The Good, The Bad, and the Buzzkill

Caught three band last nite at Nokia.

Silversun Pickups
OK Go
Snow Patrol

The good:
--Silversun Pickups. Those guys unleased a massive wall of sound that was absolutely glorious. They were tight and played with ferocity and power. Kind of reminiscent of Smashing Pumpkins and Catherine Wheel "Black Metallic". Next time they come to town, go see them.

Unless they're opening for two lesser bands.

Which was exactly the problem with this multiple act show. The Silversun Pickups were alloted less than 30 minutes and seemingly no props to crank out their genius. Didn't need the props. But a 25-minute set was criminally brief. I had to grab a live set from iTunes this a.m. to get my fix.

The bad:
--Nokia Theater. Another comfy, corporate palace a la American Airlines Center. Ads everywhere. Lots of space and legroom. Ideal for My Little Pony or Thomas the Tank Engine shows. But lousy for intimate and/or energetic shows. (And $15 to park? What the . . .)

The buzzkill:
--The two 20-something girls who must've taken 300 pictures of themselves enjoying the concert. I kid you not. Imagine that photo review session. "Here's us with our faces totally against each other. Here's us with only the top part of our cheeks touching. Here's us with a sassy, rock concert look. Here's how I looked during the encore. OMG!! See how surprised I look!"

--The 50-something woman with old-lady-wiry hair in front of us, shaking her moneymaker to Snow Patrol. Any notion that we were part of some hip scene was decimated then and there.

--Men carrying big, dumb drinks in hurricane glasses. This was a rock concert.

--Air drumming.

--Ballads and love songs. (Maybe this explains the frozen drink thing.)


Summary: Listen to Snow Patrol on CD. Enjoy the novelty of OK Go. And follow Silversun Pickups wherever they go.

Libby Lewis on Lewis Libby

Last nite I heard a news report on NPR. It was regarding the guilty verdict of Lewis Libby.

This report was filed by NPR reporter Libby Lewis.

What the . . . Libby Lewis?!? Lewis Libby?!?!? At first I did a doubletake, audio-style.

Then I realized the genius of it. Of how this clever naming convention increased my recall of the story -- and of the oft-forgotten correspondent.

Believing, then, that this is a trend, I look forward to future reports on newsmakers from the following NPR correspondents:

-W. Bush-George
-Obama Barack
-Cuban Mark
-NicolAnna Smith (job outlook: sketchy)
-Chris Luda
-Reynolds Burtt
-Oliver Erick

The Joy of Re-discovery

This morning, there was a can of Comet on my bathroom sink.

I encountered it shortly after rolling out of bed. Surprisingly, I was lucid enough to not use it as:
1. Talcum powder for my sensitive male skin
2. Coffee sweetener
3. Stuff for a protein shake

But I wasn't quite sure what to do with this Comet. Its presence was totally unexpected and, frankly, out of context for me. So, where should it be, I asked myself in a slow, pre-caffeinated way.

[PROCESSING . . . PROCESSING . . . ]

How . . . about . . . the cabinet under my sink? A superb answer. (Witness the self-affirmation.)

As I contemplated this move, I realized I wasn’t exactly sure what resides under this particular sink.

I mean, in our house, the under bathroom sink space is one of those forgotten storage places. And it's not ideal, what with that U-shaped pipe violating what could be premium space, turning it into a one-off novelty act. If I had to characterize the hierarchy of storage spaces in our home, it would go something like this.

1. Kitchen cabinets (These reign supreme – all other storage space is subservient and bows to this one. Similarly, every piece of stuff in our house aspires to reside in one of these cabinets. The equivalent of beachfront property.)
2. The bedroom closets
3. The hall closets
4. Under the kitchen sink (high toxicity and utility)
5. Bathroom cabinets
6. The kitchen drawers (This loosely configured community is comprised of sundry coupons, primitive and occasionally violent drawings from the Boy, and calendars emblazoned with the toothy grins and “helpful hints” of sellers of real estate)

Now, at the bottom of the list are our home’s versions of treasure chests, grab-bags, wild-cards. Spaces filled with low utility items, probably not touched since our move into the house. The upside to this is we enjoy minor game-show revelatory moments when we get a look at what’s . . .
27. In the attic!
28. Under the beds!
29. And under my bathroom sink!

So this morning, as I held the Comet and my breath with a certain degree of anticipation, I bent slightly at the waist to creak open the under-the-bathroom-sink cabinet door and cram that can of cleaner up against a big, unmarked cardboard box. And would you like to see what’s in the box, contestant? [OPEN THE BOX] You just found valuable baseball cards! (Retail value: Over $300! APPLAUSE!) But that’s not all. Because sitting on top of the box are three long, narrow vinyl cases that contain . . . [UNZIP ONE OF THE CASES . . . THIS IS SO EXCITING!] a variety of cassette tapes from the 70s and 80s!

As I soaked in the imaginary adulation from the studio audience that wasn't there, my eyes were drawn to the handwritten titles on the cassette sleeve. The writing was mine, and usually declared a theme of the tape’s contents. I slid one entitled “Rock and Rhythm” out of the case and set it aside for my morning trip down 75 (and memory lane). Yes, my 20th century "auto" has a "audio-cassette player."

And what a tasty treat of early 80s music it served up.

While listening, I made these quick observations:
1. The tape is more rock than rhythm.
2. Back in the day, treble was king.
3. Music wasn’t as disposable.
4. Songs were eminently singable.
5. Oingo Boingo was underappreciated.
6. Lyrically, the stories were more fun.
7. iTunes doesn’t have a vast catalog of musical selections from Tommy Tutone or Gary Myrick & The Figures

That’s what I learned when I tried to recreate (sans tape hiss) the mix digitally. Regardless, here’s the link to the Mix Tape iMix. It’s a little heavy on the Clash (And the problem is . . . ?)

The whole experience reminded me of how the mix tape was such a labor of love. Finding the music from various LP collections around town. Agonizing, High Fidelity-style, over which song to open with, how to create just the right mood and flow. Applying suspect math skills to ensure not a second of the 90-minute Maxell was wasted with dead air.

Listening to the tape today -- some 25 years after authoring it -- was testimony to what a powerful stimulus music is. Each song seemed to bring to mind sights, experiences, posters, people . . . This tape unlocked portions of my brain I haven’t used since the Reagan Administration.

And as I sang and sailed toward downtown in my SAAB, I smiled at the wonderful surprises found in those dusty, nearly forgotten neural storage spaces.

Where does the wise man build?

Recapping the day:

The country's vice president survived an assassination.
The stock market plummeted.

At least I have hope in the risen Christ.

What the ...

"Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."

Another return

Once again, it feels good to be back at Funegro.

I'd love to recommit to regular postings. If it weren't for the whole commitment thing, I would in a heartbeat.

Guess this post was inspired by a review of the Funegro archives. If you haven't recently, I'd encourage you to take a spin through the articles. Some classics. True points in time in our lives. What a wonderful snapshot it provides.

Was also inspired by an article in this month's WIRED. It's not so much an article as it is a series of soundbytes-in-print, testimony to our society's trend to consuming content and media in short, quick bursts.

To that end, they offer up Radio SASS, where rock/pop songs are trimmed down to about two minutes in length. (30 songs an hour!)

"Through time compression, you get the memorable heart of each song, with an average length of aproximately two minutes with NO self indulgent guitar solos, NO long intros, NO repetition of choruses again and again."

Stranglehold in 120 seconds? Sounds like a bad K-tel pitch. The guy behind all this? George Gimarc, from KZEW's Rock and Roll Alternative back in the day. The guy's got chutzpah.

Artistic integrity aside, it works. Especially on the crappy songs.

Sample it here.

Excellent Howard Johnson's 1970's Ad

hojomojo, originally uploaded by koliver.

Love the enormous turtleneck on that guy...

Give thanks for the bland

This return to Funegro is prompted by the realization Thanksgiving is but 10 days away.

And with that realization comes a true sense of thanksgiving for family -- and for sterile, soulless church multi-purpose rooms where we can gather with those whom we are barely linked through some sketchy bloodline and share in the tepid bounty of the season heaped upon overmatched flimsy paper plates while sitting in cold metal folding chairs making small talk and confirming, once again, there are a finite number of topics in this world.

Still, it is good to gather, even under such circumstances. The richness comes with human interaction. The experience makes us better and, according to Nietchze, it makes us stronger (as long as, you know, the flourescent lights and warmed over green bean casserole doesn’t kill us).

And so we shall gain strength next Thursday as we grudgingly swing open the cheap metal industrial doors and stride down the threadbare builder’s grade carpet and dank, dark halls to meet the vaguely familiar pear-shaped distant relatives waiting in garish novelty seasonal sweaters. Strength and honor, indeed.

Yet as I reflect on this tribute to family and tradition, I recognize how sad it'd be if we missed the gathering. I'd go to any length to make this occasion. Rearrange schedules, make special arrangements . . . why, to enjoy such glorious fellowship, I'd travel far beyond the mid-cities.

Maybe even as far as Tennessee.

Best X Band

To celebrate our 19th wedding anniversary, Mary and I enjoyed a quiet, romantic evening at the Gypsy Tea Room, with musical accompaniment provided by Henry Rollins and his band -- and the Best Band That Starts With The Letter X:

X.

Never have I been more sure of a Rockology selection than I was last nite as the original X foursome raced through an energetic set of LA punk classics like Los Angeles, The World's A Mess, and Johnny Hit and Run Paulene. And it was a particularly tender moment when I held my bride close during Nausea, to keep her from being impaled by the frenetic mohawked dancer in our midst.

The band and their blistering anthems have aged exceptionally well.

To all Funegrans, I highly recommend this X-ploration.

CRACKED Magazine Re-Launches

I used to read CRACKED as a kid. Always seemed like a less-sophisticated MAD.

Seeing Monkeys

Caught the much-hyped Arctic Monkeys Tuesday nite during their brief stop in Dallas.

A few observations.

First, these kids rock. And they are kids. Still in their teens. But the four of ‘em unleashed a sonic ferocity I haven’t seen in years. They raced through their modest catalog of songs at an astonishing velocity. The guitar assault was Ramones-esque; the volume was Spinal Tap-ish. Songs are well crafted with smart, funny lyrics. The live versions of them were, to a fault, faithful to the studio versions.

Which brings me to my second point: They don’t yet have the live personality that matches the hype. And the hype is considerable. This is a band whose debut album was called one of the five best in British rock history. Hype, indeed. Yes, their talent is quite evident. Yet they lack a presence -- that certain savoir faire, that fleur de lis, that E Pluribus Unum. (Insert pretentious foreign phrase here.)

OK. Now for the action away from the stage. I was taken aback by the number of my middle-aged peers at the show. Maybe we’re the type who are buying into the buzz. Eager to see The Next Big Thing. Some of my fellow patrons were, apparently, just wanting to drink and dance. The Granada must’ve been pouring stiff drinks, because few inhibitions were on display. They certainly weren't anywhere near the guy across the aisle who was snapping his balding head as he loosely managed his sweaty “dance” convulsions. I’m convinced that during these ill-advised gyrations, this guy’s teenaged children – wherever they might’ve been – got a really bad vibe from the universe.

Also on display was the predictable, yet somehow still surprising, machismo and posing and territorialism that comes with a standing audience. To wit: the 30-something guy in front of me preening, bowing up, and punching the air with extended forefinger and pinky with bravado while inching back towards me in search of more real estate for him to impress the nearby 20-something chick (who appeared to be with his buddy). It played out like a National Geographic documentary. (“The male genus, fueled with loud music and elixir, does all he can to exhibit his dominance to attract the female.”)

To summarize: Cool show. Great energy. Excellent band. Funny spectators.