Does any one have a three sided coin?

How do you make a choice of great shows? This long and involved thought process always befuddles me, the complex equation of weighing all factors is an interesting one. What’s the crowd going to be like? House or Club? Openers? Cost? Hype? Company? All this comes to mind when forming the excel spreadsheet to accomplish this. This night in question was Mt. Eerie and Why? V. Daniel Johnston V. The Dirty Projectors. Allow yourself to take this trip with me: The Vera project is way downtown, and walking through a sketchy neighborhood late at night, plus Why? causes some(lame) people to flip their shit, nix; Daniel Johnston is so dissociative in his old age, and without some one at my hip prob won’t be the best, nix; Dave Longstreth has endearing rock moves, the three part harmonies are spot on in the record, do they translate live and I can kick it by meself, bam, winner. As I approached Chop Suey, which I am slowly growing to hate, I came across Will, a new friend. Asking him about how he battled such crushing weight of the shows his only reply was, “I’m Fanaticsaurus-Rex,” and to this I lift my hat and a reply with, ‘in the late Jamtastic Period.’ It’s the only way to behave, really. Rafter opens the show, a sweet little band that promises to make this a cute little indie show. They came from San Diego, and are signed on Asthmatic Kitty, so there is some power behind them and with some culling they’ll get their own tour. They are a five piece, playing intelligent, throw back rock. Some soul, some soft talk from the side of the moth, some Unicorn’s likeness, some smooth cuts. Solid set, nice and easy to get the night going, and the kid side of the venue loved it. Me, on the other hand, didn’t love it. More retro white kid rock to eat up the air-waves. I didn’t hate it, could have gone worse, but I definitely didn’t love it. Eye gouging cuteness, plethora of passed around instruments with awkward interactions, all commonplace. But the crowd was good, and the place was filling up despite hearing the reports of Why? selling out and DJ selling tons ‘Hi! How are you?’ re-issued tee’s, soon to be witnessed all over the hill. No Kids, a three piece joining this tour from our great northern cousins, Vancouver, took the stage next. No Kids just had a huge write up in The Stranger in defense of indie rock being to white. http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/Content?oid=557629&ms The article was awash with comparisons to R&B and the Stevie Wonder references of them and Hot Chip. As ego boosting as it is to be talked about with the likes of Hot Chip, your not going to discredit the whiteness of the genre like that. Yes, I can hear the roots R&B of them both, and I like the new juxtaposed take on the style of music. But, no, your not gaining any creditability in the fact that your not going to turn the world upside down with a hit radio, tin-ey chains and snare beat, and some, snide, tongue in cheek, 60’s and 70’s R&B popsters references. I’m not trying to open this can of worms into a full blown race debate of packaged and sellable music, but I’m just mentioning the fact that even the fuckin’ glow polished band Vampire Weekend has a little bit of credit for incorporating African beats and such then bringing it to the mainstream. Let alone bands closer to some of these aesthetics like Dengue Fever or even the DP‘s, which I might get into latter. But for now, here we are, on No Kids. Wearing the uniform: tight, black and white, checkered, button up, Nick Krgovich played his synth with style, invoking Tay Zonday, by throwing his head to the side to grab some air, before releasing it with out the deep bass of Tay, but breathy, sing-songyness of white inde rock, yup. So before I catch more flack for being too judgmental, I want to note that I do like No Kids, they’re just not the champions they are being quite made out to be. I loved the performance of ‘For Halloween,’ great connection to the crowd with dreamy eye contact, and cooing out the “oooo’s.” Nick knows how to put on a show. Equally Julia Chirka is a great compliment and the dueling keys is fun to watch, she may not have the bravado showmanship of Nick, but knows how to fill the in-betweens, while he does his little five to eight note flourishes. Well played, No Kids, but it always sucks when the hype machine gets ahead of you and implements ideas without any of your input. Here though, is what I’ve been eagerly waiting for, to watch Dave, Amber Coffman, and Angle Deradoorian hit those notes. I’m still totally in awe that a ‘conventional’ band has captivated me, and continues to do so. By conventional I mean a two guitar, bass, and drum outfit, but the way this has been arranged is nothing close to conventional. I’m really impressed with the vocal talent of these two little ladies, sporting a blaze orange stocking cap and fantastic retro dress respectively, Angel and Amber are just as GPS accurate with their voices live as on all the albums. I wasn’t privy to see Dave’s semi-famous guitar jerk-off’s, but he did Raptor, making his predatory, larger than life, character even more impressive. His doodling is relentless, but to make a entirely new universe for Damaged to live in, it’s entirely necessary. They played album worthy versions, song after song, of ‘Spray Paint(The Ceiling),’ ‘Six Pack,’ and ‘Depression.’ What else could I have expected, really, they are artists for gods sake, of course it was going to spot on. The total immersion of all different styles to reinvent once envisioned works on so many levels. Just having the advanced knowledge of Imbal is enough to turn heads, let alone putting it in fair sight of neophytes? Spectacular. Keying in on two angelic harmonies, with one vibrato driven voice, that on it’s own would barely be noticeable as anything other than an art-rocker? Hitherto, never in anything as ambitious. I know people I will talk to in the future might question the choice of which show I went to, but I believe that as good as either of the other choices might have been, neither of them would have provided me with so much to think about, and such incendiary topic matter. Why? might have made me wonder more into the nature and future of indie hip-hop, and Daniel Johnston may have proved that a comet doesn’t end an era, but I made my bed, bitches. And I am more than happy to sleep in it, wrapped up in dreams of Dinosaurs, Blacksplotation, and teeth shockingly sweet candy hills.

I Put the Ass in Compassion

Give me some love, do it yourself attitude of the underground rock scene! Let’s hear you raise your voice, lo-fi indie rock! Leave all your reservations at the door, kids hungry for a nice little house show! Here we have it, all of it, a tiny, cramped, studio apartment converted for this show. On a byway off I-5 The Tree House was ready, to find it you have to pay attention and read the aptly placed signs asking you to bang on the window. That’s the first sign of a good show, hidden in plain view and a passerby is always invited. The bed had been flipped up against the wall and as everyone got acquainted as we sat around the room munching on fantastic burritos and a raw pumpkin seed, cashew, raisin trail mix. The sun was setting, and we were only obstentially aware as Jesie announced the show was starting. ‘You mean get off the stage?’ Johnny D asked, as we removed ourselves from two ‘seventies, poly-vinyl, tan-mustard, flower print chairs. I traded my green tea in for beer as World History handed out the peripheral instrument that denote a D.I.T. show. Neal T Campau and Jesie E Menzel have a great take on ‘lover’s in arms’ minimal indie sound-scape while Neal plays and sing his songs and Jessie wailes on the chair legs and any guitar case in her reach. After the first couple songs she realized it wasn’t their guitar case, but that adds more to this feel, even other guitar case souls are not free of feeling it all. Next up, he put down the guitar for the auto-harp and she picked up the flute to play some jams that are common for the Massachusetts lo-fi scene, but new to the Seattle area. As we all rattled our tambourine pieces and egg’ed our egg shakers, we bonded, all of us, we might have well drunk the Kool-aid right then and there, cause we’re all on this ride together. It was a great way to kick off a show, and they ended on a rousing Paula Abdul cover that left us all talking about pop-up video, the necessary nostalgia reference of the night. Only Johnny D of Tin Tree Factory was able to make it, but as a trouper he engaged, mono-y-solo. He set up his full, beat inducing tambourine on the ground, and played us a storyteller, country, finger-picking flare heavy set of his songs. A song about a pen-pal friend who makes the best vegan buckwheat pancakes and how they got kicked out of a bar for being to smelly. You can relate right? You know the rule, to be vegan, you have to be smelly, it’s in the handbook. Trust me. A song about waiting around to go on tour, prompted by an article about musicians waiting. A requested, BA, jam ‘Goddamn Condo’s,’ and some others and he played a good set in a white thermal marked with dinosaurs. I went outside to smoke some cig’s and walked right in on Insomniac Folklore, Tyler Hentschel’s project coming at us from California, or did he say Oregon? But his myspace now say Washington? Is he working up to Alaska? Or is he just going to call ’er quits in Vancouver? I’m not here to answer these questions, I’m here to talk about the songs. So, so far it’s been an acoustic only show, and that’s cool, cause I’m a sucker, but these were not quite full songs, they we’re four chords, with The Crash Test Dummies on top. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking the guy, he’s trying, but the place he played did nothing to help. He’s a very awkward individual, and he did a show and tell section that he even noted was a little to long, and most definitely separated the show into two separate entities. He decided to try to get us back, by ending his show with a couple proclaimed ‘silly’ songs. The final being a nice little sing along called, ‘It’s Only Folk Music if the Folk’s Sing Along.’ Right? Yeah. Close, but a little more time friend, it’ll get there. There was a lot of ‘O’ shaped mouth ‘ohhhh’s’ and stomping, but it will get there, as soon as he adopts his home. One of the guys we all took a shine too as he talked about volunteering at a book fair, was Spencer Sult. He scored a sweet copy of Kelsey Grammer’s memoirs, ‘He pretended he was from Seattle, so it’s gotta’ be a good read.’ He played under his Generifus moniker, a set he pontificated with a ‘I feel bad, following a lighthearted set with songs about the human condition,’ and such, but he wasn’t kidding. He played with sparse strumming of his drop D guitar, some banging on the body, and just some well thought out cuts from a young kid. A kid with promise, highlighted by the fact that he’s opening up the Why? and Mt Eerrie show latter this week. His songs lived in the soft rock of one of the people he looks up too, Phil Elvrum, with the quaking, wavering vocals of Chris Simpson or any Kinsella act. At his young age he’s clearly uncomfortable in his own skin, but as his songs continued he was gaining his steam, and loosening up to show us he knows how to put together some songs. We all had to take some time after his set, but it was mainly to let Eli Damm set up for some electrics. Gazelle was the last act of the night, and well worth the wait. “I’ve been really interested in shoe-gazers, as of recently, and I think this set will highlight that,” Eli was telling me before the show ever got started, I didn’t know if he meant more soft drone of the early double-ots , or basement art-core that Mr. Moore spooges over. Boy, was I in for a shock, Gazelle’s shoe-gazing antics is all London, the M83 vein, but Eli’s incredible mouth talents made this work. I don’t mean vocal’s, but real human beat boxing, and this made it some form of tunes I have never seen before. The really cold, epic, ominous space rock coupled with grounding, grating, miraculous, beat-boxing. It always begs the questions: “how does he think so fast?” “Can he keep that up for a whole set?” “Why am I falling in love with this man?” Answers are as follows: Stoic concentration, yes, and cause he just rocked your world. He played some songs with an old friend, Ross from Beestings, and finished up the set with David Byrne gone shoe-gaze, screamey sing along. You try to stay sober after that; Jesi, Neal, some other attendees and I had to get some wxy on top of all this. Let it all sink in with some good mash. A drink with it’s own direction, for a night that took us everywhere.

Cheapsey

We all know how hard it is to be a vegan on the go, so I’ll try to make it as easy as I can for us all. We’ll call it cheapsey, a nice little cheap and easy amalgamation. Well I’m going to start out with my one and only fast food staple, T-Bell. Taco Bell is great in the same way catching a punch is great compared to the full beating. Three bucks and your filled to the brim. The key, “Fresco.” It’s like an absolvent of your dairy sins. It’s their response to ‘eating healthy,’ like meat that’s not even sellable for human consumption in a market and hydrogenated tomatoes and genetically modified flour tortilla’s that soon enough will be animate will ever be healthy, but hey, they try, and their in lies some cheapsey vegan options. For fresco they throw some cilantro-ey pico de gallo on it, and fuck, I’d rather have that than cheese any day. I figured this out when I still had two letters to gain on my vegan card. Bean Burrito? Fresco, please. Pinto’s and cheese? Kick that cheese to the curb, how ‘bout some more red? Can you throw some tortillas to dip on in? Potatoes? Do it. Feeling saucy? Try a Seven Layer Burrito, fresco style. But here you have to mention that you don’t want sour crème either. Also, I have some research to do on my own, but I have the sneaking suspicion that the thing they’re masquerading around as guac isn’t vegan… I guess here I could mention Subway. Sometimes I just need a huge sandwich that’s heavy enough to be mistaken for a baby. You don’t touch that white bread, what are you? Trying to make them money? Wheat, baby, wheat. I just wish I could get some of those delic looking oats on the honey wheat… but I digress, I’ll take me wheat. Also, and pretty much the only reason I wanted to mention Jarred’s cash cow as pointed out by my friend Dylan, is how gratifying it is when prompted, “what would you like on your sub?” to respond with a hearty ‘All the vegetables, please!’ When I do that I feel I’ve accomplished something with my day, the world can rest easy, I’ve got my veggies. Worth it is that sweet baby V, the sweet onion sauce, throw it on the sammy, then throw yourself into the sammy with reckless abandon. It’s fun to support and stimulate local economy’s and a great place to do that are at local co-op’s. On Willy St. in Madison, the gay capitol of the Midwest, is the Willy St. Co-Op. The deli is phenomenal and a well priced places to get your yumms. They generally have some sort of quinoa, be it of breakfast variety or more on the dinner side, and they never put pesky Feta in it. If you don’t subscribe to quinoa, it’s about time you start. A half quart, which will last a few days, seeing how it’s a grain and fills you up mightily, will ring up in the two dollar neighborhood. If you’re ever there, you do your self a favor and get some Vegan Mac ‘n Cheese. It’s the best and they’ll share the recipe with you, plus it’s how I’ll make mine till the day I die. On the top of Capitol Hill lies my favorite gem of Seattle, the Madison St. Co-Op. They always have a vegan pizza by the pound and a slice will run you like a buck fitty. Here they put feta in the quinoa, but it’s on about an every other time ration, and there’s enough other vegan side dishes to sate your hunger. May I suggest the vegan risotto cakes? Why yes, yes you may, and on your behest I tried them, and they were wonderful. Really the only thing Willy St. has up on Mad St. is the salad bar. You can’t go wrong with a salad bar, and this brings me to the next cheapsey. A lot of huge suppermarkets will have a salad bar, and that is a quick and efficient lunch. Be warned though, the stuff in the bar is not the stuff on the shelves. Like you trust the produce of Woodman’s or CostCo anyways, it’s just a nice cheapsey solution. I trust you all know how to make a salad, but for cost efficiency stay ways from whole tomatoes and opt for mushrooms. That is if they charge by the pound. Go with sunflower seeds instead of walnuts, same reason. Just think about what’s lightest, it’s good that we use V and O or the lighter dressing versus the heavier dressing, the fat kids of the salad playgrounds. Talking on the most for your money, it’s time to move on to buffets. This won’t take long, but I have to mention the grocery lists of my friend Tom on the practices of buffet eating. Stay away from the super starchy foods, this is where a buffet will get you, light on the mashed taters, if you know they’re V, just a bite or two of breads, and hit the salads or tacos(light on beans). Also, at Indian buffets, the chana may be amazing, but all the garbanzos will get you. As we go around the Eastern peninsula let’s get to the Mediterranean. Falafel is a god send to cheapsey, it’s cheap, fast, and unbelievably delicious. If your ever in Sonoma, go to The World Peace Café downtown. First how can you turn down a place called a ‘World Peace Café’? Seriously, great local, in a great place, great food. On State St. in Madison is the Mediterranean Café, my early cheapsey staple for years. At this place, a nice container of basmati rice for fifty cents and a couple pennies, and a HUGE hummus plate with tons of pita for two bucks, two bucks, meal, BAM, Madison. Well let’s talk about a good staple, getting your food where you get you drinks, aka bar food. If you can get over yourself, I mean your about to drink some beers or some wxy, cause I’m assuming that’s all we drink, at least all I drink. Oh yeah, wxy=whisky, use it, learn it, love it, move it. But, I love my fried food, sorry, I like to test my immune system by giving ‘em some free radicals to deal with. French fries are a pretty classic cheapsey vegan staple, as all my friends will gorge on ‘em, but some happy hour sweet potato fries are defiantly worth it, and hit ‘em up. Your not getting the locations of these places, as they my secret bastions and I think you’ll be able to stumble on them yourselves if you’re not familiar. The Dice is amazing, famous for it’s super cheap drinks, and grab yourself some fried mushrooms, mmm… so good. The Local on Sunday it’s another cheapsey place if you like Schlitz. Watch some Adult Swim while eatin’ some Sloppy Jill’s, wonderful. If I’m doing this, I need to mention the Palomino, not so cheap on the food side, but they play the spade game with PBR’s so they come up free fairly often. If your lucky you can catch the Neil Young live ‘76 performance, where everyone in the bar will be trashed and singing along. It’s worth it just for that, plus the Tuffalo Wings are amazing, and the brunch is spot on. This is not a shameless plug, but I have to talk about the Squid and Ink, the local is so good and grungy, the food is imaginative for great vegan eats, and the peeps keep me there at least once a week. I love, love, love the Squid and neighbor hood, and you should get there before the condo’s take over. Eat the Monticrosto, I will you to. I never even had a real one, but a vegan one is transcendent. It’s not as fun telling you places to stop and drink, but it needed to be broached, so I’m going to move on. These were just kinda’ some quick ideas how to stay moving, but have some good places to grab stuff, but we all know, eat at home, save money and time. Here is my one personal suggestion here: keep nuts and granola in your bag. it’s a smart way to stay full and if your non veg friends make you hang out, you have some of your own food and you don’t look so weird, that is if you have judgmental, ass-hole, meat eating friends.

Stop looking cool, Seattle.

Douche bags are just something that’s going to have to be dealt with in Seattle. There thick as flies and at least twice as annoying. I got to Chop Suey early to watch the crowd come in see what type people are coming out for The Cops show. Right off the bat in walked the first super D of the night, a proclaimed twenty-nine, braces wielding, nineteen year old kid. Trying to show me a magic a trick, I willed the show to start. The first opener was a four piece hailing from the greater PDX area called Caves. I’m not really into paying to watch dudes stand around being cool, but they had some licks to cure some of that. David Benedetti hit some scales channeling into Andy Gill, and the whole band did a pretty good Gang of Four impersonation. The dancey, bombastic, angular post-punk that made enough people famous is a solid way of getting tunes out there, but maybe not the best way to quit your day job. Using a rock move I’m calling The Salmon, Tim West laid down some fatty bass and later we shared a friendship paper. If your not familiar with this concept take something you have two of, or in this case, ripped in half easily each take a half, and there fast friends forever. He shared some words with me, something along the lines of ‘the ‘70’s, The Police, London,’ something like that. Next, to continue this 1978 shit-warp was The Girls. A Seattle band that took thirty years to get from New York to Seattle. Look and no substance, look and no substance, look and no substance. It was slowly becoming the mantra of these Pacific-Northeasterners. Leave the leather jacket and shades at home Shannon Brown, you don’t look like Lou Reed, you look like Richard Belzer if he made a rock record, which in fact, I would rather listen to. After about forty minuets of sedimentary punk rock, spitting on their one fan, being spit on by there one fan, they finally stopped pissing off my eardrums. During the set full and empty beer cans were being tossed around like The Cars album definitely in the bands pockets, not to the chagrin of band, in a what seemed like an epic display of ‘enjoy it before they mean it.’ At least you can trust The Cops to let the music make the look, and that they did. The five piece hit the stage with palatable energy, even though Micheal’s mic wasn’t working. He blasted both sides of the stage’s face guitars before his was fixed with out so much as complaint and well, I ate it up. The three guitar onslaught worked out great to loosen up the staunchey d-bags into dancing like the girl they were all making fun of earlier. The great vibe of these dudes not into themselves helped to get the show’s stocks climbing back to eight buck price tag. Songs like “Don’t Take it Personal Dave” and “Invisible City” let John Randolph’s hair free and Brandon Bay to try to drive his guitar into the ceiling. Being tight, clean, and chop heavy The Cops did rock n’ roll a solid that night. Afterwards I caught up with the band, check out these sound clips:
Q: ‘Stoked ‘bout Squatch?’ JR: “Yeah” BB: “I’m a record geek” Micheal Jaworski: “We’re playing the same day as The Cure.”
There you have it, The Cops, the clips, the jams.

Well worth the effort, Mr. Chasny

Mad Planet was Mad Planet. You can’t ever escape the effervescence that is Milwaukee; the smoke hangs thick in the air, and you’ve missed it. We came early to acclimate ourselves to the area, get a good parking spot and such. It is a Saturday night and the coldest one of the season to boot, so the logical decision is to get some colder beers at a bar close by. Under the auspice of a giant mouse trap, that I try not to dictate the motif of the night, we shot a couple friendly games of pool and shove off into the Ten-forty-five Sea. Smoke some sticks, open some doors and pay a door man. The bar side of Mad Planet was as to be expected: Usual musical underbelly at the bar, the night has already been awash with crust punks trying to find a party, calloused tender who you know or glass remains empty, with her distant eyes and look of reprise hoping it was two a.m. already. Black Greco-Roman plaster on the stage side of the wall as we discuss work, who said what on their way out the door, job openings and the type of banter that’s common while waiting for some people to throw their hat in the ring, or to set foot on the stage, to try to impress us. The opening act was Wooden Robot, a clearly local band that had their charm. Sipping on the PBR I thought about how played out the accordion was in wake of all the Beirut, Neutral Milk Hotel, just any of the South-Western acts that are keying in on folk, old-world, traditionalists. But with a singing saw and an engaging guitar wielder, who almost distractingly/endearingly resembled Devendra Banhardt, they kept my attention. The band was lead by middle-aged ex-punk on hand drum, his between song banter was trying to say the least: stories about his doctor, Dr. WeedMan and The Blunt Clinic. That shit is just making the up-hill battle of an opening act even worse, and to quote a friend your just going to die on that hill. All and all, though, their form of instrumental jam’s was good enough, even though the drums and bass had to follow, beat for beat, and where applicable, note for note with the guitar, to help shift my mindset from this pseudo-punk, roller disco-esque scene into what was about to happen next. As Mick Turner, of Dirty Three fame, set up his set I know I was a bout to be in for a rare treat. He was billing himself as an art show but a happenstance is what was about to occur. He projected his art work, jangle kid wavering hand, that is common if not timeless from Australian painters. They were fantastic in the set of locations of subjects as colors changed and the reality the paintings people lived shifted between coastal towns and beaches of cities near to all out hearts to dark, repressed shallow hells that make us down the aforementioned beers. His trade mark brand of close drone forced us to make the trip with him, up and down the mountains. Guitar loop heavy he eboe’d, cello bow’d, and rag n’ tumble melodica’d his way through four or five long intertwined songs with help on drums from his friend and communal band mate Jim White. Ethereal is about the only way I can put this into words. Ethereal man, ethereal. Ben Chasny, with Elisa Ambrogio in tow, was in the midst of it all. As Turner ended, he removed his sheet and hit stage right as Senor Chasny just stepped up on stage, grabbed the acoustic guitar and started his set with no break. Pure showmanship, beautiful. He played three songs solo, letting his voice ubiquitously fill the room. His deep, and romantic country timbre of his voice, the only singing voice of the night, was in rare form and he nailed a perfect Johnny Cash cover. He also did my favorite musician thing, and proved to us he was mortal by butchering, if not eviscerating one of his songs to the point of no return. A point he actually took and built up a psychic wall between himself and us to regain his composure. At nine minuets and some odd seconds in, we received the last bit of eye contact. But, as we all need some times, he started to assemble his support group to get us up to the Six Organs of Admittance. Elisa hit the stage, plugged in her Fender, missing the b-string of course, and geared up for the next jam. Elisa, as we all know, is the guitar expressionist master-mind behind Magik Markers. As Ben started the next, small country cut, Elisa let loose with her slide and guitar making music that contains buzzwords such as, but not limited to: Explosive, Imaginative, Transient, Guttural and oh so many more. The theme of night moved into restlessness, longing to join this world that the two lovers were creating. Another song passed in this manor, and I wish I could say more, but the combination of the two took me to a place reminiscent of how I can’t remember my first viewing of Suicide Club as I was wrapped up and locked inside my own head. The final song of the night called on Mick and Jim to come back up. It was livid with that echo-ey complacentness provided by the acoustic and screaming guitars, simple pseudo random drumings, and a melodica. It was so good, that I can even excuse the burgeoning, knit skirt wearing, young hipster who almost ruined it by being there for the scene, trying to get laid, and not even caring about the music. But that to, added the final element, ensuring that I had not died and was being lifted, but that it was real and witnessable.