Mad Decent!

Albums that have recently been helping me keep head above water:

1. Weezer, The Blue Album

2. Miles Davis,

Sketches of Spain

3. Belle and Sebastian,

BBC Sessions

4. The brand spankin' new LCD Soundsystem album, which leaked several weeks ahead of release date. You can, should, and at this point are totally about to get it here. We're talking about manic pop songs that recall everything from Duran Duran to Erasure, of course a dark twist o' Depeche. Mode, that is. Oh yeah, and that schoolyard call-and-response at intervals. (Other great call-and-response utilizers: Cake!) Listen. Absorb.

Upcomings

This year's Earth Day will be a blast, thanks in large part to the anticipated presence of Margaret Atwood, Bobby Weir, Sting, the Roots, Ms. Mavis Staples, Mr. Booker T., and Ppppppassion Pit.

I


Oh yeah, and Jesse Jackson, James Cameron, and Q-tip.

In other news, I just bought two tickets to Silverspun Pickups opening for Muse at DAR Constitution Hall. Sometime like, next month I think. Jeez, I should look into that.

The White Room

Life's tough for some kids on the cheap side. So spending a whole week in a city that for about three weeks draws in and debauches the young of their already tawdry wallet loads was challenging you see. But that's what you get for spontaneity. We had to weave in and out of disappointments over a lot of shows (damn you, Mansion and your overpriced ticket to le doucherie!) and festivals (hopped onto the Ultra train too late and spent two hours trying to find legitimate tickets for less than $350 each and sucking on delicious fizzy energy candy given to us by raver girls in sexy nurse costumes).

The drum&bass/house show at the White Room seemed the best bet for true carnivalism and orgiastic music frenzy. And sure enough, that's where all the svelt Brooklynites were hiding their porcelain skins from the harsh Miami sun that would mar that perfect nocturnal white glow against their various black couture...the kind of place where if someone farts you're 100% gonna smell cocaine. (What happens when a healthy trifecta of dusty cities arrive at a rave?)

I'm not an expert on this music, dub step, dnb, house, electronica, whattheeffever kids are calling good old fashioned escapist dance music at high volumes. And as melodically-prone as I am, the percussion of someone slapping a ripe ass, or someone scratching on a chalkboard, or the fire alarm in your apartment building that goes off randomly at seven in the morning, can grate at the nerves. (And I think I'll be driven to homicide if I hear Major Lazer ever. again. How many times can we rework the call-and-response sound of a goofy synth? Nah, nah, just kidding, I have mad love to any group that video tapes themselves jumping from ladders and buildings into the cavernous cootchies of bootylicious women.) I was also a little wary of tweakdaddies and mommies dragging me off to their heavily-spandexed layers and taking me for all I was worth. But I was soon drawn into the escapist dream of total endorphin-takeover, and I still love music that is silly (Zappadidoodah!) as well as badass.

Plus, these DJs were the cream of the crop, so there was no such thing as disappointment that night. I was blown away with the flow and the sudden impulse to pump my fist in the air and act the fool. So, touche, Craze, et. al. Meanwhile, Rossman had the urge to flash some top teeth, and Q. had the uncontrollable ambition to jump up on stage and offer supplications to his favorite DJs. Pfft, who was that guy?

A little shoutout to the locals:

Not that I feel the constant need for explication (cough, cough), but I will admit that my music appreciation was broadened since I recently began subjecting myself to house/electronica. My disdain has been mostly for the fans, those ironicmoronic nerds-turned-cool with something always, always to prove. However, the same can, has, and should be said about my old friends, the Phans, who desire nothing more than an excuse to be lazy, grody, and sloppy in bed because all the pot you smoked and whiskey you drank did not, as you expected, make you more "dangerous" and therefore appealing, but instead make you stink like hot fire-and-brimstone asscrack. The music then, however good, becomes a gateway drug to lameness. This is how seeing live music can become hazardous, and the whole reason I try to get as close to the stage as possible at shows to bridge the gap. The only difference is at hardcore shows.

Plus, the characteristics that make escapist music so innocuous and fun is the no-brainer quality of the lyrics or melodies, our own American brand of comfort and familiarity; Miley Cyrus is the musical Bed Bath & Beyond. We navigate cleanly and confidently around those predictable pillows of Verse-Chorus-Verse-Chorus-Bridge-C section-Chorus. Mmm. But the best of this music is anything but formulaic. Matching old classic songs to ultramodern tracks, combining the B-sides with the Blockbusters, then stripping everything down and playing with the dancers, everything synched and intuited and timed for live performance is anything but Vonnegut's cosmic ice cream cone. So my cute little military hat off to the dudes who made this show possible, because it was quite possibly one of the funnest dance parties everest.

So then, bleary-eyed an understatement, we stumbled out into the dewy dawn and headed for the beach, where we baked in early sun.

WMC Miami Week

So here I sit in a beautiful, lizard-friendly cabana, poolside at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Ft. Lauderdale. It's in the low eighties, and we're watching music videos of Elvis' last Vegas performances. These cabanas, I've been told, go for about a buck-fifty for half a day, and are equipped with roving cameras and (our Brazilian waitress told us later) infrared. But we're camped out here for nothin' but our $95 tab for a few saw-off-my-right-leg drinks and the watermelon slices that are juicing their way down my chin at present. Oops, mind the MacBook.

This fortuitous rock star treatment has been complements of some friends I've been staying with in Giana Beach, just north of Hollywood (not L.A.) and west of North Beach (not S.F.):

the exuberant, hype-sparking manager of my fellow restaurantier RossmanZ (aka DJ Throdown) and his lovely multi-lingual girlfriend Mary who has made every morning bearable with her scrambled eggs, biscuits, and coffee. It's been a nutcase journey out here. It was trying, tying up loose ends in my own life and unloading from car to just north of Logan Circle just two days before my 8 am flight out of DC, with a grand total of maybe eight hours of sleep over the course of five days. But a couple hours after landing, I was soaking in some Florida sun and scribbling in a fresh journal I picked up at the airport. Success! One pseudo-diary entry and two false beginnings later, a green Hondo whipped up to the curb, and the whole thing blasted into action.

We got to the Eden Roc hotel ten minutes late for registration--hurry up and wait.

Our crew, headed up by T's manager Dale and threaded in T-shirts advertising his company, CBT VIP (Club Bottles and Tables) were throwing down hard for our boy in his furry Dr. Seuss hat and alien Jackie O shades despite the awkward, fully-lit and fully-sober atmosphere. Not to say there wasn't love, but Miami just couldn't handle the DC heat we speak! (Local love moment, excuse).

John Q even got to thro down onstage in between sets, beat boxing his pretty little heart out, blowing everyone’s mind, and sparing the technicians even more awkwardness as they sorted out the myriad problems they were having with the equipment.

But without a doubt, the most rewarding performance was from a Canadian named DJ Creative. DJ Creative has skills, but you gotta wait for it. Wait for it? Wait...for...it!! And listen up, 'cause he's about to drop some mad shit. And check this sweet turnaround he's gonna do in the middle of his scratch! This man was a fearless warrior of the workings, adept at the apparatus.

The MTV reality crew, who were there to catch the goings-on as seen by Playboy’s 50^th Anniversary Playmate of the Year, Ms. Colleen Shannon, shot Q’s impromptu exhibition with DJ Blondie (points f

or originality). We would get to know these toe-headed specimens rather well over the course of the week.

Our first fluke run-in occurred at the door of Mansion, where theywanted $50 a head for our entry. We all started pulling on our invisible neckties as our ride pulled away. We’d all been saving money for the trip, but…gawd! For a split second, I missed my D.C. existence where a passing acquaintance or affable stranger would pull me into an unforeseeable adventure. Then—BOOM—John Q spotted the camera crews buzzing around a very petite and femininely robust bleach-blonde and jumped on the net

working gravy train. We followed their crew, which consisted of Ms. Work Done, her highly original friend, her Seacrestian tool of a boyfriend (as seen standing behind Rossman in the photo above), and their exquisitely irritating gay producer with the Mexi-hawk, to a bar just a block away called Twist. We followed them up the stairs, the bouncy blondes in their obligatory pink-and-turquoise spandex ensembles, and me in silver leggings and see-thru lace tank.

The cameraman was close behind me as I negotiated the stairs in leggings attached to my four-inch, red “fuck-me”heels. So…assuming their little reality show is indeed aired on MTV this summer, I guess you can say my ass is famous. We all took fruity shots and flipped our hair for the camera, then danced to Lady Gaga as DJ’ed by what looked like Scott Thompson in drag. A worthy use of a random evening, to be sure.

Spring Break WOOOooo!

I just found out that I will be in Miami next week, covering the Winter Music Conference. This is exciting on several levels. Not only does the poor author desperately need a break from anything involving more clothes than a bikini, but it will give me a chance to flex my journalistic muscles, and charm my way around the nooks and crannies.

Oh yeah, and there will be good music too.

Observe.

Hype Machine Picks This Week

Active Child.

One dude from L.A.!!

Full layering!!

Eighties-choral vocals!!

Vintage synth settings!!

New album--She Was a Vision 7"

Yummy.

http://www.myspace.com/activechild

Valentine's Violence

Oh goodness, goodness, it's been forever since the last great concert that took place at the Ottobar in Baltimore on that holiest of crap holidays, Valentine's Day, but good music never dies and the hype lives on forever, so the flagellation stops here.

Strike Anywhere has been around forever, so of course I'm just finding out that I dig their tunes and their philosophy. Anyone who keeps a healthy spirit of discontent and refusal to settle for the status quo is godlike in my book. I have to give it to them for their willingness to revel in their own contradictions: a hardcore band out of "redneck" Virginia, led by a dread-whipping lead singer (who yes, can actually carry a badass tune as well as rip some vocal cords) with the usual two-minute fury of drumsticks and flailing bodies but with carefully punctuated changes and even harmonies without that super-saturation you find in pop-punk (shudder). But not to overstate my case, here are some pictures and a very telling quote from their FAQ page on their website, describing their tour experience.

As a band, we have no uniform, no party line . We tend to revel in the contradictions and humanity of these ideas, living them on a scale where we still travel, play shows in a variety of venues, using many different operating methods, kind of on a case-by-case basis. And at the end of a tour, you know, we go back to a relatively safe place where we can live with our little families; groups of hometown friends, significant others who hold it down for us - where we dig into working shitty jobs, writing music, participating when we can in direct action, contributing music and time to benefits for causes we believe in. We try and push the ideas beyond the two minute hardcore song into the world beyond counterculture - rescuing animals, and just trying to be decent to friends and strangers. . . .But we risk so little in comparison to so many . Therefore, Its so disarming and pure to see a community engaged fully, risking everything in defense of ideas, justice and joy against a state apparatus where you can just disappear if you make too much trouble. ( So if the cops don't get you, the nazis will - and if the nazis don't get you , the police will, and if you are alive by the afternoon and no one's chasing you, you CHOOSE to come to our show, set up a table full of subversive, inspiring literature and ... protect us ( a punk band from Virginia, U.S.A. ) from these enemies of your everyday existence ...? My mind was blown by so many things on this tour . )
The men and women in Minsk and here in Moscow were living this everyday, not just through art and theory, but with the sustained courage and discipline that shone like the Winter Sun behind their eyes.