4 posts tagged “old 97's”

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.

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.

Remember the Ray Bradbury yarn about the kid who moves from Earth to Venus and gets locked up in a closet and misses the sun, which only shines every seven years for an hour? That's the way it is when you don't blog for three weeks.

I haven't been locked in a closet. I've been working long hours. And enjoying the hours not working in D.C.'s newly smoke-free bars. I'll tell you, nothing kills a desire to write in the off-hours like writing and sitting in front of a computer all day. I like my job. But advice for the kids: Don't be a journalist, media flack, publications person or any other job that requires thinking about writing for pay if you really want to write. Notice that the steady stream of writing (Soo, Dabysan) is inversely proportional to how much of their day job depends on writing. One of the best writers I know is Hot Rod, a marine biologist turned architect.

Can I dispense with the self-flagellation for not writing? Thank you.

There's not much new I've been listening to of late. I've filled in gaps (old 97s, Hold Steady, Wilco Live, etc. ) in my musical collection. A wise Yo Han broke into my iTunes to figure out what I'd want for Christmas. This, after the Blond Redhead incident of a year ago. That was a nice gesture. But they were too ... French ... even if they weren't.

I've got an iTunes gift card burning a hole in my pocket. I've thought about some hideous gaps in my collection. Why don't I own Frank Black's Teenager of the Year? These are the questions that keep a girl up nights.

I'm considering trying on the Long Winters, a band I found through my NPR habit.

Ever wonder what standing on the corner of desperation and I don't give a fuck would sound like?

Good. I'm glad you wanted to know. Because it would sound like the Old 97's Big Brown Eyes. "A box of red/and a pill or three/I'm calling time and temperature just for some company/I wish you were here/I wish I was too."

It does take a worried man, you know, to sing a worried song.

If you've got issues, or think Robert's Dad is right, click here for a listen.

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