I'm in a touch of a foul mood, despite last night's bands all having been superb, me not being hung over, having made the most delicious breakfast cookies to date (with blueberry and raisin and apple and carrot, oh my), and the washing up being done. The piles of laundry I have waiting for me and Miss P's botany project are killing my game - I wanted to get the proposal done this weekend and now I don't know if I can. Not that there's a hurry. Except in my heart.
So - last night. King Kahn & the Shrines of Berlin, whose Mr. Supernatural is playing on my lucky stereo right now, exceeded my high expectations. I’m a romantic, you see: I go to concerts expected to be enchanted, charmed and enraptured, which leads to a lot of disappointment. But King ‘the Destroyer’ Khan, the incredible musicians backing him up, and the fucking go-go dancer brought me to a higher level of respect and love for the race I belong to. I have a hard time describing it. It’s fuck-ass sweet soul, with a little crystal up everybody’s nose - if crystal was a loving drug. It’s the Commitments with German precision, loose-spined funk and spice. Oh yes. All at once. Look, just go see them, okay; these guys could have sold me Scientology by the end of the show, so just go, fuck. They’re playing another set in Toronto tonight – I’d go again if I weren’t yearning for the Golden Dogs.
The other events of last night were all great. The set we started with, Groove Bros. of Brooklyn, was great, but playing to a crowd as cold as Megababe’s. They deserved better. Especially with lyrics like “an ass so phat you can see it from the front”. Life. Next, we lagged getting to the Horseshoe. Poor us – missed alot of C'mon - luckily they're local so we can see them again. That was simple blue paradise insanity and started some moshing, which was reassuring because I was afraid Toronto audiences were dead at the wheel. The singer/guitarist took a quick break from freaking the fuck out and drenching us with violent sounds that seemed completely random and accidental - but perfect – to point out that the people moshing should stop, as the band liked girls to come to their shows. Adorable.
They were followed by White Cowbell Oklahoma and that was just . . . well, did you see that Johnny Cash biopic? I found it flat and unengaging. Part of that was probably seeing it on a mini-screen on Air France in the middle of the night when I was on my way to defend a master’s thesis and my gall bladder was getting ready to explode, but mostly I’m pretty sure it’s because there was no Johnny Cash in it. I’m not going to knock Joaquin Phoenix, you know how I feel about him, but his musical impersonation of Johnny Cash just sounded like acting. To the degree that there’s no way watching that film is a better aesthetic experience – yes, even though it means looking at Joaquin Phoenix – than listening to Live at San Quentin.
The point of that story is that if they wanted something really musically great for the biopic, they should have chosen a supergroup to do the music for it, and not got the actors to do it. I don’t know who that supergroup would be because I don’t know shit about country. Not White Cowbell Oklahoma, because they don’t sound anything like Johnny Cash; I think I just thought of that right now because Johnny Cash and this band were the only country-esque things that’ve ever touched my very soul, besides Dolly Parton’s "Jolene", and then I wanted to rant about making a musical biopic and getting the actor to sing. Just seems a bit dumb to me, is all.
Are you still reading? You’re patient. My point is White Cowbell Oklahoma were fucking amazing. All of them. Everything. Pseudo-strippers included. Amazing to watch, amazing to hear. To the degree that when they sang the refrain which is the title of this post, it actually made my fine anti-American ass want to put the south into my mouth. So there ya go.
sabato, giugno 10, 2006
venerdì, giugno 09, 2006
Let it all out
Ah, NXNE. Toronto’s three nights of the year when everyone who’s anyone – and your correspondent is no one unless someone – is indie. It was a good inaugural night.
I saw three acts of varying style and quality, and of them I suppose my least favourite was Jets Overhead of Victoria. They weren’t awful or anything, fine for what it was, but they had the stage presence of slowly rolling Oreos and their music . . . well . . . Lady and I found a dialogue to describe it whilst lounging and drinking, waiting for Priestess to come on – whom see.
Me: They sound like the Cult.
Lady: But they suck.
Pause.
Lady: They sound like U2.
Me: But they suck.
Pause.
Me: They sound like the Arcade Fire.
Lady: But they suck.
Pause.
Me: They sound like a lot of things. But they suck.
Following Jets Overhead was the aforementioned Priestess, of Montréal. It was loud, hard, heavy and sweaty and made me want to hit people in a good way. It was loud, did I mention? Lady and I went up to the centre left to not be right in front of the speakers – J*Fish et all were and complained of deafness afterwards. It was hot. Hot, like, hot. Wow, did I ever want to fuck the bass player. No, actually I didn’t want to fuck him per se, because then he would have had to stop playing the bass. When I think about what I did want from him in more careful terms, I realize it’s too filthy to write in a public forum, even anonymously and even though he wouldn’t have to stop playing to do it. How about that. I’ve found my shame threshold. What an odd place for it.
But for me the highlight of the evening was Japan’s Megababe, a three girl punk group who fucking gave’er for their whole set. The drummer was the darlingest drummer ever since Animal, going fucking apeshit back there and NEVER BREAKING HER SMILE, and the bass player was just straight up hot, hotter than the bass player from Priestess, though perhaps in a less filthy way. Cuteness aside, though, those bitches fucking rocked. The vocals were great, powerful; the percussion what you’d expect if Animal wasn’t just a puppet, and the bass was dayum, to fall back on similes, like a storm of dark maple syrup icicles. Fucking awesome.
I hated the crowd, though. I mean, they were into it in the sense that all the plump aging indie boys - the lurking-filming-not-screaming fanboys - had their digital cameras trained steadily at the stage for the whole set and a rapt look on their face, but they weren’t into it in the sense of trashing shit or, say, moving. And Megababe really manage to make melodic big nasty thrashy bass-y punk that deserves to soundtrack shit being trashed. And they manage to make that look like what they were born to do.
I forget what the NXNE schedule is for tonight – I know King Kahn is in it. I want me some King Kahn. And now to work.
I saw three acts of varying style and quality, and of them I suppose my least favourite was Jets Overhead of Victoria. They weren’t awful or anything, fine for what it was, but they had the stage presence of slowly rolling Oreos and their music . . . well . . . Lady and I found a dialogue to describe it whilst lounging and drinking, waiting for Priestess to come on – whom see.
Me: They sound like the Cult.
Lady: But they suck.
Pause.
Lady: They sound like U2.
Me: But they suck.
Pause.
Me: They sound like the Arcade Fire.
Lady: But they suck.
Pause.
Me: They sound like a lot of things. But they suck.
Following Jets Overhead was the aforementioned Priestess, of Montréal. It was loud, hard, heavy and sweaty and made me want to hit people in a good way. It was loud, did I mention? Lady and I went up to the centre left to not be right in front of the speakers – J*Fish et all were and complained of deafness afterwards. It was hot. Hot, like, hot. Wow, did I ever want to fuck the bass player. No, actually I didn’t want to fuck him per se, because then he would have had to stop playing the bass. When I think about what I did want from him in more careful terms, I realize it’s too filthy to write in a public forum, even anonymously and even though he wouldn’t have to stop playing to do it. How about that. I’ve found my shame threshold. What an odd place for it.
But for me the highlight of the evening was Japan’s Megababe, a three girl punk group who fucking gave’er for their whole set. The drummer was the darlingest drummer ever since Animal, going fucking apeshit back there and NEVER BREAKING HER SMILE, and the bass player was just straight up hot, hotter than the bass player from Priestess, though perhaps in a less filthy way. Cuteness aside, though, those bitches fucking rocked. The vocals were great, powerful; the percussion what you’d expect if Animal wasn’t just a puppet, and the bass was dayum, to fall back on similes, like a storm of dark maple syrup icicles. Fucking awesome.
I hated the crowd, though. I mean, they were into it in the sense that all the plump aging indie boys - the lurking-filming-not-screaming fanboys - had their digital cameras trained steadily at the stage for the whole set and a rapt look on their face, but they weren’t into it in the sense of trashing shit or, say, moving. And Megababe really manage to make melodic big nasty thrashy bass-y punk that deserves to soundtrack shit being trashed. And they manage to make that look like what they were born to do.
I forget what the NXNE schedule is for tonight – I know King Kahn is in it. I want me some King Kahn. And now to work.
giovedì, giugno 08, 2006
Tenir bon le coup, ma petite pomme de terre
Brainstorming. And not just when paper or a keyboard is in front of me, which is inconvenient. For the first time – is it the first? I don’t remember – I’m regretting the effect of all that reefer on my memory, because I’ve had at least three ideas that escaped before they could be put into characters. I think they’ve since come back, but one never knows. Anyways, I was walking to my analyst’s last night, and an idea struck me aloud: “Of course! Lululemon makes your ass look gorgeous! That’s really important!” I guess it struck me aloud louder than it should have, because I nearly shocked an oncoming cyclist into some traffic. Don’t know what’s so shocking about it. Everybody knows Lululemon makes your ass look gorgeous, and that gorgeous asses are important. Doesn't mean I would ever buy that overpriced gouge-on--rack shit.
No news fit for print today, and not much to rant about either. It burns me up that Ella Fitzgerald CDs are so cheap. Except it doesn’t. Not at all. Sigh . . . More pretty French words for you, some I knew already but still so pretty . . . mondaine, finement, flopée de paquerette, fourmillements, bousiller (that one’s for you too, Lady); and some more terms: elle est bien roulée, tenaillé par le faim, se répandre en lamentations bruyantes. So pretty. Speaking of pretty, I’m on a heavy Beethoven kick at the moment. I think it’s darling that the EU is using the final movement of the 9th as an anthem. So German of them. If there’s anything better about the European Union than the often-theoretical notion of free circulation of the citizenry, it’s their anthem.
No news fit for print today, and not much to rant about either. It burns me up that Ella Fitzgerald CDs are so cheap. Except it doesn’t. Not at all. Sigh . . . More pretty French words for you, some I knew already but still so pretty . . . mondaine, finement, flopée de paquerette, fourmillements, bousiller (that one’s for you too, Lady); and some more terms: elle est bien roulée, tenaillé par le faim, se répandre en lamentations bruyantes. So pretty. Speaking of pretty, I’m on a heavy Beethoven kick at the moment. I think it’s darling that the EU is using the final movement of the 9th as an anthem. So German of them. If there’s anything better about the European Union than the often-theoretical notion of free circulation of the citizenry, it’s their anthem.
mercoledì, giugno 07, 2006
Well, I'll stand my ground
The botany project revision continues apace. I’m not into plants – Figaro’s the one who fantasizes about keeping a garden, I just fantasize about eating it – and it’s a fucking hard slog but I’m finding out pretty French words I didn’t know before: la myrte, le lierre, le laurier-rose, les platanes orientales, le porcelet, les muguets Madonne, and little expressions – un bon zigue, chat dans la gorge, qui parle aux tripes (that one’s for you, Lady!) Such a fucking beautiful language. Not Italian but it still makes me want a cigarette.
Nothing else to tell you this morning – I took a break from ‘helping’ and playing with the proposal to watch the Devil’s Playground, a documentary about the Amish rumspringa when the kids are allowed to go all crazy for a couple of years before deciding whether or not they want to be Amish. I wasn’t crazy about it. Too many long evocative silences that didn’t evoke shit, kinda boring test kids chosen – I would have liked to hear about something more substantive, like what happens if a chick gets pregnant during her rumspringa. I can imagine, and it’s horrible, which makes me think the documentary makers punked out a little.
Nothing else to tell you this morning – I took a break from ‘helping’ and playing with the proposal to watch the Devil’s Playground, a documentary about the Amish rumspringa when the kids are allowed to go all crazy for a couple of years before deciding whether or not they want to be Amish. I wasn’t crazy about it. Too many long evocative silences that didn’t evoke shit, kinda boring test kids chosen – I would have liked to hear about something more substantive, like what happens if a chick gets pregnant during her rumspringa. I can imagine, and it’s horrible, which makes me think the documentary makers punked out a little.
martedì, giugno 06, 2006
Ah you're trembling still
Argh. Last night Miss P of Paris had a melt-down on her history of botany project and now I'm 'helping' her. The ridiculousness of me 'helping' someone with a project in French about botany when my closest relationship with seeds for years has been eating them or picking them out of low-grade reefer is testament to the mental anguish and desperation inherent in bringing a research project to fruition, which I and my erstwhile swollen gall bladder remember all too well. Poor Miss P.
Nonetheless, I'm making an effort, at the same time, to put my doctoral proposal together and grow the set of unbreakable brass balls requisite for asking a series of strangers and institutions for acacademic acceptance, financial support, and a blow job. I thought I'd just throw the third one in as it seems so much more practical than asking for the first two. But you know, my new balls are coming in nicely. I deserve money for spending four years with this idea. The world deserves this idea. And I'm the person to expound this idea. So, there you go.
Back to the fucking botany - what a fucking joke.
Nonetheless, I'm making an effort, at the same time, to put my doctoral proposal together and grow the set of unbreakable brass balls requisite for asking a series of strangers and institutions for acacademic acceptance, financial support, and a blow job. I thought I'd just throw the third one in as it seems so much more practical than asking for the first two. But you know, my new balls are coming in nicely. I deserve money for spending four years with this idea. The world deserves this idea. And I'm the person to expound this idea. So, there you go.
Back to the fucking botany - what a fucking joke.
lunedì, giugno 05, 2006
Ladeeeeez and Gentlemen,
I don’t think I’ve used my 27 years on this earth effectively; I’m a flawed, some might say retarded specimen, a disappointment to many and a pleasant surprise to few. But there are some things I’m proud of, among these my foreswearance of the drink’n’dial. The drink’n’dial is a bad idea; we all know it. We know it because anything we have to get drunk to say, we’re repressing. Whenever we repress things, we’re repressing them for a reason; a state of drunkenness is not the best wherein to decide if this reason is good or not. Not to say we shouldn’t get drunk and carry on, but anything we have to get drunk to say over the telephone is something we’re not only repressing, but something we still don’t have the fucking balls to say to a person’s face drunk. That makes a drink’n’dial a repressive irrepressiveness. A mouse roaring like a lion from a very safe distance. Jack McCall being a cunt to Wild Bill Hickok over a poker game. A pussy, in short.
This makes drink’n’dialling a forum for arguments best made sober and face to face like a MAN, fuck. I’ve had real issues to raise in the past when I’ve drunk’n’dialled, and I know other people have had real issues when they’ve drunk’n’dialled me. But I promise you there is no better way, besides drink’n’typing, to make your argumentation impossible to take seriously. Things I’ve discovered about drinking’n’dialling:
1. The angry ones never fucking work. You know why? Because you sound FUNNY when you angry drink’n’dial someone. But not funny-angry like Chris Rock. More funny-angry like a drunk girl trying to punch and kick her date at the same time. You’ve seen those, right? They’re funny, aren’t they? That’s what you sound like when you angry drink’n’dial. There is no way you’re making a point in this shape. Break some beer bottles on the pavement instead.
2. If you ever find yourself drink’n’dialling and you get an answering service, don’t leave a message. By the third word, the recipient will know it was a drink’n’dial. If they’re nice, they’ll skip and erase the message. If they’re not, they’ll put it on speakerphone and laugh at it with whoever they’re with. In either case, remember: the beep means hang up. The beep means hang up. The beep means hang up.
3. The horny ones are okay if it’s established the person you’re calling is BOTH awake AND horny for you too. If BOTH are not the case, masturbate.
4. The only other time a drink’n’dial is fine is if you’re drink’n’dialling a friend because something really awful/wonderful is happening. For example, if you’re really sad your boyf dumped you, drink’n’dial me; it’s better than you drink’n’dialling him. Or if you drink’n’dial me after getting a hotel room key from that fucking hot cop from the Oka standoff who did porn later, great. But bear in mind that you’re drunk as you do this, and what seems awful/wonderful to you may not impress who you’re calling. Be sensitive to their efforts to get off the line. They may have been asleep, coital, or uninterested.
5. The older you get, the harder your drink’n’dials get to respect. Nobody expects a 17-year-old to be packing the full set of balls requisite for dealing with life’s problems face to face; a 27-year-old, however, should be. Anything over and above, well, that just gives me a reason to get self-righteous, doesn’t it. And do you want me more self-righteous?
If you’re a chronic drink’n’dialler:
1. Being generally open with your emotions whilst sober lets you deal with the shit you drink’n’dial about without slurring and with a minimal use of the word ‘cunt’.
2. After you’ve been out for an hour, tap your front teeth. If you can’t feel them, promise yourself to only use your phone for practicalities until the next day.
3. Buy a cell phone that’s too complicated to use drunk. It worked for me!
This makes drink’n’dialling a forum for arguments best made sober and face to face like a MAN, fuck. I’ve had real issues to raise in the past when I’ve drunk’n’dialled, and I know other people have had real issues when they’ve drunk’n’dialled me. But I promise you there is no better way, besides drink’n’typing, to make your argumentation impossible to take seriously. Things I’ve discovered about drinking’n’dialling:
1. The angry ones never fucking work. You know why? Because you sound FUNNY when you angry drink’n’dial someone. But not funny-angry like Chris Rock. More funny-angry like a drunk girl trying to punch and kick her date at the same time. You’ve seen those, right? They’re funny, aren’t they? That’s what you sound like when you angry drink’n’dial. There is no way you’re making a point in this shape. Break some beer bottles on the pavement instead.
2. If you ever find yourself drink’n’dialling and you get an answering service, don’t leave a message. By the third word, the recipient will know it was a drink’n’dial. If they’re nice, they’ll skip and erase the message. If they’re not, they’ll put it on speakerphone and laugh at it with whoever they’re with. In either case, remember: the beep means hang up. The beep means hang up. The beep means hang up.
3. The horny ones are okay if it’s established the person you’re calling is BOTH awake AND horny for you too. If BOTH are not the case, masturbate.
4. The only other time a drink’n’dial is fine is if you’re drink’n’dialling a friend because something really awful/wonderful is happening. For example, if you’re really sad your boyf dumped you, drink’n’dial me; it’s better than you drink’n’dialling him. Or if you drink’n’dial me after getting a hotel room key from that fucking hot cop from the Oka standoff who did porn later, great. But bear in mind that you’re drunk as you do this, and what seems awful/wonderful to you may not impress who you’re calling. Be sensitive to their efforts to get off the line. They may have been asleep, coital, or uninterested.
5. The older you get, the harder your drink’n’dials get to respect. Nobody expects a 17-year-old to be packing the full set of balls requisite for dealing with life’s problems face to face; a 27-year-old, however, should be. Anything over and above, well, that just gives me a reason to get self-righteous, doesn’t it. And do you want me more self-righteous?
If you’re a chronic drink’n’dialler:
1. Being generally open with your emotions whilst sober lets you deal with the shit you drink’n’dial about without slurring and with a minimal use of the word ‘cunt’.
2. After you’ve been out for an hour, tap your front teeth. If you can’t feel them, promise yourself to only use your phone for practicalities until the next day.
3. Buy a cell phone that’s too complicated to use drunk. It worked for me!
domenica, giugno 04, 2006
Brainstew
Feeling loads better today. Still kinda gross. Went to the Red Room with Luke Duke, Magnum, and the Policewoman yesterday, as well as one of the Double Cousins and a couple friends of Luke and Magnum. It was nice, the service was better than I remember but the food was blander, and I heard excellent news about employment prospects for Figaro from Double Cousin. So that put me in a good mood.
Shopping with the Policewoman put me in an odd mood - I don't shop much because I have credit card debt to shed - but found things I wanted to buy, and didn't, in Zara, H&M, and yes, fucking Lululemon. Lululemon is a buggabear for my industry as they're this incredible marketing success story that doesn't use traditional media - certainly not television. And I appreciate that. But it doesn't change the fact their shit is way overpriced and the owner pushes the merits of child labour. It's positioned on the market - and priced - to appeal to people who don't like child labour, one, and two - child labour - holy fuck. Maybe I'm a raging capitalist and think sometimes sweatshops could be alright ideas in terms of long-term economic development and the emancipation of women, but children should be going through a real educational process until they're at least 18 and anybody who says differently is a cunt. That's not emotion, that's fucking common sense. So I shan't buy any goddamn Lululemon, even if it makes my ass look veritably edible.
Anyways, late last night (whilst sober) I had a brainwave and I think I have a subject for a doctoral thesis now. I have to give it some shape. I have to get money from people. I have to . . . I have to . . . kaboom! My head just exploded. I'm going to the gym to relax.
Shopping with the Policewoman put me in an odd mood - I don't shop much because I have credit card debt to shed - but found things I wanted to buy, and didn't, in Zara, H&M, and yes, fucking Lululemon. Lululemon is a buggabear for my industry as they're this incredible marketing success story that doesn't use traditional media - certainly not television. And I appreciate that. But it doesn't change the fact their shit is way overpriced and the owner pushes the merits of child labour. It's positioned on the market - and priced - to appeal to people who don't like child labour, one, and two - child labour - holy fuck. Maybe I'm a raging capitalist and think sometimes sweatshops could be alright ideas in terms of long-term economic development and the emancipation of women, but children should be going through a real educational process until they're at least 18 and anybody who says differently is a cunt. That's not emotion, that's fucking common sense. So I shan't buy any goddamn Lululemon, even if it makes my ass look veritably edible.
Anyways, late last night (whilst sober) I had a brainwave and I think I have a subject for a doctoral thesis now. I have to give it some shape. I have to get money from people. I have to . . . I have to . . . kaboom! My head just exploded. I'm going to the gym to relax.
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