45 posts from 2008

I got my first library card two weeks ago after a long hiatus from public libraries. It was college the last time I spent any significant time in a library. Before that, it was either my high school's library or the Herndon Fortnightly, a little two-room converted house that served as the town's library before they created the modern structure that's all brushed steel and cinder block to replace it. It may have been a sign that the town was moving up, but I missed the old place. It was appropriately musty, dark and had library ladders.

When I moved several weeks ago, it seemed appropriate that I join the local Cleveland Park library a few blocks from my new place. It felt like the civic thing to do, like somehow getting a library card was a way of putting down stakes and becoming part of a neighborhood. And to be honest, it's free wi-fi and a quiet space to work. Normally, I'd feel guilty about using the library for any purpose other than checking out books, but CarrieNation has assured that this is OK. She should know.

There's a lot to love about this library. There's nothing modern about it other than the free interweb access and the guy who is right now speaking loudly on his cell phone to his wife about which season of Lost he should check out. There are rows of long, wood tables that have seen better days. There are tatty library carts and yellowed signs labeling "fiction" and "reference" and "short story collections" in a font that looks circa mid-to-late 1960s. The stacks are wood, not metal. The place smells of book. Also great: they have the original Avengers series on DVD available for check out.

I like old things. Old buildings, old furniture, old radios, record players, what have you. There is a comforting, civilizing force about them. I feel similarly about this library. It gives me a sense of place about where I live. I wanted to hear the Kinks play this after getting my card:

Dear Santa,

Get your mind out of the gutter. I am fine with my tits. It's my earphones that keep crapping out on me. All I'm asking for is a high-end pair. These specifically:

Sometimes, you just have shit to celebrate you know? Like Dabysan and Carrie Nation getting engaged. Or Vanna having a little one this week. This is for them, and a not-so-long distance dedication, to the person shining some glory on me:

I dialed back almost two decades and saw They Might Be Giants perform their 1990 record Flood on Friday night at the 9:30 Club. The show was to be "bifurcated," as the well-fed John explained, with Flood at the beginning, followed by miscellany for the latter half. I'll spare you a cogent narrative and leave you with a few observations from the show because I like making lists and can't be bothered. I am lazy. Never said I wasn't.

• There was a couple right in front of me that I was certain met during a 10th grade production of The Crucible. They were holding each other through most of the show and mouthing the lyrics to one another. They probably would make a baby to the music of They Might Be Giants.
  

• Hearing Flood live was an absolute joy. There's no other way to say this. I've written about this record's influence on my music tastes before. No need to rehash that. But let's just say there was immense satisfaction in hearing the opening "Why is the World in Love Again?" bookended by "Road Movie to Berlin." Oh yeah, touring on the success of past records is big right now.

• I think "Lucky Ball and Chain" and "Twisting" have aged well.

• I could have done without the entire second half of the show. I didn't need a song about the number 7. Or that one about the countries, as nice a geography refresher as it was.

• If they were going to do older material, it was pure balls to leave out Ana Ng and Don't Let's Start. After the show, this forced my hand to sing the lines about Ana Ng and how they're getting old but "still haven't walked in the glow"...I'm sure the patrons at Solly's did not appreciate.
  Ana Ng

• I can safely say that unless my future kids make me take them, this is the last time I'll see They Might Be Giants.

Kids these days. Takes so little to excite them. Apparently, it takes as little as a $3.99 plastic neon skull from a post-Halloween Odd Lots sale, duct tapped to a mic. That's what I learned about a week ago when Doug convinced me to check out DJ Dan Deacon with him at the Hirshorn after-hours event, which drew all sorts of pretenders to the hipster throne.

Precious bloggers Brightest Young Things were there to document the goings-on. If you know nothing else about the event and what it so desperately wanted to be, you should know that telling little detail. They were there to take pictures of people who look plucked from Williamsburg (Brooklyn, not VA) or central casting of an American Apparel shoot. And succeed they did. And oh, PS, if you were wondering what happened to the rave kids of the 90s, I can now tell you with certainty where they have scattered. The event confirmed my dislike for most electronic music. It's nice to go into something with a firmly held belief, and come out on the other end with the same belief. The $5 Stellas were not enough to wash away my convictions.

As soon as Deacon came out (and he looks like the love child of Elvis Costello and Chris Peterson from Get A Life) and began affixing his glowy green skull to a mic stand, people started losing their shit, like something big was about to happen. He then told us all to get down on the ground (I did), stretch out our hands (I did) and lick our palm and place it on our neighbor, or some approximation of that ( I did not). This is where the practical nature took over, and I began to think about all the little public health facts I've acquired over the years. And I thought: Do. Not.

He proceeded to launch into his "hit" song, and the pushing and shoving commenced in earnest. Crowd surfing is not dead, in case you were wondering. Someone with an exposed thong who was riding the wave got dangerously close to me. At that point, I wrinkled up my nose and folded my cards. I decided to leave the event to the young folks, and to Doug, who was faithfully documenting the young folks.

I went inside the museum to answer the eternal question raised by the Old 97's: "What's So Fine About Art?" But I came out more confused than when I'd entered. Inside, a bunch of teenagers speaking in French became part of the art in an empty room when they mugged in what can only be described as hip-hop poses of the 1990s. There were meaningless phrases painted on canvas. I saw art that I thought I could create. I had the reaction I have to most modern art. I want to loudly say *cough* bullshit *cough* to most of it.

A few closing "thoughtsicles" for you to suck on: As far as Deacon is concerned, I can appreciate his Baltimore odd-ball DIY tendencies. And as an aside, I'm convinced that after Berlin, Baltimore is going to rise up as the next center of the art world. But I must speak the truth to power when it comes to music. And if Deacon's music is high art, it's a rare variety I want none of. I prefer my art done medium well, with a side of guitar and amp. If that's wrong, I really don't wanna be right.

This blog isn't usually given over to sentimentality or serious comment. I can't say anything profound that hasn't already been said about Obama's win on Tuesday. But I will say -- and the comment I hear over and over again this week-- is that it seemed like the world changed in one night. A colleague in Africa and a friend in India have confirmed this. For the first time in eight, long years, they feel proud of our country.

I got lucky Monday night and had a front row seat to history as Obama gave his last rally on election eve in Virginia, a state that had been solidly in the Republican camp for decades. We waited for hours in the cold (some brave souls had been there since the early morning) until Obama took the stage around 10:30. It was nothing short of electric. We were close enough that I could see his breath come out in puffs of air. He looked like a man who (rightfully) had been exhausted by the previous 21 months of endless campaigning. But there was something in his voice that was assuring, like you knew the tide of history was pulling for him. He had the wind at his back.

I do not pretend that all will be right with the world because Obama was elected. It's going to take years to dig us out of the shit pile we're in. But I know that at least here in DC, at least on one night, the city changed. This is not a city of spontaneous street celebrations. There are planned parades and demonstrations. And the sad fact is that as diverse of a city as DC is, in many ways there's a lot of segregation that still goes on. But on Tuesday night out on U Street, on the same blocks that were the scenes of burning and looting after Dr. King was shot, it felt like a city united. Here's some video of the street celebrations (any likeness of Emma Peel part way through is purely coincidental):

As someone in the crowd told me that night "America just grew up." I may be a natural pessimist. But for all of the trouble we're in, for once, I feel some optimism. I have had this song on repeat for the past few days. The comforting thought that things will be okay seems fitting, even if fleeting.

Be careful what you wish for. Don’t go mixing it up with the Gods if you’re a mere mortal. These seem to be the lessons behind a lot of the Greek myths I remember reading in school. I should have paid closer attention.

A few years ago on this space, I called upon higher powers (in my own special way) to restore the bite back into rock. I was reacting to a Bell and Sebastian show where I lamented that music seemed to be going in a de-balled and passionless direction. It was the same music I’d been guilty of liking for almost a decade -- music fronted by sensitive, bespectacled indie boys. Ben Gibbard is the patron saint.

Last week at DC9 I got my wish in the form of Israeli garage band Monotonix. If you’ll recall, I got a preview of what I’d be in for at the Silver Jews show in September at the Black Cat. But the Cat is a considerably larger venue than DC9. After doing a little research, I found that they’d set fire to their instruments at a previous show, told an interviewer they were banned at Bard college and there was photographic evidence lurking on the Nets of the lead singer sticking a microphone dangerously close to his ass. Naturally, I went in with a bit of trepidation. I was right to fear.

Monotonix abandon the stage all together and play in the audience. As a result, the line between performer and viewer is blurred, and the space itself becomes part of the act. At one point, lead singer Ami Shalev was literally hanging from the rafters. Moments later, he hopped up on the bar whilst shoving the bartender's ice scoop down his pants. I have to admire a band that’s willing to thumb its nose at DC health code. And I will never order another drink with ice at DC9. Also of note:

• The band encouraged the audience to take off their shirts. Several audience members (mostly men) followed suit.

• The lead singer and the guitarist performed a whole mock-fellatio/Dick Cheney gizz joke that involved spraying a lot of beer on everyone. It didn’t quite translate given their somewhat limited command of English, but you knew what they were going for. It was ham-fisted and juvenile, but I there’s a level of simplicity one has to admire in what amounts to a perverted vaudeville routine.

• Like sweaty, half-crazed pied pipers, Monotonix led everyone out of the club and onto the streets. I watched from the windows on the stage until we couldn’t take it anymore and had to get out.
  

• Outside, the band had scaled a nearby chain-link fence. It wasn’t even music at this point. Mostly ranting. Potsy called it. It was like a riot. I thought DC’s finest would show up at any moment and shut the whole thing down. But it never came.
  

I could spend more time describing the show, but Potsy’s video is as good as being there:

*Footnote: Sometimes, the former journalist in me won’t subside. After the show, I found myself in the curious and wanting to talk with Shalev. He was humble, thanked me for coming and apologized, worried that I had been offended by his Dick Cheney blow job jokes. His manners were almost Victorian, a gentleman of the old school, if you will. You can take a Nice Jewish Boy and put him in spandex, but you cannot take the Nice Jewish Boy out of him.

It’s been two Rocktobers in a row that I’ve been busy packing up and moving to other parts of the city. I’m like a rolling stone. Here’s hoping I stay put for future Roctobers, so I can actually participate in the festivities, pack in an ambitious show schedule, crypto-blog about the Donnas or make lists of my entire music collection. But if I can’t do that, I have to settle for other things that rock. So pardon me, but I interrupt the normally scheduled music blather to write about something else…

One of the benefits of packing up your entire life is that you go through old things you haven’t looked at in years. Last night, I re-read excerpts from the diaries of my aunt, who in 1984 was part of a team of scientists that traveled to Antarctica looking for meteorites. She was one of two women on the trip, and although she was not the first woman to visit the continent, she was certainly part of a very small group back then to have done it. Her accomplishment was made all the greater because of her family, which harbored a lot of traditional notions about the roles women were supposed to play. Suffice to say, my mother and her family were not supportive of my aunt’s decision to leave her family for several months and go on an expedition.

For all the impact she had on me, the truth is, I remember very little about my aunt. She once explained shifting plate tectonics to me. I remember that because it went right over my head. I also recall the time she visited my second grade class to talk about her experiences in Antarctica. One kid raised his hand during the Q&A and asked her how she kept from getting bored without a television. She looked at him, formed her hands into the shape of a bottle and tilted her head back. This was her sense of humor. She was spirited, if nothing else.

During their search of the Allan Hills ice field in Antarctica, the team found a rock that looked interesting. It wasn’t until more than a decade later that other scientists found that the rock is one of the oldest in our solar system and theorized that it might contain traces of life on Mars. It’s too bad she never lived to see this. She died horribly young.

In one of her last entries from that trip, she wrote of going to sleep at night to the sound of the ice expanding and contracting. “The ice was talking, like whales in the ocean, it soothed me to sleep. This wonderful, strange world – living. And I am lucky enough to eavesdrop," she  wrote. "There is nothing in life that is stagnant."

I don't know if there is life on other planets. But of that, I am sure.

I haven't been celebrating Rocktober the way I should. Heretic, I know. I will atone for that soon. But I've got an excuse. And if you can't blog about your excuses, what else can you blog about?

I purchased my first place that I can call my own about three weeks ago. That's right. When the market is down, I decide it's time to lay my shit on the line and double down. I now know why people gamble. I never felt more alive than when I was writing the biggest check I've ever written in my life and potentially losing my shirt in the process. I suggest you try it at some point.

Fun little fact here: The seller is someone who was a true believer/foot soldier in the Bush administration. I've got huge schadenfreude about her taking a loss on this place. The woman had Bush/Cheney 04 mugs in her cabinets, a sure sign of a sociopath.

I plan to exorcise the ghosts of the outgoing administration and take the place to its opposite extreme for the first few months I live there and do something unchaste and un-Republican in every room. I'm not sure what that'll be just yet. Get back to me if you have any suggestions, comrades. Until then, I respectfully submit a song by The Weakerthans about moving out. All credit to Jodi for turning me on to this band.

Sometimes, a trifecta of songs sums up your life in 48 hours. So it is for me. I went to the Bob Pollard show Saturday night with Hot Rod and Doug. It didn't occur to me until an hour in that I was one of five women there. Bob played stuff I didn't recognize with his new-ish band Boston Spaceships. He played a song about soggy beavers that he admitted his wife didn't appreciate, double entendre and all. And who can blame her? I love a bawdy joke as much as the next, but you are too old for this, Mr. Pollard.

It was at that point I realized I'd been exiled in Guyville. This is not a foreign land to me. But it is certainly the first time it occurred to me that Guided By Voices might have appealed to a certain male sensibility that I hadn't recognized before. Pollard went on to play several old GBV songs (Cut Out Witch, Game of Pricks, Tractor Rape Chain, Motor Away). As I looked around at the mostly male, fist-pumping crowd, I wondered how I'd ended up there. Don't get me wrong. I wear my GBV fandom like a badge of honor. But I question why I'm awash in a sea of penis at these events. What does it say about me? A saw someone from high school who (in a drunken haze), squinted up his eyes and said, "[name redacted] you have long hair! [name redacted] is that really you?" Yes, Marc, it is. But like David Byrne, I struggle to answer the eternal question: "How did I get here?"

You Don't Have To Deal With The Dealers...
I found myself elevated in Cambridge on Sunday, proving that you don't have to go to the right kinda schools to get high at the right kinda schools.

 

Woke Up At 3 a.m./ The Light Was Gray Like It Always Is In Paperbacks...

After an unholy night, I presented in pearls and a sweater set this morning to people twice my age who politely sat through a two-hour presentation. I walked out of the conference and listened (un-ironically and without shame ) to the "Ice of Boston" as loud as I could stand on my walk back though the waterfront to my hotel. I can attest, the ice of Boston is muddy. I will gladly slip on it every time.