That Vampire Weekend Record

Paul Simon? Why is no one noticing the obvious Operation Ivy connection. Here is the essentially the same song, separated by 20 years of subculture degradation.

Is that an iphone?

Soon enough its going to be a foregone conclusion that the purchase of an iphone over most other competing brands is a no brainer. Once the price drops into the $200 range, I believe we can kiss the term "cell phone" goodbye. Lord knows when my current contract fizzles out in a few months I'll be purchasing.

Since its release last June, we've seen the birth pains of another piece of technology's particular etiquette set. Summer 2008 you heard a lot of "Is that an iphone?" conversations spark up as people pulled their soon to be obsolete 8GB $600 beauties out of their bags at restaurants and bars. Now you could check your email and log in to facebook as your friend relays another time consuming story about their sister's recent breast cancer battle. Maybe the trend will level out, similar to how cell phone usage in the early 00s seemed to be blaring from street corners and was eventually muted by the rise of texting. But at what cost? As our communication lines have become more linear, we've become impatient, bored, and uncomfotable with the presence of random human interaction in our midst, incapable of enjoying the challenge of conversation because we are flexing that intellectual muscle less and less. That atrophy is passed off as a matter of control and choice, as if tine tuning our receptors is going to keep the riff raff out of our head space.

Last night I attended a party a friend had at an average lower Manhattan bar. I made note of a few observations from the front line. First theres the Domino Effect. You know the drill for the iphone wielder. Arrive at social gathering. Place device on the surface in front of your physical being. Begin checking Iphone for communiques at 2 minute intervals, depending on if the conversation is about you or not. If it is not directly about you, more frequent intervals are permitted. Within moments the other iphones appear on the table, followed by blackberries, and finally, the more pedestrian verizon and sprint cell phones, looking like stale prunes next to their superiors. Then begins the iphone as conversation piece phenomena. Could anything be more boring? "Is that an iphone?" YES IT IS. And I bet you've got some photos of your rat dog in a stupid outfit on it as well. Then comes the pop culture knowledge dispersal. We are now only as smart as our WIFI connection is fast. What was that Fred Savage/Judge Reinhold movie where they switch bodies? WAIT! I can look it up on my Iphone! Cool! The only problem is I am going to stop the conversation for 8 minutes as I peruse which networks I can tap in to, all the while creating a sense of awkwardness and tension as the people around me watch my face transform into a blue lit zombie staring at the floor! Hey look I got a text message from that guy!

Of Montreal

A super last minute spontaneous sojourn to Montreal occurred this New Year's Eve, popping my long ripening Canadian cherry. Despite having lived in Albany for five years, I never made the trip. I always figured owning 27 Rush albums was the same as being an actual Canadian citizen. All potential band voyages there were passed over after hearing a wealth of gear/merchandise confiscation horror stories at the border. Well, it is a lovely city. Buried in snow but still, somehow, a perpetually smiling and soothing community of heavily coated well-wishers. My boss asserts the French look down upon their Canadian freres as a tasteless imitation of true European culture, which kind of reinforces the whole "too good to be true" aspect of the city; delicious, fattening French foods, an active music scene, free health care, cheap rent, and a decent job market just 6.5 hours away from NYC? Sign me up.

Books. Check 'em out. Books. Check 'em out.

I tend to read rock star autobiographies. I know there are better books to read in my spare time, but every time I think I'm over the predictable rags to riches tales of our musical forefathers, yet another one is released, I purchase, and then proceed to take an embarrassingly long time (more than 2 days) to finish it.

The lastest was "The Heroin Diaries" by Nikki Sixx, followed directly by Slash's writing debut, simply titled "Slash". He is a simple man. Now, what is interesting about these two is that they both hone in on the same time and space: 1987 Los Angeles, during the height of the glam metal scene. In fact, Slash and Nikki often appear in each other's books, copping heroin as a team, sharing women procured from the Rainbow Bar and Grill or Whiskey A Go Go, and sometimes even playing music together on tour. As you can imagine, even with the assistance of whomever helping them along with their storytelling, the writing never really gets beyond passable in either book, and most of the stories have already been told in other formats; VH1 specials, other books (most notably the classic Motley bible "The Dirt"). Still, its a great simulation of hanging out with these larger than life characters, and an even greater insight into the realm of "band psychology". I hope this becomes a legitimate field of study one day. Maybe I would go back to school.

Last night I entered the Barnes & Noble @Astor Place with the intention to purchase something remotely intelligent. I exited the store with "Conversations with Tom Petty". Shit!

Southland Tales

Last Saturday, against all prevailing logic, I went to see Richard Kelly's new 2.5 hour diasterpiece Southland Tales. Legend of its booing at Cannes had already soaked into my brain so, for the sake of full confession, I did not enter the theater expecting it to eclipse Donnie Darko in any way. "How bad could it be?" is the idea my friend and I were operating under.

Very bad. And I don't mean "strange", over the mainstream's head, outsider film, bad. I mean Axl Rose/Colonel Walter E. Kurtz-esque, narcissistic madman with way too much money sitting atop a throne made of human skulls and not enough people telling him no type of BAD. While the actual film, and Kelly's intentions, can be analyzed a thousand different ways, what I found myself preoccupied with most was that remaining, oh who knows, lets say 5% of people, who enjoyed, even adored, the film. I am going to go out on a limb and say the vast majority of these people are Donnie Darko fans (as was the one person I spoke to directly that felt this way).

Kelly goes to great pains to establish a relationship between Darko and Tales, and this is a clever insurance policy. Beyond the obvious overall themes of time travel, apocalypse, and a final chance at spiritual redemption from the hedonistic quicksand of modern living, actual Frank (the bunny from Darko) posters abound in the background, and T-Lake's music video sequence features him sexily taunting the camera while wearing a tee soaked in blood thats been dripped into the the infamous bunny ears silhouette. Wasn't aware Frank was a Killers fan! Its a wink to his size-able cult of fans; "There IS a secret message here folks, just keep looking". We want there to be meaning within the entertainment, and when you've invested so much adoration in someone's previous work, maybe its not too hard to piece together an imaginary satisfaction from the mess on the screen.

I remember having the same feeling after Radiohead released Kid A. While much of that record is certainly brilliant, the fact they had discounted even a ballpark approximation of what their audience expected of them, and their subsequent coming out of that experience on top and more respected then ever, meant that all future bets were off. Their next record could have been a toilet flushing for 72 minutes and that small percentage of die-hards would argue that critics were "not paying attention", that they "just don't get it".

Interestingly enough, I've since learned that many fans did not enjoy the director's cut Donnie Darko that came out 2 years ago. I never saw it, but apparently its jam packed with ornate explanations of the weird science that drives the movie, and squashes the mystery that makes the film so utterly unique and eventually moving. Heres to hoping for the right editing team for movie #3, due out sometime in 2015?

Van Halen @Madison Square Garden, 11/13/07

I had been looking forward to this show for months. Make no mistake, despite the absence of the golden pipes and Jack Daniels-fueled pulse of Michael Anthony, this current incarnation of Van Halen does not disappoint, in fact, they are absolutely fucking transcendent. Honestly, its kind of hard to point out any highlights when the entire face melter-laden set has your synapses firing on ten for two and a half hours straight.

Though Eddie remained physically low key for most of the night, shredding beside his pedal board and occasionally swinging his hips to the beat, Dave more than made up for it by charming the audience with his Zeus-sized rock star persona, at once ridiculous, confounding, and totally love-able like only he can be. It was totally bizarre to see 16 year old Wolfgang Van Halen living out a fantasy I had when I was around his age. The "rooting for Wolfie" aspect of the tour seems to be paying off. His chops are certainly in order, and you can practically feel Eddie bursting with pride as they exchanged high fives on stage.

I heard 20,000 people scream the word "Panama" and it nearly brought me to tears. So what is it about this music that is so universally enjoyable, so longed for, so worth paying hundreds of dollars for? The energy, hooks, musicianship, the showmanship; they just do not seem to exist in the same way anymore, and we miss the actual music as much as we miss our old selves. If any new artist took this approach at this point it would seem silly, thus we must return to the source. Its that nostalgic connection that really makes the experience hit home for me. The pure teenage Americana. A dreamworld where frankenstein guitars scream pinch harmonics heavenward through a dozen Marshall stacks, drowning out the coming workday. Worth every goddamn penny.

Goonies Rocks on Oregon Coast

"Don't you realize? The next time you see sky, it'll be over another town. The next time you take a test, it'll be in some other school. Our parents, they want the best of stuff for us. But right now, they got to do what's right for them. Because it's their time. Their time! Up there! Down here, it's our time. It's our time down here."

My Portland photos.