Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on New Year's Eve

Ahh! Sweet mana from Heaven! The long drought has lifted. Let the righteous tunes flow as a river unto my puckered soul. For the Love of God, give me something that Rocks! Or, at least makes me tap my foot and nod my head in that enthusiastic, satiated way.

Kat and I spent the X-Mas holiday at my parents' rural home in the Heart of the American Midwest. The silence was deafening, the knick-knacks were charming and the parents were... doting. The second I slipped into the plane that would sweep me back to my concrete homeland, I knew that something had to happen. Either 1) I would be required to commit some filth act that would instantly outrage every human being West of the Hudson River/East of Pasadena and thus re-calibrate my cultural pH, or 2) I must do Something in the City to re-affirm my faith that there are pockets of world that have advanced beyond the 1980's. Since I had tickets to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on New Year's Eve, I opted for the latter. It was cheaper and allowed me to avoided possible jail time.

I'd been psyched about this concert from the beginning, despite the fact that it was taking place at Irving plaza (Clear Channel venue! Evil! Evil!). Back in November, I e-mailed friends, but nobody was willing to commit to any New Year's plans (lest something better come along). Oh, did they lose out on this one. It was pretty funny when I started getting e-mails about articles in various music publications and the New York Times. You snooze, you loose folks (insert derisive laughter, and insidious hand-wringing of a shameless, Indie music snob).

Irving Plaza is one of those joints that tries to manufature a quirky, intimate scene but instead comes across as some Indie Theme Park. The place is nice-enough. It has a medium-sized floorspace and a U-shaped balcony. A bar rests on each level where they dispense such delicacies as $5 cans of Rheingold beer and $6 cans of Heineken. Four and a half years in this city and I still can't get over the trapped-in-an-airport price scale that these bars charge. The whole theater area is painted black. To amuse the natives, they drop a projection screen in front of the stage and run 'kitschy' movies through a video effects machine (or their projector is broken). The New Year's Eve line up was a Pee Wee Herman movie with cutaways to Schoolhouse Rock bits sans sound. Wow.... gotta love that retro thing.... it's so clever... I get to relive my memories in front of others and take pride in the power of my brain to remember such esoteric classics as "Verb! That's What's Happenin'!", but without actually hearing it... it makes me feel so... un-mainstream... in that safe, pop culture kind of way... This scene was old in the mid 90's, folks.

For the New Year's Eve festivities, a pair of middle-aged men on stilts wandered the crowd. They juggled bowling pins/rings or blew soap bubbles upon the heads of unsuspecting patrons. The joint could have used a few more performers, but the effort was a nice surprise. A pregnant cocoon of balloons was attached to the ceiling in anticipation of the last gasp of the year. For the first time in years, I was actually excited about ringing in the New Year. I'm sure that Kat was relieved to be out of the cave too. The last few years have seen me cooking 'special' meals that take 4 hours and 10 rounds of dishes to complete and normally left 15 minutes of "enjoyment".

The opening band was Dr. Dogg. I'd never heard of Dr. Dogg. Their most memorable feature was that the majority of the group was sporting beards. It's the new hipster thing, those beards. It's nice to see adults trying to look like adults even when the hipsters are dressed like me when I was 8. One of the lead singers looked like a smaller version of Ric Ocasek from The Cars, except with a hat... and without the musical sensibility. He enjoyed swinging his oversized hollow-body guitar around and was having entirely too much fun for the stuff that was coming out of it. The band was tight but their songs were instantly forgettable. They had a lot of energy but it wasn't coming out in the music. They need a year in the UK to see what to do with it.

It wasn't until after the concert had sold out (early December) that they announced their "Very Special Guest". It was *drumroll* The National! I was so... actually, I didn't know anything about The National. I'd seen their 2005 release, Alligator, appear on the Top 10 lists of a number of Pitchfork-reading bloggers, but I'd never listened to their stuff. Indie blogs and hipster friends were psyched about this band! I was sure that I was going to get a fantastic two-for-one- Clap Your Hands and The National! Yeah!

Welllllll... no. I didn't get it. No. Check that. I Got it. It sounded exactly like Coldplay, except without the orchestration or the lilting, crooning voice or the songs... but it was just as sappy and soporific! The girls beside me rocked in ecstasy to the music, holding themselves and crooning every. single. word. that came out of the lead singer's mouth. Just when I thought that I could take it no longer, the stage lights turned blue, a single, white light rose at center stage, and the lead singer stepped into so that he could crooooon to the light and get a facial tan at the same time. $5 Beer break, coming right up!

Despite the disappointment of The National, Kat and I were having a pretty good time. The crowd around us was younger but mercifully-free of the aggressive, putzes who crowd into your personal space then angle past as if they are going to meet somebody then stop right in front of you. During Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's set, I actually had a guy ask Kat if she could see. Seriously. I saw it. He wasn't even hitting on her.

So, when people ask me what Clap Your Hands Say Yeah sound like, I tell them that they sound something in between Talking Heads and The Arcade Fire. As the projection screen rose and the band launched into their opening song, I was struck by how much the lead singer reminded me of a young Bob Dylan. Although the songs don't carry the raw, evangelical poetry of Dylan, they had a high-pitched wailing quality that danced along that fine line between challenging and bitter complaining. The current landscape of (smart) rock music has been carrying a frustrated tone. People are frustrated and furious with the state of living but it feels like we're all boxing against shadows. My favorite bands of the year have been hitting on this frustration again and again. The Kills, Deathcab for Cutie, Sufjan Stevens, Art Brut, Wilco, MIA and The Arcade Fire- all of them have at least one song that's about looking around and asking themselves "What the fuck?!" MIA has big, international injustices to point her finger at while Art Brut has the most entertaining bitch session on the pretenders who infest the music scene. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah is the steady gaze of that friend who tells you that you're probably flat footing it through life and we could all be doing better, but let's have some fun while we're being frustrated.

Onstage, they were great. The sound mixer had the bass jacked up too high and bottomed out the speakers a few times, but the band still managed to sound strong and tight. The stilted jugglers stood along the left side of the stage and juggled their little hearts out. When the clock hit midnight, the balloon cocoon was released and 10 balloons descended into the audience. Kat grabbed my oggling face and turned me around so she could plant a New Year's kiss on me and there we were - 2006. Two songs later, an audience member convinced others to let him stand on their shoulders and the balloons were finally set free. Pandemonium (the good kind) ensued as fans popped, threw, and shook inflated pieces of colored rubber.

Good times.

Check out the pictures I posted on Flickr. I got a couple good ones. Click the Flicker graphic to the right.

Sons and Daughters at Northsix

Seeing a musician at the top of his/her game is a fantastic experience. It reminds me why I see bands play live and why people pursue an artistic career. A mediocre band can show flashes of brilliance that make me want to embrace them and root for their development and future success. Bad bands instill a stronger belief in myself by illustrating that, despite their tremendous ability to suck, they're out there, putting it together, getting gigs, recording music and doing what they believe in. If the ongoing duties of computer repair/software installation hadn't absorbed my entire, 3-day weekend, I would have been a guitar-playing motherfucker come Sunday morning 'cause I was hip-deep in inspiration.

Kat and I crawled out of the cave on a rainy Saturday afternoon, propelled ourselves through the subway for an hour, all for a little music-lovin' in Brooklyn neighborhood of Williamsburg. For the non-native, Williamsburg is a perfect example of what might have been and what is so very Wrong with New York. Earlier last century, Williamsburg was an Italian-American neighborhood full of Brooklyn Dodgers fans and mafiosos. Later, Poles and orthodox Jews huddled together in tight-knit communities. Recently, it has been embalmed by overeager developers and deep-pocketed hipsters who were eager to gut a neighborhood and build a SoHo to call their own. When Kat and I moved to New York in 2001, Williamsburg was already in the process of transmogrifying from an artist-friendly neighborhood of lofts and cheap apartments into an over-priced community of perfo-kitsch and clubs outlined by Beemers and Benzes. Still, some cool venues have held on. Galapagos still has great, free burlesque shows on Monday nights and Northsix has managed to consistently book some great, up-and-coming indie bands. I'd been wanting to go for years and on this night, the stars finally aligned and suddenly, there we were.

In the typical plumage of urban-chic, Northsix didn't have a sign. Only a large black man on a barstool hinted that there was a bar behind those doors. We flashed our ID's and slipped into the high-ceiling foyer(?) that had a bar with the only beer on-tap (Heineken). We checked in through Will Call and entered the performance space where a flock of tittering Hispanic girls fluttered about the unmanned, sales table. They ogled $15 T-shirts and debated whether the buttons and stickers were free or not, despite the sign in the middle of the table that told them. I excused myself, plunged my hand into the mass of stunned ladies (completely non-sexually, of course) and snagged a Sons & Daughters sticker.

A long, light-wood bar undulated from the entrance, down toward the stage. No barstools, plastic cups stacked behind the bar for mixed drinks, yet $5 for a bottle of Red Stripe beer? What the hell kind of Cosmo-drinking, indie crowd was this? A narrow stairway and a few, bleacher-style seats stood facing the wide stage. The drink prices were disappointing but still, I live for these sorts of spaces where you can talk to the band as they're loading in/out their gear. The usual suspects of music geeks had already secured their seats. Cute, vaguely-nerdy female groupies were paired up and claiming nosebleed seats while the intense, Übermusik geeks carefully scoped out the Ideal seat that stood just above the heads of the standing crowd yet offered the perfect balance of comfort, acoustic fidelity, and eye-lines. I, on the other hand, am of the genre who has to be there nice and early so I don't miss Anything. I went to see Stars at the Mercury Lounge about a year ago and it still bugs me that I missed most of the opening set featuring I Am Kloot. Yep, I'm That Guy.

Kat spotted a row of wooden seats against a side wall so we snagged them. It gave us seats and a good vantage point to people-watch and ruthlessly judge others... that being the only alternative to drinking. Besides, my standing endurance was running low and even with my steel-tipped, Doc Martens with heel supports, I was gonna be struggling by the end of the night. It sucks getting older, sometimes. Kat and I baby-sipped our beers and entertained ourselves by making sweeping generalizations of everyone who passed. The flock of Hispanic senoritas swept from one end of the performance space to another, searching for a land where they could see the band, be seen by everyone in the club, and find butt accommodations for the entire group. It was hypnotic.

The first band of the night was a 5-piece group called Eiffel Tower. I vaguely recognized the name from my perusal of KEXP playlists (the no-streaming policy at my day job has effectively eliminated my morning dose of online radio). I was eager to check them out. Well, I am eager no more. It's always a bad sign when the opening band is really loud. It's like guys who drive jacked pickups - you just know the dick has gotta be small. Screeching loud generally means that they're making up for other insecurities. It's not like Eiffel Tower was lacking in the indie cred- they had the nerd-savant on rhythm guitar, the T-Rex backup wannabe on bass and a wry, blond keyboardist who was affable and humble. Had the band been tight, the singing been consistently in tune or the hooks solid, this might have been a solid band. Maybe it was an off night. Maybe the lead singer had been rooting for his alma mater during an afternoon football game, but this was not their night. It's a tough career they've chosen and tonight, they inspired me with their tenacity and ability to get gigs!

There is a chance that I was getting a bit jaded by this time. I'm not a newbie to the scene. I'm not floored simply by the ability of the band to vibrate the air around me with a great half-stack. With no beer buzz to propel me through the evening, I only had a pair of earplugs to separate me from suck and I was starting to feel bad for dragging Kat's beloved ass to some vacuous corner of New York. Just then, I noticed a willowy fellow take to the stage. He looked like a member of the 1930's worker party or a roadie for Woody Guthrie, if such a thing were possible. He was soon joined by a platinum blonde that Kat had earlier pegged as an A&R exec. A ripped jeans guy who I'd mockingly pronounced to be a spoiled-rich producer type turned out to be the drummer. I have no future as a detective. The band was 'The Rosebuds'.

There are two things I'm a sucker for when it comes to bands - solid drumming and a guitarist who can play an entire show with ONE guitar. Nothing can kill a show quicker than sloppy drumming or a guitarist who has to swipe out and re-tune his/her guitar between every. single. song. If you're playing power chords through a distortion pedal and your low 'E' is a half step off, I'm probably not going to be put out. Making me sit through a couple minutes of you staring at a BOSS tuning pedal, trying to get it just right, well just shoot me now. Either learn to play an entire set in drop D tuning or learn to fret it standard. The Rosebuds had a good drummer, a good guitarist and what resulted was a rousing set of unmemorable songs. The blonde beauty was, unfortunately, completely mixed out of the set. The brief flashes from her keyboard and mic gave me cause for hope, however. The band showed hints of The White Stripes and they had some fun hooks, but they never quite seemed to take a full bite from what they wanted. Of course, not every one would agree with me. The best entertainment of the night might have been a cute, young woman who knew all The Rosebuds's lyrics and had a natural, rhythmic dance going that was just fun to watch- and not in that creepy, sexual way. In New York, such dancing is a notable anomaly. NYC is mostly known for white-boy nodding or stilted, cooler-than-thou posing. Even Kat was taken aback by this lady's inappropriate display of enjoyment. If only other New Yorkers could learn to enjoy a night out...

The Rosebuds finished their set and our free-spirited dancer consummated the evening by proclaiming, to the lead guitarist, that he was awesome. I love small venues like this. Kat and I rose and shuffled towards center stage. A short, young man with a greaser's pompadour raced about the stage. He tuned his guitars, set up the mic stands and fitted windsocks on the microphones before whisking himself offstage. I would later discover that his name was (and probably still is) Scott Paterson and he is the best reason to go see the band Sons and Daughters. When the four-member band finally launched into their opening song, it took all of two seconds to see that Scott was the Real Deal. From the opening power chords through the final crescendo, he was On Task, cranking out with an intensity normally reserved for drummers on coke. He immediately reminded me of a Joe Strummer-type of player. Sons and Daughters are not, however, anything like The Clash. Adele Bethel was the vocal engine of the band, providing a solid performance and a hypnotic, to-and-fro rocking motion. Ailidh Lennon, the bass player, blew something on her amp stack on the second song and spent the rest of evening being the World's Poutiest Cute Irish Woman in a Red Dress.

The band had opened for The Decemberists at Webster Hall on Tuesday and although I wanted to go, my boycott of Webster Hall remains in effect. I didn't expect Sons and Daughters to play at a particularly high level on this night but I was pleasantly surprised. The band really shone when Scott was cut loose and allowed to run. Their rendition of "Johnny Cash" was particularly strong. There was a disturbing moment during song that required audience participation. The whole band suddenly swapped out from performing to hand clapping. Parts of the audience joined in. Kat, however chose to sit this clap-fest out. The drummer, seemingly put out by the fact that a cute, blonde woman in the audience was not dying to participate, attempted to Will her to clap through an extended, intense stare that elicited raised eyebrows and an uncomfortable laugh from Kat. Having never seen another man attempt to hypnotize my girlfriend in the midst of a concert, I was momentarily taken aback. Fortunately, Kat's laugh ended Rasputin's seduction as quickly as it had begun. The band did a one-song encore after promising us that they had to go. It was just as well. Kat and I were at least hour of subway riding away from home.

M.I.A. in Central Park - as viewed by an angry man

I haven't willingly listened to a commercial radio station in years. I have been held captive in offices where bitter, heavy-set secretaries voice their Displeasure with the world by cranking up a scratchy, transistor radio to piercing levels so we can all enjoy "On the Dock of the Bay" for the eight billionth time (this song also finds heavy rotation among hobo crooners on the subway). Abrasive commercials, pseudo-DJs, the heavy rotation of 10 songs, Over and Over and Over- how could I NOT miss it? Nearly as punishing as their broadcasts, commercial radio stations love to promote/sponsor concerts while displaying a staggering lack of understanding of both entertaining or their core audience. On Sunday, Kat and I subjected ourselves to the laminated sheen of commercial concert bliss at a Central Park Summerstage show featuring M.I.A.

Kat's theme music for the last few months has been M.I.A. If you don't know what M.I.A. is, I forgive you. 'It' is a Sri Lankan/Brit woman who raps world issues over fantastic Indian/techno style beats. She completely rocks and is on the verge of being consumed by the American Hipster Hype Machine who loves to worship it's God, then dismantle It at the first sign of national attention. Kat has been using M.I.A.'s debut album, Arular, as her personal theme music for the last few months and had this date circled on her calendar for weeks. Getting me out of the cave was no easy task. I was in the midst of a Hate-The-World phases wherein mania strikes and I cannot write or focus on anything. Eventually, I become irritated by everyone and am reduced to performing cross-hatch, pen drawings for hours on end or picking off Nazis with a sniper rifle from the comfort of my computer chair. Kat has seen plenty of these episodes and quickly dismissed my protestations - she wouldn't be denied. So, at 1pm we boarded the subway and hauled our asses down to Central Park.

Central Park really is an amazing place. It's easy to forget that when you have to cross it twice a day, 3-5 days a week. The park is Huge and on any given day, there are thousands of people from dozens of nationalities doing thousands of different things. Impromptu roller skating rinks shared spaces with jazz bands, frisbee games, pot smokers and crazy people - it is one of the best places in the world to people-watch. On Sunday, there also happened to be thousands of people standing in line to see M.I.A.. Kat and I immediately abandoned all hope of getting into the small, outdoor theater and staked out a spot on a woodchip-as-lawn area with the growing mass of eager fans. It was a people-watching smorgasbord. Hula-hoop dancers enjoyed the Indian-techno tunes while a bearded, dreadlocked soul danced solo for a good hour before an atractive pair of pretty, Indian women joined him. Soon, there were 15-20 people spinning and hip-swinging -hula-hoops and frisbees were flying everywhere.

Then the radio station DJs took the stage. They asked the crowd a half dozen times who they were there to see (M.I.A.) and were they ready to go crazy (yes). They turned over the DJing duties to DJ Rekha who did her best to destroy all momentum for dancing fun. Can someone explain to me how these people get their jobs? It's always a relief to have DJs play something different but I have two words for you - beat matching. If people are grooving out to a song, then you'd better have something that they can fold their rhythm into when it ends. Playing an energeitic groove then following it with a slow, disjointed beat Kills the Momentum. Could you Please quit turning the music down every 30 seconds to complain that the audience isn't as enthusiastic as you want them to be? Last note - quit explaining what kind of music you are going to play next. I don't care if you think that you're gonna 'get hardcore, now'. This DJ must've told us she was 'getting hardcore' three times as if she kept loosing her hardcore and was trying to re-start the engine.

Have I mentioned that I've been having some anger issues, lately?

All right... fine. I'm complaining about the opening act. The real reason Kat and I were bruising our asses on tree roots was to hear M.I.A., right? So, how was she?

Well, you'll have to find someone else to answer that. Two and a half hours after the concert started, we were still waiting for M.I.A. We had endured DJ Rekha, Mr. Vegas (a reggae DJ who equally sucked) and Diplo. This was interspersed with a cavalcade of radio jockeys who would not stop asking us who we wanted to see (M.I.A) and were we ready to go crazy (yes). Kat's ass was hurting, the cute, Indian women had abandoned the dancing an hour into the concert and our people-watching had morphed into a lot of people looking around at one another and wondering 'Can I go now?'.

I had a writing workshop back in Inwood at 7, Kat had lost her groupie zeal and we figured that we'd endured enough.

Alas, I believe that Kat and I will have to wait for the Hype to fade before we see the Experience that is M.I.A.

Freakin at the Siren Festival

I want to join a freak show. I don't really know what my skill would be. I never honed my gross-out skills in middle school. My skill was paper football games and pencil snapping and although I might have ruled the school in those days, I don't see the general public ponying up the cash to make my dream a viable reality. I used to be a cutter, but I've weaned myself away from that lifestyle (much to Kat's relief) and the fact is that real, physical pain is a turn off in a live, theatrical setting. If there is ever a manic-depressive freakshow, sign me up, otherwise I'm destined to be a dreamer, not a practitioner. Fortunately, there were four practitioners at Coney Island this last weekend and for $8 on a hot afternoon, Kat and I partook of all that is Good and Joyous about a nice, wholesome Freak Show... particularly ones that serve Coronas.

The Real Reason that Kat and I subjected ourselves to one and a half hours of subway bliss was to attend the our third Coney Island Siren Festival. I had one of my 'Holy Shit' moments at my first Siren Festival when I watched a pissed-off Jamie Hince (a.k.a. Hotel) and Allison Mosshart (a.k.a. VV) perform an disjointed-yet-amazing set of music. The sound was terrible and they had a drum machine that couldn't work for-shit, but there was something there that made me hunt down one of the band lineups to find out their name - The Kills. A few months later, they returned to NYC and played at the Bowery Ballroom and confirmed themselves as my Favorite Band.

Frankly, the idea of the Siren Festival is a lot better than the reality. The bands play from 1pm-9pm and it's at the height of the summer with no relief from the heat except oversized cups of Rheingold beer. The crowds are fun and casual for the first couple bands, but as the day wears on, the crush to See gets unbearable. This year seemed exceptionally underwhelming. We arrived just as Ambulance LTD was taking the stage. They had some fun, catchy tunes for the first few songs, but their stuff fell a little too close to Nickelback by the end. The Dears took to the stage and after a short setup... kept setting up. Tell me, truthfully, does one band REALLY need 5 keyboards to get through a 45 minute set? Does everything REALLY have.to.be.just.so. for a steaming-hot afternoon where you're performing next to a rollercoaster?! Two songs into it, I knew that The Dears have been spending too much of their career working on setup and not enough time on songs. "Oh, I promise not to cry" as a climactic refrain? Somebody, shoot me.

By the time Q and Not U took the stage, I was ready for a break. Fortunately, Coney Island is a great place to visit once a year. In 2003, we sampled the Boardwalk hustlers and carney-style food. Last year it was the Wonder Wheel and Cyclone rollercoaster (though Kat wouldn't call that her high-point of entertainment). This year, it was The Coney Island Circus Sideshow. This was my first freak show since my Nine Inch Nails days when Trent was touring with the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow. This show wasn't on the same scale, but it was welcome respite from dull alt bands and a hot, rainy day that turned sweltering-sunny.

There must be a shortage of reliable freaks in New York City (or I swim in the same circles) because I've seen at least two, possibly three, of these freaks elsewhere in the City. It's hard to forget a dreadlocked woman with facial tattoos so I'm sure that Insectavoria is the same lovely lady I spotted handing out fliers in front of Andromeda's on St. Mark's Place. I wonder if she's related to Mikel Monkeymeat, the dreadlocked, facial-tattooed, body piercing specialist in said-establishment? I interviewed Mikel my first month in New York for a Playgirl article on genital piercings (that's another story), but I digress. Insectavoria put on an impressive display of fireball blowing and sword walking. If she'd been putting on that show when she was handing out fliers, I mighta strolled right in and got myself an apadravya... or not.

Eak the Geek was a frequent rider of the 'F' line when I lived in Brooklyn and, in hindsight, must have been headed home from work about the same time Kat and I set out for the City's evening entertainment. One evening, a friend of mine, smitten by his bodyfull of blue tattoos, spontaneously lept from her subway seat to talk to him. He's much angrier-looking when he's not talking. At the sideshow, he insulted hipsters for ignoring the 'No Photos' signs and had a hefty couple from Suburb,USA stand on his stomach as he was sandwiched between a pair of nail-filled boards. Not the most impressive feat I've seen, but he had some good carney-energy and kept the enthusiasm level up.

Heather Holiday looked very familiar to me. I don't know where I've seen her but... There's nothing that would suggest that she's a sword swallower and contortionist on the Outside, but that's just what she did for us this afternoon.Despite the fact that she was cute, dressed in a little sexpot number and had the obvious double-entendre skills, I kept getting the feeling that a date with her would be a lot of heavy petting, giggles, and coy grins, but little else. Alas, she had all the stage presence of a middle-school recital. Her bits desperately called for a burlesque touch, but this sideshow seemed a little desperate to keep everything 'G' rated.

Diamond Donny V was the host of this escapade. He sported a derby hat, pork chop sideburns and a placid demeanor. His bits were a little weak, but he had good comic timing and kept the show rolling along. He did succeed in grossing out Kat when he successfully threaded a long nail through his nose. A good emcee for the show, but I'd have preferred a little onstage contrast with him and Eek the Geek. Ahh... if I ran the circus...

The Sideshow was great, but I knew it was time to go when we finally emerged into the sweltering late afternoon. The crowds had begun to choke the streets and it was still a couple hours until home. Thank you Coney Island, it was Real.

Son Volt at South Street Seaport

It was at Gabe's Oasis in Iowa City, Iowa where I had my first 'Holy Shit' moment. My best friend, Eliot, dragged me from the bowels of my cramped, one-bedroom apartment and introduced me to a band that wasn't quite country, wasn't quite punk, and featured a half dozen musicians who appeared to be touring with 30 instruments in tow. They had two lead singers-- one, a sad crooner with long, brown hair, the other, a droning, lilting singer with a bowl haircut nearly as bad as mine. The band was called Uncle Tupelo and they frigging rocked my world. I had no idea that country music could rock that hard or that a country-style band could do a kick-ass cover of "I Wanna Destroy You".

A couple years later, the band had split and the lead singers had built two, equally-strong bands with completely different sounds. The floppy-haired one, Jeff Tweedy, formed Wilco and Ascended to alt.pop heaven with the fantastic album Being There. The second singer with the dork haircut, Jay Farrar, embraced the country side of Uncle Tupelo's sound and formed Son Volt and put out a debut album, Trace. Three years ago, I finally caught Wilco live at NYC's Roseland Ballroom and had a blast. Last Thursday, I finally consummated my ongoing infatuation with that 'Holy Shit' moment by heading down to the South Street Seaport and catching a free concert featuring a much-hipper haircut singing lead for Son Volt.

Free concerts are always a mixed bag in a big city. They're outdoors, free and usually a fantastic opportunity to check out obscure bands. On the other hand, these venues provide a wonderful opportunity for every ass-clown with a few hours to kill to exchange office gossip with co-workers as if he's hanging out in his own living room, holding court with people who actually give a flying fuck. Nothing says Kill Me like listening to some shmuck on a cell phone during a concert, endlessly repeating "I Can't Hear You!" to the poor soul at the other end of the line...

South Street Seaport provides a stunning backdrop - the Brooklyn Bridge, downtown Brooklyn, the towering skyscrapers of Wall Street, and a small collection of early 20th Century sailing ships. The forecast had been threatening rain all day, but it was a picture-perfect evening. Kat and I were running late (having enjoyed a couple rounds of happy hour magic in the East Village) and missed the opening band, Dr. Dog, but Son Volt had just begun their set as we finally reached the end of Fulton Street. The show was solid, but a bit tepid. When you're playing for both fans and passers-by it's gotta be a bitch to engage an audience. Also, many of Son Volt's newer songs sounded much like one another and I frequently found myself staring off at a swingin' old guy in the audience who was laying into his air guitar harder than anyone onstage. It wasn't until Son Volt started laying into their older tracks that the show finally found a stride.

It wasn't anything close to a 'Holy Shit' moment but it was a respectable set and the price was right. I'm not terribly psyched of picking up Son Volt's newest album, Okemah and the Melody of Riot, but any fans of alt.country should still check out Son Volt's Trace, Wilco's sophomore effort Being There, and anything from Uncle Tupelo's first 4 albums. You won't be disappointed.

this land is Our land?

"You don't understand, man. I am nowhere near the threat I'd hoped I'd be!"
-Arlo Guthrie

For most of my life, hippie culture was limited to clichéd Hollywood portrayals of stoned, slow-witted adults who rambled cryptically about wheat germ, pseudo-asian philosophy and some ass-backward idea about saving Mother Earth. I never smoked enough pot to understand The Grateful Dead and Joan Baez's warbled rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" was enough to put me off of hippie, folk music altogether. The best hippie-themed song I heard until my mid-twenties was Mucky Pup's "Hippies Hate Water". I occasionally spotted a hippie here and there, but for the most part I assumed that they all disappeared into rural communes or cleaned up their act and got a real job.

Did I mention that I grew up in a U.S. Army culture until I was 18?

I've grown up a little since those days and my view of hippies improved significantly when I met Kat. Although not a hardcore hippie by trade, Kat is a direct descendent of the lifestyle. I soon found myself hip deep in astrological charts, organic eggs and forwarded e-mails from PETA and Greenpeace. I've befriended quite a few hippies over the years and I discovered that many of my preconceptions of hippies were true (except that most hippies do, in fact, like water but detest aluminum-based deodorant). Like all cultural stereotyping, however, it was over-reductive, and simplified to the point of condescension. Joan Baez DOES suck and I was never able to get into Bob Dylan outside a few of his earlier hits, but there are tons of fantastic, psychedelic, hippie bands that kicked ass (in a peaceful, loving way, of course) and quickly became my favorites: Jefferson Airplane, the Great Society, Blue Cheer, 13th Floor Elevators, Country Joe and the Fish, Ritchie Havens, Canned Heat, Big Brother & the Holding Company, and Jimi Hendrix. In addition, I gained a great deal of respect and admiration for a lifestyle that engages everyone as individuals and actively questions the esoteric rules and institutions that govern (and regulate) most people's lives. I am, however, secure in the knowledge that I am FAR too high-strung and obsessive to ever maintain such a benevolent demeanor and there is not enough pot in all of Meigs County, Ohio that could get me there. So, when I saw that Arlo Guthrie was kicking off his 40th Anniversary tour since the release of "Alice's Restaurant", I knew where Kat and I had to be on Wednesday night.

Battery Park City is a jut of land on the west end of Lower Manhattan built from the landfill used to excavate for the building of the World Trade Center. It also happens to be the site of shady, real estate deals that were intended to build affordable housing for low income families. They did build the low income housing but they put in Queens. The apartment towers that live in Battery Park City today are high-end apartments with sweeping views of the Hudson Bay, including the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and New Jersey. The neighborhoods have that pre-fabbed, soulless feeling, though. At the northern tip of Battery Park City rests an actual park called Rockefeller Park (not enough things named after that family). It was a strange setting for a hippie, folk icon and son of a social-activist musician to stage a concert.

Kat and I have a hard time going out. The best way to trick ourselves into doing anything is to not go home. We took our time getting down there but still showed up over an hour before the start. There was already a crowd starting to gather and onstage there was a rousing folk jam/sound check with The Man Himself at center, manning an acoustic guitar. The whole area had a great, relaxed vibe that instantly took me back to the small-town festivals and bandshell concerts that dominated my Midwestern summers as a kid. It's easy to forget that the hippie/folk music revival of the 60's got it's start in New York City where Ritchie Havens and Bob Dylan plucked their guitars in Tompkins Square Park and small dives in Greenwich Village. Middle-aged women with long, braided hair and tie-dyed skirts danced beside hacky-sack circles and frisbee games. Arlo jammed for 15-20 minutes then retreated to a modest-sized bus.

At 7pm, a folksy group called The Mammals took the stage. Their music wasn't particularly trailblazing, but they set an old-timey, toe-tapping tone and held their own. I recognized a tune from my Buena Vista Social Club CD, a couple of old, folk numbers and some original tunes that echoed 60's folk pieces. For two people who have spent the last 4 years wading through hipsters and scenesters, the crowd was refreshing, and perhaps even more entertaining than the act. A white-hair-and-beard man with oversized sunglass danced a non-stop jig that left me gasping for air. Young and old women twirled and swayed to the rousing banjo-and-fiddle numbers. A short, bearded man in baseball hat and bandana performed a virtual MC act as he bounced to the music then clapped and turned to the audience with a look of 'Aren't they fucking great?! I told you they were fucking great!'

Between sets, a middle-aged guy (sounding like a stoned version of Kramer) gushed about a commune town in Ohio where he planned on living. His friends, long-haired and mellow, gently suggested that a 9 to 5 job might put some much-needed structure in his life. Kat and I glanced about and marveled at the volume of sack lunches that dominated the scene. Most of the audience actually preferred to sit on the grass versus snagging a fold-out chair... and there wasn't a Red Bull or clove cigarette in sight.

I was shocked when Arlo took to the stage, only minutes after the Mammals had left. Where was the diva-like lateness or 30-minute guitar tunings that I had grown grown to expect? Was this legal? Wasn't some form of passive-aggressive behavior Required within city limits? Then, Arlo nearly knocked me out of my seat when he began his set with "Alice's Restaurant". What kind of madness was going on here?! That's supposed to be the Rousing finale! We were supposed to Suffer and Pine for the opening chords so we could Roar and Cheer the release of anticipation! What kind of frigging Performer was this anyway?! Had he ever even Played in front of a live audience?! How could could he possibly go Up after playing his most famous song?!

Arlo didn't kick the tension up and he didn't knock it down, either. This was a loose, casual evening of Music and as the performance rolled from one rise to another, it became apparent that Arlo might know a thing or two about performing and maybe, a little more about what his audience needed than I. Arlo kicked through his better-known songs, played a couple ones from his dad and a Leadbelly classic "Goodnight Irene". He didn't play with coiled urgency that I love in so much of my music, but with a sense of timelessness and quiet observation. For a couple of hours, I was reminded of how important it was to get to know people and not look at the world with an 'Us vs. Them' mentality. I felt better about people and our potential for good and rising to meet challenges.

Then, on Thursday I stood in line for 2 and a half hours so that I could have a piece of metal pulled out of my eye.

I need a mosh pit.

Hold the Fuckin' Phone - It's Kasabian Time!

Sometimes, it's obvious. A band lays into their opening song and you can see 'IT' - stage presence, hooks and a tightness that only happens when the beat, the bass, the guitar and the voice are all On. The. Beat. If I'm still smiling by the third song, I know that I've found The Real Deal. They are a rare species but if you're really listening and engaged, you can hear it. Modest Mouse have it. The Kills have it. The Libertines had it. The Pixies have it. Uncle Tupelo had it. There are plenty of kick-ass American bands but it seems like the British bands have seemed especially-tight. They have a coiled energy that drives up and through the music. It makes your insides want to growl a primal response. I've been on a really hot streak with Brit bands and last night, I tried a little Kasabian action. I hadn't seen Kasabian or even remembered hearing their stuff on the KEXP surfing I'd enjoyed in my employed days, but I was getting good word-of-mouth -the same kind that'd pointed to me to The Libertines and The Kills. So, when I saw that they were playing at my Beloved Bowery Ballroom, I had to go. The evening featured two bands that were missing at least 1 or more of the 'IT' attributes and one band that deserved the title of The Real Deal.

Kat and I arrived at 8pm and met Steve - our drinking buddy from the infamous Whadoosay fiasco of Webster Hall. All three of us cringed at the pair of cartoon-shaped buses that loomed in front of the Bowery Ballroom. It looked like a giant colostomy bag for any Rock N' Roll Ego that couldn't fit into the hall this night. We flashed our I.D.'s, strapped on our neon-pink, drinking tags then shuffled down the stairs and into the bar. Kat and Steve were hot to secure a table in the Bowery's balcony. This generally goes against my fundamental beliefs in live music. The whole point is the presence of a band. Although Kat is normally with me on this philosophy, she had made the baffling decision to wear heels. Steve, as usual, was eager to remain outside any potential Sphere of Action... so, I relented. We planted ourselves in the balcony, just behind the velvet rope - the best part of the balcony for music execs.

The first band up was an impossibly-thin cluster of shaggy boys called The Rock N' Roll Soldiers. They're a throwback to the long-haired, anorexic groups of the 1970's that always look like they wanted to make everybody rawk yet tragically less-inspiring in their music. The bass player did his best tree impersonation from the right-hand corner of the stage while the lead singer and his RNR Soldier-in-arms guitarist worked a fashion show of various rock n' roll poses of the past. The guitarist chose a tai chi approach, slowly arching his back to accent his high-E-bending prowess or fanning his guitar next in sweeping arcs or rockdom. The lead singer decided upon a bolder, Drunken Master style as he kicked and spun his way against the microphone stand, his fellow guitarist and the drum kit. Every 3 minutes, a roadie would dash onstage to re-set the drum-mics then accept the appreciable nod from the offending rocker. A few songs had the singer crumbling to his knees as the Spirit of Rock N' Roll took hold. I have never seen a lead singer try so hard to rock and audience like this poor man did on this evening. Stage Presence? Check. Hooks? Did I mention that he really WANTED to rock out? Tightness? ... let's just move on then, shall we?

Mad Action had second dibs. I can't put my finger on why I didn't particularly care one way or another about whether I heard one song or another. They had a great Smashing Pumpkin style of crunchy guitar riffs, and they sounded tight, but every song sounded much like another. This is a band that has all the right elements, but they haven't quite 'found themselves' yet. Either that, or they just don't have what it takes to push them to the next level. The hooks are what make a band different from anybody else and what makes one song sound distinctively different from another. For example, let's take Aerosmith. Actually, you can have the modern version of Aerosmith as far as I am concerned, so let's stuck to the era that they were good. "Toys in the Attic", "Walk This Way" and "Sweet Emotion" - three fantastic songs from the same album by the same band. All three are VERY Aerosmith in their sound, but the opening riffs, the tone and the style are distinctly different. Mad Action's set? Well, by the third song, I knew that it was time for me to take a pee break and grab another beer. Stage Presence? I remember big hair and wide-legged stances... and I think they played music. Hooks? I like to drink Stella Artois Tightness? Check.

At the end of the last song from Mad Action, a 30-something woman from a neighboring table leapt from her seat, tore a Kasabian poster off the wall, then rushed to a tall, gangly fellow, standing at the back of the balcony. Steve leaned over to me and told me that gangly was one of the leads from Kasabian. The flush woman returned with her signed poster and, seeing that I had witnessed her rock-fan coup, leaned over to me and told me that it was her son who was a big Kasabian fan but couldn't get into the show because he was only 14. I quickly learned that she and her husband were from New Jersey, went to loads of concerts, especially Maxwell's in New Jersey, and were proficient in Indie-Music Speak. I can hold my own in music talks, but I don't have the singular focus to get into all the niggling details of obscure indie-band politics. Steve, however, was born for such work. Soon, he and the woman had bonded over concert war stories and an in-depth critique of New Order's hideous new album cover. The husband and wife were really cool and just the sort of people I always imagined running into at all these gigs, yet never found until now.

Finally, the lights dimmed and the Kasabian hit the stage. They have quite a lighting scheme set up for their show, a strange sight in a venue as intimate as the Bowery Ballroom. The Snow Patrol tried to set up a fancy set of lights behind themselves onstage and ended up blinding the whole audience in the process. On this night, the swirling and dancing spots were well-used. The lead singer, Tom Meighan, bounced around onstage and really laid into the songs. Sergio Pizzorno, the lead guitarist, was comfortable and energetic - the perfect contrast to Tom. In true Brit rock style, they were tight as a steel drum, ripping through their one-album catalog in rapid succession. They come off as a tougher version of Oasis when they're playing but I have never heard so many thank yous from a band since The Snow Patrol breezed through a few months ago. It's always nice to see a band that still acts a little humble even when they've gotta know that they rock. And the audience... this was NOT a typical Bowery audience on this night - it was mostly Fish N' Chips. Brit audiences are ten-times better than the standard NYC crowd. I went to a Kills concert a year ago and was one of only 3 people bouncing to the music. On this night, nearly the whole floor-level crowd was into it. That always makes for a better performance. By the end of the first song, I knew that I wasn't getting another beer. By the end of their encore climax "Club Foot", I knew - they were The Real Deal. Stage Presence? Great lighting, humble band, high energy... check. Hooks? Oh, yeah. Check. Tightness? In two weeks, you'd have a diamond.

Go see them.

P.S. As a follow-up note, I've been checking out their website and I've noticed that there's a little discussion going on as to whether there are pre-recorded backup vocals for 1 or two of their songs. I didn't notice anything at the show, but I wasn't front-and-center, either. It'd be disappointing to find out that it's true, but I have to admit that they do some pretty complicated electronics-based stuff on their tracks so they've probably got to run a little filler during the set. Tom and Serge were really tearing through their songs, though, so I can't imagine that there's anything going on that doesn't have to go on to re-create the studio album. A bit of a blemish, but they're definitely worth seeing.

Doing the Wadoosay

SATURDAY

My girlfriend, Kat, were badly needing a night out - it'd been too long since we'd seen a good band, hung out at a bar and engaged in a really good bout of intellectual cattiness. On this night, we had a date with a gay friend of ours, Steve. I'd met Steve at a non-profit job I got when I first moved to the City. He and I discovered that we shared a mutual-obsession with indie rock music and basically kept each other's spirits up by endlessly talking about new bands that we'd 'discover'. On this night, Steve was celebrating his 35th birthday and in a fit of Midwestern generosity, had treated Kat and me to a night at the Bowery Ballroom where we'd toast to his birthday and see The Fiery Furnaces. We were flattered, greedy and immediately leapt at the offer. Even when the gig was transferred to the Evil Concert Venue of New York City (also known as Webster Hall), we were eager to enjoy a debauched evening of music and drinking-enablement. We were so psyched for a night out, we even succumbed to a 1 ½ hour subway commute to Brooklyn (Steve's home turf) to help him feel at-home in his favorite, local haunt.

I'd been trying to be good about my drinking. Fitness had become my new obsession and I was determined to make myself presentable for a summertime beach. Of course, there had been one or two lapses including one night last week that involved a mishap with too many extra-dry martini, but overall I'd found been successful and I was focused on staying that way. Steve was not laboring behind my self-deluding rules. It took exactly one round for his agenda to become my agenda and soon I was pounding back pints of Stella at Brooklyn prices (50% off). These were the salad days (hours) of my weekend. I remember them fondly- I was so much younger then. I recall it as if it had happened only a few days ago. We laughed, we raged and in true Zelig-like fashion I found my inner-swish. Kat politely sipped her beer, lounged into the faux-leather lounger, and enjoyed display of two, self-involved music snobs in their mid 30's. Soon, we were hip deep in Joy Division, New York Dolls and Iggy Pop references.

As time raged on beneath our drama-filled banter, Kat grew restless. The last hour ran about like this:

KAT: "Wow. I didn't know that Iggy Pop was that disgusting or what a careering bitch Patti Smith was, but weren't we going to a concert or something?"
STEVE: "What time is it now?"
DECKARD: "Do you want another?"
STEVE: "Ooo! Ooo! Are they playing The Cure? Whatever happened to good Goth music?"
KAT:"Weren't we going to a concert or something?"
DECKARD: "We have plenty of time. Do you want another pint?"
STEVE: "It's my turn- what are you drinking?"

Finally, Kat managed to focus us into the 'now' long enough to herd us into the street... sort of. Steve was spun into a feeding frenzy of Indie music euphoria and the birthday boy had forbade us from leaving Brooklyn until we had listening to the MOST FanTAStic Song In The EnTIRE World by The Kaiser Chiefs. Six cigarettes, four blocks to Steve's apartment, 3 pee-breaks, a long listening, and 4 more bocks to the subway later, we regained our course and headed into Manhattan.

Webster Hall sucks ass. The last time I'd visited this club was when I tried to watch Sonic Youth. This place is designed like the mines of Moria with doors and stairwells that move from one performance/bar/club space to another. All the spaces are pretty dumpy but hell, I can do dumpy if there's a cool staff, cheap drinks, etc. The Sonic Youth gig was over-booked to the point where the back of the theater felt like standing in the front row at a U2 concert. The bouncers were complete ass-clowns who had certainly trained at the Sopranos School of Fuck-You Bouncing. The Bowery Ballroom, my favorite venue in Manhattan must have signed some boneheaded deal a year ago with Webster Hall so that bigger bands could play in a larger venue. At this point, I simply cannot believe that the same people could be running my beloved Bowery Ballroom and the Frankenstein monster of concert venues called Webster Hall.

Steve went to will call to pick up his tickets and that's when we realized that the concert had started a full 2 hours earlier than any other concert in Manhattan. We rushed upstairs to the only remaining view in the hall. We were just in time for the last 2 songs of the encore, a "thank you for coming to such an early show", then the quick exit of The Fiery Furnaces, leaving us enjoy a 'what the fuck' moment. Dejected and even without the time to order another beer, we chain-gang shuffled our way to the bottlenecked stairwell and down into the lobby. Kat and Steve rushed downstairs to the restroom while I stood guard beside a trashcan and tried to spot any hint of a T-shirt salesman.

What happened next was a cluster-fuck at the hands of the emotionally-challenged. A squat, dour blond barked at me that it was time to leave. My hesitation prompted second, squat-assistant to join in and reiterate, for my convenience. A bouncer, wielding a metal barricade, trudged through the now-vacant lobby and offered his two bits of derisiveness. I turned to the blond goblin and tried to explain that I was waiting for my friends to get back from the restroom and that I was standing out of the way. Not satisfied with my lack of cowed behavior, both women moved into my personal space. Fed up with trying to hold my ground behind a garbage can, I retreated to the far corner of the lobby and barked that they didn't have to act like such assholes about it. Well, that tore it. What followed was a staccato waterfall of hoots and chest-beating from the barricade-toting bouncer who dropped his gate and scrambled after me, all the while screeching "What did you say?!". Again and again the words looped over and over as if I had any chance of getting a word in edgewise until it began to morph into a rambling conjunction of "Wadoosay?!". The call had been sent out... Wadoosay... wadoosay, in the deep. Bouncers clambered from every stairwell and doorway.Fool that I was, I had moved from my vantage behind the garbage and had allowed myself to be cornered with no Fellowship and not even a good buzz to numb the imminent flurry of self-righteous blows. Remarkably, I was able to able to maintain some semblance of composure. I tried to slow things down- bring down the energy level another notch. Speak slower, so every would understand my position. I was just. waiting. for. my. friends. who. are. in. the. restroom. I was certain that I could feel, in the heels of my feet, the distant rumble of a Balrog.

The bouncer was feverish from the success of his wadoosay chant and was ready to go in for the kill. Unfortunately, he overextended his repertoire when he tried to switch to put-down mode. "You wanna see an asshole," he demanded. This momentarily threw me off. I had expected to be lifted from the carpet and trown clear of the front doors like you see in Three Stooges or Marx Brothers films. A question? Was he serious? What sort of an answer should I offer? From the flinty twitch in his eye, I could tell that I was taking too long to answer. The zinger - he had to land the zinger. "Turn around and look in that mirror! You'll see an asshole, then!"

'There is a mirror behind me,' I asked myself. I suppressed the impulse to turn and see for I feared that the bouncer's sense of humor would cry out for more and he would take the opportunity to try out a physical joke involving my underwear. The bouncer army must have thought his joke to be a sufficient punishment for my belligerence for soon after he landed his zinger, the mob began to disperse. The squat woman and her assistant returned to their ticketing boxes at the entrance and the bouncers shuffled back to the hollows from which they had sprung. The Great, insult-joke bouncer strutted back to his lonely barricade, lifted it triumphantly upon his shoulder, then disappeared out the front door.

Kat was cheerful, relieved and utterly oblivious when she appeared at my side. I might have been able to cover up the entire incident, but when she asked me if I was ready to go, I began to fire off sentences like a rail gun from a Blackhawk. She glanced about the lobby and noted the scowls and snears that came from the darker corners. "What happened," she asked. I tried to explain but there was simply too much adrenaline in my system. The story burst from my mouth in a gigantic twitch of incoherence and fury. Kat nodded and placed a calming hand on my arm (she studies Buddhism). "Let's go," she said.

"Where's Steve," Kat asked. My mind immediately lept to only the most graphic scenarios. Was he, at this very moment, enduring gruesome wrongs at the hands of that hulking, cave troll I'd seen in the restroom when we first arrived? He was standing behind a ramshackle stand, selling overpriced candy in a black-light dim of urinals and booths. I had survived the verbal thrashing of Moria and I'd be damned if I was going to abandon my good, gay friend who wouldn't possibly harm a fly. I scrambled down the stairs and into the john. I was prepared to grab an errant mop or glass jar of peppermints to drive off the foul perpetrators, but the room was silent. An Hispanic janitor stood at the candy stand, poised at the apex of an evil, Spanish-laced conspiracy that he was about to unleash upon the candy troll. Suspicious eyes tracked my movements as eI stepped to the vacant stalls. No doubt, they had received word of the altercation upstaris and were waiting for me to unsuspectingly stroll into one of the stalls where I would be relentlessly violated by the business end of a switchblade or, at least, be administered a brutal swirly upon my head.

Where had he gone? Had he already been beaten senseless and thrown out of the Hall for being associated with the Great Troublemaker of 'Aught-Five'? I grabbed Kat's hand and sped for the Exit. outside, a fresh line of victims were eagerly awaiting the verbal de-pantsing and economic pick-pocketing they would soon find inside. I had escaped from my foolish escapade.. and, to my startlement, so had Steve. Standing on the shore, beyond the bouncers and barricades and eager naiveté, stood Steve. He had witnessed my incident in progress and like any good citizen, immediately dashed from the building and awaited the pitching of my gouged and spintered remains onto the pavement.

I was disheartened and far to sober to have witnessed such wildly-confirming displays of human nature. Clearly, the most consistent handicap of the evening had been my sobriety. I needed a drink- check that, I needed a concoction that would be crippling in its potency. I wanted the shortest path from A to Z. I had to be laid so low that I would actually learn from this debacle and sear into my brain this lesson so it would be never repeated. We wandering the unaffordable streets of the Village and my impatience grew to an imperative. Finally, at the bequest of Steve, we collapsed behind the neon-beckoning window of Dallas BBQ- an interesting choice for one gay man, one gangling, angry, degenerate looking to get loaded and one elfish, young woman who happens to be a vegetarian.

It was apparent what when we were in for when the menus arrived. Actually, they were already in front of us - paper place mats. I only lacked the mini-Mason jar of crayons to complete one of my childhood nightmares. The experience reached another tier of heinous when I discovered that only booze choices are pricy bottles of Bud Light or hyperneon-colored, frozen concoctions involving decorations of unripe pineapple. I chose the latter. That, along with the coleslaw and macaroni & cheese concoction I consumed, succeeded in laying me low for the next 2 days and teaching me, once again, lessons... about something.

Good times.

The Kills do the Bowery Ballroom

I saw my favorite band for the last time. When The Kills come back to NYC, they will be an opener for some "Ubergroup" or the headliner at a big venue- Webster Hall, Roseland Ballroom, Hammerstein Ballroom or Irving Plaza will snatch them away, rub them all over with smarm, and that will be it. It's the Catch 22 of indie rock. You discover a new band, fall in love with them. You run around telling everybody about them and giving them burned songs and begging them to go to the shows. Then, your band breaks and just like that, you realize that they've grown up and left you. I'm too upset to point out the perfunctory metaphor involving butterflies or babies. Maybe they'll continue to linger along the edge of the Big Time like The Raveonettes or The Notwist, but I'm thinking that it's going to be more of a White Stripes career arc. Of course, this might all be the result of my cynicism following Saturday night's Wadoosay.

I've seen every NYC concert since 2003 and I've gotta say that The Kills were really fucking good on this night. They've settled into their stage personas, especially VV (Allison Mosshart) who always looked like the only thing keeping her from bolting off the stage was her curtain of raven hair and endless procession of cigarettes. It always worked because she'd use some of the songs to channel her nervous energy into a stage show of growling, grinding, sexual tension between her and Hotel (Jamie Hince). On this night, The sexual tension wasn't as overt (except for the gymnastics move involving her and Hotel's guitar), I didn't see her smoke a single cigarette and she's finally returned from the Land of the Painfully-Thin and looked really good. Hmmm... VV, Cat Power, PJ Harvey, Hope Sandoval... well, my aesthetic tastes have at least remained consistent. (Yeah, my girlfriend is going to love that observation). The presentation has a comfortable, slicker feel. They've always been stagey, but in the past it always had a fun and somewhat-campy feeling to it. I love groups that will throw themselves into a bit that they feel a little silly doing, but you know they're having fun. Now, The Kills feel more like an act. I'm not screaming "sellout!", though. I think such arguments are usually crap. People so easily get into the mindset that a band should always stay the same, but that gets old and, after a while, painful to watch, like with Kiss, Aerosmith, or AC/DC or... well, maybe I'll stop with the comparisons. The Kills are starting to move away from some of their earlier bits and coming more into their own. If you haven't seen them, go. You won't be disappointed.

As The Kills begin their ascent out of the world of Indie Rock, so do others rise to fill the vacuum. I was blown away when I listened to an opening band I'd never seen before - Scout Niblett. They may not be the Next Big Thing, but they grabbed my attention. After Googling the group, I've discovered that Scout Niblett is actually Emma Niblett and she's essentially a soloist with backup. Her stuff is a great synthesis of Cat Power and Nirvana. Scout offers high, lilting lyrics, then gives a wry grin before launching into a wave of by crunching, power chords. She had that great, coiled energy that I've seen from so many of the recent, English rock bands. Part way through the set, she set down her guitar, took the the drums and ripped out a couple solid drum-backed songs. After the show was over, I saw her sitting at the bar and had to go over and tell her how great her set was. Damn, I love the Bowery Ballroom.

scoping the Scene with Cat Power

I had a great time. I want you to remember that as you read this. I know that my set up might have all the trappings of a great, overarching diatribe but really- no, really - I had a good time.

So... went to see Cat Power last night at Southpaw in Brooklyn. I'd never been to this venue before and after getting out at the wrong subway stop and walking from the dark side of Nowhere where an icy wind always awaits you around every corner, I was not in the best mindset. Once I got inside, had a vodka tonic clipped into my frozen clutches and got settled in a seat (!), I was happy. Southpaw is a good place. The Mercury Lounge (where I was the previous night) was a square box of the barest design. I don't knock venues like that. They keep the ticket prices down and normally attract only the more-devoted music fans, but even at 6-foot-3, I often find myself planted behind the shoulder blades of some huge guy who, innocent as he may be, has become my personal lunar eclipse. In Southpaw, they had a couple levels of risers with nice, heavy railings. Even the most elfin groupie can scope a decent spot out in the early hours and effectively avoid having a hard-earned spot ruined by a monolith in steel-toe boots.

I should have known I was going to be in trouble when I saw that 'The Village Voice' had listed the Cat Power concert as one of their picks-of-the-week, but I wasn't prepared for the Scenesters. I have mentioned the Hipsters before, but with the introduction of this new term, some clarification is necessary. Hipsters are NYC folks who show up in fasionable spots and order $10 drinks because they saw them on 'Sex and the City' or think that it makes them look good. If the drink has Grey Goose or Skyy Vodka, then bonus points can be scored. They wear bohemian, fashion-labelled clothes and pretend that they have anything resembling a handle on life because they are living in neighborhoods that once graced the heels of Bob Dylan and Lou Reed. These individuals are often annoying, but not evil. Their tragedy for the average Joe is that their deep wells of dispensible income will quickly drive rent and alcohol prices through the roof in an otherwise-cool area.

Scenesters are evil. They are the reason that I don't work in the film industry anymore (along with a couple of other things). They are also a good reason to not go to Irving Plaza or Roseland Ballroom or any other venue sponsored by Clear Channel. Once a band starts to break it big, their gigs become Events, and are immediately infected with the Scenester. They show up with no purpose other than to network with other people and, maybe, fuck the hot new thing that just started working at the agency/record label/publishing house/TV or movie studio. The vast majority of them work in the entertainment industry with the lowest rung being operated by agent mailroom interns and rising up through record executive. The concert-going Scenester M.O. is to show up mid-way through the opening act's set, buy a drink, find a conspicuous place to stand, then talk during the set about things like expensive vacations, restaurants, and other concerts he/her has ruined and 'insider' platitudes regarding their profession.

Well, the Scenesters were in full force on this night. Although probably not the best move for his career, the guy opening for Cat Power (I never got his name) made angry jokes regarding the clusters of indifferent Scenesters who were giving no love (except to themselves) that night. At one point he even tried to pick out a female scenester in the crowd who stood in his direct eyeline and never once turned to the stage. Despite the whooping of a sympathetic few, none of the Scenesters ever acknowledged him. The clatter of networking got loud enough to drown out his singing for the second half of the set. Finally, the guy tore through his last two songs with enough growling and shouting to make them pretty good.

I'd always heard that Cat Power's shows were a mixed bag. I didn't exactly know what that meant but I was intrigued. Half an hour after the opening act pressed his fedora over his eyes and stormed off stage, Chan Marshall made her appearance. The lights dimmed, the crowd went wild and a distracted, irritable, attractive woman took a seat in front of a huge piano. Now, I think that she was attractive. She was thin and dressed in appropriately-casual dress with gorgeous long, dark hair, but she hid behind it. Her bangs completely covered her eyes. Most of my mental image of the evening involves a microphone and a nose peeking out from behind a hair curtain. She pulled out an electric guitar and slowly strummed a few chords. Slowly, the sounds of a song came together. She leaned into the microphone and suddenly, there it was - the husky voice of Cat Power... and it sounded good. For anybody who've not been to a number concerts, it's hard to know what you're going to get when you see a band live for the first time. Some bands are record bands. Their songs are highly-produced or their voices have a layered, mixed sound, that just doesn't translate live. The vocals are weak and drown out beneath the guitar or the bass. Or worse, they sing so far out of tune that you wonder they even sang on their own record. Then, there are those bands who sound amazing live, but when you rush back home with their newly-purchased record, they don't have any of that coiled, nervous energy that made their music leap from the stage. Well, Cat Power turned out to be that very rare musician that sounds great both live and on a record AND she took the hat trick because her live show sounds just different-enough from her recordings to make it a unique experience .

So, I'm sure that you're thinking that it was the phenomenal performance of Chan that carried the night and left me feeling so good about the evening. She peformed all of her greatest hits from "You Are Free" and left the crowd rocking, right? Well, no. Chan did something that I've never seen before - she sabotaged Every Single Song she played. It was like reading a Beckett play where every joke is robbed of the payoff. Every time there was an opportunity to get a perfunctory round of applause, Chan would jump into another song and stifle it. She would play the first few bars of a song that the audience was pining to hear, then she would stop or fold it into something else. It felt like I was sitting in on that step in the creative audience when you try some new ideas out in front of your friends, just to see how they'll react to it... but she was doing it in front of a paying audience. She would play part of a musical phrase, then stop, set the guitar down, and try something different out on the piano. The Scenesters didn't know what to do with themselves. The event was actually becoming a real Event in which the perfunctory rules of engagement no longer applied. Shouting out requests, clapping encouragement for the beginning of a song they wanted to hear, cheering the self-deprecating mumblings of the artist - none of it worked. Chan just kept singing or strumming or plunking notes on the piano with a surrealistic thought process to guide it. The Scenesters began their retreat within the first 15 minutes. Prime positions in the room vacated and the temperature dropped 10 degrees from the draft of an exodus through the front door.

With all pretension abandoned, I settled into a beautiful set of music. It reminded me of my childhood when I would sit on the floor beside my mom's piano and listen to her play the highlights of songs that she could remember or fragments of sheet music she'd thumb through. If I offered to sing for a bit, she'd actually stick with it until I couldn't remember any more lyrics. At the end of her set, Chan stood up from her piano and mumbled "It'll be better next time. I promise," before slinking from the stage. Some fans tried to whistle and clap her into doing an encore, doggedly refusing to abandon the rules of engagement. But the rules were not being followed this night.

Thank God.

pop goes the Mercury Lounge

I went to the Mercury Lounge last night with my girlfriend and one of her co-worker friends. Her friend was excited about seeing Stars. The Mercury Lounge is this tiny venue that has a bar at front, a glass door, then a square space that gives the audience the ability to stand mere inches away from the band. I'm always a sucker for places like this and I hadn't seen either of the opening bands, I Am Kloot and Apostle of Hustle, so ... I'm one of those dreadfully uncool people who wants to show up right when the doors open. Unfortunately, my wants were not being met on this frigid evening so we walked in at the end of what appeared to be a really good set by I Am Kloot. I hate it when I do that. I don't know what it is about the Mercury Lounge, but there seems to be an inherent fear of standing too close to the opening act. Maybe it's the New York culture of 'cool', in a 'cool' venture, with a performance space that is far too intimate for their sensibilities. Maybe they fear that, if the band sucks, 'uncoolness' will get stuck all over them and then they'll never find happiness and/or get laid. Like getting caught talking to a loser, it's hard to get away. If you stake a spot within 10 feet of the band, they will be obligated to stand there through the entire set. Unforunately, this leaves a swimming pool-sized space open where, inevitably, some jackass saunters front and center, pretends to listen for 1-to-2 minutes, sip from his beer, then wander off as if he were checking out a houseplant onstage.

The second band, Apostle of Hustle, was... well, I know that there are a lot of fans out there for bands like Broken Social Scene, Sonic Youth and other 'soundscape' bands for whom 10 minute ballads of feedback are sweet nectar of sonic bliss. There are also a number of men who love to get their balls stamped on by leggy women in high heels. I am not a member of either group. Interestingly, the hour of Apostle of Hustle seemed to be for fans of the former while I felt like the victim of the latter. If I was stoned on pot and had a couch to fold myself into, these bands would be perfect. No... that's not true. I still wouldn't listen to them. Bands like this feel more like intellectual exercises for the musicians than for the audience. Listening to these bands live only intensifies the feeling. Even one of my favorite bands, Wilco, falls victim to this when they're playing live. I like my extended songs, like Death in Vegas's recent album and Underworld's stuff, but, for the most part, my roots lie in blues, punk and Nirvana - I like a group that jumps into a song, gets to the point, hits it really frigging hard (not necessarily loudly), then gets the fuck out of there... and a great hook doesn't hurt.

The third band, Stars, was the reason that I had come out. Before the band could come onstage, however, it was the sound mixer's job to make the waiting period as gruesomely painful as possible. For 20 minutes, we were all treated to a deafening rendition of bad poetry and jazz-like musical pap. Just in case we didn't want to listen, the board operator made sure that he pumped the volume up until it was even louder than the 5-piece rock band that had graced the stage only minutes earlier. By the time Stars had made it onstage, the club had been beaten into submission. The lead singer nervously laughed and joked at the graveyard silence that hung over the room.

I was a little skeptical about Stars as a live band before I had arrived. They have a very alt-poppy sound and the big track that I knew was "Look Up"- one of those catchy, uplifting, light songs that seem instantly destined to be licensed for some family-drama on ABC. They really won me over, though. They had this fun, vaguely-sarcastic energy that kept the set moving along. They didn't get stuck staring at the floor or have that mood-sucking habit of re-tuning their guitars between every song. They actually interacted with the audience and one another and, believe it or not, 2 or 3 of them EVEN made eye-contact with the audience. At first, it was unnerving to see an indie band having fun AND recognizing that there was an audience present.

Tonight, my caffeine-propped girlfriend and I are hauling our asses to Brooklyn to check out Cat Power. Chan Marshall, like Alison Mosshart (The Kills), PJ Harvey and Courtney Love has become my most-recent female rocker fixation. It's been hard for me to love any female musician too much, however, after the loss of my first love, Liz Phair. Oh Liz, Liz, Liz... what happened to thee?

Wish me luck.