10 posts tagged “dc”

I drive a very beat up 1997 Toyota that could graciously be described as extremely low-tech. It does not have a built-in system for an iPod, nor a CD player. No Twitter feed of its own, or any of that nonsense. It does play tapes really well. Call it antiquated. I call it romantic.

I'm lucky that DC's own Deleted Scenes haven't given up on my relationship with tapes. At a recent show, they passed out "cassingles" from their excellent new album, Birdseed Shirt. These are taped over other old tapes - presumably tapes the band members once owned. I got a recording of their song Ithaca as remixed by local DJ AutoRocks and recorded over Guns N' Roses' Lies Appetite for Destruction. The effect is that I get to listen to a great summer driving song that sounds like it could have been recorded in 1985. When it ends, I get the build at the end of Patience when Axl starts screaming "whoawhoa I neeeeed you." This is a near perfect listening experience, especially with the windows rolled down.

If you have occasion to be in my car this summer, trust me, you'll hear this. Hot Rod already did, and his comment was "Let's Hear it for the Boy." I see his point about the synth line. But he's a misanthrope and I don't care. I can't get enough of this song these days.

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:

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.

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.

D.C. is a ghost town. Your summer romance is over. So is your youth. Brood about it all fall to this rockin' bass line.

Murder rate is back up in DC to levels that remind us of the cracked-out Marion Barry days. Police have declared an emergency (whether this is because the crimes are happening in the more affluent hoods is difficult to say).

Attended a dinner party last night that was all talk of apocalypse, avian flu, and various strategies to escape from the city. Would a motorbike work? Answer: No, you'd just end up getting clotheslined by someone bigger than you looking to take it. Could we hole up in the Dupont Circle apartment? And if we did escape, where would we go? "What about Houston, what about Detroit, what about Pittsburgh, Pa? Why stay in college? Why go to night school?"

The Talking Heads' "This Must Be The Place" continues to be my favorite TH song. But "Life During Wartime" just feels right today. Listen to some of it on iTunes here. 

Byrne has a brilliant blog. You should check it out.

It was 1994. Summer. You wandered the DC suburbs (or wherever you lived) aimlessly. You were angst-filled and shiftless. You worked a summer job doing “something close to nothing, but different than the day before,” as Prince once penned about working life. 

Before the days of iTunes, you had to make your way to the strip-mall nightmare mega stores (Tysons Corner) to listen to music you didn’t already own. This dates me.

Pavement had just released their sophomore effort, “Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain.” So on this humid (high of 91) Washington summer day, I go back to Steve Malkmus et. al and to those gold soundz…

Because Ted Leo is loyal to DC. Because he loves the Clash. Because he likes soccer. Because you have to be a real misanthrope not to like his music. Because people actually dance at his shows, unlike most indie rock performances where people think they're too cool to move. Check it out below.