7 posts tagged “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.