10 posts tagged “black cat”

With one foot stuck unapologetically in the past, a review of what I've been listening to lately:

• What: Come Back to The Five and Dime, Bobby Dee, Bobby Dee
• Who: Benjy Ferree, DC local and inexplicable wig wearer. Likely frets that he was born too late to audition for Sha Na Na.
• When: Winter. On a date "of sorts." The Black Cat. CD release party. Crowd was classic DC, crippled by its own apathy. [Ed note: intentional use of ironic quote marks.]
  
• Why: Because it's your new favorite T-Rex album. Because there should be more concept albums. Because Fear and Blown Out are just great songs
• What: Merriweather Post Pavilion, an album title that could be worse. But only if you called it Nissan Pavilion.
• Who: Animal Collective, a band whose last cover art was so bad I refused to get the album
• When: A month ago, after I could no longer ignore CarrieNation's recommendation.
• Why: Twee as fuck. Makes me want to sing in rounds. Shades of Pet Sounds. Here's a great ode to not masturbating, but thinking about it anyway.

• What: 1993's Kill My Landlord (points for not pussy-footing around on a title)
  
• Who: The Coup
• When: Throw the following in a blender in the month of March: Dabysan's recommendation years ago. A renewed interest in the song "Laugh, Love, Fuck" right around the inauguration. A nice gentleman in California sending me their first two albums.
• Why: Brilliant lyrics.

• What: Middle Cyclone
• Who: Neko Case
• When/Where: DC's 9:30 Club. Friends and member of DC CockRock Club in tow. The Secretary of Education showed up and spoke from the stage, marking a weird new era in DC. Neko played with her hair lots, as she does at every show. I was not into the stagecraft. Could have done with fewer images of owls and other precious animals. It was like walking into an Anthropologie. Still, a good show for being encumbered by your own loneliness as she sings yet another song about loneliness. This Tornado is just not that into you.
• Why: Actually, I don't think this album is as good as the others. But the cover art is scary/ badass and sexy all at once. It's worth the price of admission.
  

  Middle Cyclone

  Neko Case

I’ll confess. I thought the Silver Jews were a side project to Pavement. It’s a common misconception. Writer David Berman started the Silver Jews with Pavement's Stephen Malkmus and Bob Nastanovich around the same time Pavement’s star was rising in the early 90s. It was not so much a side project, as a parallel.

The Silver Jews have been a rotating cast of characters over the years; former Pavement members have long since left for other bands. But Berman, whose vocals suggest that he desperately wants to be Johnny Cash, has remained a constant. I won’t say I celebrate their entire catalog, or even 50 percent of it. But I generally get on board with their lo-fi/alt-country sound. I’ll give a pass to any Pavement project, side, parallel or otherwise.

David Berman’s mother (grandmother?) came out in a walker and launched into a ramble about how David always liked to read as a child. I half expected a recipe for chicken soup to follow, but he whispered something in her ear, she introduced the band and left the stage. They opened with this:

I'm not sorry I saw them. It was a perfectly lovely way to spend a night. But that's about all I can say. I am sorry I blew off the opener.

As any good show veteran knows, you don’t watch the opening band at the Black Cat. You feign disinterest and drink downstairs in the Red Room until five minutes before the opening band goes on. But after last night, I might have to revise my thinking. First clue that I might have missed something good came when Potsy went downstairs to report that the lead singer of Monotonix was doing something crazy (what, I’m not quite sure of) upstairs.

Second clue came when I saw the lead singer over by the merch table wearing some short shorts that would have made Tobias Funke jealous.

I later learned (because Berman said so) that they toured in Germany with the Silver Jews.

Here’s a clip from a show in Berlin that I’ve watched three times tonight and can’t stop laughing about. There’s something inherently funny about performing in raggedy-ass underwear in front of serious, art-scene kids in Berlin who don’t quite know what to make of the act. If you do yourself no other favor this week, watch:

Lord, how I miss the Summer of Bill. Even if he doesn't remember that there was a Summer of Bill back in the early aughties, I do.

Bill never actually told me about the Summer of Bill. I think I heard about it first from Dabysan, later confirmed by HotRod. If I may take editorial liberties here, the Summer of Bill (or SOB as we'll call it) evolved as a way for Bill, a mild-mannered fellow with a faint Southern accent, to wrestle his life away from the clutches of the same old drinking routine at a notoriously skeezy townie/jar head bar called King Pepper. This is not to say that Bill wanted to quit drinking during the SOB. But he had other ambitions that summer. Ambitions such as: buy a motorcycle. I'm not sure what else was on the list. Probably get laid and ride coasters, if I were betting.

There were occasions that summer where the phrase "Summer of Bill" got invoked without much explanation. I didn't need to know more, really. It served as an elegant short-hand for someone wanting to change his life, seize the moment or at least tick off a list of fun shit to do in a summer. Bill didn't have to say it. We all knew it. And we all wanted that for him.

Bill eventually left town, moved to San Francisco, slimmed down and became quite the looker. Not sure if it was a result of the SOB, or that he'd long been itching to get out of the town he grew up in. Still, the SOB lives on in my imagination as a good way to get off your ass and reclaim the things you love.

The summer is nearly over, and I've attended zero shows. Time to rectify that. I'm invoking SOB. No time like the present. In the next two months, I'm seeing:

1. Old 97's, July 29th at the 9:30 Club

2. Bon Iver, Aug. 1 at the Black Cat

3. The Hold Steady, Aug. 14 at the 9:30

4. Liz Phair, Aug. 28, 9:30 Club

5. Bob Pollard, Sept. 28, Black Cat

6. Dressy Bessy, Sept. 30, Black Cat

 

I wish I didn't have to tell you this, but the wretched Late Night Shots crew is setting its sights on the ladies who hang out at the Black Cat after determining that the women who hang out there are "straight up better looking than just about any female you would run into out in Georgetown..."

Well, yes, we are. But that doesn't mean we want you here. I think I speak for all when I say:

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.

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.

Saw a sold-out Rhett Miller solo show Friday night at the Black Cat.

1.    By far, this was the tallest audience I’ve ever seen at a show, barring the Pogues, which just attracts scary troglodytes. Was it the Texas thing? You know, because everything is supposed to be bigger or whatnot?

2.    Rhett rolled out some new material from the upcoming Old 97’s album (to be released in May). Despite my “tin ear,” it sounds promising.

3.    Every time Rhett comes here and plays Victoria, he says it’s about a DC girl he once dated. On behalf of the women of DC, I’d like to apologize.

4.    Love doesn’t make good copy. It makes for some awfully tepid music (witness the New Pornographer’s Challengers, wherein AC Newman fell in love with his pen pal girlfriend, wrote songs about it and produced the band’s most lackluster album.) Rhett played “Question,” a song I love (to mock) about proposing. Many of the ladies in the audience mouth the words to this song and sway. Their boyfriends look vaguely uncomfortable. I’m willing to bet that this song has sparked more fights than it has inspired marriage proposals.

5.    Loneliness makes good copy. The things unreconciled, ill-timed and just out of reach interest me most. The sting of disappointment is where it’s at. We wanted the old songs about feeling jagged. About drinking your lover’s gin, going through their diary, calling all their friends and wishing them the worst. Fortunately, he played “Doreen.” And “Come Around,” a song I love for its simple, desperate refrain: “Am I going to be lonely for the rest of my life?”

6.    A stranger in line with me for the restroom, upon hearing my conversation, chimed in like a Greek chorus, held up her ring finger and asked, “does it get any easier?” Here’s my answer: No. And yes, you are gonna be lonely for the rest of your life.

7.    Rhett announced at the end of the show that he’d be hanging out at the T-shirt booth and would take pictures and sign autographs for anyone who wanted one. For a moment, we contemplated it. A few more drinks might have done the trick. But then the oh-fuck-it-we’re-all-30-odd-something moment set in. We’re too old for that shit. And I don’t want to meet people whose music I respect. We appropriately shuffled out.

The D.C's Black Cat turned 14 today. Awkward age to be, really. I don't remember much about 14, except that I spent a lot of time on the phone and had a perm. Let's hope the Black Cat has a better year.

The Black Cat was once a few doors down from where it is now on 14th Street. I love when people remember that. It shows they've spent more than a few minutes in this city. And that isn't easy to come by. Anyone remember that weird-ass clown they had suspended from the ceiling?

Anywho, the greatest show I ever saw at the Black Cat was the Stokes open for Guided by Voices. I was there for the GBV, but getting a decent opening band is always a plus. And this was the Strokes before they released their first album. It was pre-Williamsburg-pretty-boy-art-fucks days, pre-Drew Barrymore hype. They were still keeping it real.

But as great as that show was, it couldn't compare to the magnificence of what some lucky folks got to witness this summer. Or put simply: Your crazy Uncle Bob drunk in the backyard at your family reunion this summer, brandishing a wiffle ball bat = awesome. Your crazy Uncle Bob Pollard drunk in your backyard at a GBV reunion this summer, brandishing a wiffleball bat = transcendent.

Your daily non sequiturs:

1. A Pete Yorn and Peter Bjorn & John tour. Think about it. A Yorn/Bjorn tour.

2. Hot Rod once said, and this has stuck with me, that John Mayer's "your body is a wonderland" has some of the creepiest lyrics ever committed to paper. "Deep sea of blankets." He should have served jail time for that one.

A brilliant list that Jodi posted about the 100 reasons you might still be single listed "calling the month of October "Rocktober" as a reason you'd die alone. Well, I'm sorry, but if that's wrong, I don't wanna be right. Because you know what? October is kinda the rockingist month in DC.

To wit, my fall music plans:
September 26, 9:30 Club: Rilo Kiley

September 27, Black Cat: Magnolia Electric Co.

Oct. 1, 9:30 Club: Matt Pond, Pa

Oct. 15, 9:30 Club: Cat Power

Oct. 27, 9:30 Club: New Pornographers

Contemplating:

Oct. 7, 9:30 Club, Pinback

Oct. 22, Nissan Pavilion: Shins (hesitating because I hate this venue)

Oct. 30, DAR, Ryan Adams (again, hate the venue. And he's a notorious douche in concert).

Nov. 11, Verizon, Bruce and the E Street Band (only an act of God would score Hot Rod tickets to this).

Nov. 15, Black Cat, Stiff Little Fingers (that's right pussies. I said Stiff Little Fingers).

Nov. 15, Black Cat, Georgie James

Nov. 17, Rock N Roll Hotel, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (or am I over them? I think I am. And I think I blame pitchfork)

Nov. 27, Black Cat, Dinosaur Jr.

A nice pop song for anyone who is ready to be heartbroken. "Lloyd, I'm Ready To Be Heartbroken," from Camera Obscura is apparently an answer song to Lloyd Cole's "Are You Ready To Be Heartbroken." (Much like Exile in Guyville is rumored to be an answer to the Rolling Stones' Exile on Main Street.) This isn't as good, of course, but it's fun. I don't think I've seen such awesome dancing in a video since Madonna hitch-kicked around on Lucky Star. And haven't I seen the dark and frowny girl at the Black Cat? Or listen here if you don't want the video.