I always want to hear that. I always want to go on adventures at least once a week. I always want to see new and relevant movies once a week with the opposite sex. I always want women that enjoy the outdoors.
I always hate people that think they're ahead of you in life. Even though your lack of cynicism makes you better than those people. This album is for us.
El Guincho-Alegranza This isn't a music blog but today, december 15, it was 64 degrees. this is music for that kind of day.
So the kids in the lounge fucked with my door and I for the early part of the year. I eventually got over it, started to laugh at the mayonnaise-filled condoms on the door handle, began referring to three of the four lounge-dwellers as "best friend." The fourth lounge dweller, whom we will refer to as Kruschev or K for short, was never that much fun. So the other guys in the lounge openly make fun of me but I am in on the joke; it is acceptable, it's our pastime, it helps us remain sane. Kruschev takes it upon himself to openly be a dick not just to me but everyone else on our floor - and he's serious about it too. Kruschev makes it known, by way of a fuck you or hey stupid, that he is not happy to see you in the hallway or the elevator. When I am invited by the other lounge-dwellers into their stupid fucking quad room to have a discussion regarding lounge/floor relations, Kruschev turns off the lights in an effort to get me to leave. Unrelated, Kruschev takes it upon himself to place stickers of the anonymous skate shop that (presumably) sponsors him everywhere, making the asshole ever present no matter where you are. Stop sign at 13th and Berks: stupid fucking sticker. Train station: stupid fucking sticker. Elevator: stupid fucking sticker.
Kruschev is the only person that is unanimously disliked by the good-natured people of the floor.
Saturday night Branmuffin and I thought it was a good time to get the lounge. It'd been a few weeks since the last incident between their door and mine, things were getting too quiet. Unbeknownst to me, the three loungers I was on decent terms with had left for the weekend. Kruschev was holding down the fort with some people we'd never met before and a girl on our floor who is rarely not in the lounge. Branmuffin and I acquired peanut butter and smeared it on their doorhandle. There was a bit too much commotion because the girl came out to confront us. We fled before there could be consequences. We came out of hiding and about seven minutes later, there's Kruschev spitting (he has a tendency to do this rather than talking) at me in front of the elevators. "Stop putting shit on my fucking door!" "You do it to my door all the time." "No I don't!" "Yes you do." "That's the other three!" "Well?" "Stop it because I have to clean it up! Sick of it!" (walks away) "Wow, I forgot you're the nicest guy any of us have ever met, forgive me!"
I was proud, he pretty much looked like the asshole we always made him out to be. Then I started to feel bad. Then I started writing an apology in my head because I remembered the day before, Kruschev had tried to get in on the whole "best friend" thing I have with the other three. I pretty much blew him off. So now I felt like the dick. Until tonight when I saw the ever-present lounge queen. We are always more than civil to each other. I thought I'd ask her thoughts. Was I as much a dick as I felt I was? Apparently not. Kruschev thinks everyone on the floor is fucking stupid and hates the way everyone acts (conformists, gah, sk8board angst!) and frankly she does too. Well then, fuck you.
"We had the craziest night ever. We ground/grinded on girls we didn't even know. They bought us drinks. We have the Sharpie slash on our wrist to prove we were there. We came back, we recounted." -11th Floor Life Br0s
Chapter 1. Silly Faces by the Microwave Chapter 2. I Cry Up and Down the Hallway and Call Otherwise Fragile Guys Assholes Chapter 3. Drunk Confessions About Peeing on Your Ex-boyfriend Chapter 4. I Eat My Ramen Alone Chapter 5. This Hallway is Cramped, I'm Sorry We Bumped Knees Chapter 6. A Press Conference Chapter 7. Myspacing Tom Hodges Chapter 8. Peanut Butter Connie Revenge Chapter 9. Flight Chapter 10. In Which I Am Accosted by a Sensitive Foreign Skateboarder Chapter 11. Best Actor in a Supporting Roll Chapter 12. Prank Phone Calls, or, "Is that what they're calling it these days?" Chapter 13. Closure through Cleaning
I live on the 11th floor of Hardwick Hall with a bunch of special people, 85% of whom are wonderful, 10% are totally awful and the remaining 5 are constantly in hiding. Saturday nights usually dissolve into some kind of madness. Last night was no different except that it was probably the most enjoyable. There was so much wonderful stimulation and electricty between me and other human beings that I usually found myself yelling, impassioned, seemingly pissed the fuck off, at Justin (who is a good guy.) So we broke the night into different chapters and that's about all of them that I remember. I had a crisis of personality when I peanut buttered someone's doorhandle and I want to talk about that sometime. Also, I threw a box of pound cake onto the ground with a good deal of force until it broke up into a thousand crumbs, joining the egg roll wrappers, dirty plastic forks and ripped up orange peel on the dusty maroon carpet. This wasn't in my character and I could barely live with myself the rest of the night until Chelley Welly broke out the vacuum and I achieved closure through cleaning.
On this day of negative feeling and thinking, amidst an impenetrable lack of sleep (something shared by all freshman,) and a feeling of total lack of any real knowledge...
BLUR HAVE OFFICIALLY REUNITED.
Jubilee indeed, Damon. Thanks for putting your globetrotting aside for five fucking minutes. Graham, thanks for forgetting about trying to be Stephen Malkmus. Alex, thanks for not doing much of anything since the break-up aside writing a book. About your band. And David, I hope you lose that general election because you have some songs to practice.
Now is a great time to reevaluate/familiarize yourself with Blur's catalog. I guess you should start with Parklife. From there it's all you but make sure you give Think Tank a chance.
I've spent the better part of my internet life these last two weeks (which is a lot of time in itself) on tetrisfriends.com. It may have started as an effort to be more like Miles Fricker. Maybe it was compensation for lack of Miles in my life. The point is I've been playing a lot and progressing... I think. Trying to learn the "game." Trying to create strategies. At first it just seemed like Tetris was about calculated risks; you get the block you get, you put it in the space it belongs best (even if it means leaving a gap or three in yr wall,) you hope it knocks out a line or two and you move on. I played like this for a few days, happy with the results. The game appeared to move quickly and I felt like I was getting somewhere. However, after I consulted with Miles who, cos I didn't mention earlier, is the Resident Tetris Bull/Koolest Thang in my circle of friends, I found out I had it all wrong: the goal was to get tetrises. As many as you can.
Miles told me to get a tetris one has to clear four lines at once. One does this using the blue-stick. So I took his advice because "you get mad points for getting tetrises." Since then, my whole life is making tetrises. Or more accurately, my whole life is being invaded by thoughts of making tetrises. Anytime I let my mind wander, it turns to visions of what I've been calling "perfect Tetris," the Tetris I want to be playing. I'm perfectly set up to make a tetris: about half the playing screen is covered by my wall. There are lots of green blocks, few red, many yellow and orange. There is a slot to the right or left of this wall and then drops a blue tick. It rotates, finds its place to a side of the wall and then I snap-to.
Earlier, I took a nap and got my first Tetris dream. Tetrisfriends actually changed their interface today... the screen in my dream where the gameplay was taking place looked like the new Tetrisfriends but there were backgrounds like junkyards and the cover of Doggystyle. John Doe's voice was coming from somewhere. He was saying things in between plays of "We're Desperate," which was on repeat.
I'm not keeping up with the blogs I usually do, Marathonpacks and Fightwithknives. They've probably been updated at least four or five times over since Friday with really engaging music industry-related content but I don't know. The new routine is to open Facebook, Hipster Runoff and Pitchfork, Tetrisfriends... must downsize for TF, no time to read anything too stimulating. Must make tetrises.
I share my problem with D. who was the same way this summer except with Freecell. She dreamt of perfect Freecell, solitary cardplaying euphoria. Still, she says it's pathetic that I dream/daydream about this shit.
"Yr jst an entrylvl Tetris altbr0, youll prgrss to mastr Tetris altbr0 and thn lose the urge 2 tetris altgthr." -Carles, HRO
Have you ever made a conscious effort to ensure someone never wants to try to be your friend ever again? Real life friends and/or video game friends, food friends etc.?
Wednesday, I went to the Tom Gabel "Searching For a Former Sense of Integrity/I'm Still Legit, I Swear! Solo Acoustic Tour." I guess he sort of "restored my faith," but in what I'm not exactly sure. It's not like I'm itching for the next time I get to see Against Me! at some cavernous warehouse or that I'm 100% thrilled with Heart Burns, Gabel's solo E.P. Maybe I just had a lot of fun getting to scream along with "I Still Love You Julie," "What We Worked For," "Tonight We're Gonna Give It 35%," etc. as they were originally intended to be screamed along with: in a small space, led by an acoustic guitar and the proudest set of vocal cords Butch Vig ever produced. It was hard to deny that the newest song Tom played, "I Dreamed Bob Dylan Was a Friend of Mine," absolutely bled sincerity. It's a simple song, only three or four chords, wherein Gabel and Bob Dylan just hang out... It just harkened back to better days, I guess, When playing "Baby I'm An Anarchist" to a crowd of 200 in a sweaty grange hall didn't seem like a really good dream and long before Spin claimed New Wave deserved to join Nevermind in Rock's Pantheon, in the corner reserved for "Really Incendiary Rock and Roll Records." Then again, though, it was impossible for me not to yell "Eat your words, Tom Gabel!" during "What We Worked For" as soon as he sang "..and may the rights to this song never make one fucking dollar." Eat 'em up with those big label exec fat cats you fuck and some great red wine, good luck finding that integrity. Jk. Kinda.
"I Dreamed Bob Dylan Was a Friend of Mine:"
Thursday, D. down the hall and I went to see Slumdog Millionaire. Fox Searchlight emailed me those movie promo freebie passes, two, first come first served. We got to the Bourse. Some lady appeared to be waiting ahead of me, so I let her go, and then learned she grabbed the second to last spot. First come indeed. So I dragged D. to AKA Music and picked up a Television Personalities album. I really like it; it's like the missing link between the Vaselines and Brian Jonestown massacre. New episode of the Office, this season's best, and then Zack and Miri Make a Porno which was very, very funny but lacked a little of the depth you expect from most Kevin Smith movies. It was a little too Apatow, not that that's bad because I like that, but it just wasn't Kevin Smith. Maybe he should have stayed in Jersey. But I liked it, nonetheless.
Friday I got a call to interview Mischief Brew/Erik Petersen after the show at the Barbary. To be honest, I've never really dug too far into Mischief Brew's catalog, let alone the Orphans but it was nothing I didn't expect. The crowd smelled awful. Brian McGee and Hollowspeed were great roots rock and to me he sounds like a dead ringer for Jay Farrar. I wonder if that southern accent is fake? Isn't he from here? Lusts were just as good, angry and angular garage rock sung through a telephone receiver (a growing trend, I guess.) Mischief Brew often come off as really hoky sometimes but the feelings are unadulterated and they play with a lot of energy/lack of preachiness that most folk punk is missing. People told me over and over again Erik is the nicest of guys and will be really easy to talk to. This was true.
I hope theres a six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon pounders in my future. If not, I have Waiting For Guffman, Bicycle Thieves, and a walk across the Ben Franklin Bridge early tomorrow afternoon.
I went to AKA yesterday with the intention of buying the new Los Campesinos!. Apparently it doesn't come out til next week, so I was stuck racing to find another option that would cure my "need new album even if it's not necessarily new" fix before my bike, sitting outside unlocked because I fucking left my keys on my bed, got stolen. Since The Walkmen's You & Me has slowly become one of my favorite records of the year (also bought on a whim at Repo Records during Welcome Week) I decided to pick up their debut, Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me is Gone. Now if that title doesn't feel applicable to me at least 10% of the time, I don't know what was. Plus, the kids on the cover make me jealous. Anyway, "French Vacation" sticks out as one of the best songs on the album, especially at the 3:00 mark when the song as we knew it drops out and vocalist Hamilton Leithauser wails and whines over sparse drums: "Hey, where'd you go? I remember when all our plans were to meet at home. Where'd you go?"
11.11.08
This guy dreams of unified scenes... don't ya love him!!!!!!
...so you gave us the Lazy Student's guide to Exam 2. But what of the Lazier Student's guide to Exam 2?
Just joshing. Not that my journalism professor is reading this. Well he might be. But I'm really appreciative of these exam primers.
On another note. Mike Ford, you took a jab at me so now I'm just going to come forward and maybe take a jab at you. But, really, when it comes down to it we're just a couple of guys who don't care. Regardless, I'm sorry, but I just don't like Sky vs. Sea. I really appreciate you guys asking me to do this but it would have just been too much lying for no payoff except for my name on your Myspace. There's too much delay. Your singer is awful (but apparently everyone knows that? But why wallow in Peter Keating-esque vocal-mediocrity when you could do so much better...or just cut vocals altogether.) And I hate Circa Survive. And when I hear you guys, the only thing I can think of is the awful forty-five minutes I near-slept through the time I saw Circa open for Saves the Day. Your bass playing, though, is really really cool and I'm not just saying that. And Azar is a lot of fun to watch. Otherwise, whackness. Sry.
Instead of writing puff-bios for bands I don't like, I want to write the definitive piece about the actual Philadelphia music scene. Not Man Man/Capitol Years/Spinto Band/Dr. Dog, the bands that get all the coverage, that play maybe one or two hometown shows a year... the ones that the local press doesn't even touch. These are your, what some random blog described as, "post-Polothology" outfits like Street Smart Cyclist and Algernon Cadwallader and Boy Problems. How the fuck did this happen? Thirteen years after the fact, we have a glut of (great) bands taking major cues from the Kinsella brothers and the midwest as a whole. What did Philadelphia miss in the mid-90s? While everyone was fretting over girls, there was a burgeoning hardcore punk scene centered in West Philly... why didn't we get sensitive, too? These are questions I want answered! So I'm setting out to find them. I need to set myself apart from these clowns writing reviews for fun and getting their kicks and giggles from interviews with Sam Fogarino and Frightened Rabbit. Music is my LIFE, man. Let's get legit. Ultimate goal: to do lots of things like this by the end of sophomore year, get picked up by a couple mags and freelance my way out of college before junior year... graduate later, Marc Zumoff style.
Let's talk about hopes and dreams.
"Went to school for a degree in journalism and got sick of it/Wanted to write for music rags, all that Lester Bangs shit/Partied up in Philly basements with the post-emo poster boys/The guys had hair in their eyes like girls and the girls had hair short like little boys."
No Age/Titus Andronicus tonight. I will be up front, crying.
My night was kind of like a Hold Steady song: "He went to the show by himself which was alright! Biked back to the party on Bouvier later on that night! It was a real crazy time and in about two hours the kegs of Pabst got kicked! Ended up at McDonalds confessing his love for some Jersey chick!"
Which was fitting. I went to the Hold Steady/Drive-By Truckers show at the Factory kind of last minute. The Hold Steady are one of my favorite bands but I'm fucking broke and I don't like going to shows there anymore. But my Dad called yesterday morning and was like "Hey, there's a good show in town tonight you should check out: The Hold Steady are playing at the Factory..." So I called it a sign, wrote Steven K. a check for twenty bucks and got pumped. I was also obligated to work this party for this student-run webzine (which was supposed to launch today, but no longer) so that was in the cards as well... The show was amazing, energetic as usual, Craig Finn doing his St. Pauli swilling poet/messiah thing and everybody pumping fists and singing along. They didn't play "Killer Parties" but otherwise, it was a great set: "Stay Positive," "Cattle and the Creeping Things," "Your Little Hoodrat Friend," "Constructive Summer," "Ask Her For Adderal," "The Swish," "You Can Make Him Like You," "Hot Soft Light," "Don't Let Me Explode," "Party Pit," "Massive Nights," "Chips Ahoy!," "Slapped Actress..." there were a few more. I was psyched. I had to leave before the Drive-By's because of that party obligation... Biked backed, gave about 15 senseless kids directions to the party (which pleased me because I was expecting low turn out,) got there, drank even though I said I wouldn't, place was packed, my friend/host Chris Brown cleaned up moneywise... Came back and all Danielle had to say was "McChicken" before I got the drunk munchies, so yeah we went to ShitDonalds and the rest is history. I love weekends.
Best week ever? No Age/Titus A, Tuesday Lemuria/Everyone Everywhere, Wednesday Diplo/Abe Vigoda, Friday M83 or Pirouette, Saturday (decisions...) Ceremony/Have Heart, Sunday
I'm just thinking back to journalism junior year when everyone was saying how ridiculous it was that some guy whose middle name happened to be Hussein was going to run for president and I just stood there, shrugging my shoulders saying "It could happen, man."
It did and I'm sure we're better off. I haven't really cared about this election since before the primaries were over. I was just fucking tired of it. I didn't know who was right. I still don't. Until today, I was voting for Nader or saying "That shit don't matter..." When the time came, I did what everyone else did, felt good about it and watching that man speak (I had fallen asleep sometime around ten only to wake up two hours later with a new president,) I started to tear up. I'm really not that indifferent after all.
Cold water (Wyatt and I procured a free refrigerator a while back, plugged it in and let it waste electricity until Saturday when my mom let me finish the orange juice back at school. I rinsed out the plastic jug and now it holds water fountain water and is totally convenient.)
28 Days Later (Watched it for free on Hulu last night. Made me want to do shit.)
Last week was busy. Philadelphia mighta had the best week ever. I was drunk too much (but so was everyone else) and I missed too much class (a lot of em got canceled anyway!) and Monday night, after the miserable cold cold rain and the arguing couple, I literally shit my pants. Drunk, in the bushes on Liacouras walk... it was like a Blink-182 song. Friday, Scotty and I joined two-million other people at the parade. I was drunk by 12:30 which made for fun but also treacherous bike riding. We met up with my sister and some of her friends for pizza and soda before making our way down to the stadiums. Thankfully, it was a whole lot more organized than Wednesday must've been. They had corralled the drunk masses that couldn't score a free ticket to gain entry into Citizens Bank Park in one of the huge parking lots where there was a Jumbotron and other goodies. We didn't bother to go, instead biking up and down Phillies Drive, avoiding the broken glass and, get this, jeers of like "Bikers!" and "Hey Lance, the Tour de France is over!" At five, we headed home but I stopped to meet my friend Kurt on Oregon Avenue. We walked around South Philly until the subways started running again. South Philly is weird. It just feels so ethnic... I know it was at one time, but still, it's weird. Not West Philly weird where you feel like you're nowhere near a city until you look eastward, it's like you feel like you're on the very edge of something and there's nothing else outside it... um, I'm done trying to explain. While everything was happening Friday it was pretty hard to believe that it was Halloween. Halloween is my absolute favorite holiday to spend in Chester County. I spend the afternoon carving a pumpkin and walking around in the dead-leafy goodness, then trick or treat with some friends. Then we get pizza or sandwiches and watch "Halloweenie" the Adventures of Pete and Pete Halloween special. I wasn't at home though, so it wasn't Halloween... obviously. I didn't even bother dressing up for the Man Man show. I biked to the Starlight Ballroom alone, but then met up with a good bunch of people I often spend time with on the weekends: Matthew M., Diane, Julia, Crystal, Dave "The Good Shepherd" Shepherd, his buddy Curtis and this punkish kid whose name escapes me. Pit Er Pat made us sway, Tim Fite made us say WTF? (especially at the video of him fingering the bloody patch of grass during a song about falling in love with a dead girl) and Man Man got everyone to go insane for ninety minutes. They're incredible live. The songs by themselves are great but then they'll go into these mindbending parts where everyone is banging on shit and Honus Honus is doing this crazy circus/bandstand leader thing... and I don't think anyone looks happier than Chris Powell whilst playing drums. Biked back, watched "Halloweenie" with Diane, Jack and Maddie. For this, they are good people. I was indulged. The world, aka everyone on my floor began to filter back to the 11th floor too drunk. I don't think there's been that many girls vomiting in the bathroom ever. I judged people too much. It's something I've been doing a lot. The good people stayed up until six or so and I began this week's sleep catch-up weekend sesh thing. Slept til four on Saturday. Was reminded of the Evan Dando number: "You stayed awake fourteen days and then you slept a week/Why do you do this to yourself?" Used to make me think of CH but I'm glad it now merely conjures images of Wyatt laughing at me when I wake up alarmed to see the hour on the face of the clock. I spent the rest of daylight loafing in front of the computer until I got enough drive to go to the SAC for an egg sandwich. Then I rode most of the length of the Broad Street Line (what a thrilL!) to meet up with my mom and my sister at the Wachovia Center. Easily the highlight of my weekend. My mom bought me a Primo's hoagie and we just hung out before they saw Coldplay. Like, seriously, best shit ever. This couldn't be topped so I watched Slacker in the dark loneliness of my room. It was fucking great. I'm super curious about Texas now. The land of Britt Daniel. There were more alcohol-related episodes later that night but it's just the same old shit. People need to get smart about their drinking habits. Maybe play it like me: stay away from the parties, stick with the people you know, stick with forties of Hurricane (aka heaven.) I tried to make the most out of yesterday by going for a beautiful bike ride and buying Danielle a banana. The sun goes down too early. Woke up too late today, got financial shit straightened out and realized one thing: train-like, I must get back on track.
I watched the Phillies win in the vestibule of the First Unitarian Church on Sean Agnew's laptop. I got a bunch of confetti in my mouth and am pretty much out fourteen dollars considering I (along with mostly everyone else) rolled before Tokyo Police Club even started playing.
The Lemonheads-"Confetti"
(Evan Dando was born in Philadelphia and apparently still has family in Allentown.)
Only three games in World Series have been called a tie before the ninth inning: in 1907, 1912 and 1922... due to darkness. Holy shit.
Um, luckily Monday night wasn't called a tie in the midst of the shittiest fucking rain storm of my life. Things at 7th and Pattison were pretty hunky dory until it started. Just a lot of people drinking beer and watching analog television. But as soon as the rain (nearly horifuckingzontal) started, it was like the last few scenes of Children of Men when they're in the refugee camp; fights, people throwing bottles at cars, awful drunk girls. We rolled before the end of the fifth. I was soaked, hadn't been inside for hours and was incredibly nervous for whatever the conclusion would bring.
Lester Bangs-style coverage written for my grandkids coming later today...
I think the best part of living in the city is being able to do things on a whim. For example, I heard about this house show in West Philadelphia yesterday, scheduled for earlier tonight. So it was last minute, but I didn't have any plans... so I could go. Just took the subway there with Scotty and Amanda like usual; was able to procure alcohol which is no big deal because there's no driving involved. It's just so easy. But yeah mostly I want to talk about the show.
Everyone Everywhere is this great bunch of dudes (3/4 Temple kids and I see them around all the time) that play just like, this really happy, Promise Ring-style pop-punk. Like (old) TPR, they sing about pretty mundane (or maybe just really specific?) things; partying because an old friend is back from a semester abroad, bike rides, um, houses with no basements. It's really simple stuff. Not really a retread but it's not breaking new ground either, but for some reason I can't get enough of them. They just make me really happy. I got to see them for the first time tonight at the brand new Breakfast and Dessert House (awesome space, but will probably grow into a really whack scene.) On stage they give off this really lovable vibe... like those really nice guys from back home. And they're back in town for like, Thanksgiving or something. And they're all really into it and like me, sometimes say too much (actually that's really just guitarist Tommy Manson but really, for some reason, this band can't do any wrong in my eyes. Why is this?!). The set was great. They have a seven-inch coming out sometime on Flightplan Records... it's been in the works for like, fucking ever. Should be available by the time they play with Lemuria (November 12, Circle of Hope. Cannot waiiiiit.)
Johnny Foreigner headlined. They're from England and are apparently pretty big (10/10 on Drowned in Sound for their debut) over there. I'd never heard them until I heard about the show and I checked them out. It's like, good spazzy pop but I didn't really delve that deep. Tonight, watching them play, all I could think was Los Campesinos!. I mean, their sound, for one, has the same restless, on-edg-and-still-kinda-twee feel to it. Their singers have the same haircuts. They both wear too-small, girl-cut shirts. This whole Campesinos/Foreigner thing was really bothering me for the first part of their set... I just couldn't get into it. LC! have released one of my favorite records of the year and I just kept wishing it was them I was seeing instead of Johnny Foreigner. But like, there was a tipping point somewhere and I really started to feel it. Johnny Foreigner are actually probably the better of the two bands. They're only a three-piece so there's a lot less bullshit and they're not as stylized as LC! can sometimes seem. What I'm saying is is this: they play the same kind of awesome, glitchy, Pavement-centric twee shit I love but it's only the essentials; no glock, no violins, no group-shouts etc. Also, Alexei (vocals) never called me out on Myspace. Everyone Everywhere Johnny Foreginer Septa Green Line (West Philly trolleys=whackest shit ever. Why can't we have a transportation system fit for the 21st century?)
...the Tom Gabel E.P. (I know, right? Where the eff did this come from?) is merely half-good. Listen for yourself: http://www.purevolume.com/tomgabel. "Harsh Realm" and "Anna is a Stool Pigeon" are standouts. Just when I thought I was fucking done with this guy... I go buy tickets to his solo show at the Barbary (November 11 if yr counting) and decide to stream Heart Burns while reading about elevated trains.
I had a dream about elevated trains. I had a dream I was riding the Market-Frankford El all night with my extended family. Um. All this reading about public transportation on Wikipedia has got to stop.
They turned on central heat in my building a few hours ago. It makes this far-off drip/clank noise that's keeping me the fuck up. Someone, make it stop. It's rendering me completely unable to go to sleep!
I hate it when people like a given band for their "talent." I avoid using talent to describe any band. The best bands lack any sort of talent. They just write good songs. But there's one thing I have to say about Fucked Up: they're a hardcore punk band with some legitimate talent. You know the deal: Canadian band fronted by a self-described 300 pound baby writes six minute punk epics with a situationist bent, satisfying bookish critics and upped-punx alike. Their new album, Chemistry Of Common Life, pushes the band forward in a way that makes a lot of sense. You get the punk rawk, but also piccolo solos, bongos... you know the deal, you've read the reviews. They brought the whole brutal-yet-philosophical-and-high-minded mess to the Barbary last night. It blew people's heads off.
Like any punk show, it's important to talk about the crowd, which, halfway through the first song, had a gaping hole ripped into it. That led to the usual bouncing off of other people business. It was a lot of fun because, this being a Fucked Up show as opposed to, say, a Champion show, one has to keep this up for more than just two minutes at a time. There were a few points where vocalist Pink Eye entered the audience, picked somebody up and used them as a sort of human battering ram to get through the motionless back-half of the room. He also donkey kicked some longhair in the face which was badass.
Fucked Up closed the often ascendant set with a cover of Wire's "12XU;" Fitting, seeing as my soundtrack for the last two weeks of weird frustration has been Wire and Fucked Up. At a time when punk is at a really strange crossroads, Fucked Up, justifiably, rise above both trendy bullshit and those trashy kids in G.B.H. shirts longing for a scene they were too late to ever be a part of.
I get two phone calls about a free Death Set show in Center City. All ages, free alcohol. I have to write a journalism paper. After an hour of contemplation/research, I decide to follow my heart and Josh's alcoholism; we go to the show. I drank a lot of Sparks. I don't remember much except Scotty and Josh both played drums for Ninja Sonik, I made a likely fatal mistake, Gabby took a fuck load of pictures, lots of people broke up with their boyfriends and Josh crowd surfed during the Death Set's set. I do definitely know it was a transient exceperience. Especially afterwards: thousands of people on the corner of Broad and Market; high fives, slow taxis, traffic as far as the eye can see... Phillies are in the world series, motherfucking Death Set.
I fucking love this band. They're called Fucked Up and I probably should have gotten into them sooner. What could be better than a group of Canadians led by a schizophrenic, three-hundred pound situationist playing six-minute hardcore punk epics? It's like Black Flag but bigger, longer, uncut. Less neck muscle. They're coming to the Barbary Saturday with the recently-heralded and kinda sexy girl group Vivian Girls. I might break my neck. It'll be worth it. The time is ripe... I need to get my frustrations out at a really violently passionate punk show.
I'm feeling really light right now... I was planning to stay up all night cramming in the Tech Center for the history midterm I thought I had tomorrow. I got through a lot of reading before it dawned on me it's not tomorrow but Monday the 20th... Regardless, I'm staying up late.
Did you know that Magnolia is the best movie ever? Ever have that feeling at the end of a record or a movie or television show where you just want to cry for no reason other than that what you just witnessed was, like, for lack of a better and less general word, amazing? Magnolia gave me that feeling. I'm not sure if it's because one of the characters really hit close to home, John C. Reilly's utmost purity or just the shear bulk of the film I just watched but I got it. Please watch this movie. Every day for two weeks. The soundtrack is very good also. Tonight, I described Aimee Mann as a morose Sheryl Crowe...
Other things that made/make me feel this way: The Hold Steady's Separation Sunday. Somewhere in the middle of "How a Resurrection Really Feels." The Titus Andronicus show at Haverford, twice. When Patrick opened the set with a cover of "Going Away to College," and later when they played "Albert Camus" by my fucking request. Toy Story 2. Arcade Fire's "No Cars Go" and "My Body is a Cage" back to back.
Actually, I don't think I cried at the shear amazingness of these things but the feeling that overcame me was something akin to what I got from Magnolia...
Things that don't make me cry but feel amazing: Two forties to the face on a Monday night. My bed.
And the license said You had to stick around until I was dead But if you're tired of looking at my face I guess I already am But you've never been a waste of my time It's never been a drag So take a deep breath and count back from ten And maybe you'll be alright
"The two locomotives and eight of the twelve cars derailed, four of them falling 15 feet off a bridge into a dry river bed. Mitchell Bates, a sleeping car attendant was killed, and 78 people were injured, 12 of them seriously." Read about the Palo Verde Derailment
I spent a lot of the time I was awake yesterday reading about train lines in the United States.
Lemuria Their influences say Lemonheads and Sebadoh which rules but I hear more that dog. than anything else. Circle of Hope November 12, can't wait.
I'm afraid that the circumstances that led to this song (or any song like it) could only have existed between 1990-1999.
Too true: "I'll never ask for the truth but you owe that to me."
I'm really pissed at myself for not even trying to get into the Wire show Friday. Scotty's was excellent (Leitch House is a paradise) but this (U.S. Wire tour) only happens once every, like, five years,
Junior year of high school, this became one of my favorite songs ever written.
It's no secret I love No Age. Nouns is probably going to be the best album of 2008... if not the decade. I just put it on and I'm two songs in, wondering, when there's good music how the fuck can you care about anything else. Say you invest an amazing amount of time or love or care or yourself into something (or maybe all of those things into something at once)... the return is never going to be as rewarding as your favorite record. Your favorite record remains consistent. It says the same things all the time. It's there for you when you need it. It doesn't call you back because it doesn't have the ability to. A wonderful excuse if I've ever heard one. It doesn't matter that it can't call you anyway because when you pull it off the shelf and put it on or cue it up on iTunes, it's always happy to hear from you. It proceeds to be all these things when the first notes come through the speakers... consistent, eliciting good feelings. It doesn't matter that you and I haven't talked about anything of substance since Friday night. I don't know why that is. I don't know if I'm in the wrong. I don't know if any of this is happening for a legitimate reason. But all that uncertainty disappeared five minutes ago when that drawn out "thuuuunk-cluuuuunk" turns into four tom-hits on Dean Spunt's drum kit. "I feel a common breeze..." Thanks Dean, the rest is history.
I just finished my very first college paper. It was on Jorge Luis Borge's short story The Immortal, probably the best thing I've read since I got here. I took myself away from the productivity vortex that is the desk in my dormitory and trekked across campus with Steven K. to the Tech Center (open twenty-four hours a day...) This was after we saw Stereolab and Atlas Sound. I like Atlas Sound, never heard Stereolab. Vice versa for Steve K. We fell asleep two different times; myself during Stereolab, for the bulk of their set, and Steve during Atlas Sound for the bulk of his. You could've gathered that, I guess. Anyway, yeah, I had to write this paper and I did and yeah I'm satisfied. Something strange happened afterward. I went into 7-11 to see if they had headphones. They didn't so I left, yeah, duh, and then, not so duh, starting coughing and throwing up into their trashcan. Was it my sickening self-satisfaction? Was it frustration stemming from lack of conversation? Was it something that I shouldnt've been smoking? Was it the travel coffee mug Wyatt gave me our first weekend here? Was it the fucking Wawa hot dog (I hope not)? It didn't matter because the remains of the chili dogs I vomited on (on, not up. Wawa's ground beek/pork/mystery meat doesn't suck as much as "the Sev's.") may as well have been vomit anyway. I'd better go brush my teeth.
It's funny how college is nothing like orientation. I rarely see Julie or Brianne or Boog and Anna never hangs out... haha, but it doesn't matter. Philaelphia might be the new Kennett Square. The other night, I sat out in front of Johnson and Hardwick with a bunch of kids that I've fallen in with (probably because most of us wear flannel/plaid, glasses and go to shows) on a patch of grass. We talked and I pulled the grass out from the ground... kinda like home, outside Michocana. I guess I'm comfortable now.
I've only been listening to the Death Set for twenty four hours but I couldn't be more excited to see them next month.
Chicago again this weekend. The first Gallagher wedding in an age. It should be... wild.
I went to an advance screening of Choke tonight. I used to really like Chuck Palahniuk in, I guess, freshman year. I read all his books and fell for all the twists and was grossed out but in love with the simplicity of the punches he delivered with every self-loathing sentence. I got over it though. "Shock value." You must've heard me say it a thousand times. But anyway, the chance came up for me to go to this screening and I thought why not. The movie was pretty good. I might like it better than the book. But that could just be because I'm a hater. The dialogue was a little forced. Sam Rockwell is good at playing a creep. Kelly Macdonald (sp?) was great as usual. She might've been my favorite part of No Country For Old Men and she's so weird/sexy in Trainspotting. The main beef I have though, with the book and the movie, is the whole choking thing. I could never see myself being compelled to send someone money periodically just because I saved their life. It's kind of typical of Chuck P, these ridiculous situations. Like if my Wilmington apartment blew up, I wouldn't think of calling Tyler Durden and moving in with him at some shitty Paper Street squat. The problem is, all his books rely on something like that. But I digress. I got to ask him a question which was kind of cool. I was sitting right up front. He mentioned that he had optioned all of his books at this point to be adapted into screenplays. Pretty much I wanted to know how he felt about letting them go out to become another person's monster. He's pretty cool about it. So there.
I took about ten years off my face just a little while ago. But the chest... well, that's some other beast entirely.
I called Chris Dawson. He lives at 1300 and rides this hot, shiny Bianchi Pista fixed gear. I want to copy him. But I'm going to do it over winter break and paint the frame so he doesn't really know. I hope we start riding together once a week. We did last week and I guess tomorrow we're off to Old City so I can get my record fix. I'm going to have the balls to ask if they are hiring anythime soon. I know this.
Saturday, after I bore witness to what Scotty Leitch himself proclaimed as the best Pirouette show ever, we went over to his brother Anth's cramped studio apartment. I guess his girlfriend is a total bitch. After about eight of us sat down on the floor of the living area, she got kind of mad. But then, Anth and Scotty played Archers of Loaf's "Greatest of All Time." It was beautiful. I guess it's kind of Anth's story. I hope he keeps his shit together and keeps making records. About A Million is probably the most well-written music of anyone I've ever known and Spit on a Stranger should be no different. Plus, they're named after the best Pavement song. Or maybe the one that relates most to me. Have a listen:
I'm suddenly compelled to tell you about Arthur. I met Arthur on the train to Haverford for that Titus show a week+ ago. He has an Elliott Smith XO tattoo on his hand. According to him, I'm only the second person to ever guess that. Then, Friday night I saw him at the Mogwai show (fucking loud and awesome by the way.) He was really there to see Fuck Buttons. The week before we was really just there to see openers Crystal Stilts. Arthur likes openers and is a cool guy. I hope I encounter him again... Mimi, you'd probably really like him. Oh and Mimi, before I forget again, Aaron Smuts (fave proffesor status omg omg) is like the Northeast's answer to Brian Walters.
I managed to forget my laptop charger, phone charger, keys for my bike lock and room, Microphones-The Glow Part Two (the CD only, so now I have this fancy K Records artwork to admire...) Yesterday, I brought home my camera but forgot the SD card, so my mom couldn't take cute pictures of Vlad and I this morning. My laptop is going to die in an hour or so. My phone probably won't. I have extra bike keys so it's locked onto (MY FUCKING!!) signpost. Safe and sound. Tomorrow my dad and I trade Visa cards for those chargers and maybe another lunch. I like that I get to see my dad a lot. Sometimes I don't think he's okay with me.
We met Chris Matthews Saturday somewhere near Walnut and Broad. He asked me all these questions about my school that I didn't know the answer to... Haha, do not want to talk about it, but he said he'd take me as an intern. He might be teaching at Temple next year because he's moving back into the area to run for state senate in 2010. Nice guy.
I can't stop listening to Pavement. Two-hundred fifteen+ plays on last.fm this week...
Titus Andronicus should be the biggest band in the world right now. They have the requisite critical praise and newfound status as college graduates that brought Vampire Weekend a heap of success just a few months ago. But, instead of Saturday Night Live, Titus Andronicus is still playing basements. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I saw them in one September 12 (Haverford College's Lunt Hall to be exact,) and it was nothing short of a spectacle. Like any basement show, it was cramped and people were sweaty but the music ascended to somewhere just over the treetops. Titus' schtick can be described as something like this: manic joy, dissent, anguish, neglect, and senseless debauchery fermented for as long as men have been put down by other men. That's just the lyrics. The guitars, drowning in distortion and reverb, often enter My Bloody Valentine/Galaxie 500 terrirtory and the keyboards shout Springsteen. If it weren't for the drums it'd be a huge, shoegazing mess. These are all good things, exectued flawlessly by five, often drunk, Jersey kids. But the show itself. It's hard to describe without staying focused on the crowd rather than the band because by the middle of every song, most of us found ourselves occupying the same space as Patrick Stickles and crew. They didn't mind, really. Band and audience were one for the better part of the show, screaming the same words about "laughter and loss" ("Joset of Nazareth Blues,") lack of a future ("No Future Pt. 1,") suburban existentialism ("Albert Camus,") and so on. It was beautiful, it was absurd, possibly more nihilistically-Nietzsche than what's-the-use-in-caring-Camus. Now that they're done their studies, they're touring relentlessly. Go see this band. Talk to them and please ask them for advice.
I gave up on innocence. I stopped watching TV news. I stopped watching TV in general except episodes of Dawson's Creek on DVD and Weeds OnDemand. I said fuck this stupid election. I realized that the only reason people ask if you're registered to vote is to get you to vote for Barack. I guess he's ok. But isn't McCain just ok too? Doesn't that suck? Apathetic. Better things to care about. Olde English. Books. The Stranger. Bikes. Hanging out with Scotty Leitch every day. The new CH. Records. Pavement reissues. Getting the balls to ask for a job at Repo Records.
Also, I gave up on immortality. Given the choice: would you rather die or have your memory completely wiped, get dropped in the Mission District of San Francisco and lead a completely new life, not the one you were leading as ______? Well, I'm kind of indifferent. Either way, Joe Gallagher as we know it is dead. Aaron Smuts, thanks for showing me the light.
Today in Intellectual History-1 with Dr. Aaron Smuts (my favorite class, by the way), I realized the main difference between college and high school so far. In class discussions, you go off on tangents... but they actually mean something. For example, we had to read this thing on immortality for Smuts today. We didn't discuss the reading as much as we discussed immortality in general and different scenarios where it might be desirable (there's all of like, one.) If this were Mr. Longo's English class last year, it'd be a different story. "So what'd you fellas read last night?" "Wait, wait, Mr. Longo have you ever seen ______!?" And on and on for fifty-two increasingly more disheartening and cynicism-inducing minutes. Thinking about it though, Intellectual History might be the exception. My journalism class, sadly, is a joke. George Miller is a great professor and his writing is, fuck, "legit." But the kids in the class are far from... Everyone pretty much wants to talk about their life story and ends up saying the same thing as the person that spoke before them. Like, listen, maybe?
First day, discussion; "what is journalism?" People magazine. Is it journalism?
Simple answer, yes. It disseminates information to human beings. But everyone decided to raise their hand and say exactly that along with some kind of catch. The two catches were, like, but it's base and but it sucks, pretty much. I don't know why fifty kids decided to repeat each other for a half hour. Whatever. So, college: half-legit. And I'm involved. But she doesn't go here. But she's been one of my best friends since freshman year. Just thought that you should know.
June, you're a lifesaver. I thought if I spent anymore time in that single-sex day to day drudgery they called my high school, I would off myself. Sure, there were some aspects of it that were redeeming but I'm so done with talking about them. I graduated. It's over. You brought me full-time work (again) which was fun; Matt and Sara are totally bearable. Special shout-out to September for taking care of Bill. Bill, fuck you. Anyway, then there was the grad party which was a success for a few reasons. I got a lot of money, I guess that's cool. But more than that I realized once again what an amazing, huge and amazingly huge and loving family I have. I guess I've done well when it comes to being surrounded by good people. That was proved further the following week when you took my closest friends and myself camping. We didn't drive each other crazy and the heat was bearable. There were some excellent people that decided to camp too... stereotype-defying West Virginians and a teacher that helped Alex fulfill a (n illegal) dream.
July, thanks for keeping me occupied more than anything. Oh, and the hot weather! Shit rules. You made seeing No Age perfect. If it hadn't been so hot as to compel me to take my shirt off, well... I don't think I would have become the center of attention like I did. It was great. Then, Chicago, wow... What a great place to be in the middle of the fucking summer. You made the lake rival the Atlantic Ocean. Pitchfork was a blast, also. It's marvelous how everyone's tour schedule worked out so that the best bands ended up in Chicago during the same July weekend. I'm kinda sorry I decided to schedule my orientation on your way out... I had someone I needed to say more goodbyes to. Then you whisked me off to North Carolina which was great as usual but it was kinda premature. Lots of unfinished business this summer, not enough time. But I'm thankful for what I got in...
August. Like I said North Carolina was great but I had places to be which isn't usually the case. Last hurrahs with my best friends, the best friends. We made a hit record. You inspired me to be something more, to go outside and savor the summer air (+ leaves, humidity, freedom...,) to not use so many bar chords and to write an actual chorus, to stick to a book, to go to as many shows as I wanted to in the course of a week. Your soundtrack was Titus Andronicus and I couldn't think of anything more perfect; simultaneously, it was anguished, frantic, happy to the point of tears admidst a world so FUCKED. School? Click tracks? Moving away? Being too nice to people? I can't take it sometimes. This world is so fucked and summer is all I have. I mean there's always friends and good times but usually they have to be confined within a schedule, within a weekend, within cliques... You took all that away. You made everything perfect in 2008, thanks a lot, I'll miss you.
Yesterday, Four O'Clock in the Afternoon. In a School of Communications and Theater meeting at Mitten Hall.
Message to John Crodian-
J.G: "College is gay"
J.C: "we need to find a way to make summer last forever."
J.G: "That sentiment brought a tear to my eye."
After I said goodbye to my family, I ran into Ben Holloway and Dom Urbani. Ben offered me a Parliament and when it comes to smoking when people offer you a cigarette, I'm an addict. This is about to stop. They don't taste as good as I like to tell myself. I'm lighting it just as my parents are rounding the corner onto Diamond Street.
Message from Mimi-
M.G: "Mom is freaking. Just saw u with a cig. Ur dumb. No more."
Message from Mom-
L.G: "You said u wouldnt smoke. You make me sad"
Point taken Mom and Mim. That sentiment, too, brought a tear to my eye.
Sometimes, I like to drop Jon Boyd a line. Our conversations... I don't know what to say about them, really. This took place last night, 9:20.
Message to Jon Boyd-
J.G: "Dont let school murdere [sic] yr spirit and will, though, senior year kinda sucks"
J.B: "Its about to but ill try not to let it Cable news chanels are disgusting"
J.G: ""Such bias and really does the populus need bullshit "commentators" telling them whats wrong and right"
J.B: "I noe the only chanel keeping it real with convention coverage is whyy"
I had breakfast in the cafeteria. That makes sense. What doesn't is that I had cereal instead of something of a little more greasy persuasion. I'm glad I did that actually. They have flatscreen TVs to keep your mind off the D-grade meat and thick consistency of the milk that I'm sure comes from a bag. Nah, I haven't been that negative but, as an aside, TVs in cafeterias are kind of a weird trend... Anyway, I thought of Miles when MTV-U spun a Dizzee Rascal video and I didn't think my roommate was picking up what I was putting down.
Message to Miles-
J.G: "They have MTV U on in the cafeteria and theyre playing the flex video. College is aiight"
Oh no. Tomorrow, I fly. I think, though, I think that I'm doing a good job of calming my nerves. I just it's not all that plausible that the plane is either: just gonna crash, blow up because someone somehow got a bomb on the plane... whoa, I guess that's it. See? There's not much to be afraid of. I. Can do this.
I'm flying to Chicago. It'll be my first time in that windiest of cities. Awesome musicians that hail from Chicago: Kanye West, the Kinsellas, Jeff Tweedy, Davey von Bohlen. My uncle Sean lives there and he's seen pretty much every cool band (Fugazi, Sonic Youth, The Clash...). He's taking us to the Pitchfork Music Festival which is sweet because it doesn't have an overwhelming amount of absolutely huge, big shit bands like Bonnaroo or Lollapalooza or that shit. Also, I read Pitchfork every single day. It'll be nice to see how they exist. I get to see No Age again. Pysched as fuck on Titus Andronicus (better than/as good as reading a book. Heavy ass lyrics that take more than one cue from Albert Camus. Patrick Stickles, their head-dude has to be one of the most desperate and anguised motherfuckers I've ever heard on record), the Hold Steady will be amazing, Spoon (chance encounter with Britt Daniel?), Animal Collective (I'll stand and wonder "Why?"), Ghostface and Raekwon, Boris, Cut Copy, tons more.
I've been taking pictures on my 35mm SLR again. I missed that thing. I had a house show last night, it was off the hook. We did it in my garage. I can't get over the shear fucking talent that's happening right now. John Ciccone played solo and it was otherworldly. Jeff Buckley-level shit. Scotty Leitch from Pirouette played solo too and every time I hear one of his songs, I choke a little bit because they make my heart wanna sing. John Crodian played a lot of stuff I'd never heard him do before and that was exciting because I think he's the best storyteller I know. I need to see his movies. TV Dinner might've played their best show ever, albeit out of tune. No surprises there, though. I feel like Scotty is the dad to our little scene. John, lately I feel like you're the punkest kid out there.
I'm retarded when it comes to Emily Bonsall. This is self-flaggelation but with a Dominique Francon-emulating girl that just happens to be awesome.
I bid on a Cap'n Jazz 7-inch when I was drunk last night after the show. It better be worth the seven dollars I'm apparently willing to pay.
"Between Joey R.'s hitler mustache, still thinking about the No Age show and Nouns, the strange looking lady with the stranger gastronomical persuasions and Matt's pork fried rice I just wanted to cry."
That's what being at work on a Saturday feels like.
Note to self: send postcards to Murph, Mr. Tischler, others?
Old school Pirouette Jumpoff:
Cheers to Ralph Maccio!
New Firefox is whack.
John turned me on to Giuseppe Andrews. He played the weird cop in Cabin Fever. He also makes music and movies. We watched Touch Me In The Morning last week. It's a patchwork quilt of black and white home movies, psychotic old people. sexual absurdism and, somehow, innocence. It was fucking hilarious. See it. Here's a video for his song "Bikini Wax." The look on his face is so fucking priceless.
So much freedom this summer. I graduated from school. 'Nuff said. Part of me wants a girlfriend but part of me is glad I don't have one. This time last year I was spending my days off sitting in air conditioned bed rooms at the whim of somebody that wasn't me. Now I'm out every night until at least 12 with my best friends making amazing memories/music/love. That's what I did today.
I've always wanted a fourth of July celebration of my own. The Kalmbachs used to throw the best barbecues at their gorgeous near-estate in the countryside but now, they go away every year. Last year I got close: great friends and I went to the Laurels on a rainy day, swam in the creek and partied at Jeff Daman's. I thought Kelly and Trey were going to hook up.
I've always wanted to host a big game of capture the flag. When I used to talk to Shelby, we would make plans to do it. Her mom was in real estate, sold off a lot of Somerset Lake, and had maps of the whole place. We were going to plot out the shebang... make teams and shit. This is when I was almost popular again, freshman or sophomore year. There was that time by the rocks... but I don't kiss and tell, I digress. Needless to say, the maps and the game never materialized and it's probably been drilled out of her memory by now by all the alcohol.
Today I did both. The CTF wasn't as large scale as I might have dreamed, but it was fuckityhellofa-time. Christian dove over pines into the neutral zone giving us, the red team, a disputed second win. I was really glad he was there! Plus he was an insane advantage. Lots of people came, maybe I can post pictures.
There were wonderful females from Coatesville. I feel like my knowledge of them lies on a string. By that I guess I'm saying first, I know them by total chance and second, do I even know them? I'm getting to.
Like we had been talking about all day, we made our way up to the orchard after dark. It looked "very Harry Potter" according to Mimi. We tied two of my shirts to trees and fumbled around the mist and carried each other barefoot over stinging nettles until we just gave up and watched Longwood's half-fireworks show from the top of the big hill. Usually they go all out, but this year, I guess because of all the rain, it was kind of muted.
We finished as we do with most wonderful nights: watching videos on YouTube. It works like this: someone jumps on the computer, peruses, finds and then we become amused. They get a couple more rounds (all day: honors system) then someone else gets a genius fucking idea of what everyone else wants to see. It almost never goes badly. You know the standards: "Unforgivable," "Tourette's Guy," "Charlie Brown," those G.I. Joe overdubs...
Allison's LJ let me know it was okay to post a fourth of July entry a week late.
Most importantly, I saw No Age last night.
Segue: I'm coming over to the side of the musicians/critics calling for an end to amateur digital photography at shows. When I heard about the dude from Band of Horses that wishes he were James Mercer flipping out about cell phone cameras at a show I thought it was kind of stupid. Let us do what we want, art is free. But then, Mimi told me about this thing Billie Joe Armstrong said at one of the secret Pinhead Gunpowder shows that went down in March... Calling for people to put their fucking cameras away, let loose and rely on your memories of the show to share later on. After that, thinking back to when I saw Cat Power and she had to fucking stop the show to say hey, cut the fucking flash photography it's driving me nuts, it made so much sense. Fuck your Flickr account. The show is never going to look as good as it does right now, in front of your face. Why spoil it?
I came with low expectations. On last.fm, I was reading horror stories about long setup times and a lack of engagement with the crowd. Abe Vigoda were pretty much what I was expecting. I want their record. Plus Juan, their fey guitarist/vocalist, seems like a really nice dude. And their drummer was awesome. I'm sick of this whole High Places/Yeasayer/(to an extent) Animal Collective neo-primitivism thing, so I didn't really want to see High Places. There was nothing to do because everyone was trendy and brown bagging... so I ended up seeing High Places. They're like the best parts of A Sunny Day in Glasgow with the worst parts of A.C... you get sunshine-gorgeous, reverb-drenched female vox on top of no-destination-in-mind, synthetic-like-duPont and supposedly "tribal" beats. My impression of their sound (which did a pretty good job of entertaining Mimi) is something like: boom boom boom. Coo cooooooo coo. Boom. Coo coo. Like I said several times, it was good for three things: browsing records, sleeping and if you were to take three percs and then smoke a bowl.
So the rumours were just a teeny-bit true. Their setup, for two dudes, took way too long. I know they make a lot of noise and have lots of effects but Randy's were arranged tidily on an enormous pedalboard he simply carried out onstage and Dean's on a small rack above his snare. There was lots of socializing going on onstage, dudes from Pissed Jeans were there I DUNNO WHAT DO I KNOW about the innerworkings of sort-of-noisy punk bands. I started to get really excited though and the question was constantly on my mind... No Age are kind of in this void between punk and trendy indie. Even though their music is absolutely meant to be a full-stage-press, pump yr fist n stage dive affair, something told me that sort of thing wouldn't go over well with the crowd. The people up front - a few of those amateur photographers, obnoxiously F.R.C., some other serious types - did not seem down. In short: would I pogo like it was 1977, would I be able to jump into a commotion-ridden crowd with an enormous grin on my face, would people be fun?
The answer became clear in the middle of opener, "Miner" (TATATAT, DOOODOOO DOOODOOO DOOOODOOOO.. gahhhhh), when some like minds behind me clearly wanted to move. After about ten minutes, the better part of the floor of the church was bodies gently pushing bodies, my shirtless dumb ass making lots of friends and the occasional dive. I mean on one end, this is not what the show is about - some moshpit glorystory - but in another way, it is because No Age is a band to be experienced, not just heard. They demonstrate it all the time through their total involvement in L.A.'s Smell punk scene. They want to be slamdanced to and I think that's the point a lot of their new fans miss. Anyway, Dean and Randy seemed ecstatic. At one point, Dean was just like "You guys, you guys..." thanking us for "killing it," and so on. So yeah, crowd/band involvement was at a high. Their set was perfect: most of Nouns, a few from Weirdo Rippers, a couple of rarities and an obscure cover (The Urinals' "Male Masturbation").
So let me tell you why No Age are an important band. Like I said, they're filling a really cool void between punk and indie. They sing about having passion. Their sound is a perfect balance of noise, pop and punk. They're like our Sonic Youth. They cater to the youth. They like all ages shows. They want you to have a good time. They're original and fit for our time because they're kind of like this bastardized punk band singing about just ignoring the bad and going up and down and loving every single minute of it because that's what humans do.
I just updated my blog for the first time in a month so now I can go back and read everyone's backlog of entries. <3
So I've taken to hanging out with an Oxford crowd again and by that I mean Liz Cimino and whoever she is with (usually Hope and Em, sometimes Kelly) lose a little bit of sense and drive thirty minutes north on Route One to my house. This has happened exactly twice in the last 5 days and both occasions have garnered an A+ for fun and possibility.
I need to start doing push-ups again because my arms are flabby. I want to film that.
What's Hot: Roman Polanski Summer Wawa Milkshakes
What's Not: Total lack of Q-tips in the bathroom drawer Graduation party stress Lacking another driver for extreme camping June 16-23 in North Carolina (all interested parties please apply as soon as possible)
I noticed something. We have these neighbors, we'll call them the Vees, that don't wave back at us. The Gallagher clan are a friendly bunch and we often take to waving at whomever we pass on the street and the Vees are nearly always out walking their dog at twilight. They never reciprocate. But I noticed something recently when I was biking to work. Mr. Vee was walking his dog alone, at midday, and after I waved at him he waved back. There were several more occasions where the Vees were walking together, not bothering to wave, but today, Mr. Vee was playing with his dog in the yard. Just he and his dog. And he waved. At my dad and I. Just thought that you should know.
Also, the new Hold Steady is absolutely awesome. It's not really funny to think that two or three years ago my summer soundtrack was pretty much Saves the Day and Lifetime. There's nothing wrong with Saves the Day and especially Lifetime but I'm using them to illustrate a point: summer used to equal pop-punk. But there's so much more than that. I'm trying to think of a way to describe... well, look: somehow, No Age, Cap'n Jazz and Jawbreaker all overlap. Jawbreaker, Latterman and Lifetime certainly overlap. The Hold Steady aren't doing anything drastically different than any of these bands, except they're older and grew up with Paul Westerberg and Bruce Springstein instead of Ian Mackaye. Pirouette, well, goes without saying and Failed Attempts need to put out a full-length. That was my late-night musing about my summer listening, I guess, but what I really want to say is this, this chorus from the first track off the excellent new Hold Steady album, Stay Positive. It's called "Constructive Summer" and it goes:
" We're gonna build something this summer/ Summer grant us all the power/ to drink on top of water towers/ with love and trust that shows all summer/ Let this be my annual reminder/ that we can all be something bigger."
Some people don't like television. I guess I should be one of them but sometimes, there's too much to love. For example, today I spent a good twenty minutes deciding what movie to watch on Comcast On Demand. There are always so many excellent choices! Something like fast food value menu of movies... where is this going? So there's that, but also there's so many high-quality programs: that new green network; Current Television (I never mention this channel because I'm afraid my ex-girlfriend will think that I stole it from her when in fact it's the other way around. See, when we broke up I was the bleeding heart liberal and she was the one indifferent to politics. Then I guess she realized it was fashionable to hop on the Barack train and now she's a Current junkie like John Boyd and the rest of us.); NBC's unbelievable double helping on Thursday night with the Office and 30 Rock. For me, nothing will ever beat listening to a record while reading a book or magazine but there's one thing that comes damn near close and it's on the tube. I'm talking about Radio Free Roscoe.
Like a lot of good television (Degrassi, Degrassi Junior High, Degrassi: The Next Generation), RFR was Canadian and geared toward teens. Four suburban high schoolers [three guys (one vaguely Latino or maybe Indian, one African American and one Buddhist) and a girl] are tired of the "Be like this!" mentality they're surrounded by so they do what any fringe-hip clique of teenagers would do: they start their own radio station. It's executed a little less ridiculously than the way its premise sounds. Think like, Pump Up The Volume meets Dawson's Creek minus star-power, unrealistic drama and neverending, hyper-taut love situations. These are kids you could actually relate to... except they had their own pirate radio station.
There's a moment in the second episode that immediately guaranteed itself a place in my life. Lily, Travis, Ray and Robbie are hanging outside the warehouse they'll soon be broadcasting from, debating over on-air aliases. Lily, of course, really wants something special, something that's a good fit... just like the boys'. Robbie: "How about Shady Lane?" Ray: "Shady Lane? Yeah, great one Robbie considering nobody has ever, ever called her that!" Lily: "No, no, it's a song by Pavement, the band, it's the song that made me want to start playing the guitar!"
It's August, I'm fourteen, watching this show on this channel I just got (DishNetwork, baby! Summer before freshman year!) and they're talking about a band I recently fell in love with? Cool I guess is the word?
Throughout its two seasons there were controversial class election campaigns (Lily's "Think Pink!" platform,) struggles to remain original (probably the most important storylines dealt with this,) really cute supporting characters (see: Julia Alexander, Victoria Nestorowicz. Grace and Parker, respectively,) a solid soundtrack (nowhere near Pete and Pete's, however,) really well-done season finales... I was crushed at the end of summer '06 when it was finished off. Degrassi just didn't cut it anymore.
I have the Best of Season One DVD (the only one the ever made. I had to order it off amazon.ca!) and they show re-runs now at 12 and 12:30 in the afternoon on The-N. I was watching them today and I still always find my gut wrenching whenever Robbie's usually benign messages about being yourself take a militant turn or when Lily embarrasses herself on stage at Mickey's. I laugh when Parker quotes Nanny Haynes. I root for Travis and Ray and really, really hope they succeed in their romantic pursuits. I smile when I watch this fucking show! It's the television equivalent of listening to Pirouette. Come watch with me?
Other news: Hung out with Liz and Emily and Emily's cousin Hope Sunday and it was super, throwback, sophomore year kinda fun. Driving back to Oxford with them listening to Andrew W.K. superfun.
Today I picked up Caitlin and that girl... puts a spell on men! Caitlin, I'm pretty sure you are blessed with the power to make any man fall in love with you. Then we went to the park for Kelly's Peru isjawn and Sarah's Guatemala (?) ishjawn... I didn't take any pictures, but it was hot sweaty stuff your face delight. John was wearing a Rites of Spring shirt and I find myself listening to them now... I love that our taste in music doesn't entirely overlap so we share new things with each other. It's strictly heterosexual. I have trouble memorizing the lyrics to his songs and for that I am sorry. I hope you are better than I am at such things. Practice makes perfect.
I just... I just don't know why this girl is so bad. Like, maybe I shouldn't be critiquing someone else's work when I'm not even close to being an established writer but... her pieces are awful. Redundant. Cluttered. Lacking flow/much sense. Here's a link to all the stuff she published this year.
I feel bad. But it makes me want to write even more and especially to write well, so I'm going to find within me an entry for tomorrow.
So I just did several victory leaps (I guess?) up my driveway.
Should we recount?
I wrote my last entry after my last day of high school and since then I've been swimming laps in uncertainty (the pool opened memorial day weekend). The "Killer Questions" I wrote about in my first article for the Review this year were getting to me and you know how I am with everything: I'm just not ready. For anything. Ever.
I told everyone I was excited but then realized that was a lie. Then I told everyone I was excited but immediately followed that by admitting I was lying and was completely unsure of how to feel. At graduation practice, they taught us how to stand at length with our arms behind our backs, how to sit in unison, how to clap, that this was going to look really, really nice if we could just make sure to watch when the speakers place their hands on the podium, but yeah, I didn't learn what to feel. Wednesday morning after the last practice (but before picking up our tuxes because the line was so fucking long,) Frank, Kyle, Garrett and I went to Five Guys (11 sharp) and it didn't feel like the end. Actually, it kind of just felt awkward because I had just let myself into Schlaz's car on their way out of the lot so I think I was seen, about 50 percent of the time, as an uninvited guest. Until Garrett offered to pay for my burger and Frank and I got our kicks using the empty fry cups to steal soda. Then I knew shit was going to be aiiiiight.
Last night was Baccalaureate mass and for those not in the know (most) that's just a stupid name for a graduation mass. There's really not much to say about it except whenever I saw a woman crying I thought "stop crying, it's unnecessary."
We went to Buckley's for dinner afterwards. Pulling into the parking lot I saw someone tall, gangly and short-haired who could only be Tim McConnell and it was. Tim did a lot for me as a person freshman and sophomore year. He and Shawn were really close and I can't help but think Shawn's weirdness began with his friendship with Tim. Shawn though spiraled needlessly out of control and what really disappointed me last night was, after transferring to Warren Wilson with Shawn, Tim's become the same way. I got a hug and then some weird Shawn-esque maxims and that was that. My stupidly excited "Tim McConnell?!," issued from the window of our moving car, was put to shame by some quiet congratulations and barely formed sentences.
I took off work all day today and it was so nice. Because that place is just getting insane some days. So I got nearly 12 hours of sleep (9:30 to 9) and told Anna all about it when we went to West Chester (refreshingly early at 11:40). It was all I wanted to do before I graduate, just do something cool and kinda normal and not Salesianum oriented. I blew all the money I cashed from my check on records again. The Mad Platter is kind of overpriced but I don't care, it was all money well-spent. On vinyl I got Surfer Rosa ("Vamos" was the last song I listened to as a high schooler and it sounds so fucking good on my stereo) and Elliott Smith (I spent a good chunk of my afternoon listening to this, worrying, fretting and trying to finish Trainspotting,) then the new No Age and a used copy of the Magnetic Fields' Distortion (both totally awesome and kinda what my ears needed) on compact disc and the Amy Winehouse DVD I asked for for my birthday but didn't get.
Yeah, I spent a lot of the time between returning home and leaving again wallowing. It wasn't for nil but graduation actually turned out to be pretty cool. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves. Taken in black and white, fittingly, you know for the timelessness of the memories or some bullshit.
Ian and Will Kyke Schlaaazzzz (not shitty.) Let's do this Nick. This was kind of unexpected. BFF Three Ahhhh Driz, you're wiil'in. Slaugherhouse Salesianum. Nah, just kidding. It felt kind of cool, our teachers were lined up on either side of the hallway egging us on and giving us the requisite Michelle-Barack pound. Murph (lower left) is going to West Point. Oh Shit, go time. Bird's eye. This was up in the bleachers, in the midst of applause for someone. It's a pretty good picture of what the whole night was like. After we all stood, I pulled out my camera and snapped it worrying all the while someone thought I had reached for a weapon. Geoff was always really good to me even though he didn't have to and was pretty much the must well-known kid in the universe. There's this tradition that after graduation, we all smoke cigars on the school steps. So we did that. T-boneeee!! Mimi, get in here.
Another unexpected bunch. Horace is black as night. Barker is one of my favorites.
St. Patrick's. It's easy to look cool next to Lou. This was before we set the school on fire. Not.
Frank and Christian, thank you so much for always being my friends. This was pre-last Newpie session of high school.
Yeah, so that's that. I actually got a diploma which I honestly was not expecting at all because I didn't complete something that was very, very required of me. I'm not even going to mention it here for fear of the obsessive Googling on the part of Sallies' PR Dude Pete will turn up this blog and turn over my diploma. I even got a fucking award. They didn't tell me of this award beforehand. In fact, I didn't even know it existed. Well they give out awards you the sciences, you know, maths all that shit. Jason Patterson Dan Kowal very big deal shit. Every passing second, every award "merited" I was like, "ihatethosefucks,ihatethosefucks,ihatethosefucks..." Then, though, comes The Blah Blah Blah award for Excellence in Journalism and I get a nudge from Frank (whom I'm really glad I got to sit next to) and I expect to hear my name. I heard it, I got the gold fucking medal. Holy shit! I don't get awards, friend, I don't I don't. But this was cool. I mean, my grandparents got to see this shit. And maybe I pissed off Kowal and them (they all have bad haircuts anyway.) We filed out later, chatted. We went to different rooms to get our diplomas (we don't actually walk). Fittingly I had to go to the Library where I probably spent most of my time (and money paying back fucking fines, hah) and even more fitting, Mrs. Diemer handed me my diploma. I gave her a big hug and thanked her so much for everything. I told Ms. Orga that I'm not good with numbers but pretty good with words. Told Mr. Losapio again where I was going. I know most don't, but I really like that guy a whole lot.
I ended the night driving around with Christian in the batmobile, sans top. It smelled like honeysuckles and I accidentally stole a mint milkshake from Wawa.
