Audiogram

Gentle reader,  I’m not going to come at you with some half-assed excuses for not blogging in weeks. I have been busy, blah; I have a job that makes me work blah, blah whine whine. But you don’t want to hear this.  You come to this space because you are a culture vulture, and you need to be in the know.

While you were away, I was busy gathering news, bringing you the very serious reportage you’ve come to expect from these pages. And here is what you need to understand:

-The Old 97's will release a new album next week. The Telecaster is back, thank the lord, and so forth. More at a later date. Some previews here.

-The Hold Steady announced a new album, with one of the greatest press releases in the history of all histories of rock band press releases. It said: “"A great American philosopher named D. Boon once said 'our band could be your life.' I think that is true. But 'your life could be our band' is also a true statement. I know this because we have lived it. These are our lives. These are your lives. This is our fourth record. Stay Positive."

-The Silver Jews are putting out something that is sure to be better than Steve Malkmus’ recent album.

Now that I can dispense with the music portion of this so-called music blog, I will move to the travelogue. I’ve just come back from four days New York City’s West Village, bearing news of three things:

1. Every woman in New York City is wearing their jeans tucked into their boots. This is not a new trend, I know. But it’s striking just how ubiquitous it was. By the end of the weekend, I refused to be seen out in public without looking like I’d be prepared to ride a horse at any moment. That’s just how big it is. And just how much of a lemming I am.

2. Pinkberry. If you haven’t heard of this, it’s the frozen yogurt crack-a-licious treat that swept Los Angeles a few years back and made it to New York last year. The stores have this very hip/minimalist sensibility about them. It’s the sort of thing you can see going over big in Japan.

They only offer three flavors, and it tastes like frozen sour cream sold for more than $5 a pop. It might sound gross, but it’s weirdly addicting, and I can tell you the lines were out the door. When is the last time lines were out the door at a frozen yogurt place? Oh, p.s., the 1990s are back.

The catch with Pinkberry is that it’s supposed to be relatively healthy for dessert, at something like 100 calories.  But the whole thing feels too good to be true, like at any moment it’s about to be upended and revealed for the sham it is. Kind of like the band Vampire Weekend. When I got back to DC, I did some due diligence and found this. Bastards!

3. Speaking of other things that were common in the 90s, but you don’t see so much of these days, the full bush is coming back. Mark my words. Go ahead. Carve it in stone, and come back to me in a year.  Judging from the sheer volume of pubic hair dye in day-glo shades available in almost every salon and drugstore in NYC, one is forced to come to this conclusion. I’m not kidding. It’s only a matter of time before it makes its way to DC, and eventually to the flyover states. Jodi, consider yourself warned. Just say no. This is one trend I’ll be bucking.

I could also tell you about my trip to the Guggenheim, where I checked out some interesting installation art. One of the pieces included a pack of stuffed wolves, suspended in air, heading toward a glass wall. Spoiler alert! The last wolf has a boner.

Or I could write about the term “ginger balls” that I plan to put in heavy rotation in the coming weeks.

But I won’t. I won’t because the editors at Audiogram aim for higher journalistic standards.

Last night, the downstairs neighbor knocked on my door. And when I opened it, he asked, somewhat rhetorically, whether we’d had the TV on or were listening to music after midnight the evening before.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure if we were, but it wouldn’t be out of character. We’re both night owls. I’m convinced nothing important happens before 8 a.m., and all of life’s most interesting moments happen sometime after 9 p.m.

But I apologized, because even if we weren’t guilty, I knew what it meant. It meant he can hear everything from the apartment below. And that means he’s gotten the full force of my recent obsession with Destroyer, Dan Bejar and more specifically, a guitar solo in the song “European Oils.” More on that later.

I’ve got a complicated relationship with Mr. Bejar. As a member of the New Pornographers, Dan acts like he’s too good to appear on stage with the rest of the band, like they’re just some silly side project to his real band, Destroyer. The last time I saw the New Pornographers, he behaved atrociously. He barely deigned to come on stage, and when he did, he was munching away on a bagel and drinking a Molson (what else would a Canadian drink?). It was if the audience at the 9:30 Club had interrupted Dan’s snack time.

I hate him. He’s a petulant child. And yet. He’s living proof that sometimes, we’re inexplicably drawn to assholes. Because in recent weeks, I’ve fallen totally and completely for his game. I’m now convinced he’s the driving force behind the best New Pornographers’ songs (although he’s notoriously cagey about which songs he pens). Dan’s rocketed to the top of my hate-fuck list. Oh, wipe that judgmental look off your face! Like you don’t have such a list.

I’ve been listening to Destroyer’s Rubies almost exclusively for two months, Streethawk: A Seduction non-stop in the last week. He dropped a new album recently,Trouble in Dreams, and I’ll be picking that up too. And as my downstairs neighbor can probably attest, I’ve been rocking a specific moment on the song “European Oils” like a crack addict for the past month. It occurs about a minute 45 into the song, where Dan sings the following lyrics:

“She needs release/She needs to feel at peace with her father,” and then he half shouts/half whispers “THE FUCKING MANIAC!” From there, he rips into one of the best guitar solos I’ve heard in years. Listen.

What makes his music, and this song, so compelling for me is that you never quite know where it’s going. I’m not the first to make this observation. There’s a Destroyer drinking game that has you take a drink for “moments of unexpected sweetness” in his songs.

If I take a drink for all of these moments when I see him at the Black Cat next Friday, I expect I’ll be shit faced on Dan’s unexpected sweetness. I can’t wait.

Here's wishing "the flame-haired beauty" a happy 25th, from the artist he likes the most. Again, apologies that I didn't have the appropriate attire on tonight to do my performance art piece I like to call "imitation of you on the day of your birth." It is a gem, and would cause you no embarrassment. I promise.

Can I give you a little truth here? A beautiful woman can get away with a lot. Men are just waiting to forgive them all sorts of sins, including the sin of being not all that interesting when it comes to music.

Look, I like Georgie James for what they are, which is a great power pop band making interesting pop music.  This isn’t done enough these days. They are not rock pretenders, which I appreciate. And they are from DC, which I’ll always give an extra pass to. But if Laura Burhenn were ugly, would we be putting up with this? As my friend said at the Black Cat show Saturday night, “she looks like the indie pop Ashley Simpson,” which is pretty dead on.

Here’s some photographic evidence from my friend Doug.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/darkwaterphotography/2392439077/

See! She fell out of the pretty tree and hit every damn branch.

Ok, that said, some notes from the show:

1.  We missed the opening band that opened for the opening band. Me and the Budz had some dresses that needed to be taken out on the town and that only gay men would fully appreciate. And they did not disappoint. Some fierce queens called us “fierce.” Mission accomplished.

2.  Olivia & the Housemates: Olivia and her mates were fucking delightful. They’re just a great hard-working pop band with a lot of heart and integrity. I worked briefly at a previous job with Olivia. Before she quit the job to tour full time with Washington Social Club, I remember she made some comment about Elvis Costello’s influence on her. We worked at opposite ends of the department, but I heard and still remember the comment, because I instantly thought, ok, there’s a kindred spirit. I’d recommend paying attention next time they play near you.

3. One of the bartenders at the Black Cat was very ironically wearing a vintage New Kids on the Block T-shirt. I cannot say he wasn’t pleased with himself.

4. Where was the breathless Bob Boilen? I expect the NPR crew to be at every show of every band they promote on Project Song.

5. Our side conversation about Big Star went on waaaay too long. Yes, they are the greatest thing ever to happen to power pop. Maybe they are the only thing ever to happen to power pop.  And yes, I will make snap judgments about people who don’t like them. But isn’t singing their hosannas a little like saying you like goodness, light and fat  babies? Do we really need to talk about this?

6. Georgie James took the stage and I reflected on what a perfectly lovely band they really are. They are tight. They are talented. It’s pop, but it’ll never get major radio play because it’s not dumb enough. And yet…I find I can’t completely get there for them. A Pitchfork reviewer once called them “wonderfully uninteresting,” which is just what they are. I’m never going to sit up nights listening to their songs on repeat. They are not ever going to be the musical pill I go to when I need something to get me through. But I’d see them almost anytime they’re in town.

Editor's Note: If this isn't news to you, I apologize, but Liz Phair is writing a novel. FS told me so.

Sometimes, the whole really is greater than the sum of its parts. I found this out on a road trip to New York with my best friend this past weekend.

The deal was that Nikki would drive, but I would be in charge of the music. For me, it gets no better than that. I've said before, I'm a big believer in the art of the mix. If that were an actual job, it's the only one I'd ever want. I don't have occasion to make them much these days, but when I do I like to spend a lot of time deciding what to open with, striking a good balance between up tempo songs with slow songs and including songs from different periods. It's all very High Fidelity.

But on Thursday night, I found myself short on time and needed to hastily throw together a few mixes for the car. I made an 80s mix of shameless feel good tunes like Don't Stop Believin', Faith and Shelia E's Glamorous Life. That's right. You heard me. Fucking Shelia E.

We were also armed with Hot Rod's best of 2000, 2003 and 2005 mixes, which translated nicely through Baltimore and Philadelphia. And then there was this mix, which I unimaginatively titled "Road" on my iTunes library. There's not much of a theme to it, other than music I've had in heavy rotation that would bridge our musical tastes and would power us through the Garden State Parkway and beyond. It's not particularly cool. Robert Christgau, Sasha Frere-Jones or whatever would not approve. But somehow, the songs worked together on a long drive. They are:

Sunday night I committed the ultimate relationship sin: cracking open a new Netflix envelope to watch the Wire while your man’s away. Do I feel guilty? A little. I didn’t hide it well. Yo Han knew instantly when he saw me what I’d been up to, probably because he would have done the same if left alone.

Like many facets of pop culture, I arrived a little late to the discovery that the Wire is, in fact, the best drama ever created for television. The show’s fifth and final season just wrapped. And like all white people (apparently), I’ve become hopelessly addicted to the show. The problem is, I can’t quite put my finger on why. I don’t like crime shows (the CSI franchise, Law&Order, what have you). The writing is good, but it’s certainly not the best I’ve ever seen on television.

As I sat on my couch watching the Baltimore police lift the body of Frank Sobatka from the harbor, I began to reflect on why I like the show so much. In the end, it’s the character development. I can’t say anything on this space that hasn’t been said before about the complexity of the characters the show’s producers created. So I’ll leave that to them.

There’s something wholly satisfying about watching flawed characters, people you root for sometimes, and other times think are pricks (I’m looking at you Detective McNulty). At one point, Omar Little (my favorite character) helps a cop fill out a crossword puzzle by giving him the answer Ares, the Greek god of war. “Back in middle school, I used to love them myths. That stuff was deep. Truly,” Omar says.  The whole scene is a masterpiece. Watch it.

Indeed. That stuff is deep. There must be something in our reptilian brains that need these myths, that demand stories of less-than-perfect characters and the lessons they teach us. It’s like Elliot “Whore” Spitzer and his fall from grace this week. There’s something endlessly compelling in the story of a self-appointed crusader against injustice racking up $80K on hookers. We love it when you fly too close to the sun, your wings go all soft, and down you fall.

If you know me for long, you know that I've got a Holy Trinity of indie rock bands. And those bands would be: The Pixies, Pavement and Guided By Voices. So it was a near religious experience akin to hearing that sweet baby Jesus might be plotting a come-back tour when a friend sent an email today alerting me to the possibility that Pavement was considering a reunion.

Considering is the operative word here. I'm not sure if this is a stunt of Steve Malkmus' to drum up attention for his upcoming album, but it seems unlikely. It's been reported in a few places, including here and here. Then again, The Daily Swarm dug up an almost 10-year history of the band making elliptical references to getting back together. In other words, they've done this before.

But I've got to hold out hope that it might be true. Pavement, which broke up in 1999, is the only band in my personal Trinity I've never seen. And like all faith, sometimes you've just gotta believe without really knowing. Here's hoping:

NPR's All Songs Considered blog recently asked readers whether there was any connection between people who like indie rock and people who lean left politically. The responses are worth reading, if only for a good laugh.

Quite a few of the comments followed along this line: "Iron and Wine/Death Cab/the National. I'm totally voting for Obama." or "Obama/Neutral Milk Hotel." One of the few Clinton supporters who weighed in said they were a Dire Straits fan, but more recently had been listening to Glen Hansard. A lone Republican said they were listening to a band called Frightened Rabbit, whatever that is.

I make no secret of the fact that I'm an Obama supporter. I'm not sure what it says about my taste in music. And I'm vaguely annoyed by the question as to whether the two are linked. But I'm certain that if Obama made you a mix, it would be cooler than the other candidates' mixes. After all, Obama is your new bicycle.

On a related note:

Dear Ohio,

Seriously? I spent four years in you. I love you in many ways. But I'm going to have to rethink that if you fuck it up for us again, like you did in 04.

Sunday at the Whole Foods on P Street, I came across something so vile that I’m still reeling 24 hours on. Wedged between the stacks of Yoga Today and Saveur was a selection of music targeted squarely at the Whole Foods customer.

This wasn’t new age music enjoyed by 50-something men with ponytails who wear linen lounge wear. It wasn’t the kind of tepid collection of world music that speaks to ex-Peace Corps volunteers. And it wasn’t the sort of Music for Aging Cougars (Antigone Rising) that Starbucks sells.

I couldn’t make out the entire collection because the line snaked down the better part of one aisle, but even from a distance, I could tell that it included Wilco’s Sky Blue Sky and the Arcade Fire’s Neon Bible. There’s something that strikes me as inherently wrong about this. It’s enough to make a girl want to set fire to the nutritional yeast, knock over the display of fish oil supplements and throw a punch at the nearest self-important D.C. so-and-so checking their Blackberry in line.

Maybe it’s just me, but I like to buy my music from purveyors of music. Not the place that sells me fucking organic free-range chicken. What bothers me most is that I can be targeted in this way. Some marketing genius looked at the data and predicted with frightening accuracy that the people who can afford to shop at Whole Foods fit into a demographic that’s going to like Arcade Fire. Let’s not kid ourselves. It’s probably true. But it proves that we are all a bunch of crashing bores.

Can we just stop this cross-marketing bullshit, right now? Why must everything be about creating an experience apart from its original intent? I don’t want an outing to buy groceries/coffee/books to be about anything other than the experience of buying groceries/coffee/books.

There is an experience I’m looking forward to this week that I hope will be totally pure, divorced of marketing gimmicks and about nothing more than watching one of the greatest bands of our time play their music. I hope Wilco rocks our collective Whole Foods-shopping, organic-eating, supplement-taking asses off Tuesday and Wednesday at the 9:30 Club. See you there.

I'll leave the post-game analysis to the pundits. I'm told I was pretty bad, but not bad enough to take home Lord Ramsey's Cup two years running. Even though I was a little sad to hand it over, I'm OK with it. Really. I got beat by a very worthy adversary. I still hold my head high that I put in a performance that would make the trophy's namesake proud. I'm optimistic for the future; I'm told I'm a natural at this bad singing thing.

I'm equally proud of the setlist I scrawled on a piece of paper that I brought with me to the Rock-it-Grill. I decided to make a game-time decision on songs. The list I considered:

Maneater, Hall and Oates: I began thinking about this song around a debate on Jodi's blog (Maneater vs. Sara, Smile/Little Red Corvette vs. I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man). And I really wanted to sing the line where one of them (Hall? Oates?) yells "woman is wild oooooh." But there's a long musical break in that song. And I do not enjoy being on stage with nothing left to do but construct awkward/ironic dance moves.

September Gurls, Big Star. I've said before that this is one of those songs that if you don't like, I don't like you. I've always wanted to sing this song, and I'm fairly certain I could mangle it. Especially on the "ooooo when she makes love to me" part. But I passed on it. Unlikely a townie karaoke bar is going to have this in their repertoire. Here's a cover by Susanna Hoffs. If you need proof of God, watch this:

I'm on Fire, Bruce Springsteen: I started to think about this song for KttD around Thanksgiving, when I sang it with one of Yo Han's brothers, who claimed he was intentionally experimenting with atonal vocals. I ran it by Hot Rod, whose first reaction was "too creepy," so I took a pass.

Poison, Bel Biv Devoe: I'd like to think I've got the balls to sing this in front of a hostile audience, but I don't.

Sick of Myself, Matthew Sweet: This is another one of those songs I love, but upon further reflection wouldn't make a good Karaoke to the Death selection. It's too sad-lovelorn-bastard to win.

So in the end, I settled on Jackson Browne's Somebody's Baby. Although I'm told by some that it was worse than my award-winning performance last year, I enjoyed every moment of being up there. Excelsior! as the kids say.