This is Marianne's pal Dena, commandeering this space one more time to bend your ear about beats and bleeps and bloops because that's what I'm digging these days. I am delighted to inform you that Marianne is recuperating nicely from her recent health travails and will soon be filling this space with more bizarre thrift-shop finds and concert recaps. In the meantime, doesn't Bassnectar have pretty hair?
Reading my better half’s ruminations on hipness the other
day, it struck me again how we both have always had our antennae out for that
next jolt of musical inspiration or transcendence. Sometimes we have shared our
thrills in dark, sweaty clubs and concert halls and sometimes we have found
them separately, but the common thread is that we are both always searching for
music that tickles our neurons in ways they haven’t been tickled before. I
shall always remember 2014 as the year I fell out of love with Rufus Wainwright
and heeded a magnetic pull to electronica, which is how I found myself at a
Bassnectar show in Las Vegas on November 5, grooving to phat beatz with a bunch of kids who
were young enough to be my offspring.
I’m not sure how it happened, but these days I find I spend
a lot less time contemplating jangly guitar music on my headphones and a lot
more time blasting Robyn and The Knife on my Road Rocker in the basement while
I play with my hoops or fold laundry. I’m still a newcomer to the genre and I
mostly know just a handful of songs that I’m obsessed with, but I need energy
and melody and beat, or I am just not satisfied. I was torn when I saw
Bassnectar was playing at Brooklyn Bowl on my last night in Las Vegas before I
flew back to Chicago. For one thing, I was boarding my bus to the airport at
6:15 the next morning.But goddamnit,
for once I had the cash resources to see almost any show I wanted and what I
wanted was a nonstandard Las Vegas experience. I wanted to see a show that was
not the same every night, so I bought my ticket and set my controls for the
heart of the Brooklyn Bowl.
I saw the doors opened quite early, so I thought I would
saunter in late, sidle up to the bar for a drink, and blend into the crowd. Instead,
the line snaked out the door and onto the Linq Plaza when I got there. Shortly
thereafter, they moved the line forward and we all stood on the stairs for
about an hour for reasons that remain unknown to me. Between that and the fact
that they frisked me twice and confiscated my brand-new Lip Balm before I was
finally admitted to the venue, I could have gotten really cranky. As it was my
feet ached and my lips were getting paler and dryer by the moment, but I could
not help reflecting that this was the nicest and most polite bunch of people
with whom I had ever been trapped on a staircase. They all seemed so happy I
was there with them and I was Dena and we were all seeing Bassnectar together
that I tapped into the welcoming vibe and felt my anticipation building. Then
Mr. Bassnectar started his set and my hair stood on end from the bass, and I
knew I was in the right place.
I’m not here to write a detailed review of this show. That
would be no fun for me and I do not have enough knowledge of Bassnectar’s music
to do it justice. The only song I heard all night that I knew was his remix of
“Hello” by Martin Solveig and Dragonette, a song I first heard when it popped
up on Spotify and which I have played as compulsively as just about any other
song I heard this year. By this point, I wasn’t sure if my hair was standing on
end because the bass was so loud or because I was having a mystical experience.
The kinetic visuals enhanced this sensation, from Lorin Ashton’s evident
enjoyment as he bounced back and forth between two laptops and tossed his long,
flowing hair with abandon to the wonderfully trippy video projections that
covered not only the screen behind Bassnectar, but also the front of the DJ
booth itself. And then there was the delightful candi-festooned crowd, full of
exuberant movement and joy, splashing beer on me right and left and then
apologizing sincerely every time. I felt pretty bad that I had to leave early
to go back to my hotel and pack, but I knew I would do it again the next chance
I’m an old fart on the far side of my fifties, but I’m not
dead yet. Once upon a time I was the youngest person in the room when the Dolls
played their last shows at Max’s Kansas City (with Blondie as opener and Wayne
County in the DJ booth, no less), and now I’m one of a small handful of obvious
geezers at the Bassnectar show, almost forty years later. This flip in
perspective seems completely appropriate when I think about it. My neurons fire
harder and I feel more alive and energized when I place myself in these highly
charged situations. I don’t know if always keeping one eye open for new
aesthetic kicks and settling only for music that makes my hair stand on end
ever qualified me as a hipster, but I fully intend to keep sticking my finger
in sockets until I finally short myself out.
Sometimes our goddamn earthly vessels decide to communicate that something is wrong by staging a massive shutdown that forces us to kick back and recalibrate, and so it is that Marianne has found herself bedridden for the nonce. I have no doubt she will be back in her batcave banging out blog posts before we know it, but in the meantime, please aim all your most potent healing gamma rays in your direction. This is Marianne’s pal Dena, stepping in for just a few days to make sure all of ye faithful Popthomologists do not lack for new quality content to ponder. Since my own head is currently running on empty due to post-holiday work overwhelm, my lovely and talented spouse Bill Tarlin has stepped up to the plate with a few timely observations regarding life as an aging hipster. Cool, daddio. I would be amiss if I did not inform you that Mr. Tarlin is a legit writer of poetry of whom we are very proud. Check out his stuff here. Now, Quick! To the Batmobile!
The other day at work someone mentioned a local punk band that had gotten back together. I said, “Oh yeah, I saw them. They were on first that time Husker Du opened for the Dead Kennedys.” Suddenly all eyes were on me like I had witnessed the signing of the Magna Carta. Or as one flanneled hipster put it, “Dude, I wasn’t even born then.”
On this side of 50 there are too many opportunities to say “Well back in my day…” and it’s probably only going to get worse. The funny thing is, it isn’t like saying I lived through the Great Depression and suffered the privations of 3 front-page wars. It’s more like, “Yeah, you got that Einstürzende Neubauten tattoo 10 years ago but when I saw them play at EXIT, you were still in diapers.”
When I was their age I didn’t want to relive another generation’s greatest hits. In my day sonny, I wanted the absolute fringes of novelty. It seemed to be a decades long wave of Now and I don’t know where the grey snuck in. And I suppose I was on the front lines of protests against the first Gulf War, though no one wants to hear about that. Its popthamology that is persistent. I saw REM when Michael Stipe had long hair. Really. I slipped off the pop wave years ago to explore alleys of ethnographic and avant-garde purity. You have to blaze your own trail. Oh, and Jazz. Every fart used-to-be hipster has their jazz. So I don’t have a clue whats on the radio now. (Is there still radio? Marianne will know.) But it’s satisfying to know that twenty-somethings take an interest in the soundtrack of my twenty-sometimes. Meanwhile David Bowie belongs in a museum now. Literally!!! We have tickets to see the exhibit next week.
That’s no coincidence. Lately I’ve wandered back out of the alleys and am revisiting the greatest hits of my prime. Much of my demographic is surely doing the same. Look for more and more relics of late-stage baby boomage to flood the high and low markets. Look for stadium acts to be franchised like Australian Pink Floyd. Weird mash-ups of Andrew Lloyd Weber and the Sex Pistols? Already happened.
One thing that is worrying about being an aging culture consumer is that we can keep winding the clock backwards until we are insufferable. Along with the music of my college days, I’m revisiting the comic books of my teens, the tv shows of my tweens (we didn’t have that word in the 70s) and so on back to infancy. Is that what getting old will be like? When I’m seventy will I be pulling the binky out of some grandkid’s maw and letting them know I teethed on rawhide? I hope so. Frighten the little ones so they’ll make a better world. But as I was saying. Um. (I get the forgets sometime). Everything is being served back to us. It can be beautiful. A new mom we know posted after xmas about watching Adam West’s Batman for the first time. That show is now guaranteed another couple of generations of pop brilliance. We are in a golden moment where we have access to almost everything. (Except justice and peace?) The door may slam shut when the Barons figure out a better turn-style and raise the rent on our past. But until then I am privileged that I can google proof that my generation was cooler than yours. I was there when it stank of tobacco and originality. That gum you like is back in style. And the toys I desperately wanted when I was 5 years old had better commercials than any shite on the shelfs now.
In the midst of the general chaos that is my every December, it is a genuine pleasure to revisit the year in new music and spend a few hours going through all the wonderful album releases I have enjoyed in 2014, in part because this task also involves some spirited chair dancing and tasty eggnog. My selection parameters are these: the albums must be new music released in 2014 (but, hey, don't miss out on The Kinks 5-CD set The Anthology 1964-1971), and that they must have contained songs that left a lasting impression and kept me singing, dancing, rocking, and thinking all year. I kept coming back to these albums for moremoremore, and invite you to discover them for yourselves if you have not already! Let's go!
One of the great joys in life is that there are always, always, fascinating things to discover and share, new or new-to-you. I am particularly interested in entertainment technology of the last century, so when I came across this amazing little animated film from 1933 on TCM, I was excited to bring it to you here.
Ted Eshbaugh (1906-1969) was a pioneer in animated color cartoons, and an independent name often buried in history by more-famous and corporatized cartoon competition (cough-Disney-cough). The legendary film processing company Technicolor commissioned Eshbaugh to produce author L. Frank Baum's "The Wizard of Oz," a one-reel color cartoon testing its new three-strip dye-transfer technology. Note the beginning of the cartoon, as Dorothy's bland Kansas morphs into the Land of Oz's super-saturated riot of color -- an idea that was replicated six years later in the groundbreaking and beloved 1939 MGM version of "The Wizard of Oz," which also featured the arduous Technicolor three-strip process. For reasons unknown, Eshbaugh's gorgeous, historic cartoon was never offered to the public (cough - Disney had a contract with Technicolor at the same time - cough), so remained largely unseen, only circulated underground in poor quality until its first commercial release in Canada in 1985, also in less-than-ideal condition.
Fortunately for us, Thunderbean Animation has fully restored Eshbaugh's cartoon to its proper glory this year, and you can purchase it along with several other delightful and historic cartoons of the era on Blu Ray and DVD. (hint: the holidays are coming up like NOW). It's worth seeing on your big screen HD TV. For now, please to enjoy!
It is inarguable that the world is in constant, ceaseless change. It is also true that we often resist change, preferring to reside in our comfort zones until prodded out. One thing I have noticed over these decades as a dedicated music fan is, MAN, people HATE it when a beloved lineup of a favorite band goes through a radical change. The "new guys" always have it rough, trying to live up to recording and performance legacies that can be pretty daunting. It's not fair, but it's common.
Take Thee Oh Sees, the Hardest Working Band In Showbiz. The California garage psych combo, featuring frenetic lead vocalist/guitarist/mastermind John Dwyer, was long made up of Brigid Dawson on vocals and keyboards, Petey Dammit on bass, and Mike Shoun on drums, until a band "hiatus" was announced about a year ago. Fan lamentations were shouted to the sky, fearing a permanent dissolution. This did not quite happen, as the band released their album "Drop" early in 2014, and a new touring lineup was formed of Dwyer, Nick Murray (from the touring lineup of White Fence) on drums, and Tim Hellman on bass. What?? No sweet Brigid, no shreddy Petey, no steady Shoun? Well, no, because CHANGE, as we have discussed. Embracing the idea of change, I landed at the Crocodile in Seattle this past Monday excited and ready to see and hear what the Trés Oh Sees would bring.
My arrival timing was off, however, since I expected opener Jack Name (who also tours with White Fence) to start later in the evening. By the time I got there and set up my camera gear, his set was nearly finished. It was an unusual set-up, in near complete blue-hued darkness, with the musicians facing each other instead of the audience. I felt a bit like I was an unwanted guest, and had trouble connecting to the chilly, somber demeanor and synth-heavy sound. That said, perhaps if I had been there for the entire set I would have dug the groove. Punctuality is important, kids.
The all-ages, sold-out crowd at the Croc filled the floor with shiny faces and moshy bodies, ready to go Oh Sees mental. Lineup change or not, it was certain that Dwyer would bring his trademark manic energy to the set, and that drives everything. In near-constant motion, he held his guitar high on his chest, wielding it like an assault rifle, filling the room with a reverb-laden crunch. Immediately, the crowd began to release its own energy back, the center swirling and undulating like a hurricane sea, waves of arms and shoulders and heads crashing into each other, quite happily.
I enjoyed the show immensely as well, straight through to the two-song encore. Dwyer, Murray, and Hellman did a damn fine gig, and if there were any jitters or mistakes, I sure didn't hear them. Here are the changes I noticed:
Vocals: It's all on Dwyer now. He's more than up to the challenge; however, since he sings in a higher register most of the time, I do miss the warmth and strength of Brigid doubling-up with him. It's a lot for one person to be heard over all that glorious noise.
Keys: Dwyer added a little synth here and there. Again, I liked the extra keys myself, but it's not critical to the live Oh Sees sound.
Bass: Hellman is the performance-opposite of Dammit -- reserved vs. high-energy. It wasn't easy for me to hear him specifically from where I was, but he did just fine. Also, in place of Petey's Doc Martins, Tim prefers the naked onstage foot. The More You Know!
Drums: I'm already familiar with Nick Murray's style, which is quite different from Shoun's but equally appealing. Shoun is crisp, precise, and no-nonsense, with clean and complex fills, making me almost sure he learned to play drums in school. Murray has a more relaxed feel reminiscent of mid- to late-'60s psychedelic drum styles -- more organic, you could say, and very comfortable in Dwyer's longer jams where his loping, rolling power propels the songs in a wholly different and interesting space.
Now is the time we enjoy The Fabulous Flying Hair Of John Dwyer! Click on the photos to enlarge and click on the Flickr set link for even more photos!
Nostalgia and the holidays go together naturally, like a cold day and cocoa, or horrible ice storms and tire chains. I like to remember all the pleasant, fun things about Christmas from the days when it all was quite exciting and magical and all I had to do was make a few paper snowflakes and show up in my flannel jammies on Christmas morn. I don't have any religious traditions around the holiday, but I do take from Christmas the sincere spirit of goodwill, generosity, and kindness, and do try to remember it throughout the year, as best I can.
I came across a little piece of nostalgia today that warmed my heart when I saw it. It is just a small thing: a one-minute-long interstitial station ID from CBS-TV, from December, 1966. It was designed by the award-winning illustrator R.O. Blechman, animated by the very accomplished Willis Pyle, and the music was written by Frank Ledlie Moore, arranged by Arnie Black, and performed by Frank Levy on cello. I remember it very well, and am sure it must have been shown for several years after. It needs no words to tell its story, and is playful, sweet, and touching. It's everything you'd want in a piece of art, and everything good you need to take from a season that is often bludgeoned with commercialism and stress.
My solitary issue with Reginald Cleese, father of John Cleese (you know, that lanky British writer/actor fellow who is terribly funny on the television device and in the movie parlor and inside those paper word-holder thingys) is this: by changing the family name from "Cheese" to "Cleese," he prevented thousands of hack writers like myself the opportunity to entitle essays about his son with lame surname jokes.
"JOHN'S 'CHEESE-D' OFF AT THE DAILY MAIL AGAIN!"
"CHEESE CURDLES IN ACIDIC NEW COMEDY"
"WHO CUT THE CHEESE?: JOHN DROPS OUT OF PROPOSED MONTY PYTHON FOX-TV SERIES, 'MORTY BOA CONSTRICTOR'"
But I suppose I must forgive the dearly departed Reg for this, as he did provide us somewhat indirectly with one of the biggest laughs of the night during "An Evening With John Cleese": a show-stopping and spectacularly hilarious recreation of his morning smoker's cough, delivered by his son in choking, expertly-timed, red-faced comic perfection, so horrifyingly realistic I feared that the Reg's son, a strapping lad of 75 years, might blow a lurking aneurysm and drop dead on the church floor. I feel, although this would have been truly awful to witness and possibly even worse to have happen personally, there would have been no regrets on John Cleese's part. He committed to the bit, gave it everything he had, and one has to admit that it would have been very darkly humorous indeed to cough yourself to extinction inside a church moments after you asked "Is is alright to say 'fuck' in here?"
Presented by the University of Washington Bookstore, "An Evening With John Cleese" delighted the capacity crowd at the lovely University Temple United Methodist Church in Seattle, who gave Cleese standing ovations at his entry and exit, smiles on the faces of all. The event was arranged in support of Cleese's newly-published autobiography, "So, Anyway..." (Crown Archetype, Random House, 2014), in a simple and relaxed two-guys-in-chairs-talking format with host Steve Scher. Scher, former anchor of KUOW's Weekday program for many years, was an excellent choice as host: relaxed, well-prepared, expert at letting Cleese do his thing while keeping questions flowing from topic to topic seamlessly, keeping the focus on the guest of honor.
After a few technical readjustments with the microphones, Scher and Cleese began the dialogue that would take the audience through some key parts of "So, Anyway..." expanded by Cleese in further sharp and amusing detail. The topic of Cleese's mother, apparently the most anxiety-ridden, self-absorbed human who had ever lived, was often invoked. Mother Cleese lived to the age of 101 years despite crushing self-imposed busy-work such as oiling owls and polishing trees and organizing decorative gourds (I may have remembered this somewhat improperly), and, in comorbidity, after a habit of composing lists of her very many worries for the express purpose of ensnaring her child into the exhausting task of addressing them one-by-one at length. Cleese noted that in psychological studies of brilliant comedians and high-achieving folk, most are found to have fractious relationships with their mothers. He noted, "If only my mother could have been just a little bit worse...I really could have been something great!"
When I last saw Mr. Cleese in person at Seattle's Moore Theater in 2009, he was beginning what he termed "The Alimony Tour" -- a highly-entertaining one-man show designed to refurbish his personal coffers after a staggering 20 million dollar divorce settlement awarded to his third wife. His anger towards what he felt was a grossly-unfair excision of cash was quite palpable then, but turning that anger into comedy not only made for profit, but seems to have been a bit beneficially cathartic as well. In 2014 we find Cleese in a happier place, recently married to a woman he called "the love of my life," and willing to let go of some fruitless frustrations as well. In later life, we find two types of people. The first, like Cleese's mother, view aging and death in the same way they have experienced their lives overall -- so wrapped up in fear that they cannot experience much other than worry and an endless need to try to control the uncontrollable, so that the smallest change is cause for deep depression and alarm. The second type, like John Cleese, may have plenty of concerns and issues but have made some peace with the absurdity of it all. Here are a few of the life lessons Mr. Cleese offered us last night, with a twinkle in his eye that I am sure was visible to even those in the back of the room.
1. The entire world is run by a handful of greedy, power- and control-mad assholes. This is the way it's always been, the way it will always be, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it, other than rake them over the coals comedically on a regular basis.
2. Too many people focus on small details, and miss out on the big picture.
3. The most important thing in life is to be kind.
4. If you meet him, never ask him to do the Silly Walk ever, ever, ever. No. Stop. Don't do it. No. No no. That means you. Have some pity on him -- he's three-quarters of a century old and now made up of bits of plastic and metal held together with tape and spit.
I was unable to bring my proper pro camera last night, which was fine since the event was filmed (properly) by the University of Washington Bookstore and will appear on their YouTube channel shortly. I took only a couple photos with my phone because this was not the event to be obnoxious with a phone. This idea was not shared by the man in front of me, who spent at least half the show with his point-and-shoot camera raised above his sight line trying to get a photograph of Mr. Cleese. Beep beep beep!, went his camera, as he failed over and over and over again to get one single in-focus shot. I hope the entire audience appreciates the restraint I showed in not grabbing the thing from his hands, shouting, "HERE! LET ME HELP YOU! I'LL TAKE THE FUCKING PHOTO FOR YOU AND THEN WE ALL CAN LISTEN TO JOHN CLEESE RATHER THAN YOUR AUTOFOCUS DISABILITY SOUND!" See what I've learned from John Cleese? Turn your anger into comedy, and avoid ulcers.
I've now come to terms with Reginald Cleese's rejection of Cheese, and can appreciate that Muriel Cleese was plenty crazy enough to have produced a brilliant and creative child in John Cleese. "An Evening With John Cleese" went exactly as I anticipated -- joyful, hilarious, thoughtful, and definitely inspirational. Do go buy "So, Anything..." and get your leaden posteriors in gear to see him this week in California and Florida. Thank you, University Book Store and University Temple United Methodist Church, Steve Scher, and to John Cleese, who has brightened things up here on Planet Asshole...errr, Earth, quite a bit for so many for so long. What a tremendous gift to give.
"An Evening With John Cleese" 2014 dates: 11/17/14 The California Theater, San Jose, CA., 7PM 11/18/14 Alex Theater, Glendale, CA., 8PM 11/19/14 The Granada Theater, Santa Barbara, CA., 7PM 11/20/14 University of San Diego Shiley Theater, San Diego, CA. 7PM 11/21/14 Barnes & Noble - The Grove at Farmer's Mark, Los Angeles, CA. 7PM 11/23/14 Miami Book Fair, Miami Miami Dade College, Chapman Conference Center, Miami, FL. 7PM
People! AMIRITE HERE OR WHAT? I TELL YA! Yes, people are the people who originally bought these things that ended up in my local thrift stores, and you are the people who get to experience their choices right here, right now. Please to enjoy!
Oh, WTF. Who in their right mind at ALL would choose a graphic of a crying cowboy shooting his broken stick horse in the head for a CHILDREN'S RECORD??? If someone had given this to me when I was a kid, I would've cried massive buckets of tears, and that's the truth.
As I type this at my desk in Seattle-ish, autumn is in full force: winds whipping through the eight zillion pramillion trees that make even our urban areas feel wild and majestic, leaves of every color crowd-surfing on the currants, sprays and slaps of rain spattering on my window, water puddles forming and filling on the ground for the express purpose of being my dog's favorite water bowls.
I hate autumn.
OK, sure, sure...it's very beautiful, all this color and movement and shiny wet, I agree. But for me, fall is just a soggy reminder that my favorite season, SUMMER, is gone yet again and won't reappear until July. I'm a sunshine kind of girl, and there's nothing I find charming about driving in the dark and the rain hoping one of those giant trees doesn't fall on me, having the dog track in mud for months, and chokingly-sweet Pumpkin Spice Lattes. Top that off with the bad old mental remnants of autumn = OH GOD NO I HAVE TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL AGAIN, and all the pretty leaves in the world don't really make it swing for me.
But the fall is a good thing to write about, rich in imagery and melancholic change. Our friends, Professional Songwriters, know this and have provided us with some swell songs about the season, ten of which I shall share with you from my personal archives. I'm being very strict in that each song must have the word "autumn" in the title, mainly for the fact that it takes too long to figure out if the "fall" songs are about autumn as opposed to actually falling, figuratively or literally. I have to devote more time these days to wiping the dog's paws off, you know. Let us begin.
Of course, this song would be first on my list, taken from the absolutely perfect "Something Else By The Kinks" album. We find the Kinks here at their sweetest, English vaudevillian best, with starring (and uncredited for decades) harmonies by Ray Davies then-wife, Rasa. Because it's Ray Davies, midway through the song an element of claustrophobic discontent appears as our protagonist proclaims "This is my street/And I'm never gonna leave it/And I'm always gonna stay here/ If I live to be ninety-nine/'Cause all the people I meet/Seem to come from my street/And I can't get away...". But with some highly jaunty "la la la"'s, the darkness is swept away, at least for awhile.
I have an extra-special memory related to this song. I was discussing the recording of it one night in a nearly-deserted and dank hotel bar with Dave Davies many years ago, and he asked me if I would sing it with him, right there and then. After I picked up the pieces of my blown mind, I did so, and will never forget it, sitting across from the actual recording artist in dingy blue club chairs, singing such a wonderful song together.
This list would be a SHAM without including a version of composer Johnny Mercer's standard, "Autumn Leaves," and I chose Nat King Cole's. Cole always knew how to deliver a melancholy song, cradling the melody in such a nuanced way that the emotion subtly threads through the listener's heart: an infusion rather than a soaking, if you will. The cascading notes remind us of the falling leaves themselves, tumbling from high to low.
Another gorgeous autumn song from another quirky British artist, from another absolutely perfect album, "I Often Dream Of Trains." The arrangement is simple, acoustic and sparse, spotlighting the reflective lyrics. We feel the solitude of the narrator, walking amongst the fall beauty in his surroundings, seeing it, feeling it, but unable to enjoy it for missing someone to share it with.
This song could be interpreted in polar opposite ways: a couple either at the awkward beginning or awkward ending of a relationship. It's hard to tell if the narrator is critical or fond of his partner's "autumn sweater," but I think the use of this single-shot of fall imagery tell us that no matter what, change is coming, whether the couple likes it or not.
Newsom does not shy away from composing long pieces, which unfold at their own pace, giving the listener the feeling that they are precisely as long as they must be. That, and exquisitely-angelic vocals remind me of Kate Bush's earliest work, a fusion of classical and British folk traditions. "Here, in a row of silent dove-grey days..." Newsom quietly tells a tale of loss and longing in poetic language that is unashamedly elegant and mysterious, in times that are most often neither.
The Flaming Lips have often examined the uniquely-human gift/burden of knowing that life is finite, and celebrate a humanist view: make the most of the one life you have right here, right now. Whatever your own personal views, it's a good rule to live by and one that few people actually accomplish. "My Cosmic Autumn Rebellion" is a delicate and wistful ode to appreciating the cycles and patterns of life, and embracing all of what is around you.
Two incomparable jazz masters take on a slow, sexy love letter to Manhattan, making me want to book a flight right now. There are so many, many songs written about New York City -- some passionate paeans, some snarky and sarcastic -- but here's the thing: The Big Apple inspires creativity like no other place on earth, no matter the season. Listening to this, I can imagine myself walking arm-in-arm with a friend through Central Park, crunching leaves beneath my feet, glancing up at the giant buildings in the distance, and feeling like magic is always happening there, somewhere, because it really is.
Captain Beefheart makes The Flaming Lips sound, well, as Safe As Milk. The stamp of Zappa is all over this song, of course, with odd timings and orchestral punctuations. The Captain's growl/shout is nicely incongruous considering the poignancy of the lyrics, remembering falling for a "cornhusk hair" girl met at a harvest party ten years past.
The Dandy Warhols have gotten more out of four chords than any other band I can think of, save for the dear ol' Ramones. OK, so this sounds like a rewrite of Blur's "Song 2" sans "woo hoo"'s and if Damon Albarn had a sore throat, but there's nothing wrong with that in my book. Courtney Taylor-Taylor takes us for a spooky trip through a fall freakshow, but we aren't entirely sure where that is located -- out in the world or inside his mind.
Finally, in honor of the deeply wonderful Tony Bennett, playing this very evening at Seattle's Paramount Theater and whom I've had the honor of photographing twice, we end with the "Autumn Waltz." I wish I could be there tonight, waltzing with the coolest 88-year-old that ever was (outside of my mom), but since I cannot I think I will choose to take a lesson from him: be young at heart, be creative, give of your time and talents generously, and take good care of yourself, and your Fall may extend in swirling, beautiful color for many, many years, Winter be damned.
Every night of the week, year-round, Seattle provides me with a dilemma: there are too many great entertainment options available to me, and I am just one (semi-) humble person located on the far side of Lake Washington. This embarrassment of cultural riches is nonetheless most welcomed by me, having spent my youth entertained mostly by giant snow drifts and clouds of mosquitos. Last Wednesday, my evening overfloweth, not only with buckets of damned rain but the opportunity to once again enjoy the performance skills and pithy prose of perfectly-peculiar power-pop princes, King Tuff. Say the last half of that last sentence five times fast, then look at this, and I feel your day will be made.
As a highly-experienced concertgoer, I know that each show I attend has a quality of unpredictability: that the chances of the unexpected happening sometime during the night are pretty good, and this, for me, is very good. I don't like to go to shows where it's something slick and overproduced, where each crowd is told they are the very best that ever was tonight and that their sportsball teams are also the best. Sometimes the surprises I get are good, sometimes they are bad, and sometimes are just "huh?" I'd say that at least two of those categories were fulfilled last Saturday night at The Crocodile in Belltown, and now I will tell you why and also show you photographs of the event that I personally took with a camera device.
(Thanks once more to the lovely and talented writer/photographer AJ Dent, we have this sparkling coverage of Day Two at Macefield Music Festival! I'm a pretty lucky person to know her. -- Marianne)
Ah, the sweet smell of death and decay. Ballard’s streets were filled with it as I stepped off the bus at NW Market Street and Ballard Ave NW. My friend Mariama and I paused for a moment to breathe in the aroma, caused by fallen leaves scrambling across sidewalks and huddling in the gutters. The sun coated everything with that perfect orange color that’s synonymous with October, and above the passing cars, I could hear alt-country music in the air. The minds behind Seattle's Macefield Music Festival are definitely doing the neighborhood justice by hosting it during this resplendent time of year.
(Once again, I am happier than a kitten rolling in endless carpets of fluffy catnip to bring you the writing and photography of AJ Dent, who spent last weekend covering the Macefield fest for Popthomology. Thank you so much, AJ, and everyone at Macefield! -- Marianne)
Live music is medicinal, I swear. Even though I had a horrible cold and was way too sober Friday night, I found myself elated as I wandered around Ballard for the Macefield Music Festival. Northwest Market Street and Ballard Ave were lit up with fellow revelers, but the atmosphere felt very mature -- no teens in neon nor angry, shovey crowds here. I did catch wafts of weed and plenty of smiling stumblers, but they added to the contentment all around. It seemed people were actually there to support local bands (gasp!), not just be seen.
As twilight took over the sky, I bolted to the KEXP main stage in Hattie’s Hat’s parking lot to catch the Boss Martians. Since their debut album dropped nearly twenty years ago, they’ve been fueling parties with surf-poppy rock and their badass 'n bubbly stage presence. To the loud delight of the crowd, Sonics bassist Freddie Dennis joined the guys to provide vocals for a cover of Esquerita’s “Rockin’ The Joint,” and the entire scene just made sense. No doubt the Sonics have been inspirational for the Seattle four-piece, so for them to appear together at a PNW showcase, well, it was just awesome. And the perfect appetizer for The Sonics’ full performance.
There's so much cultural anthropology in thrift stores, I tell ya whut. If I were an academic sort, I'd be writing my thesis on discarded American ephemera, with special emphasis on musical recordings and the sociological implications of finding great quantities of small-time religious pressings dumped in donation bins all over the country (along with the entire recorded outputs of Mitch Miller, Neil Diamond, and 101 Strings). Instead, I'll post my findings here, save a ton in tuition money, and have lots more fun. Please to enjoy!
WISE UP, EVERYONE! The End-Time Voices are telling you to "Save Yourselves" before it's too late! Also, to invest in plaid before the Rapture. Please note that the sale price of this album is one cent.
(I am beyond excited and honored to host this outstanding exclusive-to-Popthomology piece from writer/photographer AJ Dent, featuring an interview with Larry Parypa, the founder of the Godfathers of Garage, the Progenitors of Punk, the Sovereigns of Psycho, The Sonics, who will be performing at Seattle's Macefield Music Festival this weekend!!! WOW! Thank you AJ, Larry, and Jen Stippich! -- Marianne)
If only more people’s morals inspired music festivals!
For those unfamiliar with the story, Edith Macefield was the Ballard resident who refused to sell her 1900s-era farmhouse to developers -- even for a cool million. While the construction manager’s story goes that she simply thought it was too much work to move, her house has become a symbol for sticking it to the man and refusing to sell out. Her tiny home -- now surrounded by the Ballard Blocks -- was even a source of inspiration for the movie Up.
In honor of this smart, stubborn woman, in 2013 the discontinued Reverb Music Festival was reborn as the Macefield Music Festival. To me, that’s an even better legacy than any Pixar flick. I can’t think of a more fitting namesake for a celebration scattered across Ballard, especially one with such a strong local focus.
This year’s fest takes place October 3rd and 4th, and includes a comedy showcase, rock ‘n roll market, and over seventy freaking bands! Yowza. I don’t know what Edith’s musical tastes were, but I bet she could've found plenty of new favorite artists within that bounty. While there are simply too many groovy groups to give proper shout-outs to, I’ve gotta go ahead and say that Goodbye Heart, Bad Things, RA Scion, and Deep Creep are high on my recommendations list. And, gloriously, Friday night will feature the matchless, can’t-miss Sonics.
I'm Marianne Spellman. I am in Seattle-ish. I like and make music and words and photos and coffee and have crappy eyesight, like every other blogger. I do freelance thingies for cool people and places every so often. I post here often.