Musical

That doesn’t change the fact that I’m extremely pleased you’ve kicked that fucking pariah out of your house and filed for divorce. I bemoaned your sad transformation a year or so ago, and you were truly the last to know that this would end in tears. As far as your career goes, you just don’t bounce back on the sexy meter after pumping out two dirtbag-descendants.

My older post covers most of the basics, so I’ll stick to my hopes for Britney’s future. Thanks to VH1, you’re always going to have a job, baby. Whether you’re on top of the charts, or a giant electronic scale – that’s still show business. If Flava can make a celebreality comeback, then so can you. Just please make sure that at no time Flava comes on your back. Cause that’s probably the only thing on this planet that’s worse than having your baggage lined with Feder.

The only supposed pop culture happening more tenuous than whether or not there is going to be an Indiana Jones 4, is whether or not there will be a new Pixies record. The only person who cares about both simultaneously, who isn’t wearing Spock ears in their parent’s basement while feeding crickets to a tarantula, is me. So I was very excited when Nate sent me this today. It’s not logical that you won’t come get your dinner, Charlotte. There’s a good girl.

“Since we got back together we’ve played almost everywhere we can,” explained Black to the NME website. “I know we like playing and everyone likes touring together, so to keep doing that and not record anything is kind of like being a county fair band. We don’t want to do that, so the only thing we can do is become a vital band again. So it’s just a matter of doing it, I guess.”

And the timing couldn’t be better, as I’m off to see Frank Black at Axis this very evening. Oh what a wondrous time to be a music/movie nerd. A copy of Bossanova and a bullwhip, and I’m gonna be just fine.

Where has “sexy” been that so many people seem intent now on bringing it back? All praise be to Justin Timberlake for bestowing this special gift upon all of us. Just Google it and click a few pages deep. It’s frightening. How many times have you heard it said now by TV presenters? How many of your MySpace friends have it as their profile tag line (probably shouldn’t have said that one out loud)? How many times have you seen it used clumsily in newspaper headlines? “Missing Teen’s Parents Doubt She’s Coming SexyBack.”

“The saying “bringing SexyBack” has become somewhat of a catchphrase since the song came out. It was heavily used at the 2006 MTV Video Music Awards. Al Gore, for example, said he wouldn’t have come to the VMA’s at first but then he heard that “Justin Timberlake is bringing SexyBack”. Lil Kim and Jared Leto also said they were “bringing SexyBack” during the show. Also, while hyping his debut on ECW, professional wrestler Shannon Moore made a reference to the song when he quoted “I’m the Prince of Punk and I’m bringing SexyBack!”

Many other artists could have benefitted from this innovative strategy. Aerosmith could have been SexyBack in the Saddle. The Hoodoo Gurus could have sung I Want You SexyBack. ACDC might have been SexyBack in Black. Frank Black could have gone SexyBack to Rome. Paula Abdul and that silly looking cat could have gone “… one step forward and two steps sexyback”. I mean, it’s almost tragic that this wasn’t thought of 10 years ago. I’m so clever and sarcastic, eh?

So I’d officially like to do my part in bringing sexyback. Back to the exchange counter at HMV.

There was an action/drama/comedy – an adramedy, if you will, on TV in Canada when I was growing up called The Beachcombers. The late Bruno Gerussi headed up the cast of the popular show whose 19-year and 324 episode lifespan became the longest in Canadian television history. Here is a quick synopsis of the show: “The adventures of a professional lumber salvager and his friends in Gibson, British Columbia, Canada.” How they managed to stretch that premise for 2 decades, I’ll never know. No, wait. I remember now: “The format focused on physical action–boat chases, storms, rising tides, various rites of passage, a long-distance swim, taming a wild dog, a vision quest, but violence was largely confined to experiences with physical objects which break up or blow up or somehow threaten the characters.” Awesome. And for my Canadian friends who haven’t seen a photo of Relic in a while, enjoy.

OK – That was quite the tangent. Regardless, PITF reader and fellow Tiernan’s refugee Greg sent me this photo from his camera phone last night. It’s a very low-budget poster for the upcoming Frank Black show at The Beachcomber bar in Wellfleet. Many of my friends have been talking about this, and it’s probably already sold out. Still, I’m going to give it a go and see if I can get down there. Who’s with me? I saw Frank Black at a tiny bar in London, Ontario in 1996 and it was one of the best I’ve ever seen. I’m a goin’.

And let’s talk about this poster for a second. It’s Frank Black, not your buddy from college who’s a stockbroker during the week. What’s with the student council 8×11 ‘poster’? Vote for Allison. The handwriting looks like the author was riding in the back of a biplane distributing these from the sky like communist propaganda leaflets. And maybe use a photo that doesn’t make him look like Peter Lorre with dysentery next time. Greg, where the heck did you see this?

Shave and a Haircut, and the associated response, “two bits”, is a simple musical couplet sometimes used at the end of a musical performance. the tune became associated with a profane insult in some Latin American countries, particularly Mexico. Whistling the tune or using a car horn to play it is considered highly offensive. The insult is “chinga a tu puta madre,” “go fuck your whore of a mother.”

I was walking home recently, through the Financial District late on a Thursday night, when I came across a pack of wild bachelorette creatures. They’re all the same: dolled up, inappropriately drunk and leading around an invariably heavyset friend in a veil – all of them chewing on little plastic penis straws. They’re also all overly pleased with themselves and completely devoid of any self-awareness as if they invented this pre-marriage ritual and have the keys to the city or something. At least men are prone to renting hotel suites so their antics can’t readily be traced back to them. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway. Maybe there was one exception. Alright two.

Regardless, I assure you, nobody that didn’t gain 30 pounds living in a freshman dorm with Cindy fucking cares that it’s Cindy’s bachelorette party. Ever.

Especially not anyone working on the 5th floor of a Boston office building trying to conduct business at the ungodly stag/stagette party hour of 5pm on a Monday evening. A few times a week, some silly local party bus drives around and around my block blasting the ‘shave and a haircut’ beat on their insanely loud horn. They come up Boylston to Tremont, turn right, make another right at the 7-11, head back around that block to Boylston and then do it all over again. Again and again, without pause. It is excrutiating, excessive, and I think if I were on that bus immersed in the revelry, I’d still walk up to the driver and ask: “Are you frigging autistic, or what?“

Back to my riveting tale. One of the young friends stopped two scruffy-looking forty-something dudes in the middle of the sidewalk ahead of me and threw out her arms: “Guess what dudes? Where you headed? Bachelorette party!” They just snickered and walked around her. I burst out laughing and had to cross the street. My weeks of auto-horn torment suddenly somehow vindicated. Or maybe I just wish she’d asked me.

Here comes the rain again. Have you looked at the forecast? Looks like the sun may make a brief appearance Saturday afternoon, but other than that as of tonight we’re going back to Waterworld. This is actually good, because I have people coming to fix my roof Thursday and they’ll be able to spot leaks while they’re doing the diagnostic. And by ‘spot leaks while they’re doing the diagnostic’, I of course mean cancel the appointment because they don’t work in the rain.

Ryan sent me this. It’s so entertaining. If you’re a Pixies fan, you absolutely have to click through and check it out. Some guy named Matthew – with a love of the band that makes Mark David Chapman nervous – and coupled with an intimate knowledge of Pro Tools, has re-recorded a long list of Pixies songs in the guise of alternate famous bands/singers. And I can’t even pick a favorite, they’re all so eerily accurate. Prince, Jimi Hendrix, BeeGees, Sinatra, Brian Wilson… Here is the pentultimate list on another site, as Matthew’s MySpace page doesn’t have a complete list or downloadable versions.

Re-reading that paragrah, it’s really quite exceptionally confusing. Just trust me and check it out. And how a grown man can make himself sound so much like Tina Turner while singing my favorite Pixies song is enough to make me shudder/masturbate.

I’ll come clean – my favorite is Elvis doing #13 Baby.

But they do play the Andy Milonakis Show all day. And it’s brilliant. So I spent 5 minutes trying to learn some more about him. He’s 29, he’s Jimmy Kimmel’s buddy and he has a growth hormone issue which makes him look like he’s 12 years old. Recently he has been dating Desa Crabtree, an aspiring model from Denver,Colorado – so for a fat 30 year old man with a serious medical condition, he’s doing alright. Watch the show if you get a chance – if I had my own TV program, this would be it. Stupid, stupid brilliant humor.

In about 15 minutes I have to rush back to the North End for a 5pm play practice. Our first performance is Sunday at 2pm, and there’s precious little time left to work out the many kinks. It is very time consuming, and I’ll be glad when it’s all said and done a week from tonight, but it’s been a fun experience. Again, if you need tickets – email me. They are going fast and Sunday’s shows are nearly sold out. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday – done. Get on it.

I’m ducking out around 1/2 way through the second act to sneak back up to the Orpheum to see the mighty Pogues who are on tour with Shane McGowan for the first time in 15 years. Apparently someone in Ireland has finally figured out how to reanimate dead tissue. I am insanely excited, and will give you a full update and a related Wadio tomorrow.

At one point during the concert tonight, I turned to the group of friends and siblings I was with and made the uproariously hilarious remark: “Hi, I’m the Boston Fire Inspector. Thanks a lot for not inviting me?” The February 28th Belle and Sebastian show at Avalon in Boston (just a pause for the search engines here, folks) was grossly oversold, and I’d like to sarcastically thank the powers that be for jamming us in there like branded cattle. I’ve seen about 800 shows there since 1988 – including packed houses like Coldplay and the Pixies, and I’ve never been welfarically uncomfortable before. I could actually see the panic attacks taking place on the faces of the people around me. Especially when New Pornographers covered “Once Bitten, Twice Shy“. All horribly tasteless jokes aside, that was a real pain in the ass you money grubbing Landsdowne fucks.

The NP‘s were great, and I’m adding their new song Bones of an Idol to the Wadio right now so have a listen on your left. I’ve spun it 8 times already today – it’s awesome. They’re from Vancouver, and have developed a huge ex-pat following a la the Hip here in Boston. I saw tons of Maple Leafs being rocked on hats, scarves and jackets last night. They use two keyboards, a mouth organ and male/female vocal mix that’s about 50/50. A pulsing, unique sound that I’m going to be delving into deeply over the next few weeks. Super band.

Belle and Sebastian sounded amazing, despite the fact we eventually retreated to one of Avalon’s back corners when the crowds began to surge forward. One thing about hipster crowds – they don’t brush their teeth and fart uncontrollably. I have to chalk it up to all the cheap food available in Davis square, or the fact that sometimes they’re forced to eat Decemberist records when their student loans run out. Either way, it was like a focus group for Crest and Gas-X and I gladly hid in the back, hence my completely awful pictures. Not to mention I was asked to stop taking photos by a 4-foot tall bouncer who also smelt like he’d been eating aquarium scum.

I thoroughly enjoyed Stuart’s silly dancing, and the horns sounded perfect. Judy and the Dream of Horses and Seeing Other People were the highlights for me, although Stu forgot the first verse of the latter. These guys are a tight, tight outfit. The tour has just started, and here’s a list of the dates lest you wish to venture out. Just remember to wear fire retardent clothing and to spread Vaporub under your nostrils like Clarice Starling.

Taz hasn’t chimed in for a long, long while. I love the way the man writes, and his knowledge of 80s/90s indie rock makes me look like a Menudo fan, so I wanted to share. I added a few hyperlinks for the uninitiated:

“Imagine my delight as I had my first proper shufty of the year at The PyeMan’s magnificent Blog (been on holiday in Thailand for 3 weeks folks, so that explains the neglect of this otherwise essential source of info for the Hamid Zeitgeist…) when I saw that 4AD post-Pixies Great White Hopes, LUSH came into the focus of the red hot laserbeam of impeccable taste that is Pye In The Face!

It warmed the cockles of my retro-indie loving heart! Took me back to days as a black denim 501s, trenchcoat and suede brogue wearing grad student in the early 90s and the late late nights wallowing in Lush’s dreamy soundscapes from the ‘Scar’ mini-LP and their first 12″ EP featuring De-Luxe, Thoughtforms, etc. Shoegazing was indeed a much maligned sub-genre of a great time in underground Brit popular music. The pioneers were the peerless My Bloody Valentine and the groundbreaking dronesters-par-excellence Spacemen 3 but the torch was then manfully carried into pastures newer and poppier by Lush, Pale Saints, Chapterhouse, The Telescopes, Slowdive, Catherine Wheel and many many more.

Some fell by the wayside, some enjoyed a modicum of success… ALL were interesting and worthy of both fiscal and emotional investment! These were heady times for guitar-driven bittersweet bedsitland indie-rock, and like Dave, my iPod still has a corner occupied by classic albums by the above, plus the other subsequent bands who kept the dream alive like Spiritualized and Low.

The great thing is, Shoegazing has now morphed into ‘Newgazing’. Check out my favourite exponents of this artform for the enlightened, NYC’s very own Ambulance Ltd. Their debut album is magnificent in it’s own right but will have you clued-up indie-kids digging out your old Lush and MBV albums with a wave of nostalgia. Respect to you PyeMan… once again your cultural barometer is giving all the right readings and the calibration is faultless! De-Luxe indeed…Taz, Frankfurt.”

There are worse things to have in your inbox first thing in the morning, like animated elf porn. Wait – did I say “worse”? Good to hear from you, homesnake!

“As the Jerry Seinfeld of songwriters, Lennon makes singing about nothing sound downright philosophical. If he didn’t sing in such a deadpan way, you probably wouldn’t get the joke; if he didn’t play such catchy melodies, you wouldn’t want to get it.”

Don Lennon will be live on MIT’s radio station tonight at 9pm. WMBR streams live on the web and Don will be playing songs from his new album, Routine, plus undoubtedly a few older favorites. And don’t forget – he also plays live this Friday night at The Milky Way in Jamaica Plain. Starts at 9pm and will run you 7 bucks. You can get there in 10 minutes from the Stony Brook stop on the Orange Line. A little train ride, a little walkie, a little Lennon. See you there.

1. Marry a guy who’s only God-given ability is to wear hats that Sinatra would have referred to as “faggotty”. The guy in question should also have been previously married very unsuccessfully. This is key.

2. Make sure said spouse already has two kids from a previous marriage whom he never sees. Cause things will be different this time around, and the second time is always a charm. No wait… yes that’s right. The second time.

3. In the tradition of Posh Spice (Brooklyn) and Madonna (Lourdes), name said baby well before it is born and after a city you’ve been to once yet pretend to have a deep connection with. I have a bigger connection to London and can’t even fit into a half-shirt.

4. On the subject of half-shirts, since your career was basically founded on them, make sure that the eventual birth results in a cesarian section scar so enormous that Islamic fundamentalists begin to pray in front of it.

Yes, kids. My former imaginary girlfriend, Britney Spears, gave birth today. I’m not saying anything every other man, woman, child and dungbeetle on the planet isn’t also thinking today. When I moved back from England in 1999, Spears had just broken onto the scene and was poised to embark on a long and lucrative career. But she’s shat it away in a short year like an Arby’s roast beef sandwich which was eaten too fast and had horsie sauce all over it.

Even Madonna waited until she was 40 to pop out a sprog. You can be goddamn good and certain certain there was no need to give her a C-section. She could have easily given birth to a gas truck by that pont. She timed the pregnancy extremely well, though – as she’s happily married, pushing 50 and set for life with a long exciting career behind her. And at least one vagina.

But age 23? Kevin frigging Federline? Girl – you could have committed suicide. You could have been killed by overzealous paparazzi. You could have overdosed. Britney – I’m very disappointed in you. Because you see, Brit and I have this little arrangement. I provide her with wisdom and guidance – and in return she doesn’t know who the hell I am.

Today started out pretty flipping rotten. The usual Sunday bout of insomnia stretched on until 4 a.m. – and a beeping hallway fire alarm battery compounded the problem. I awoke at 9 with little sleep and a lot less patience. When I got to work and discovered that our Exchange server was down, and we had no access to the internet or email, I looked a certain coworker up and down and wondered if his head would fit in the mail tube. Luckily it didn’t.

Then, in the midst of trying to ram a business card holder up my own nostril, I got an email from a friend confirming a rumor I’d heard a week ago and then completely forgotten about – The Pixies were playing a ‘secret’ gig at the tiny Paradise, and 300 tickets had already gone on sale that morning which subsequently sold out in seconds. It seems the band needed some extra footage for a live DVD which is in the works, and the show had been kept under wraps because space was even more limited than usual due to all the video equipment required. I briefly cruised Craig’s List looking for tickets/love and gave up when I saw absolutely zippy del nada. And anyway, I’ve seen the band 5 times in the last year and a half and figured I could sit this one out.

Then, around 3pm, I spoke to Moynihan who told me his brother Jeff was going down and I got the sultry damp Pixies itch (or Pixitch,) all over again. It was a special, mini-show with a small amount of civilians and the rest of the crowd made up of industry people and Pixies’ family members. I’d heard enough – and immediately my fanatical dormant fanboy alter-ego took the controls and I posted feverishly on CL proclaiming my willingness to pay a silly amount of cash for a ticket. I was on the phone with a fairweather fan named Matt less than an hour later. Money talks, and hipsters who wait in line overnight can walk/fuck right off.

I was only able to get one ticket, and as I sat in T’s pub by myself killing time before the show I felt very odd. But – it was what it was – and I knew I was lucky to be there at all. About 10 minutes after I sat down at the bar, David Lovering came in with a friend and stood right beside me. I met David on the street before I saw The Pixies at The Paradise in 1988 and it was as if things had suddenly come full circle. I approached him very calmly, shook his hand and wished him a great show. He was extremely nice and after speaking with him I walked over to the Paradise and headed inside. Albeit with the skippy fricking gait of a 12-year-old girl who’d just met Aaron Carter.

It was an incredibly cool scene inside – more like a TV show taping than a concert. I walked in and immediately located Jeff and his girlfriend. 10 minutes after I got there, the show started up and raged on unabated for almost 2 hours. I’ll go into more detail when I get the photos developed (I bought a disposable for the occasion). We were literally 7 feet from the stage with cameras on mechanical arms flying all around us and the house lights up full-tilt. I hadn’t been at such an intimate Pixies concert since 16 years prior when I stood in the exact same spot in the exact same building having the exact same hissy.

So I like the Pixies a whole hell of a lot, but it could be worse. Some folks substitute drugs, porn, prostitutes or a delightful mixture of all three in the absence of a signifigant other. If The Pixies are my substitute, that really ain’t so bad. The little tart has been putting out a lot lately.

See an ongoing discussion of the show here.

I’d been at a pub with a friend for an hour or so last night, when the bartender told us that a Karaoke DJ was setting up. We rolled our eyes and started talking about our next move (the frick out of there) when a large group of 20-somethings invaded the place. As they ordered beer and talked amongst themselves, it quickly became apparent that they were all hearing impaired – hands were flying wildly in conversation and folks were writing messages for the bartender to read. We decided to order one last round and sit tight, as it was deaf-initely about to get very interesting. See what I did there?

After a regular got up and did the worst version of “With or Without You” I’ve ever heard, the deaf kids started getting into the action. They read the words off the monitor and tried to keep time with the music. Maybe they could feel the vibrations of the music – I have no idea – but they all get an ‘A’ for effort in my book. At the conclusion of every song, the crowd went wild and the smiles those people had on their faces when stepping of the stage were a sight to behold. Good for them.