Musical

Few things are more embarassing in life, that don’t involve black latex body suits, than navigating to a crappy site – either carelessly or because you were misled – and then having a loud midi version of ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ start playing in the middle of your crowded office. So for this reason I have stayed away from ever lacing any of my web pages with audio. But I’ve rethought my position somewhat after discovering RadioBlogClub. Streisand, however, can still suck a big tide prince or whatever.

Since the radio doesn’t start playing unless you turn it on, I feel much better about exposing you to my utterly illogical taste in music. If you don’t want to soak up some of my favorite all-time-tunes don’t switch the gaudy frigging thing on in the first place. However, if you’re curious about any of the music I talk about here on Pye In The Face, a free sample is just a click away in the left hand column. With no further ado – I give you Radio Pye.

The songs load up quick, and the quality is great. I wish the little bugger fit the column better, and I have yet to painstakingly try to match the colors to the rest of my template, but it works like a charm and I’ve uploaded about 20 songs so far which you can turn on and cycle through by hitting the “Zap” button in the upper-right hand corner. I’ve talked about Stompin’ Tom, The Doves, The Gorillaz, The Pixies, etc. and they’re all broadcasting live here 24 hours a day. I’m going to introduce a feature where I add a special song to the playlist every week and then introduce it into the lineup. And, whenever I mention a song, a speech, a comedy clip, etc. in a blog article – I’ll add it to Radio Pye so everyone can follow along. And also don’t think for a moment that I harbor any confusion over whether or not I’m the only person who gives a shit.

This radio plug-in may be gone tomorrow depending on the reaction (and more importantly its strain on my bandwidth) but you never know. It also might become a popular staple. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think/how much you want for those pictures of me in the bottom half of the catwoman costume.

And I thought I was narcissistic. Flash-in-the-pan R&B singer/actor/dancer Omarion was still in London after Live 8 during the bombings yesterday, so he did what any sensitive man-of-the-people would do – he asked his fans to pray for him. He wasn’t in any danger or even the vicinity of any of the blasts, nor did he mention any of the dead in his statement to his fans. I can’t really do this clown justice so please just read it for yourself. I have Star Wars figures that are 5 years older than this self-absorbed little breakdancing shite:

“Omarion was in London during the tragic bombings that struck this morning,” a statement by the singer’s publicist said. Making no mention of the fatalities or casualties of the blasts, the singer’s statement concluded, “He would like his fans to pray that he has a safe trip and a safe return home. He appreciates your support.”

Today, in fairly typical big-mouthed egotistical “star” fashion, his web-site is engaged in a damage control scramble featuring the title “Omarion Story On Reuters A Hoax”. Now I ask you, what do you think is more likely? The fact that this priviliged clown opened his fat mouth without thinking, or that Reuters is involved in an elaborate scheme to make him look like more of a simpleton than he manages all by himself? When will the man stop keeping Omarion down, yo?

Stay tuned for his next starring Hollywood role in “London Got Served“.

My 5th Pixies concert in a little over a year and I’ll tell ya – it never gets old. I feed off of the energy, high school nostalgia, power chords and incessant screaming like some sort of vampiristic fanatical fanboy. If Buffet fans are Parrot-Heads, and Dead fans were Dead-Heads – what’s the correct term for an obsessive Pixies fan? Do I sense a phrase-coining opportunity here?

This is a tricky one, which requires more thought than I have time for at the moment. I’ll throw a few quick possibilities out there: Havalina-Heads, Brick is Red-Heads, Gigantic-Heads (that would apply particularly well to me), but I’m leaning towards Ed is Dead-Heads.

So have I successfully coined the bastard? Have a go at it yourself. Here’s a great resource to use for ideas. And another. Before anyone answers “Loser-Heads” I just want to point out that Venditti will get around to posting that moniker eventually, so dig a litter deeper. The crew will be at T’s and the Paradise before and after the concert, so drop in and say hi if you’re hitting the show and I don’t even know.

I hate being right all the time. I mean, it’s just really getting old. Shaamoown!

Drudge is calling for the arrest of the prosecuting attorney, and I’d like to personally substitute the word ‘arrest’ with ‘public penis flogging’. What a long, drawn out, exhaustive, gold-digging, meritless, hyper-litigious crock of shite. Congrats, Mike. If your lawyers let you keep a few scheckles of your dwindling fortune, here’s hoping you get yourself a celebratory present. In fact, I think the only way for you to ever truly be safe from these sorts of allegations will be to go completely broke. So treat yourself to one last bag of deceased celebrity bones, tweak an ear (the left one needs to be bleached and the lobe shortened a bit) and lock yourself in your bedwing before masturbating voraciously to Home Alone. You’ve earned it – so take a load off/all over the 48 inch plasma screen.

Janet and I went to the U2 concert last night – and as usualy those wacky, socially concious, ultra-billionaire micks did not disappoint. I was a bit torn while getting ready for the show as to whether or not I should bring my camera. I live near the Flee… the Banknorth Garden, but it certainly would have been a drag to have to run home to ditch the camera had it been discovered. And it was muggy and rainy here in Boston last night, so a jacket to help the smuggling efforts would have been a bad idea. So, disappointed since I wanted some snaps for my new concert gallery, I decided not to risk it. Here’s Lego instead.

After Tibbets hooked Janet and I up with a few drinkie-poos, we ran across Causeway street through the pelting rain and ran inside the Garden (feels good to be able to say that again). The will-call area was all but closed and we could here the first strains of Vertigo blaring beyond. Luckily the guard let Janet head over to the booths on the condition that I stay by the entrance. There were tons of stragglers trying to get tickets.

When she got to the window, the will-call guy said “Pye! I’ve been waiting for you. You’re with the band!” Janet (her night officially ‘made’) blushed, grabbed the tickets and ran back over to me. We got the tickets from Adam Clayton’s girlfriend, afterall. It’s an interesting story. In a nutshell, Janet knows the girlfriend’s sister. After the equivalent of a cavity search (glad I left the camera at home,) we darted up a long, broken escalator and took our (very good) seats.

I won’t go into detail about the show – you can read that for yourself in a dozen places. What struck me though is that during the slow songs, the once prominent lighter had been replaced by cell phone lights. As “Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own” kicked in little blue, orange and pink LCD displays flickered on and illuminated the place. It was a very cool effect of which I was unversed. But then again I only go to shows of this scale when it’s U2, so why would I be? If you pulled out your cell phone and held it up like that in Avalon or the Orpheum, you’d probably get slapped in the back of the head for your efforts.

A great show, and I’m glad I finally had an excuse to spend a night at the Garden. With hockey off the menu this year, up until now it’d been a choice between basketball, Disney on Ice or Motley Crue. Only combined would the three fully substitute for the glaring lack of violent Canadian dirtbags on skates that I miss so very much. I’m not sure where all the cornrows and bling would fit in, though.

BU’s Agannis Arena is apparently becoming the new large-to-really-large-but-not-quite-Banknorth-Garden-large venue for the city of Boston. Sting and Alicia Keys are playing there this week, for example. Too big for the Orpheum, too inconsequencial for the Fleet Center. And both shows I’d rather endure a Cheez Whiz enema than have to attend. But on June 15th, said arena will be a truly magical and Valhalla-esque locale at which I’ll rambunctiously rejoice. And no, the Antiques Roadshow is not coming to town.

I’ve never seen my friend Sam’s band play, and for all I know they may sound like sick cats porking in an echoey alleyway, but I’m going to check them out next week on the strength of this flyer alone.

He contributes to this site frequently so I figured a shout-out was in order. He’s also from New Zealand – that’s got to weigh heavily among the sympathy voters. Sam’s about to rock, and I salute him.

Loyal readers – listen to me very carefully. Right click here and then opt to save the file to your desktop. Prepare to take the coolest music quiz there’s probably ever been. What you’ll see when you open the file are hundreds of photos of bands – type the correct band name into the corresponding cell and get a point. I look forward to finding the time, any time, to really try my hand at this. Come back later and post your scores.

UPDATE: This is killing my bandwidth and I’ve removed it. If you’d like me to email it to you, let me know.

Yes, it’s true – I’m officially a QOTSA convert. Monster and I went to the show at the Roxy last night, and I thoroughly dug the Christ out of it. Them boys can rock.

The new album is their best yet, and the loss of founding member Nick Olivieri hasn’t been the disaster that everyone dreaded. If anything, they’re better than ever and continue to evolve with each new record. The concert was amazing – I didn’t think the acoustics at the Roxy would be anything to write home about, but everything sounded great. Normally I associate the Roxy with house music and bridge and tunnel steakheads, but it’s a nice little venue. Josh Homme has cultivated a really unique guitar sound that really stands out from the pack, and their use of brass and piano completes the audio steroid package. Big fan.

Thankfully, I haven’t been to a funeral in about 5 years. Nor have I ever attended a service where anything other than choir or organ music was heard. In Europe, however, apparently it’s all the rage to play your favorite contemporary pop hits prior to your eulogy and then again as you’re being carried out of the church and put into a hearse. I can think of many songs that would be dismally appropriate for a funeral. ‘Asleep‘ by the Smiths. ‘The Next Life‘ by Suede. ‘Fiddler’s Green‘ even – but fucking Highway to Hell? Oh, it gets worse.

“Music can be very personal, indeed it often helps create a sense of identity. Wanting to share your most treasured musical gem with those you’re leaving behind is the perfect way to sign off and leave a lasting impression.”

That quote makes perfect sense, so I am forced to assume that there have been a rash of deaths recently among German headbangers and English teenage girls. Robbie William’s Angels is the number one choice among Brits, while Germans prefer AC/DC and Metallica. The Italians and Spaniards opt for classical music, while Norway’s funeral marches are often fueled by Viva Las Vegas. Jesus, take me now. And then pump There Goes The Fear into the church. Any song that begins with the line “Out of here” definitely suits.

I am curious, dear readers – What song would you want played at your funeral?

Since this past weekend has left me shivering like Keith Moon after a JD enema, and we spent last week discussing the merits of naming fish after dead rock stars, I thought I’d kick things off with this list of the 10 greatest rock myths of all time. Let’s talk about #10 for a second:

10: Led Zep and the mud shark
‘A pretty young groupie with red hair was tied to the bed,’ claimed Stephen Davis in Hammer of the Gods. ‘Led Zeppelin proceeded to stuff pieces of shark into her vagina and rectum.’ Not quite. Zep did catch sharks from the window of their hotel, but the pesce in question was actually a red snapper, while the perpetrator was road manager Richard Cole.

I am so relieved that was just a myth. I mean – can you even begin to imagine Jimmy Page standing over you trying to shove sushi up your chute? Thank goodness it was only Richard Cole and a snapper. Because as opposed to Robert Plant coming after your bum with a bucket of chum – that’s completely acceptable.

Yuck. Anyhew, I’ve been working on a new Pye In The Face gallery section which will debut sometime tonight with photos from Saturday’s Mardi Gras party. Thank you all for coming, and I’m glad it turned out to be such a silly bead-slinging soiree. Stay tuned for my next debaucherous creation, the 5th annual Cinco De Mayo party which will be held at the SideBar on Saturday, May 9th.

Viral blog quizzes are cutesy and somewhat embarrassing to read, but I accidentally found one on a friend’s site that caught my eye. Please feel free to get all interactive-like and fill out your own in a comment. Here’s the rub:

Choose a band/artist and answer only in song TITLES by that band.

Are you male or female: Nimrod’s Son
Describe yourself: Oh My Golly!
How do some people feel about you: Gigantic
How do you feel about yourself: I’m Amazed!
Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend: Something Against You
Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend: I’ve Been Waiting For You
Describe where you want to be: All Over The World
Describe what you want to be: Blown Away
Describe how you live: Head On
Describe how you love: Make Believe
Share a few words of wisdom: Distance Equals Rate Times Time

That was fun. Now take your favorite band and give it a whirl. BTW, I don’t currently have a girlfriend – hence my choice of titles for those questions. Unfortunately the Pixies never wrote a song entitled ‘Non-committal Man-Boy’.

Charles Thompson aka Black Francis aka Frank Black’s wife gave birth to a baby boy on January 7th. He even looks like old Frankie – Congrats to you and Violet (because I know you read my blog religiously)!

Far be it from me to fawn over celebrity babies, but what an utterly amazing year in Pixiedom. This is obviously the capper – however I still hope Blackie F. and the gang give birth to a new album before they hang it up for another 13 years.

So those monkeys that had gone to heaven? Well they finally flew out of my butt.

It wasn’t the first time – they performed ‘Tame’ in 1989 and ‘Trompe Le Monde’ in 1991 – but it was uniquely magnificent in it’s sheer unlikeliness. This time last year, they weren’t even speaking. They play the final show of the reunion tour, or The Pixies Sellout as they themselves call it this week. Letterman was a nice capper.

Joey, Charles, Kim and Dave – thanks for a great year. I feel like such a fanboy freak saying that, but I really mean it. Anyone who knows me will contest to the fact that I can die now. Albeit alone.

My technical issues of the last few days have been remedied, and I apologize for the lull. When you don’t post for a day or two, and you get emails from your faithful readers asking where you’ve been, it’s a nice feeling. But I’ll have to let you know because as of right now I’m just guessing.

But why liken my heralded return to the comeback of a pioneering hip-hop group, you ask? Because a four-day blog absence is similar in many ways to dropping out of favor in the rap world. Gold chains are in short supply. You develop a startling dependency on malt liquor. Your clothing ceases to be “fresh”. You can no longer claim to have “drama, hoes”. I could go on – and I might. After some more malt liquor.

If I were prone to lying, I’d tell you that I spent my downtime pining for the ability to vent publicly online. I’d tell you that my inability to let off steam and share my insights with the world nearly led to an anyeurism of fatal proportions. And if I were a truthful soul, I’d tell you just how much fun you can have playing San Andreas for 8 hours while inadvertantly covering your couch with half-eaten honey roasted peanuts that you can get for $2 a can at the CVS on Hanover Street. And that I will likely die alone having just sort of admitted that is indeed how I spent the majority of my weekend. I suppose the next step is to grow a ponyatil and get a tarantula?

Regardless of my penchant for arachnids and dying alone, I’m back in full effect. And I’ll play a little catch up this week, too. So keep watching/looking away uncomfortably. And best rap group ever, while we’re sorta on the subject.