It's confirmed New Kids on the Block are indeed in my hood October 10; me thinks this is gonna be the best birthday concert season EVER (what, with Radiohead and Journey and Wallpaper, and then maybe Hall & Oates or Ratatat - the possibilities are endless...)
Now, reports are comin' in that the NKOTB has recorded a track with another one of my one true loves: New Edition. Uh, WHAT?? Apparently it's gonna be on the New Kids' new album to be released laster this year, and apparently I'ma change my underwear four times when I hear it. Also, Ralph Tresvant says "mad love" in the article, which is both hilarious and adorable, mostly because I think he still looks like this (in the black vest). Oh, melt my heart.
However, Bobby Brown is still M.I.A. from the picture, what with trying to get with his baby momma or something, and did not join in for the studio sessions. Dang. But in his honor, I am posting this clip because we all know how much I freaking LOVE this jam:
I think I am just now recovering from the debauchery of this extravanganza...Vroo found out the real Lucha Libre wrestlers are gonna be in San Jose in July for a big arena show, but I don't know if there's gonna be Shamu and Chickens and little versions of both, and truth be told, that's kind of what I want...
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Live - Lucha VaVoom @ The Fillmore | SF
I read before going to the spectacle that is Lucha VaVoom that I was
going to be in store for masked wrestlers, burlesque dancing, and
little people. But nothing could have prepared me for the pure
derangement and entertainment value I was about to witness as I settled
into a front-row spot in the audience. Team Gay versus Team Mexico?
Girls with stigmata emblazoned with glitter on their palms? The Dirty
Sanchez and his balls? By the end of the night, I was still shaking
confetti out of my hair and wiping puke off my boots... (more...)
I've seen some fucking weird things this past week: boiled spaghetti come out of a grown man's diaper; Spandex; Glitter stigmata and "Sister Christian" being played; little people dressed as a chicken and Shamu the whale.
Only goes to show how much San Francisco has to offer, no?
The first two examples are from the USAGC I attended last week - tomorrow will be the ridiculous psychosis that we saw for Lucha VaVoom last night. Here is an actual excerpt from my notebook: "Weirdest striptease ever on a pogo stick...exploding confetti sack from his underwear..."
And that's only the first page.
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Live - US Air Guitar Championships @ Independent | SF
The
lore goes that air guitar was created in Finland to alleviate any
violent situation: you can't hold a gun while you're air wailing. But
at last week's US Air Guitar regionals in San Francisco, I was more
concerned about the sheer lunacy of spandex being worn and the huge
balls poking out of them than the history of this illustrious art. In
truth, you kinda don't know what to think when you're invited to
something like watching people perform "War Pigs" in public when they
really should be contained in the privacy of their own home -
especially you're then asking questions like "Is he wearing underwear?"
or "Did he just pull spaghetti out of his diaper?" (more...)
Mali and I attended the Air Guitar Regionals for San Francisco last night, and before I get into the sheer lunacy of the spandex and huge balls I saw last night, can I gripe for a minute on how high the minimum for opening tabs at bars seemingly is now? At du Nord Monday night, where we caught a local show (Tartufi was awesome), the min was $25; at 111 Minna, where I went for a happy hour last week, it was $20.
Now, I guess these places are trying to encourage you to drink in pairs? Groups? Or are feeding on people's low self-esteem and alcoholism? Because I know I am in trouble if I spend $25 on booze, just for me. I bring this up because at the Independent last night, the minimum amount to open a tab is $30 - holy shit! In my case, I like beer most of the time, so at $5-6 a piece, four beers is sufficient enough for me to be wasted. I'da been slinging back six beers if I wasn't with Mali drinking to our hearts' content up in the balcony. I know there's a thing about fees and charges through credit card companies to even have the machines in the bar blah blah blah, but that's when you make that shit cash only. $30. Wow.
Anyway, I'm recovering from the air fiesta that was last night. Today I bring you three wonderful clips in their annotated glory that I've been meaning to post. Enjoy!
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Live - Flight Of The Conchords @ Davies Symphony Hall | SF
Who are Flight of the Conchords? Who the hell are you if you are not acquainted with this fictional-but-they-do-exist in real life musical duo, who have a wildly successful show on HBO and now are somehow touring for fake songs about doing foreplay with toothpaste and fake peg leg cannibalism, complete with making lasagna for one and time-traveling to meet David Bowie to tell him how to make iconic music? (more...)
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Live - Lightspeed Champion, Explorers Club @ The Independent | SF
"I'm drinking in the middle of a lake on a rowboat," my friend Kim greeted me on the phone as I answered her call in between bands at the Lightspeed Champion show. Really? Could I get in on that brown-bagging action too?
It was a hard time last week in Jenzland, dear Tripwire readers. Ain't nothing like making an ass out of yourself in a drunken-yet-sobering confession to a guy you want to be make-out partners with, and ain't nothing like getting beat up by a makeshift loft bed the previous night while trying to put a high friend to bed after mischief in the cab that included the driver cussing us out for being obnoxious, but hey - it's all in a Good Samaritian's work, no? (more...)
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Live - Frightened Rabbit @ Independent | SF
I have a smattering of fears that rear their ugly heads when I attend shows. Lest be ridiculed for all of them - in particular the very dumb and the very scary ones - I will only share my main three.
One is that I will find myself in a boo-hoo situation and not be on
whatever list to actually get in the show, hearing the music woefully
from the outside. It's embarrassing and sad and very pathetic to argue,
"But I am on the list!" with the box office person indignantly before
getting promptly denied entry, and therefore stuck on the sidewalk. But
because I'm an easygoing girl, my remedy is to smile and then seek out
the nearest bar for a whiskey ginger ale and a text message to a BFF to
trek on with the rest of my night. (more...)
Um, hell to the motherfucking yeah. It's what you've allllllllllllllllllllllllllll been waiting for...I'll the let the words speak for themselves...
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Interview - Wallpaper
For one, I don't believe some crazy guy named Ricky Reed, who is
Frederic says is supposedly in his band, is real - but Frederic isn't
willing to divulge anything else at first regarding his group
composition. The recent UC-Berkeley graduate sits in front of me in a
sunny café in the East Bay as we talk about his involvement in synth
love-and-lust outfit Wallpaper, a dance party project carbonated with
some of the best electro hooks I've heard in a long time.
"He's everything I'm not, essentially. He's nothing I really stand for," he says of his other (fictional?) band member, who rounds out the lineup alongside drummer Arjun Singh. Frederic taps his fingers on the marble table before continuing.
"Let me say, I totally would not want to hang out with Ricky Reed if he was a real person," he says. "If people could relate to this person this character...that makes me feel kinda weird." He cites obsessions with AIM and text messaging as activities of abundance, pitfalls for a lot of his peers and Reed as a character, and a little of Frederic himself too.
So why use Reed? Wallpaper comes from the cusp of Frederic's mental genius and insanity levels. Originally created to shoot the shit in between shows from his other gig, alternative band Facing New York, Frederic conceived Reed, dreamed to embody a side of Frederic that needed escape with a good dose of humor. Reed, the ambassador Frederic appointed to seduce women, wear tight jeans, and talk shit through, ends up being a very precarious and yet loveable figure with an upshot. While it's not a secret that Reed acts like an asshole on stage, there is still something weirdly endearing and heartfelt about his attempts to win the crowd over. When I ask how seriously Frederic takes the project and all its egos, which all only started to gain momentum in the past year, he stops to look me straight in the eye.
"Very seriously." Frederic pauses to adjust himself while maintaining our eye contact. "I do think Wallpaper is dealing with some serious subject matter in a way. There's excitement and fun, but there is a composition process that is very serious to me. You never get any filler, and that is important."
Frederic once released a record six songs long, each clocking in at two and half minutes; even if a single track seemed like it would go longer, it would stop in lieu of the rule. "It turned out to be 15 minutes total, like 15 minutes of fame," he says with a hint of amusement. "That was totally unplanned." The songs Frederic is talking now about being no filler and all killer are sparkling ones off new EP T-Rex released a few weeks ago, in addition to some older floater material. These babies have the air of being both carefully crafted masterpieces, polished for maximal dance and groping, but also feel rushed. There seems to be an exact science to the way the songs play out and at the same time carry a weird sense of disregard. Both weeklies in the Bay Area have branded Wallpaper to be a party band, but for a duo (trio?) being solely about getting funky, there sure is a lot of work that goes into the act. Frederic describes how he and Home Depot became friends after he built a portable kit from the store's materials that he, Reed and Singh used to crash this year's Coachella and play in the festival parking lots, risking arrest. He also describes how heat exhaustion almost consumed him in filming the video for "T-Rex," the single his label Eenie Meenie put out off the EP, nearly melting off his face while he wore a rubber dinosaur mask in 85-plus degree heat on the streets of downtown L.A.
Wallpaper spectacles that occur mid-show don't come on a silver platter, either. Specialty videos are created that correspond in time to verses in each song, and include random splices of footage like Lindsay Lohan's DUI picture and YouTube videos of black women on a digicam in their lingerie to pique the audience's attention. Reed recounts stories built on outrageous multipart elements and wild anecdotes each show, the crowd hearing a new tale nearly every night. But the superstar of the whole she-bang is in the wardrobe Reed has taken as his own and that comes in its own duffel bag: the apparel fit only for an R&B singer stuck in 1994. The culprits in the fashion entourage include a white sequined Chanel blazer, short silky gloves, a Price-Is-Right satin bomber jacket, a Justin Timberlake fedora, a gold chain that has been spray-painted with its signature hue for longevity - Frederic even has his own sort of jeweler, a guy who pops into shows every so often to upkeep the goods. Ask him what his favorite part of the get-up is, though, and Frederic will pin it up to the sunglasses with the neon arms that he got in a gas station in Texas.
"It's a great personal disconnect when they are worn...you're pretty much blind on stage," he says, describing an incident at a T-Rex release show in Sacramento where a girl in the front of the audience pulled off the shades while Reed was performing.
"I was like, 'Fuuuuuck,'" Frederic recalls, lingering on drawing out the curse word; his eyes grow huge with both fear and distraught, like a little kid gravely concerned about missing Saturday morning cartoons.
"Were you afraid you would be exposed, or that your cover was blown?" I ask.
"A little bit of both," he admits, demonstrating the way he awkwardly froze - eyes darting and all - after the girl snatched the shades before returning them shortly after trying them on. Crisis adverted, but he looks pretty anxious still even after explaining the story.
Frederic grew up in Pinole, a suburb tucked up in the northeast part of California's Bay Area. The 25 year-old credits his mom with first exposures to funk and soul, and being around the hyphy and new jack era of music in the Bay of the late 80s, "That one [Keith Sweat song] 'I Want Her,' it's such a terrible song if you actually listen to it but the aesthetic is so there!" he says. "Right now I'm listening to early 80s, actually, DeBarge, the Thriller album once a day. Sometimes twice."
Although the idea of Reed is only in stages of infancy, he was assigned a name and a personality face only at the beginning of this year, Frederic shields him much like a mentor does for his disciple. But the question gets begged on where Frederic ends and Reed begins. A comparison of videos of the Wallpaper frontman stemming from June and December last year show a decidedly different man in each. The June recording presents what feels like a fresh-faced kid covering tracks like BelBivDevoe's "Poison," it's pretty "aw"-worthy. None of the wardrobe specifics has even come into play. But fast forward to a Rickshaw Stop headlining gig six months later, and the guy on stage now belting out a song called "Every Time We Do It" has no qualms about using sex and swank as tools on stage, an air of confidence and debonair surrounding a now self-assured Reed that yes; the appeal is there.
This evolution from nerd to suave is also evident in the direction the band is currently facing. Early tracks like "Rich Bachelor" carry a strategically placed throwback to dance music, boiled down with simple hooks and the distortion mic. "T-Rex" is the crossover tune, Reed murmuring "While I'm waiting for this alcohol to settle into my veiny veiny veins, get off your seat while we flip it for you" before diving into how big he goes on weekends. It's newer gems like "So Wasted" and "The Remix" that carry and ultimately shine the light on what Frederic and co. are doing properly: crafting catchy-ass beats, coupling them with lyrics of subject matter Frederic both hates and loves but pens, and sautéing them to electronic perfection. Lyric "This cell phone is lifetime/This cell phone is free" from "The Remix" sounds like a clause in my Verizon contract, and I think that's what Frederic intends. It's so funny, it's not. And then is. And I'm dancing the whole time.
The deal breaker, though, is the stage persona that cultivated and is now peeking out. Reed now has been perfected and has teamed up with hysteria to deliver comical storylines that gives both The Young And The Restless and Monday Night RAW a run for its money. Wallpaper shows are full of amusing and exaggerated fibs that permeate the room. At the San Francisco EP release show in May, Reed talks about he dated Jessica Simpson (not true), her dumping him, and asking someone in the room who had her phone number to have Simpson "text him her love." At the Sacramento show the following week, he debuts a story about cannibalism at the end of "Rich Bachelor" since the song ends with "I'll eat you alive," recalling how he couldn't eat this one girl that was on the island with him because he was in love with her.
The antics don't stop once the live set wraps up anymore; the band has now taken to YouTube to construct blog entries that brink on the crest of hilarity and lunacy. In the first blog Reed announces a world tour only to retire the music business the following week in blog two upon discovering Grand Theft Auto IV sold more than the T-Rex EP. He then takes off to the Amazon and sends another blog to say he's OK. Singh, however, being the victim of public Reed terrorizations, decides to move forward with the band without Ricky Reed and brings on a Reed cousin who happens to look suspiciously and exactly like Ricky, but is named Robbie, who works at the Bayfair Mall in San Leandro. Robbie played with the band two weekends ago at a show in L.A. and comes off as being a small-town kid in a big pond when interviewed on camera, in comparison to Ricky's cocky manners. Singh says in the same vlog that Wallpaper may more on without Ricky, if need be.
Thinking "what the fuck" right about now might be a suitable reaction to the soap opera dramz. So what of it all? Are we onto the next saga of larger-than-life chronicles, R. Kelly caliber? Does it even matter, if it provokes a good laugh of appreciation?
"In an interview, you mentioned that Wallpaper was created during a time of hyphy and a re-emergence of 'musicians representing that Bay Area sound,' which made you want to pay tribute," I ask back at the coffee shop. I'm about to meet Ricky Reed after I finish with Frederic, and I want to know what I am getting into. "Do you think you are successfully doing that instead of being a cover band?"
"Oh, wow...that's a really good question," says Frederic. He looks thoughtfully out the window at the joggers and cars that pass by before delivering an answer.
"I really think the answer is in the eyes of the beholder. And, it comes down to authenticity, which is a dangerous term. For a long time, people thought things like jazz and white rappers were cheap shots at people's nostalgia, but both of those things proved longevity. When people see the passion for a project [such as Wallpaper], I think that is proof. I think there is a big difference between irony and satire - 'Oh yeah, here's this white guy singing,' but it is serious. I think developing something like this is incredible and super funny, and honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if this record gets canned."
"But what happens when people don't get what you're doing?" I press. "Are you a joke band? Are you making fun of yourselves, others?"
"Either you get it, or you don't. I think that's what it comes down to," says Frederic with a grin.
Now it's time to meet Reed.
I'm guided to a small, undisclosed location far from the place I originally met Frederic. I mean, really, really, far. The Amazon, to be specific. When I approach closer, I signal my presence to the man, and Ricky Reed casually glances towards me as I sit down next to him and flip out my notebook.
"People can't do without my wisdom for too long," says Reed as he reclines in his seat. He speaks with a slow cadence, half lazily, half sexily. It carries a tinge of "Oh, you like this?" attitude. I smirk. There is no undeniable joke in Reed's attire; the man really does look like if Run DMC had sex with a New Kid in person. I was warned by Frederic that interviews with Reed are notoriously hard to score and survive. A video diary with Filter the previous month had caused the interviewer to nearly break into tears at the end. I braced myself and politely asked what it has been like retreating into the depths of the Amazon.
"I got my WiFi, so it's okay," Reed says. "I got my own personal satellite up in space. But I mean, I'm kind of roughing it. I only got 25 of my closest entourage with me. I can't ride with my fleet of jets too much. I'm only importing fresh sushi from Shibuoa only every five days." I stifle giggles, but continue.
"I'm safe, you can still make funky music in the jungle...but I don't have plans to come back right now. There's not a lot for me in the U.S.," he admits in a moment of rare honesty.
Wait...did I just say Ricky Reed had a moment of rare honesty? Really?
After a few more small chat questions (the Pope was disappointed Wallpaper canceled the Vatican show, a secret love of Nelly's Apple Bottom jeans is discussed) it's photo shoot time. I was under the impression Frederic would be my subject, but scoring Reed is like Christmas in July. I watch him adjust his specs before I settle him into greenery as a lush backdrop. He even lets me accidentally graze his face with my fingers as I try to frame shots tightly around his bomber jacket; he acknowledges he is particularly nice to me since he likes me.
"Wait, before you start, can you grab my gloves?" he asks before I commence shooting. I lean over to pick them out of his bag, and joke that he should stitch up one of the hands that were fraying at the fingertip seams.
"Uh, no, they're supposed to be like that," Reed deadpans. "It's so I can snap along to my own music."
I turn my back to laugh and laud the dude in secret without him noticing before we begin the shoot.
"We're going to announce tour dates when Ricky gets back," Frederic informs me before we part ways. I'm back from my Reed session, and I smile. Yeah? Would Ricky be back by the end of summer? Did Robbie replace him for good? Would GTA IV ever be stopped? Will there be more pool parties? What if Ricky's Santa Monica house has foreclosure; would he still be a rich bachelor and have a million dollars?
"Awesome," I say. "I'll fucking be there."
Photos and words by JENZ
MySpace
Jun 16, 2008 in FEATURES
That shit is hard. There are so many things going against you: trying to get people to dance while they are interested in hitting the bottle; using someone else's iPod and records, and therefore someone else's music tastes; and, if you have no idea who your fellow party-goers are, it makes playing stuff like Twisted Sister, which you looooooove, either the best or worst idea ever.
Danielle and I went to an alter ego-themed party Saturday, and in between taking huge sips from our Slurpee and vodka jug, dancing to Notorious B.I.G. in the middle of a carpeted room, and pretending to be lesbian, we helmed control of the house iPod on loan, hooked up to the big DJ speakers. This was a party at her co-worker's abode, so I definitely was out of the loop in terms of being connected to people at the shindig, but that didn't stop me from playing some Hall & Oates...
"HOLY SHIT, I LOVE THIS SONG!!!!"
People literally poured in from all other areas of that house to groove in the living room. Initially, I didn't know if "I Can't Go For That" was going to generate any response; I really fucking love that song, but that doesn't mean people will dance. Danielle and I high-fived and continued to bust out the greatness, even playing "I Can't Go For That" a second time, much to the delight of our drunk crowd, and we jumped up and down. Secret weapon was discovered!
In cute news, yesterday I got to spend some quality time playing DVD 'The Price Is Right' with my family, including my dad, for Father's Day, and nothing beat seeing his face when he opened his card and found Journey tickets inside. I temporarily because the favorite child. September 27, greatness will be had!
Lastly, my BFD review went live earlier last week, and finally, my Wallpaper feature went live today...I will save WP for its own entry tomorrow, but know that I still laugh myself when I read it. That crazy Ricky Reed...
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Live - Live 105's BFD 2008 @ Shoreline Amphitheatre | SF
Admittedly, I had my reservations about the Live 105 event, which boasted to be "the summer's premiere music festival" on PSAs and promo around the Bay Area. I absolutely hate the large-stadium feel of the venue BFD was going to be in and prefer intimate ones, and the line-up seemed schizo, with artists ranging from Cypress Hill to MGMT to DJ AM, but hey - that's more or less my own record collection, so I was one to talk. Plus, given the insanity of last year's extravaganza, I was curious to know if the station could top even itself.
The BFD madness began the night before with a free pre-party at 330 Ritch hosting The Whigs, who have also been one of our On The Cover artists. A cool garage rock trio who sound like they borrowed The Vines' Craig Nichols, transplanted him into the Black Keys temporarily, and then renamed themselves while picking the axe simultaneously, The Whigs played hard and faithfully despite a thin turnout. "Right Hand On My Heart" is a example of the classic rock vehicle these guys can maneuver, but it's also tracks like "Sleep Sunshine," a beautiful slow tempo with drowsy lyrics and slider guitar that provides the band to branch out, and ultimately glow. I really look forward to seeing what else these Georgia boys can deliver.
After grabbing late-night donuts post-show and watching Designing Women at the shop with my friend Danielle, I passed out to wake up early the next morning and caravan down to Mountain View's Shoreline Amphitheatre with friends Kristin, Mario, and Mars' friend Jesse, all of us excited for different reasons: MSTRKRFT, Alkaline Trio, the local stage. We arrived right past The Whigs set time and promptly split up to explore, so I settled into Atreyu's set before realizing that even when I was 14, I didn't like this shit, but I appreciated the shredding they were doing on stage. I wandered a bit to soak up the adjustments to this year's festival in comparison to 2007's: there was no main stage area anymore, but rather a split stage set-up in the parking lot where when one band finished, the other could start up almost instantaneously. The new creation of the Subsonic tent, dedicated to electronic and dance music, was tucked neatly in the back and hosted both DJ and live acts. The main festival stage that faced seats and lawn areas was now turned into a meet-and-greet area.
After deciding against and then caving into $8 plastic bottled beer (you read that right), Kristin and I stopped in on San Francisco hot DJ Omar of popscene and Leisure fame, who got the crowd moving at 3:30 in anticipation of the acts scheduled later on. I then moseyed over to see MGMT, who I was definitely not prepared to take in. "Weekend Wars" sort of sounds like if David Bowie decided to reincarnate himself with a folk twist but couldn't let go of his synth roots, and then his music had a bunch of sex with the New York post-punk music. Topped off with these ridiculous outfits composed of one-pieces and straw hats, the Brooklyn band ripped through "Electric Feel," "Time To Pretend," and ended with "Kids," which found Oakland bad Hottub crashing the stage and having an orgy with the MGMT kids while the band tried to play. It was definitely one of the highlights of the day.
A short pretzel break later, and we were back in the Subsonic tent, after acquiring my friend Maria at the gates and Nick in the tent, and a margarita deemed 'the yard stick' at the booze tables. Lyrics Born thrust out a funk-inspired set full of speedy rhymes and a sassy back-up singer, and I got in the mood to dance as DJ Steve Aoki prepped his turntables. If you've ever peeked at Aoki's itinerary, this guy is all over the place, literally - one day in Japan, the next in L.A., the next at a private party. Maybe all the jetlag got to him, or the heat that day, but he reminded me of a 14 year-old who got left alone with his dad's record collection for two hours for the first time. He headbanged-danced like a cross between an angry three year-old and a slam dancer (thank you, Nick); he zipped right across the stage, left, right, and then up and down, touching every amp in between; he climbed up on the speakers and tousled his hair like he was out of his mind. Needless to say, I was more impressed he could still mix properly lest suffer from a brain hemorrhage. Plus, I knew he was doing something right when I spotted The Kooks' lead singer Luke Pritchard dancing on one of the speakers midway through!
Aoki picked up his stuff to let friend DJ AM helm the tables after him; I wrote in January about the sheer propensity the L.A.-based DJ had to innately know what the crowd wanted, and it seems like the guy is just like wine, it only gets better with age. Jay Z to Daft Punk, Weezer to The Presets, mid-90s dance anthems and current singles, AM knows what he's doing, and I decided if I ever had a half million dollars to blow, I will hire this guy to DJ my wedding. We squeezed amongst a throng of a now-packed tent to dance to his set, which didn't disappoint in any capacity. Breathless, we simmered down to watch Santogold as she took front and center after AM. Her two backup dancers, dressed to perfection in pressed white collared shirts and tailored black pants, provided the most entertainment. Prerecorded backing tracking backed Santogold, and from there the mediocrity hit plateau. I really wanted to like her, considering the hype surrounding her M.I.A. meets Gwen Stefani sound, but maybe the half hour set she was limited to didn't allow her true potential to follow, she just couldn't own the stage.
I ended up sitting with Maria talking about my love life outside of the tent for MSTRKRFT's set, but knowing I would see them at the Mezzanine after party later in the night justified my tales of woe taking precedence. It did amuse me that Usher's "Love In This Club" made an appearance during the duo's set, and ashamed me to realize that I knew the lyrics as well. I serenaded Maria with "I'll be like your medicine, you'll take every dose of me!" much to her bemusement.
After an In'N'Out stop, we trekked back to the City to catch Motor live at Mezzanine in San Francisco before MSTRKRFT took stage. The London pair has songs about not being human and gays in America and have a decidedly industrial feel to them I didn't anticipate, but appreciated. It seemed like the packed house at Mezzanine also appreciated them, because I was getting pushed left and right; as MSTRKRFT came on we decided to push our way through to the middle of the floor and dance like no tomorrow. Sadly, my comrades could not take the stuffy air around us four songs in, so we relocated to the back to watch. Hunger and fatigue began to settle in, and a quick drop in to indie club Leisure and a late-night diner ended my BFD experience. And while I can't say if this year tops last, I can say with certainty that sunscreen indeed never washes off.
By JENZ Jun 12, 2008 in NEWSNot really. I'm too fidgety to be in front of the camera, and I like to be behind one, anywho.
I was in a cranky mood when I got to the office, so I knew this song could totally cheer me up:
The problem is, this song kept getting stuck in my head simultaneously:
I don't know why.
But really, Ginuwine? "You know I'm a sexaholic?" Dang. Whatever happened to that guy? Anyone know?
My immediate thoughts:
- Donnie obviously misses being able to grope girls legitimately. HE IS SO CREEPY
- Joey Mac, still #1 in my heart
- How many girls ARE there in their bikinis? Do they even know who these guys are? And that some of them weren't even born when New Kids was popular? Can you even imagine?
- Again, Donnie, obviously enjoying this too much
- They talk about "getting wet" and then Jordan winks at the camera! Well, I guess to be fair, he did talk about it once before
- Poor Jon and Danny, they disappear 1:20 in and reappear for...
- ULTIMATE FAIL OF A DANCE ROUTINE AT THE END: they totally look like BSB from the get-go with the white suits, but in the end...
- The song is in my head, and therefore I get pwned
And while I miss the days of this, who am I kidding - totally gonna see the reunion show if it comes to the Bay Area...
What a cool gent, especially when I made him wear those glasses...I love dudes in said eyewear like so...
Apparently, last night while I was napping before trekking out to popscene, an electrical fire consumed the depths of the Fillmore during the Dethklok show and peeps had to get evacuated. How fucking deth is that, I can't even tell you. I am way bummed I couldn't attend last night, lest my personal safety have been compromised, but hey - Brendon Small, I'm all yours forever...
This weekend is gonna prove boss: tonight is our free Whigs show at popscene, which I've been stoked on for weeks. And tomorrow, of course, is the actual Saturday fun day with lots of beer and bands (no backstage basketball this year, unfortunately), the sweet afterparty at Mezzanine, and then some Leisure throw in for good measure.
Good lord...no...sleep...
Anyway, to end the week of hard weeks (work totally fucking kicked my ass), here is my Ed Harcourt feature I ran; I really love our impromptu photo shoot, and I love the interior of Cafe du Nord to the max. Yay!
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Interview - Ed Harcourt
Ed Harcourt is on the phone with his manager when he greets me amidst unassembled gear and tangled wires at Café du Nord Monday, but it still doesn't stop him from offering me a kiss on the cheek and a cup of joe offer. Politely, I decline and wait for him to finish. It's been frenzied since Harcourt and his backing band arrive at the San Francisco venue - the sound guy is seemingly way stoned, and some of the wires combusted en route to merit an emergency Radio Shack run. Harcourt takes a deep breath before we sit down in the green room to discuss getting inked, his sweet sideburns, and the album The Beautiful Lie, of which he is on a mini power tour.
"I love pop, I love fucking underground weird stuff," says Harcourt as his drummer starts sound check, a thin wall separating him and us. "I get bored of one thing really fast, and I like approaching music and most everything in a curious way; I think I get more out that way."
"But really, why would anyone listen to my musical whinings?" he muses with a grin.
The Beautiful Lie is his masterpiece from two years ago seeing the light in the States just now, a record full to the brim of cinematic escapes and forthright rock anthems. Harcourt describes the layout of the record as "schizophrenic" and when he asked one of his friends for feedback on it, the answer was surprisingly candid.
"He said, 'It's like one half anthem-like, one half anti-social," Harcourt says with a laugh. "And I thought, 'Perfect.' I was working on two albums at the time with both different feels, and [this album] is a blend of both of those sounds."
Harcourt's open nature and heart translate to both stage and in person. Mid-song during his set, he jokes about bearing witness to a Girls Gone Wild bus at his hotel, and "some of these [people] had butts like shelves...you know, where you could just set a drink on." When I ask him my ever-imposing question about his side burns in the green room, he takes it with a shred of amusement.
"Oh really? Thank you," he says before mock yelling at the drummer through the wall to shut up. "I've had them ever since I was 18. But I am shaving off this caterpillar [points to his mustache] next week. I realized my wife will kiss me more." He then pulls up his pinstripe sleeves to display some stellar tattoo work on his forearms and biceps. We compare ink jobs before our time is cut short; he has to do that pesky sound check too.
The hard work pays off, as the show later that night is near impeccable, minus a short delay in initially starting. Ballad "Rain On The Pretty Ones" is a strikingly crisp and soft-hearted song live, the timeless feel of love forlorn punctuated with Harcourt's pangs of piano. And while the show overall emits a more hushed and gentle sound with tracks like "Until Tomorrow Then," which provides a platform for a lounge feel, Harcourt still shows that he can rock with the best of them with tunes like "Alligator Boy," electric guitar wails to no end.
"We're gonna be on the Tonight Show on Friday," he says to the crowd, who applaud approvingly. But even as he announces this monumental occasion to happen to him and his band, he still looks lovingly at the audience and smiles his appreciation. It's been a long road, yes, but he's finally making it.
Photos by Jenz
Ed Harcourt
MySpace
Jun 06, 2008 in FEATURES
Hahaha - my editors thought the intro to my review today (below) was for their eyes only, and my response was "Oh shit, now it looks like I'm writing softcore porn for you guys now..."
In funny news, I hung out with my friend Ryan on Saturday night, and we watched "Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man" (a piece of cinematic glory, for sure) - the opening credits play the below video's song and I almost choked on laughter:
So fucking sweet...
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Live - Jamie Lidell @ Bimbo's | SF
Jamie Lidell: who are you in your pressed gray suit with Rivers Cuomo
glasses, doing the hip boy soul bop dance routine and sassing out on
stage with that voice of yours? Seriously?
Lidell came at a good time for me. Last week, I found out a classmate of mine died; we were never close, but both being art majors, I would always see him in the labs at school, working on his gorgeous trademark large-format poster photographs. We were in a couple of art shows last year, and got supremely drunk at my house after a prestigious show at a fine arts museum we both exhibited at. The night of Lidell's show, friends and I popped in at a memorial ride for our fallen peer. A car at a notorious San Francisco intersection known for fatalities had hit him. After we paid our respects, we walked to a nearby dive bar to have chocolate martinis and beers to celebrate a guy we wish could be there to toast with us.
It's pretty safe to say I was distracted coming into Bimbo's Wednesday night for the show. With death so heavy on my mind for the past week, I had called everyone in my phone book to say how much I loved them, making sure everything was right with people I cared about because I didn't know when I was going to see them next. Standing on the ballroom floor of Bimbo's, it seemed so trivial to be at a show when someone I knew was now in the ground, and I never got to say goodbye.
Maybe that's why at last minute I decided to swing into the Lidell show; maybe I just needed to do things I don't usually do because I just can and should. It's the whole "life is short" adage, right? I generally never buy tickets to bands I know nothing about, or don't own albums of, or have not made previous intentions in my planner for. And I definitely don't invite two friends who rely on my word that a show is gonna be good to also come with, wishing on a thread that the outcome is going to promise fantastic. But hey! Life's a party, yeah?
It's exactly how I got lucky Wednesday. Lidell was in town to support Jim, a sanguine album full of sunny soul-inspired pops, spliced with a dash of modernism and wit, as well as big band throwbacks of classic 60s funk, swing, and downtempo grooves. The guy comes out on stage in an impeccable gray number compressed to perfection, flashing a grin to the audience before launching into a dance fit that included gigantic jolts of energy being balled up and throw into the audience as well as head-bashing sessions that almost caused his trademark specs to fly off his face. The backing band only fueled this playful sentiment: we had the trademark drummer in aviators and sweet sideburns; a guitarist with makeup reminiscent of this of Bjork; a sax guy armed with a partial vicoder who was adorned in a gold robe and (we speculated) no underwear; and the keys player, who was freakishly normal in comparison to the rest of the cast. Poor guy.
We were taken on a wave of the best-of best-of's merged with contemporary pop music for the hour and half Lidell graced the stage. A little Stevie, Otis, and Al Green made appearances, yes; the feature that makes him so endearing though is his earnest approach and precipitous adoration of the music he makes. Midway through, we're treated to an electronic jam session devoid of any audible lyrics, Lidell positioning himself behind a motherboard crowded with knobs and sliding keys. Later, we behold a deep croon session like "Game For Fools," appropriate for both a bedtime romp and a romantic temptation attempt, and pop splendor on pitch-perfect and soul "Another Day," part of me wondering if I stumbled into a Southern gospel Sunday. It's not a secret the Berlin-based musician knows how to belt it out, but it's in the way he projects and transforms his voice to adhere to the mood he is embarking on that makes the experience truly remarkable.
Please know this: it's not now that I associate Lidell's music with death, because of my life that happened pre-show; it's so much that the stunning celebration of life in general that Lidell's music encompasses is so bright and original, it's hard not to smile. It seems to swathe anyone with ears, and for that, I can't be any more happier.
Dear Kirk: I think you and Jamie would have gotten along quite well. Rest in peace and love, darling.
By JENZ
Jun 02, 2008 in
NEWS