serinde

I am not as dutiful a daughter as I might be, but it was about that time, so I called Mom tonight. (When we do talk, it's usually pretty good, I hasten to add.)

The conversation roamed a fair bit and then into the Grammys, touched on Whitney Houston ("yes, it's too bad what happened to her. Can we stop with the canonization?"), then Adele ("She does have a great voice, and some great songs, but it doesn't have to be the same song every time I turn on the radio"), then the Who The Fuck Is Paul McCartney fail ("That's not real, is it? They're just being ironic, right?" "The Internet is not that self-aware."), and then...

Mom: "There was one category, I forget which, but the Foo Fighters won. They were the only band of all of them that I'd heard of."
Me: *looks up Grammy nominees*
Me: "Ah. Coldplay—they have some good stuff, and some less good; I don't know this song. The Decemberists are awesome but I don't know why this song got the nod, particularly. Mumford & Sons should have won. Radiohead FJDKLFJDSKLJFDLSJKLAJLFDJ WELL THANK FUCK THEY DIDN'T WIN AT LEAST"
Me: *ten minute exposition of why I hate Radiohead with the force of a million exploding suns*
Mom: "You know I'm going to have to check them out now, just to see why you hate them so much."
Me: "Go to YouTube and look up the video for Lotus Flower, so you can get the whole fucking horrible effect. Then look up the video for Lotus Flower Yakety Sax and you'll feel like living again."

...as I hope to expand on some or all of these items later.

1. nedlnthred and I went to see Springsteen last night. It was a show of extreme awesomeness and energy, with the Encore that Never Ended, a thing we were just fine with. (I am here to tell you, though, that the new and probably exceedingly expensive parking arrangements at the Continental Airlines Arena^W^W^W IZOD Center are the worst I have ever seen at a venue, bar none.)

2. Therefore, today, we drove down to Asbury Park for the day, and what a beautiful day. It is not the howling wasteland of skank that it was when we attended a party there some years ago; it is being niced up, and in the good way, not the generic-corporate-chain way.

3. The buyers of the house have backed out, which is maybe not such a loss since they were major fucking pains in the ass, but it's awfully annoying to not be able to sit back and say "the fucker's sorted". Certain other vast irritants have cropped up in this arena, too, chiefly because we trusted people we were paying to tell us of things that in theory they should have been expert in when we were buying the place. Feh.

4. Tomorrow: Improv Everywhere MP3 experiment.

Steve just found a link to a project digitizing old cylinders (that's what came before records, kids).

The place that I would most want to go dancing is the kind of place that would play Oingo Boingo.

Acting on a tip, we hopped a bus out to points slightly west, namely the Annandale Hotel. For $10 we saw four bands, of which--mirabile dictu--none sucked. The acts in question were:

Hunter Dienna: a chick singer and dude guitarist. They were not bad, perhaps a bit consciously Nick Cave-esque, but had some actual ability along that line. Particularly liked his guitar work. Steve's Review: "She just needed some eyeliner to be a Siouxie Sioux goth princess." (He wishes me to point out that this was not intended to be the severe indictment it could come off as.)

Loene Carmen: The band was pretty talented instrument-wise, but the eponymous singer's voice was not really up to being showcased. One song, Nashville [something or other], was more suited to her ability and was correspondingly pleasing. Steve's Review: "Good songwriting, but the singer's voice was too thin to carry most of it."

Bridezilla: Definitely the high point of the evening. Consists of singer, guitarist, drummer, and very spazzy but talented violinist and sax player. They were, alas, purveying no merchandise, but we intend to look them up. Steve's Review: "Great dramatic songwriting, energizing stage presence. Highly recommended."

The Scare: A Strokes or Jet-like band with a singer who was either actually fucked up or so busy with his Punk Star Persona that he was acting like it. It's too bad; I think there's some talent there; but they can't really make it gel. Steve's Review: "Too many notes."

The venue has more stuffs every night this week. We may well return. They seem to be having their Bad Movie Night tomorrow, too. "Death Curse of Tartu", forsooth.

I should also mention that, before the place opened, we wandered into a music store--an ALL VINYL MUSIC STORE--a few doors down and ended up in a long chat with the store owner. He was apparently in a band called Salacious Crumb, which I said I'd heard that name, only now realizing it's because it is one of the aliens in Star Wars; der. Anyways he had much woe and grief to say about the death of Sydney's music scene, and culture in general. Also he regretfully informed me that the reason I can't find any Beasts of Bourbon albums in this, their homeland, is because they are generally regarded with a cringe hereabouts; the comparison he drew was with Ted Nugent as representative of America. Ouch. Ouch, I say.

( whine bitch moan complain )

(Let me take this moment to express my gratitude to naudia for making breakfast. I would have been in much worse state without hot food in my belly.)

Naturally, therefore, it was a day for Judas Priest. By happy coincidence, "Metal Works" and "Angel of Retribution" were both among the morning's transfers. In spite of being on the 8am train, which sucks mightily and is the main impetus for me to catch an earlier train even though I can usually make it on time with the later one, by the time we hit Secaucus I was in a much better frame of mind, because how can you not be after half an hour of Rob Halford's musical pep talks?

Note to Gen-Yers: This is why we will forever be kicking your asses up one side of the street and down the other. Our teenage-alienation songs are about being lone freedom fighters against the robotic soldiers of oppressive totalitarian regimes. Yours are about huddling in the corner sobbing because your mommies didn't love you enough. MAN UP, YOU BIG GIRL'S BLOUSES.

A week ago Sunday (that's the 9th, for them as don't obsessively have Google Calendar open), we went to see the Hoodoo Gurus at Maxwell's. You may not have heard of them. Because why? Because they're an Australian band from the 80s, mostly. I hadn't heard of them before moving in with Steve, Your Source For Curiously Obscure Rock. Indeed, they broke up in 1998. And what where they doing in some wee bar in Hoboken? I have no clue, and it was the sheerest serendipity that I discovered it. A timely browse of Wikipedia => their web site => Y HELO THAR, tour info!

And so we went, and it was good. No: it was Awesome. They seriously rocked the house. And at the start, Dave-the-lead-singer apologized because they were only going to play stuff from their first two albums. (I rejoiced, because those are the only ones I have. Nor did the rest of the audience seem woeful.) A small bit of sadness was that they did not play two of my favorite cuts from Stoneage Romeos ("Tojo" and "Zanzibar") but they played damn near everything else, so I can't complain.

Awesome, yes, and very likely a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So glad I seized the chance.

ObCute: Directly in front of me were a group of some half-dozen youngish Australians, who were excitedly phoning their buds in Sydney in the "Guess what WE'RE doing right now!" fashion.

Steve picked this album up last fall based on the recommendation of some reviewer or other (I'm not clear on the details). As often happens in these cases, its arrival was preceded by him constantly playing a few tracks he'd downloaded; and as often happens in these cases, I was just sort of vaguely aware of it and 85% tuning it out. My general impression was "somewhat-goofy, almost-parody of country rock, with a singer just nasal enough to bug me".

In the interim months, I became aware of a desire to hear the whole album. So I would play it in the kitchen, mostly still not paying attention. Then I ripped it to my MP3 player and actually listened to it, particularly the lyrics. Now I can't live without it.

Beth brought this CD along on our Easter Death March to Ohio. Never heard of 'em. Should have hated it. It blew me away, particularly the third song (which dariodevil kindly informed me later is the theme song for The Sopranos. Well, I didn't know...), and nothing would serve but that I must get a copy.

The band is neither from Alabama nor a three-piece. They do what they describe as "country acid-house gospel". I should hate it. But I'm enthralled with it and can't stop listening to it. Yes, have some.