the sitar.

The crowd was as eclectic a mix as the sprawling set list, spawning anywhere from the young and old — to the hip, grunge and Goth. Taylor-Taylor’s vocals ranged as far up as they could down and old favorites were on frequent rotation in the psychedelic shack. “Bohemian Like You” and “Last Junkie on Earth” amongst more obscure tracks like “Horse Pills”, made for the perfect mix of stoner-shoegazer meets rockabilly jam-band. Opening acts were chosen by the Dandy’s themselves. Fellow Portlanders and proud product of the Dandy Warhol’s label, The Upsidedowns were like The Stooges in training, while Darker My Love, hailing from California, displayed a sort of ‘Black Rebel Lumberjack Club’ type imagery. The reverb-heavy evening may have called for earplugs but unlike heroine, simple chorded garage rock is not so passé.

***

drea sings the blues...

with laptops and LED lights and sound engineers galore, where has the original essense of music gone? without naming specifics, i can tell you this: when the great apocolypse hits, its the Top 40 that will miss. picture a world without electricity. no stage, no frills, gimmicks. just a musician and a guitar. total blackout. when we're all left in the dark and singin' our own blues, who's left to play for us then? thats who i'm trying to discover.

a true musician will tell you the origin of music lies in the blues. think back -- way back. remember Sammy Hagar, Hank Williams, Miles DDavis and Muddy Waters? i hope so. the problem here is that the masses do not. successful so-called artists are topping the pop charts without the roots. it doesn't make sense. its all about electro-rock production. aren't we all tired of seeing those laptops on stage?

how is it that so many true and talented artists struggle for their entire lifetime, some never able to cut a record deal -- while others produce the same sound that we've been tired of hearing since The Strokes created it all those years ago. don't get me wrong. its not all bad. i'm just tired of it. i want to hear true blues. i want real rock and roll.

and its not completely missing from our culture, either. who's got it? Wilco's got it. Ryan Adams has got it. Neil Young and Bob Dylan still got it. John Lennon had it. And Bruce Springstein, well, he's the King of Got It. as for everyone else. hipsters, emo et al -- i urge you... find your soul. discover your roots. it is there that the origin of music can be ressurrected.

as a society on the brink of major social change its only natural that music too, must change. the thing is that it must change for everyone, not just for the few-and-far between above average aware. as we move into an age of collective thought, one thing rings true for every race, gender and age. its not the digital era that connects us. music that comes straight from the heart is universal. its real, its powerful and it doesn't require any translation.

***

Comeback Queen Juliana Hatfield Comes up Rosey

Aside from suffering Big Apple anxiety, Juliana Hatfield managed to pull it together for us at Bowery Ballroom Friday night, boasting a return to the music scene and a new book to come in a few weeks. During sound check I had the pleasure of asking Ms. Hatfield a few questions about her newfound author status glory. “Its more of an intellectual release than anything,” she explained, “I’d definitely like to write another novel in the future.” The book, “When I Grow Up: A Memoir” isn’t about getting older, but taking a break from music.

By the sound of the new album, When I Walk Away (Ye Olde Records) - Hafield’s first release on her own label - the hiatus did her justice. “If I don’t mention the new album, my record company will be mad at me,” Hatfield joked and waited for a response from the audience. “Nobody got that joke the other night either,” she laughed, “I’m the record company!” At that moment she took it upon herself to delve into some new material.

Her voice polished and matured from the cooing little girl we first met about 20 years ago as a former Lemonhead and member of the Blake Babies, Ms. Hatfield did more than razzle-dazzle the die-hards that night. “I don’t know why I always get so nervous in New York,” she said after a few songs, “Its because I have a crush on you.” As more pink rose petals were thrown at her feet, the crowd cheered, “We love you Juliana” (more than once) as several esteemed fans waved advanced rush copies of her book in the air. More rose petals soared upon an Obama shout-out – Hatfield sported a campaign sticker on her guitar and bragged about her drummer who had served as a volunteer.

A perfect blend of old and new, mixed up with a few covers like “Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival - the show was a trip to the 90s and back. When the set concluded, Hatfield returned alone sans backup for a few soft solo tracks (“My Sister” included) from the good ole days. The band returned for a big finish with their own rendition of Justin Timberlake’s “What Goes Around”. Having watched the experiment begin to take flight during sound check, I was impressed that she had managed to learn all the words so quickly (with a mean falsetto, too).

As I made my exit I bumped into Hayden, the solo folk rock artist from Toronto who scored the opening slot for Hatfield. Enamored by his devout following, he informed me that he’d been playing in New York for the past 12 years. No kidding, eh? The overall turnout was high (in both numbers and age) but the high lofty ceilings and balcony made the experience cozy and tranquil, without that feeling of being packed like a sardine.

It was obvious that much of her following had trailed her like the Grateful Dead for some time, no doubt through all Ms. Hatfield’s ups and downs, like her struggles with depression and anorexia. Skin tight jeans and high heeled motorcycle ankle boots accentuated her still thin-as-a-rail figure, but one thing’s for sure – Hatfield is a lot less lonely and a little more grown up.

Lykke Li Strikes a Pose at Le Poisson Rouge

It’s too bad I forgot my Fedora at home. Last night at (le) Poisson Rouge - NYC’s Euro trash central located in the heart of the West Village - Swedish hipster queen Lykke Li took center stage. The Material Girl donned herself all in black ala 1980s Madonna – spandex, leotard and oversized blazer with shoulder pads - complete with enough bling to reflect more that just a ray of light. Lykke’s look was a perfect fit for the dark dominatrix-y underground lair. As I wondered about where the whips and chains were stored, I thought about that poor goldfish in the glass box suspension near the entrance. Do they use ball gags and bondage when they bring out the guppy?

The tiny venue was packed with likes of sorority girls, gay and straight men alike. In other words, all the good lookers gathered round the theatre in the round to Dance, Dance, Dance to the cowbell infused Swede pop. As Ms. Li and the band breezed through an infectiously immaculate collection of songs from her debut album, Youth Novels, all I kept asking myself was what was with that getup?

“She’s like a total Karen O from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs”, it was as if the very pretty guy next to me (sporting a Fedora of course) was reading my thoughts – well, sort of. “Well, I was thinking more of a new millennium, Like A Virgin…” I was cut off when a sorority girl of seemingly Mid-western decent shoosh’d me. Not wanting to anger the die-hard fans, I remained silent for the duration of Lykke Li’s extensive forty-five minute set.

Focusing back on the pop music I was happy to be chewing bubble gum. If Britney Spears were to use her powers for good instead of evil, the resulting product would be Lykke Li. It’s Lykke, bitch! FYI, megaphone usage is notorious for producing that beloved Britney coo. The Euro-disco vibe of the venue was a perfect compliment to the Swedish acid techno-pop. Lykke Li was high-energy and en vogue like there was nothin’ to it. Her choppy dance moves and rebel yell hair whips with long Avril Lavigne-like tresses extended wildly into the mood light. Hot, sweaty and sexy – Lykke Li has the voice and face of an angel, her sound true to the record - always a pleasant surprise.

The song and dance routine was accompanied by worldly drum machines and keyboard riffs in the single, Little Bit, and was more than well received. “This is a very special night for me” Lykke Li revealed to the crowd, honored to have played in New York City. “I really need a drink!” She holds out her hand to the audience and a lucky contender hands her the rest of his unfinished beer, likely a Red Fish - the aptly named house ale. I would have given mine away too, had I been closer. The damn Stella keg had blown and that’s all that was available at the time. Oddly enough, after a drink of the ‘ole fish, the band geared up for the next track, Complaint Department.

I was most enamored by the very cute (and tall) Swedes that backed her up. Me lyk-kie! A shaggy haired hipster fellow rocked a few power chords on guitar and bass while another gentlemanly Nordic wearing those dorky black-rimmed glasses that women find sexy, played multi-faceted keyboard combos. The Chris Martin look-alike drummer on a standup kit was a total hit with the crowd, except for the two girls he had to shoosh during the encore who were fighting over a drumstick. Lykke liked to sporadically jump about onstage, banging a drumstick on a cymbal or the mic stand or – whatever, to help keep the beat. Evidently, the stick she threw to a couple of screaming fans served more in the realm of a bouquet toss gone terribly wrong.

When Lykke returned to the stage alone for the first part of the encore, a piano solo began with a mean falsetto and finished with the gentle coo-coo-ca-choos of a banshee. In fact, the song ended so softly that she had to remind us it was over. “Yes…? Hello?” She asked a little bit perplexed, and then we remembered to clap.

The real big finish occurred when LL’s alter ego dropped a bombshell and busted out as a hip-hoppin’ MC with her own rendition of a certain infamous Tribe Called Quest jam. “Can I kick it?” She belts out. “Yes you can!” The crowd exclaims, going totally nuts. No one seemed to want the show to end, alas, it had to - whether we lykk-ied it or not.

All Points West Festival 8.09.08/8.10.08

SATURDAY: OK, Compute!

The ferry ride alone was a trip. What more could you ask for on a sunny late afternoon than a perfect view of lower Manhattan while crossing the river to Jersey City with Lady Liberty at your side. The ferry dock to festival grounds commute was equally deep-seated. Nearly one solid hour passed from the time we landed ashore to where I found Metric at the far Blue Comet Stage at day two of All Points West on Saturday.

Due to mile-long ferry lines, I arrived much later than anticipated and just in time for the finale of the Metric set with a hot American Apparel-ized Emily Haines in a teeny little gold number adequate for the hot summer day. As she gives a shout-out to a mutually personal fav – The Black Angels, I was focused on her demeanor. Perhaps she’s Canada’s answer to a Blondie for the new millennium. Microscopic gold space suits never hurt to add to the effect either. “I fought the war and the war won”, Ms. Haines proclaims during a rendition of the infamous tune by The Clash. “These days are almost over” she declares. The front-woman revels in tales of newfound hippie-dom that urged her to shed hipster blazers for peace ‘n love.

The crowd joined her in a slow sway handclap hippie-fest as she bid us a sunny adieu and jumped offstage into the pit. As she high-fived the audience I hung over the rail, holding out a peace sign congruent with her anti-war tactics. Stopping to reciprocate the gesture, Emily Haines grabs my hand to bid me the same. I found it a seemingly appropriate introduction to my weekend.

It didn’t take me long to discover that one show leads directly to another. I quickly regrouped with friends I had left behind unable to relish in the luxury of easy all-access entry, and we found ourselves at the Bullet Stage with New York new waves, The Virgins. Somewhat jaded by the same repetitive riffs pioneered some time ago by our old friends, The Strokes – I did however, note a slight AC/DC edge fused with Springstein-esque balladry. Suddenly I felt the urge to move on.

Making our way through a maze of carnival games, a Playstation Central, worldly cuisine, and of course, funnel cakes - I was tempted to hop on the pirate ship and ride the iron horse carousel that was bobbing under red Chinese lanterns complete with disco ball. Hot and thirsty, we stopped at a nearby quarantined drinking tent for a beer instead. With a five drink maximum per person, the forced regulatory prohibition kept most from getting too drunk under the sun.

Watching a show in broad daylight when you’re usually accustomed to the dark, forces one to really listen and pay attention. Take the likes of Animal Collective for instance. Not quite dark enough yet to hypnotize you with lighting visuals - I walked into a trance. Front stage on the left is where I typically find my spot. Hula-hooping Janis Joplin clones surrounded me, whom entranced in their acid-sway, had transcended into the otherworldly long before dusk. It was like a visit to my late 90s raver-girl past when time and space were irrelevant and song accompanied by dance were rudimentary. Animal Collective surely played a key role in all this. Dual keyboard/synth combos were hypnotic to the extreme. “I’m just gonna stay right here”, a friend of mine says as she plops to the ground. Unable to move her, and wishing it had been just a bit darker, I opted to move on and head back to the Bullet Stage to catch me some Black Angels.

Just when I thought things were somewhat back to normal, I arrived at The Black Angels set and a young pale-faced dude wearing a penguin suit covered in what appeared to be autographed graffiti shoves past me. However, it was the music that stopped me dead in my tracks and not the penguin. Dark, brooding trance rock at its finest, accompanied by a hard pounding she-devil vixen drummer on a gold sparkly kit mesmerized me like I was at a Tool concert. Dark, mysterious and mean like the devil (but with the faces of angels) this band just “Kill, Kill, Kill, Killed” me at hello. I was so lost in The Black Angels’ vortex that I unfortunately found Aussie-pop sensation Sia to be MIA at the neighboring Queen of the Valley Stage. I may have been just a little too late.

The late afternoon/early evening comprised of Radiohead prepping. I needed another beer. I managed to catch snippets of The Roots, just in time for a shout-out to the late Bernie Mac and danced bootay-Kahn reggae-ton style to electric sliding blues and a giant, almost platinum-looking tuba that bling-blinged in the setting sun. I caught a glimpse of the pretty boys/Kings of Leon and rendered their royal status justifiable. Sure, they were nice to look at, but I only had ample amount of time to make my way back into the beer concentration camp for another before the start of Radiohead. Selfishly I wanted them all to myself that night, as I was coping with the fact that they had already played Friday and I was unable to attend.

At close to 8:30p. my phone was dead and I had lost all of my friends. Choosing to avoid the “VIP” area, AKA, paparazzi pit - I decided to immerse myself in the crowd. I found myself at my usual front stage on the left locale in the thick of it all with some chicks from Scotland who rescued me from the annoyance of neighboring frat-boy types. From the time the lights went down, to when Radiohead took the stage, my notes are a jumbled mess. One of the last few words I can actually make it out is, “holy shit”. Opening with “Reckoner” from their latest, In Rainbows – euphonious ecstasy soared over the crowd of nearly 30,000. Like a crystal castle, icicle-like LED (light emitting diode) lights hung from the stage ceiling, generating every color of the rainbow, including white and ultraviolet. Enthralled by carbon-footprint reducing LED technology since the out-of-this-world display exhibited at the opening ceremonies at the Beijing Olympics, I was instantly hooked.

“15 Step” was as bombastic as I could have imagined it live, followed by a red, gold and blue zigzagging light show for “National Anthem” – a force (and bass-line) to be reckoned with. One song melted into the next. In Rainbows dissolved into Kid A lullabies, morphing back into more In Rainbows. “Weird Fishes” fired arpeggios, and rooted into the timbre of deep rhythm sections. The pot of gold then Hail’ed to the Thief and I found myself “up in the clouds” to the point where I wasn’t even sure if my feet were even touching the ground anymore. A splay of ultraviolet and grey light-bulb raindrops plummeted in “The Gloaming” and left us all gasping for air. Large screens on either side of the stage focusing on master of electronic gadgetry, Jonny Greenwood, as he strummed with fingers and bow on electric bass guitar cello during a break between “Bodysnatchers” and “Pyramid Song”. I found myself in a state of breathless aftershock.

As a majestic Lady Liberty shone in all her glory, a low-hanging perfect half moon glowed directly overhead. The lower Manhattan skyline filled the gap between the statue and the stage that was emitting supernova light and sound, all pointing west for all I know. This was “the most perfect day I’d ever seen”, as the lyrics of “Videotape” echoed throughout Liberty State Park. Thom Yorke broke this overtly powerful moment of silence without silence, by pausing between songs to reference the ole Kings of Leon. “If we were as good looking as them”, he jokes, “we’d be famous!”

I made my way through the cavalcade and managed to find my comrades again at the complete other end of the spectrum, somewhere between the pulsing hypnotic drumbeats of “There, There” and vast grand finale of “Idioteque”. The show ended with a breakdown so mind-blowing, it almost did not compute. I’m not sure if I was in Rainbows or in space or what, but nevertheless, it was the most perfect night, indeed.


SUNDAY: OK, Chill Out!

I woke up on a friends’ couch in Jersey City early Sunday morning with a killer headache and feeling not-so-ready to rock. After a quick trip to Historic Downtown J.C. for a new dress (I needed a change of clothes), I hit up a local Taqueria for some traditional huevos rancheros to combat the hangover. Without any cash left, or a cell phone to be my guide I began the trek towards the water, back to Liberty State Park. My official All Points West Passport in hand, I was ready to wing it and fly solo for the final leg of the weekend.

The journey back to the festival was cold and wet. Fortunately, my lucky hat managed to find its way back to me the night prior. I was rewarded more good karma when the yoga instructor I befriended over Mexican food had an extra umbrella (and some drinks) to spare.His good deed for the day was to, "save me from myself". For the duration of this day, time remains unknown and I dropped from the face of the Earth, unable to connect with any of my colleagues without a phone. Most cell phones rang dead the night before, constantly searching for signals amidst the sea of tens of thousands of concert-goers. Nobody could get any reception - it was total chaos.

I made it just in time to miss Flamenco guitar sensations Rodrigo y Gabriela. Total bummer. A wet Cat Power show was in the cards instead. And who said cats don’t like water? Chan Marshal struts onto the stage like the tall and lanky tomcat she is, dressed tomboy in an army green button down with black tie, white wing tip shoes and jeans. Me-ow! As the rain came down and wind blew through her ponytail, she paused during the opening of “Woman Left Lonely” to let us know she thinks the rain is on its way out.

Sure enough, the sky cleared after a few songs and things got up close and personal. The cat sport an ear-to-ear Cheshire grin throughout the duration, likely a direct result of recent sobriety. Marshall introduced her older gentlemanly band mates as “Mr. Pretty on the keys”, “Former Mr. 1964 on the bass”, “Mr. Nobody’s Fool on guitar” and “Mr Legit on the kit”. When Mr. Pretty reciprocated the introduction with, “Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Chan”(pronounced Shawn) “Marshall”. I turned to the young teenage girls behind me to correct them that her name was not “Shawn” like a boy. I made conscious effort to correct many youngsters on Sunday, unaware of hipster indie pop culture knowledge. After all, it was Jack Johnson headlining that day. Cat Power ended her performance with a beautiful Spanish number and threw yellow and white daisies to the crowd, of course keeping one for herself as a memento.

There was no way I was going to miss The Secret Machines. As I exited the Blue Comet Stage I played messenger for more unsuspecting kids I had overheard asking who they were. “Go see them”, I insisted like a crazy fanatic, “they’re really good!” I entered the Bullet Stage during a lengthy opening number. I knew this because in true Floydian spirit, The Machines tend to drag things out. I was thankful for the dark grey sky that added to the ambience of their set. Again, these guys are much better to see in the dark. Grabbing us instantly like a magnet with incessantly progressive hypnotic beats, The Secret Machines didn’t even make eye contact until after three songs. With new radical guitar player in tow, no one moved a muscle except to shiver from the damp chilly air. It was like a cold electro-shock to my system that I never wanted to end. I woke up from a daze when it was finally over and was a bit confused when I turned around to see almost everyone had already moved on.

Freezing cold and exhausted, I bypassed the VIP tent where Sunday family fun picnics were raging and found myself in the massage chamber where the lights were low, and the padded cushioned chaise lounge beckoned to me like pillows of white fluffy clouds. Half asleep and fully sober, I listened to Ben Harper and the gang from there. Before going back out into the wild I was sure to re-layer my attire I had accumulated from the past two days, in order to stay warm. By this point my outfit had morphed five times. I made it six when a necessary purchase of a Radiohead In Rainbows T-shirt derived from space age recycled material was in order. Warm and cozy, I chilled out for Grace Potter’s cover of “Painted Black” and indulged on a funnel cake I purchased with my last six dollars. Anxiously, I awaited for Jack Johnson’s start time so I could then begin the long voyage home.

Right on the dot, I’m first out of the paparazzi gates to catch JJ in all his glory. I was put at ease with the soothing sounds of surfer rock that move as slow as the ocean on a calm Hawaiian morning. The only thing missing from the stage on Sunday, were the LED lights. Sigh. As I realize the waves of family fun that surrounded me, as if reading my thoughts, Jack sings, “You better hope you’re not alone”. Hey, at the very least, the guy managed to warm things up around there a little. Now where’s that damn ferry?

Soaking it in one last time as I made my exit, I give props to the lineup, the locale and well, the props! From the blue glass pyramid that reflected the Comet stage no doubt to summon the aliens via Radiohead, to sixteen large blue metal rods that chimed various bell pitches as they lit up, to a tall fuchsia and orange colored wooden post that served no purpose whatsoever other than it was nice to look at. Several weary (and some passed-out) festival-ers clung to the iron horses on the pirate ship and raver-kids danced to the techno bumpin’ at the neon parasol lantern area with glow sticks. I guess for some, the party wasn’t over just yet.

****

Gettin' Feisty at the Park

Photo credit goes to my partner-in-crime, Miss Elizabeth Payne. Enjoy!






Hello friends,

After a brief hiatus - fear not... I'm back and ready to rock. No pun intended... ever. Nor was the sarcasm... I swear!
Here it is:

Feist Does a Rain Dance at Prospect Park 7.09.08

It was a dark and stormy night. Literally. Prospect Park, located in the South Slope of Brooklyn is perhaps one of New York City’s finest in outdoor venues. Tall lush greenery encompasses winding dirt paths and grassy knolls, taking you by way of the everglades and marking this as the ideal summer spot. Throw down a picnic blanket underneath a willow tree with the perfect companion (and some beers) and you’re set - that is, unless it starts raining.

Feist or shine, rain or bust – the crowd (and thankfully not the thunder) kept rolling in. Opening the floodgates for lady Feist on this wet hot midsummer night’s eve was Argentinean folklore/grindcore temptation, Juana Molina. Strumming away on the acoustic, she paused between songs to explain (in English) that although her lyrics are sung in Spanish and Portuguese – there is still a way to understand songs through feeling.

As the music continued I realized the only words I understood were a likely improv’d, “it’s ra-a-ain-ing”. Seemingly unplanned and eerily coincidental with nature, Molina couldn’t help but smile, apologizing for the incoming thunderstorm as the rain began to downpour.

Between sets I watched the turnover from single acoustics and a synthesizer capable of creating and writing a full band sound complete with drum machine - to an actual full band setup. I was stoked upon my discovery that there was potential rock caliber of the Canadian indie queen.

As the lights went down, last-minute roadies dragged onstage a large screen reminiscent of the looking glass – its trim woven by wooden vines. The screen lit. Standing behind it, a sultry silhouette figure wearing a straw Fedora. The backdrop splayed a giant fig tree, a hanging lantern swinging from its branches. A large shadowy hand plucked the lantern away as the music started. Leslie Feist began to coo, “When I was a young girl… I used to be a little sad”.

And then a little shimmy shake and there she was – an urban cowgirl dressed in a hot white little number with black tassels and polka dot stockings completed by a pair of vintage ankle boots. Not exactly the melodrama I had anticipated.

An audience member exclaims, “You rock, Feist!” She was quick to strap on a solid body electric and left the pink-and-white guitar behind for one of the hurly-burly mountain men in her band mate entourage to play. It might have been right around the “I love Canadians” outburst that the sky cleared, revealing a perfect half-moon. The storm had eased to a slow drizzle and by some strange twist of Feist it was almost like fate. Consider a stop-the-rain dance. It’s possible, no?

So I think she can dance, yes. A real genuine musician - she sings and plays a lot of guitar. Using a recording device onstage, she manipulated her voice by singing into the mic and layering the vocals three times to create a repeating round. The range was vast and full of soft ascending “oohs and aahs”. The sound was true to form and much louder than the studio album. Luckily I just so happen to like it loud. Backed by drums, bass, additional guitar and two gals dressed in black on the keys, this show stopped the rain (and the audience) dead in their tracks.

Like any good conductor, Feist flicked and gestured each and every note from her fingertips as if she were a regular Carlos Santana. And if that wasn’t enough, she put on an air guitar performance worthy of heavy-metal hair god stardom.

Feist bantered between songs with a British fellow, playfully imitating his accent. Joking with the New York audience about high rent and roommate issues, she asks coyly if anybody wishes they had a backyard. Ah yes, the wide-open spaces of our friendly neighbors to the north.

Her childlike antics stem from an interesting past of hand-puppetry infatuation. This was evident throughout the entire show. The backdrop varied from paisley to farm scenery and vibrant finger painted sailboats, oceans and volcanoes. Feist encompasses a unique ability to connect with any age.

In a time where we seem to find ourselves swimming in a sea of constant new-new wave amidst the young and relentlessly uber-hip, Feist sets us adrift from that false sense of ‘Emocean’.

“We tried to go for a swim at McCarren Pool”, Feist adds, poking some fun at a popular Williamsburg, Brooklyn concert venue. The massive empty swimming pool is splashed with graffiti and infamous for packing in flocks of the hipster elite. It can hold well over a thousand. Judging by a vast array of the flower-power people it’s likely that only two of two thousand at Prospect Park that night understood the comment.

Summoned to brandish our cell phones high and doing the “1234”sway, we danced and twirled to the power pop riffs of “The Water”. I was completely immersed in none shy of a San Fran hippie-fest, at the height of Asbury Park.

Pool's Back For Summer!

This just in - Pool Parties Are Back!
Summertime in Williamsburg, Brooklyn can only mean one thing – the Pool Parties! Kicking off this years’ summer of love for rock-and-roll was Sri Lankan rap icon M.I.A. last Friday night at the infamous McCarren Park Pool, a concert venue notorious for offering the best in musical entertainment for the hipster elite. I myself was fortunate enough to catch the first show of the summer, ever so conveniently located in my very own backyard.
My best bud and I had tickets well in advance, as I knew these shows are hot and sell out fast. As we prepared ourselves for the show – myself in a tube jumper and moccasins, my friend’s tiny ass hanging out of a polyester birds of paradise print dress – we opened the windows of our tiny Williamsburg apartment and listened to M.I.A. belting out sound check, “Roadrunner, Roadrunner – goin’ a hundred miles per hour!” Our ability to hear what was happening at the pool from the comforts of our own abode gave fashionably late a whole new meaning. There was no way we could possibly miss any of the action!
As we stepped outside to embark on the treacherous fifty-yard journey across the street to the venue – a giant empty swimming pool covered in graffiti that burnt down in the late 80s – we were quickly diverted to neighboring bar Enid’s for a quick cocktail. I suppose a Bloody Mary sounded more appealing to us at the time versus the opening act DJ spinning the likes of outdated Prodigy hits and the much overplayed Peter, Bjorn and John single of last summer.
A few drinks followed by a complimentary shot of Patron from cute bartender qued our exit, but only led us to Pete’s Candy Store for one more, as we still had some time. It took only one last drink at Pete’s to quickly realize it was time to get moving before we missed M.I.A. completely.
We arrived at the scene just in time.
The sun was almost fully set as we gazed upon a sea of Brooklyn’s finest and hippest, dancing in the vast emptiness of the pool. M.I.A’s killer set included giant electro palm trees onstage and colorful Jamaican-like strands of lights dangling from the top of the stage more than fifty feet high, no doubt denoting her worldliness and multi-faceted demeanor. She wore a bobbed white-hot blonde wig with a colorful peacock-like feather headdress and was accompanied by fellow hot chick backup MCs alike also sporting wigs in shades of hot pink. In a word, this chick was hot! A ripped-to-shreds tight ass sequined emerald green dress hugged her bod as she danced around the stage with more energy that Gwen Stefani in her early days of No Doubt. She quickly shared the energy with all the “hot ladies” in the audience as she invited them to dance with her onstage not even halfway through the show. Lucky for my friend and I, we were conveniently located in the front. The two of us danced our asses off with M.I.A. herself for a solid thirty minutes. Easily the best dance party of the year!
The booty shakin’ even continued for us offstage until the show ended. We couldn’t help but shake it for the sorry kids on the other side of the fence that couldn’t get tickets and watched the show like prisoners from the outside.
I must admit, I’ve never been so thankful for the arm and leg I pay for my tiny apartment located in the hub of hipster culture – location, location, location! Looks like I’ll be front row center all summer long, swimming in the sounds of science instead of a dirty piss pool. The only thing that’s M.I.A. about this rockin’ music venue, is the chlorine

If You Build It, The Money Will Come

For this weeks rendition of rock-and-roll intern memoirs we were summoned to write about anything we wanted. A n y t h i n g. Immediately, the ideas poured in and bouts of creativity spewed and flowed out of me like a fountain of infinite free speech.
With so much limitless expression at my disposal I could have attempted to really dazzle ‘em with something like a new record review or maybe even a sneak peak at an up-and-coming-next-big-thing indie band. You know, really played in the ring with the big dog editors and finally earn my keep as the next Hunter S. Thompson, marking my territory in the well-respected business of music journalism and bask in all its glory.

Not wanting to upstage the professionals, I opted for a different angle.

It’s been three weeks of solid, well-versed intern blogging at the Lounge - kudos, gang! And for three weeks straight and to my dismay I have succumbed to reading the odd negative feedback from somewhere out there in middle America. Apparently these members of the working class feel the need to shoot down those of us who slave away willingly to the unpaid labor force. Fed up and unable to go on stomaching such commentary as “working for free sucks” I have vowed to make amends.

Look out haters – you’re getting’ served.

Perhaps it is your own dead-end job that will ultimately serve as the bane of your entire existence and kill you slowly, sending you on a downward spiral to fear and self-loathing. I work for free and have doing so for a long, long time. Interning isn’t just for college kids anymore you know – it’s a foot in the door to where you want to be. Whether it’s a steppingstone, a launch pad or networking opportunity - consider it a sort of real life grad school. I have the rest of my life to receive paychecks and benefits. At the risk of asserting absurdity, I often look at it as free education. At last, a light of socialism sheds on our otherwise dismal capitalistic nature. I find it refreshing. I also grew up in Canada.

I work for free because there’s a new generation of working class heroes in pursuit of happiness. Success is rendered through the intrinsic happiness that comes by way of art form practice. Sometimes I work for free from home, too. I write for myself when no one may ever read it.

Make art, wait tables if you have to and get hired somewhere eventually. Discover your ambitions. Have drive to do more than go through motions and be a robot with a salary.
A musician strums a guitar for hours upon end – sometimes for nobody, sometimes for the passersby on the subway for an occasional dollar. An artist paints with vivid color and imagination because their surroundings foster creativity. And lest we forget – is not volunteer work the ultimate reward?

Working for free is key to unlocked desires. I never wanted to be that person who looked back at their life and wondered, what if.

I’m an intern because I can’t have my dream job right away. Paying dues is more than having deep pockets and stems higher than ascending the corporate ladder. Passion enables free labor to be enjoyed, that is - if you let it.

It’s not for money or my name in bright lights and certainly not for bragging rights. It’s a change I’ve wanted to see in the system since the day I stood at the crossroads of music and writing versus dead-end jobs. Guitar prowess lacking, I put it down and picked up a pen instead. I intern at Rolling Stone for free because my craft is writing and I’m inspired by music. I care about the goings on about town and in the world and desire to see it, live it - write about it. All I am saying, is give free labor a chance

When The Stones Aren’t a Rollin’ - Facebook is a Virtue

Ah yes, down time at RS. A breath of fresh air, a brief moment to stretch your legs and work out those hand cramps. Although slow days are few and far between, we interns still relish in well-deserved break time, but try our best to keep it short. In all honesty I find it difficult to pry myself away from Radiohead research and interview transcriptions with the likes of Robert Smith from The Cure, but every so often I might just have to get up to pee.

When I’m not drowning in the library archives or bogged down by hours of transcriptions, I’ll come up for air and surf, switching gears to my beloved Facebook. Having attempted to boycott such virtual bandwagons in the past - I finally caved. Ever since my last semester of college when I was distracted in lecture halls by hundreds of iBooks glowing with up and running MySpace pages, I vowed to swear off the addiction of the machine altogether. I firmly believed in real communication, until the day I discovered the beauty and essence of Facebook.

Transcribing interviews can be somewhat tedious and I find it important to open up new windows on my screen on a regular basis so as to not go cross-eyed. Not only is it fundamental to stop and crack your knuckles and rotate your wrists, carpel tunnel is very much a high risk in this business as tunnel vision is also a factor. Immersing myself into a Macintosh for eight hours a day can be grueling, that is, unless you’re actually writing, or unless you have Facebook.

Thank you Facebook pioneers for showing me the way and being the light at the end of my tunnel vision. If only you knew the true power with which you possess and the impact you’ve had on my cyber networking. Until I discovered downtime at RS I was subject to mere email alone as my tool to connect with the outside world. Nobody seems to call my cell anymore – my friends and family have realized I’m far too busy these days to answer, so I suppose they just gave up. But now that I have succumbed to Facebook and jumped on its’ bandwidth, it seems there’s no need for much else.

My Facebook page flourishes with tagged photos from friends and wall-to-wall posts and even some fellow Rolling Stoners themselves (don’t worry editors, your secret is safe with me). I frequently add links to my own personal blog (insert hyperlink here) as if I’m music’s answer to the next Perez Hilton. There are good times for Facebook and of course there are bad, especially if I’m sitting at the Intern desk in the editorial department right outside of Jann Wenner’s office. FYI, being busted for exploiting company time for personal use by said Editor-in-Chief is probably not the best way to get him to notice you.

Britney Watch!

Paging Dr. Drea, come in Dr. Drea...
When I signed up to assist Contributing Editor Vanessa Grigoriadis for an upcoming cover story, I had no idea what was in store for me. For nearly two months I served as an on-call ambulance chaser for none other than the one and only Britney Spears. Oh baby, baby. Only difference was that I followed a trail of Starbucks lattes, packs of blinding paparazzi flashbulbs and a Mercedes Benz. One exception being the infamous ambulance chase that we all know too well by now – the day ‘ole Brit tried to kill herself and the unpleasant train wreck photos of her ride to the hospital that followed. With Britney on suicide watch, my Gmail account was like my personal beeper. I was always on duty. On my days off I brought my laptop to coffeehouses and tearooms - just in case. If my cell phone went dead, I panicked. I was a living, breathing Britney machine.
For a while, all talked about with my peers, was Britney Spears. It was as if nothing else in the world mattered at the time.
It all started with simple Mouseketeer research. My first assignment was to dig deep, well beyond the usual random sensationalistic articles about the pop princess that we have all come to loathe. I was informed that the purpose was to get to the bottom of Brit’s recent and tragic insanity. For hours upon hours I was buried deep in the library archives at RS, trying to fish out just what Vanessa needed – and I delivered. Soon I had all the dirt. From Brit’s secret Palm Springs getaways with her paparazzi boyfriend, to one failed manager after another, to the truth about when she really lost her virginity – I knew everything about the infamous pop tart before it would hit the mainstream press.
Around the office, I would often be asked, “How’s Vanessa?” I’d reply by saying that maybe I hadn’t heard from her that day. “That’s a good thing”, was always the response. I suppose I underestimated the constant demand of working with a real reporter. Not that I minded – after all, I am an aspiring journalist. Gotta’ pay those dues, right? Besides, its not like she pulled a Britney on me and had me charter a jet and bring her favorite coffee. It’s a good thing we don’t have Coffee Bean on the East Coast…
At times my research would be interrupted by an abrupt email or a call on my cell. One time in particular, I was designated to tmz.com – a popular celebrity gossip site of which prior to this point had never served as interest to me, whatsoever.
"They have a live feed outside Britney's lawyer's office,” Vanessa informed me. “They're waiting for her to show up for a deposition. I have to go downtown to get some court papers for her case, but I’m going to try to hit this up on my way back.” Vanessa was in L.A. at the time and hot on Brit’s trail. She desperately feared of missing Brit’s grand entrance - this was vital for the story. For over an hour I sat and waited, staring at my computer screen and barely blinking - for a Britney that never showed. She reportedly “called out sick”. I guess getting her kids back wasn’t exactly a top priority.
On a slow Spears day, tasks were a bit more mundane. I would check in with my editor to hit me baby, one more time with some additional work. One afternoon, I recall tearing anything and everything Britney out of every US Weekly issue since last year, to put together in a portfolio for Vanessa. FYI – Britney appears in US weekly, on a weekly basis and let me tell you something - that’s a whole lotta’ crotch-shots. I managed to surface from the cavernous library once or twice for field trips. One mission in particular was to head to the 42nd Street New York Public Library and locate a copy of “Not That Innocent” – another crucial component to the piece. My task was to find the book and Xerox it in its entirety, and then Fed-Ex it to Vanessa ASAP. As I attempted to convince the reference desk that I swore the book wasn’t for me (forgive me, I’m just not a fan) I was disappointed to discover that this bestseller wasn’t available anywhere. Bummer. Not a total loss however - I scoped out the Jack Keroac exhibit on my way out.
Most of the time I delivered, but sometimes I could not. When I was asked to go to a newsstand and grab the latest issue of Blender (Brit was on the cover) I failed to do so because it had yet to be published. I wasn’t discouraged, however, as I could imagine that perhaps Blender would have been difficult to find near Vanessa’s Hawaiian home - the island being so desolately remote and all…
In the end, whether or not I was just another intern, in some small way I felt like I contributed to this big story. I was a Slave 4 a big-time editor, and if you were to ask me if I’d do it again – I think my answer would probably be something like, “Gimme, Gimme,” because once you take part in the hunt, it only leaves you hungry for more.

Memoirs of a Rock ‘N’ Roll Intern...

For those of you whom aspire to one day bask in all the glory of Lester Bang-dom, look no further. In case you missed out on the short-lived MTV ‘True Life’ masterpiece "Hi, I'm From Rolling Stone", try their website because I didn’t watch it either. You may think you know – but trust me, you have no idea. This is the diary of a Rolling Stone Intern…
All the magic starts around ten ‘o clock. I do my best to get there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed before eleven. I work nights… late nights. As a recent West Coast transplant from Phoenix, starting out from the ground level seemed to be my only option to pursue anything that actually mattered to me. I never dreamed I would be standing at the gates of Wenner Media until much later in my New York career, regardless of said position.
So it's somewhere between 10 and 11 a.m. and the media packet I’ve deemed as daily news-in-a-nutshell is nearly done, thanks to my fellow over-eager go-getters - much like myself, naturally. They just so happen to arrive before I do… every single day. I try not to sweat it and jump the gun to see what’s next. Ah yes, the ‘ole closing week Dunkin Donuts run. FYI, never bring decaf even when asked to do so – the writers will think you’re crazy. Grab a French crueller while you can, ‘cause they go quick and check the intern email account for assignments.
Ah, yes -transcriptions. Today I think I’ll tackle Jack Johnson and Austin Scaggs over breakfast at a Santa Monica diner. About 60 minutes long – oh goody. This oughta take about four hours. No problem, I could always find work as a courtroom typist if things don’t pan out here, so long as carpel tunnel doesn’t take its toll.
Sometimes we answer Will Dana’s phone lines at the intern desk - again, also kind of cool. The first time I opened the editor’s mail, I brought a stack of new albums sans press releases tall enough to block my path of vision to a certain former executive editor I was dying to introduce myself to. As he motioned for me with “Come on, any day now” type gestures, I attempted to set them on his desk, struggling not to drop them. There goes the proper introduction. It was amazing how he even managed not to lift his gaze from the computer screen but still somehow still know I was there – or did he.
Sometimes we get bogged down with research in the library, but that’s OK – I’m digging every Radiohead article I can get my hands onto and trying not to salivate. For a short while I was on Britney Watch for another contributing editor for a cover story. Side note: the New York Public Library does not possess any copies whatsoever of “Not That Innocent” – truly a bestseller. I do recall talking about Britney in excess during this timeframe. Just ask my friends - I had all the dirt.
Two hours later and twenty minutes into Jack I bite my tongue when I hear that apparently, Jimi Hendrix of The Doors is a part of surf culture tradition. Good God, its no wonder the Curious George soundtrack was so popular. After all, it’s not like little kids know Van Morrison anyway. Or maybe it was Jim Morrison…
Alison Weinflash joins us in the library.
“Does anyone want to go on a Jann errand?” I nearly jump out of my seat, “I’d love to get some air!” I enjoy Jann’s Devil Wears Prada-like errands – after all, the man has great taste. I especially enjoy feeling like a baller on Fifth Avenue, with a big wad of cash in hand. However, I think this time in particular was right around the holidays and I was being sent way across town from my comfortable surrounding Rockefeller ‘hood. Jann’s supermodel-like assistants hand me a shopping bag, along with directions to an upper west side camera store owned and operated by Hasidic Jews. You never really see Jann, either - he’s kind of stealth like that.
Ready to hustle, I embark on the mission. Got to find a replacement strap for Jann’s camera case - very important. Allegedly, Jann Wenner has a house account, so I inquire - one yamaka at a time. The place was a labyrinth of camera gear and not to mention, a total zoo. No sign of a spare strap, or a house account for Mr. Wenner. “Well, what company are you with?” A pale-faced old hippie with kind blue eyes and a Rip Van Winkle beard asks me. “Rolling Stone” I say. The old man’s eyes light up. “Well shoot! There should be at least some kind of special discount for people with cool jobs”, I bite my tongue and have a moment. He adds, “I’m a photographer you know, and its my dream to take pictures of rock stars – do you think you could maybe pass along my portfolio?” Almost blushing, I left it there. Almost famous for fifteen minutes – life is so sweet.
Mission accomplished and back in a flash at the office, there’s the usual late afternoon buzz. Like me, I guess writers like to sleep in. Celebrity luncheons are often stimulating, that is, if we interns are allowed to attend. Checking in guests can be serious business - they don’t let just anyone waltz into Rolling Stone, you know. “I’m sorry sir, I can’t seem to find you on our list” I said as I motioned for this intruder to check with the guard. “Oh, I’m with Cheryl”, he responds. I look up and Cheryl Crow is standing right in front of me. With a half-cocked smile I usher them through. I couldn’t tell if I was star-struck or dumbstruck – I was slightly embarrassed either way.
Inside these luncheons, I’ve poured champagne for Carlos Santana and friends while he enlightened us all as architects of a new era. I was also once blinded by the glistening light of a silvery-sequined vest worn by none other than Wyclef Jean, while he recited in perfect verse and harmony, a speech that was obviously sent to him from the cosmos to guide us all to ultimate wisdom. Last week I reveled in Woody Harrelson’s perfect skin thanks to a fountain-of-youth combination of Vegan diet and Hawaiian sunshine. Thank you Woody, for the delicious macrobiotic meal that day – and especially the hug.
On days when catered lunch events are lacking – I’ll usually head out and grab something for an editor. I have begun to take personal pride in making sure that Eric Bates’ lunch is always perfect. Upon my return, I might hit up the fact-checking department if it’s slow in editorial and maybe I’ll assist in rearranging some filed RS archives. I like to stay busy, so I may help fact-check a new album review or two – I’m always up for a little sneak peek at some new tunes.
I stay late when I can because that’s what good interns do. Alas, there are times I have to duck out early to my serving gig in the infamous Meatpacking District that gives whole new meaning to not quitting one’s day job… just yet. For all you wannabe Gonzo’s out there – fear not, being a slave to a New York City internship is nothing to loathe. In all actuality it just might be the opportunity of a lifetime, if you play your cards right.

Baby's First Blog... Rock and Roll.

03.12.08
Mia Toi Dodd & Jose Gonzalez
Masonic Temple: Ft. Greene, Brooklyn

Move over, Cat Power - there's a new songbird in town. This crooning songstress, however, brought us something new to the temple. Acoustics pulled from the Far East, Mid-East and fused with Latino influences hypnotized hipsters in the Masonic Temple last night. "Fear is an ocean... so many sleepless nights" - a song dedicated to all servers out there, including me! "But I'm not one of them", she remarks. Lucky for her, music seems to pay the rent these days, more so than mere writing. I watched intently as the beautifully exotic Mia Toi Dodd charmed more than just snakes onstage. "Holy shit", a young male fan declares as she and her bongo beatin' accomplice break effortlessly into "Kokoro", the Japanese word for heart. This brooding rhythm served as the perfect accompaniment to Mia's Joni Mitchell-meets-Sarah McLaughlin style. Don't get me wrong, however, for she is no Lillith Fair whiner. Finally, a talent that has evolved past angry chick rock. At last, a female musician gets spiritualized. I can still hear the Celtic monastic chanting echoing throughout the temple as a tribal tambourine beat filled the stage during the finale of their set. Feeling somewhat uplifted and enlightened myself, I suddenly found my own gaze at the temple's ceiling. As I closed my eyes I could feel old monks and clergymen around me, chanting; praying. As their performance came to a close, my eyes opened, widened by the vast beauty of paisley printed walls, dusty 70s-style chandeliers and disco-wrapped pillars. I sat in my folding chair, soaking it all in while my friend/partner-and-crime grabbed us another beer.

Within twenty minutes, the lights went down again as the stage was saturated with red floodlights. Out from shadows steps a very tall dark and handsome Swede, and two others. The entire crowd fell silent as all eyes were affixed to Jose. Williamsburg's hipster elite flew south of the Bedford Ave border to see the man behind the acoustic prowess. Without much need for backup and accompaniment, Jose Gonzales, like a Swedish Santana, filled the entire temple with more guitar sound than I ever thought possible by one human alone. Nobody moved a muscle while rotating blue and white lights shot out to the heavens from behind him during "How Low" - the first track off the new album. He looked like an angel, with guitar as harp - a direct extension of his soul. "In Our Nature" follows flawlessly as the crowd of nearly five hundred watched in both awe and amazement. After a full guitar solo, the silence was broken by "Heartbeats" as the audience nearly jumped to their feet. We clapped along with “Remain” as the ambience darkened and we reveled in more cowbell in “Down the Line” as the darkness ate us up during the encore.

A shot of Todd followed by a high dose of Jose was just what the doctor ordered on this chilly spring night at Brooklyn’s Masonic Temple. Stay tuned ‘cause there’s plenty more where this came from my friends. Until then, I bid you adieu. I'm sure y'all will be waiting with baited breath...