so damn textual

i love hippie-yuppie weddings. by this i mean i love non-traditional, non-denominational weddings that have all the trappings of a white wedding (big dress, even bigger hair, beautiful but often tragically card-boardey cake). i was recently at such a wedding and, over a slice of cake that was surprisingly good, i fell into conversation with an old friend from the berkeley drama department.

said friend, a minor to somewhat unspeakably large genius of the stage, lamented that, in some ways, going to the theater has become a textual experience, more academic than artistic.

as i played with my cake frosting, i considered the accuracy of his claim. the rise of text isn't something only endemic to the theater -- the proliferation of the internet has resulted in a kind of global embrace of the idea that text is king. (albeit grammatically incorrect text -- at least in many cases). today, everyone with a blog or a web page really IS a critic. and text abounds.


but if text, not emotion is king, if the review of the art becomes culturally paramount to the art itself, what will happen to our artists? will expression as we know it irrevocably change? will criticism be elevated to an art form as old art forms go the way of the serialized novel? and if that happens, how will we know what criticism we want to read and what we want to eschew? will we need criticism of the criticism to help us navigate our post-emotional world?

i don't know. and i pretend to have any answers. i'm just here, asking questions, holding out for more coconut cake.

a wrinkle in fashion time

oh, bay area, how do i love thee? with your slightly sullen sunshine (made just bleak enough by the permacool of the ocean breeze) and your organic salads and gourmet cheeseries, and your perpetual fog that hangs, like so much educational and global financial superiority, just over the city, is it a wonder that i'm smitten?

sitting in the oakland airport, awaiting my flight back to phoenix after four days in my favorite city, i played my favorite airport game, inventing stories and destinations for all of the people i passed on my way to my gate. all of the typical airport types were there. the busy banker headed for asia, the chubby mommy off to a weekend away at her sister's, the hip, happy couple drunk with their own sense of cool, the model u.n. team member on his way to a competition, excited just to have finally left his parents' house.

i passed these people, labeling them for my own amusement, as i headed for gate thirty, at the far end of the all southwest terminal two. past gate twenty eight, a non-stop to lax (is there any other kind of flight to lax?), i noticed a crush of bearded, sweat-pant-wearing, aging hipsters and sighed silently, a little homesick for los angeles.

and that was when i saw them. suddenly, they seemed to be coming from everywhere, their bleached hair nearly blinding, their acrylic nails clawing at the air in front of them as if to say, "don't you dare touch my juicy couture sweatsuit." and then i was surrounded. girls in matching onesies sat next to friends in velour sweatsuits. everywhere puffed sleeves adorned t-shirts and jackets. i pinched myself, hoping to wake up, but was unable to. oh, no. it was all too real. i was on my way back to arizona. headed, like michael j. fox before me, through the time space continuum and into the past. only i wasn't going to visit the old west. i was going to the recent past. the los angeles fashion past.

leisure suit couture...the arizona uniform...apparently

two hours later we were on our way down and our captain administered southwest's usual overly-friendly-make-you-feel-like-flying-is-no-big-deal-and-you-didn't-need-all-that-xanax greeting. "welcome to phoenix," he said, finally concluding. and, sweat suited travelers in plain view, i knew that he might as well have welcomed me back to the mainstream los angeles styles of two years before.

getting off the plane, i sighed deeply, took in the polluted desert air that seeped in from the ill-sealed jetway. the sweat suits were there at the baggage claim too. and, as i waited for my tan luggage to appear, it's pert red luggage tag identifying it as mine, i began to relax. a girl next to me was looking awfully cute in green velour sweat pants and a white puffed sleeve t-shirt. she smiled at me, the i'd-be-friends-with-you-if-we-weren't-perfect-strangers-smile. i smiled it back. maybe, just maybe, i thought, puffy sleeves really aren't so bad.

when it rains, it's 90

at some point, many months ago, i ceased regular blogging. not because i don't love to blog (and read blogs) as much as the next cyber-savvy person. but because i moved. to arizona.

now why in god's name would any self-respecting (and disrespecting after a few cocktails and under the thick cover of night somewhere in hollywood) angelino up and move to phoenix?

the answer, my metropolitan friends, is simple. i was offered a job teaching at a research institution. and, as any academic worth his salt (or his SSRN page) knows, when a big school tells you that they'll give you an office, a research assistant, and -- bestill my heart -- a paycheck, you do what any sane person who's spent a million years in school hoping to make enough money to live just above the poverty line would do: you move.

and so i find myself, not unhappily, enshrined in the desert, where it turns out, there are these strange sorts of semi tropical storms. i was at the grocery store, waiting in line, when the kindly but tragically midwesternly clad woman in front of me drew my attention to the falling rain outside the store's big plate glass windows. egads! it was raining. so much for that 90 degree weather, i thought, gleefully planning my afternoon java run. (because reasonable weather should always be celebrated with an unreasonably priced latte.)

said kind hearted woman continued to talk to me, regaling me with the details of her recent trip to michigan. (we flew there, we flew back, etc.) luckily i was spared any fashion tips and escaped into the parking lot, where my dirty, rain splattered, i'm a californian-and-i-recycle-more-than-you toyota prius awaited me.

back in the car, ac pumping against the sweltering heat, i noticed the winds, tearing at palm trees. if it hadn't been for the rain's subsiding to a veritable drizzle, certain palms could have been cut directly from footage of some more minor, non-deadly hurricane. caught in the midst of this mini-storm, hours from hawaii, i did the only thing a sane californian could do: i panicked. and raced home. groceries stored and my person safe again, i adjusted my central air conditioning, put on a pot of coffee and prepared to wait out the afternoon. and perhaps the entire summer.

maureen doubt: some news on the complexity of the clinton campaign

if you're a woman running for president, well, you know who you are. and, of course, so does the rest of america. the american public, especially the female half, is all too familiar with the complex issues of feminism, anti-feminism, neo-feminism (am i missing any?) implicated by your position as a candidate. being a woman is complicated. being a woman, a senator, the wife of a former president and a democratic presidential candidate yourself? more complicated still.

and what about being a woman who doesn't want to vote for a woman? isn't that, too, complicated? how does one justify that kind of seemingly self-defeating sentiment? obama-touting women across the country have no doubt been asking themselves just that question as the democratic primary continues on its tense course.

today, the new york times gave those doubting feminists their answer. maureen dowd, the much revered and reviled so-called feminist columnist, gave us permission. she told us that, as much as we like the idea of a female president, we can all vote against hillary and still be proud.

when you are a woman running for president, and one of the national media's loudest feminist voices tells women that it is okay not to support you, that it is okay to doubt your abilities and to criticize your positions, well, i imagine that, in itself, is somewhat complicated. i imagine it's not a particularly good sign. and i imagine that the presses used to print this morning's papers could be put to use this afternoon printings signs. as i've said, i can only imagine, but i think they'll read something along the lines of: "hillary clinton. also ran."

read the full text of maureen dowd's article here.

my so called trife: the offensive suburban traditionalism of juno

as a general rule, i make it a policy not to blog about books or movies unless i have something wonderful to say. but when it comes to juno i'm afraid an exception must be made.

i wouldn't have such a problem with the movie if it were honest about what it wanted to be. but the real offense in juno lies in, well, the lies it tells, and sells, to its audience. packaged with a neat intro designed to look like a moving graphic novel, the film pulls viewers into a nostalgic suburban world where the nerdy cross country kids run their miles on wide neighborhood sidewalks and the cheerleaders are friends with the vintage levis girls. in short, it is a movie that desperately wants to be set in the nineties, ostensibly to appeal to those of us who actually were vintage-levis-wearing, kurt-cobain-loving, bjork-following kids in the nineties.

and it works -- at least for a second. but after the initial sense of "oh, wow, this movie is so made for me" wears off, any astute viewer should be able to see that he is being manipulated. this movie isn't embracing the free spirited, anti-establishment, art-minded values it pretends to propound. no way. this is a family values movie -- dressed up in an american apparel hoodie. that's right. juno is a phony, a con, a fake. this movie is only pretending to be cool.

the movie's characters are actually meant to show us how uncool it is to be "cool," despite the fact that many of them are nothing more than incendiary cliches. when juno visits an abortion clinic, the receptionist at the clinic is a blue haired girl with facial piercings who, after treating juno rudely, also offends her by talking about her boyfriend's condom preferences. the movies suggests that all abortion clinics are staffed by the neo punk undergound -- people who would otherwise be engaged in the business of giving tattoos, booking concert venues, and teaching creative writing classes. (isn't your doctor's office exactly like that?)

in addition to demonizing girls with nose rings, the movie also does a wonderful job of clumsily villanizing young, non-traditional professionals who aren't interested in settling down in five bedroom tract houses in the burbs. mark, the adoptive father-to-be, (jason bateman) is supposed to personify generation x, but the presentation of his character sets him up as a kind of post-millennial cliche, hardly worthy of belief. when he first meets juno, mark reveals himself to be a musician -- a huge fan of nineties era grunge who not only plays old nirvana songs on the guitar, but also claims that the early nineties were the best era for music -- ever. that's right. he's not all about the band or the clash or the kinks, or, (god forbid) the beatles, or dylan, or any kinda mainstream, boring stuff like that. he's into the nineties man.

on the other hand, vanessa (jennifer garner), the adoptive mother-to-be who ultimately divorces mark (because he can't grow up, of course), is a suit-wearing, mall-shopping, tract-house-loving patron of the pottery barn who can do no wrong. poor vanessa is plagued by mark's immaturity -- he would rather talk about the nineties than work on painting the baby's room or help her do any "adult" tasks. vanessa's moment of triumph comes when she tells mark to "grow up," and that his "[urban outfitters] shirt is stupid." the message is clear and told in painfully broad, cliched strokes: suit = responsible grown up. tee shirt = bad kid.

juno's working class parents, the opposites of the print-tee loving, infused green tea drinking mark, are painted as good, family people who are happy with their lot in life. of course, there is no mention of the economic and social crises that permeate the lives of the american middle class today. nah. these people just seem, well, happy.

and juno, who opts not to go through with her abortion because her baby "has fingernails" (which she learns from the sole protester outside the abortion clinic she visits), is not your typically misunderstood alterna-teen. instead, she is a sweet, if somewhat quirky, girl next door who hangs out with cheerleaders and cares deeply about going to the prom. because dammit, we're all americans and we can all be friends. (so long as we don't have any abortions, please.)

although i really loved thank you for smoking and found it smart, satirical, and (most importantly) funny, i feel like jason reitman let me down with this one. it's as though reitman is ganging up on everyone who still wears converse tennis shoes. and the audience can't help but sense the screenwriter, diablo cody, admonishing us from behind her prep school education. "look," she seems to say, "abortion is wrong, and i don't have to explain why i think that. non traditional lifestyles are wrong, as evidenced by a handful of t-shirts. grow up, get a haircut and a mary j. blige cd. get a job. (preferably one that requires you to wear a suit.)"

from the film's litany of tired tropes, we are to learn that an uber traditional value system can solve all of juno's problems. and, in the final frame, we see her, happy and no longer pregnant, the carefree, middle class suburban teen who has been represented across generations in tv shows like leave it to beaver and the wonder years. unfortunately for reitman and cody, things are a bit more complicated for our generation than they were for the kids on those programs. the middle class is shrinking, we are in the midst of a complicated war, the globe is heating up, and apparently some people think the nineties were the best time for music (a landmark crisis in anyone's book).

looking backwards, to the norms and values of the past, may make for an academy award nomination, but embracing traditions that feel outdated and dressing up cliched characters in urban outfitters exteriors are unlikely to create a story that is relevant to the america in which we live today. it sure doesn't make for a satisfying film.

the sound and the hurry: the new unbearable lightness of reading

mokoto rich of the new york times recently had an inspired idea -- he asked several prominent authors to give their opinions on one of the more recent phenomenons in literature: the shortening of classic fiction.

indeed. it seems that publishers are cutting into the classics to make them simpler to digest, easier to carry, and generally more appealing to the microwave generation.

personally, i am perfectly happy pretending to have read the greats in their excessively lengthy entireties. i love telling people that i mastered all of the faerie queen (and the better part of victor hugo's oeuvre too). regardless of the added convenience of these shortened texts, i still hold dear the right to ignore, on my own, the excessive descriptions, the informative passages, the chapters on whaling. i feel it should be my choice to allege that i've read these difficult books in their original incarnations.

and i think it is worth noting that, in the cases of certain post-modern writers, it seems the point of their works might be somewhat lost if all of their repetition and seemingly nonsensical language were reduced to pared down, coherent, sentences. (in certain cases, wouldn't we just lose the whole thing?)

of course, everyone who loves books wants to keep great lit. alive, so i understand the impetus to publish these shortened texts. (if anyone else asks me "who this james joyce guy is," i may just consider going insane.) but loony or not, i know that my own purchases won't include anything abridged.

i simply won't have publishers denying me my god given right to deprive myself of a thorough education.

that said, the most irreverent responses to mr. rich's query came from stephen king and jonathan franzen (although many other excellent authors were also questioned).

i have pasted their responses below (in their unabridged formats) , for your enjoyment:

(of course, feel free not to read them and to later pretend that you did.)

___________________________________________________________________

Stephen King, author of “The Shining” and “Lisey’s Story”

Certainly the Bible could use cutting; think of all those begats, not to mention minor-league prophets such as Habbakuk (there isn’t even a car dealership named after him).

What about “Ulysses”? All that tiresome stream of consciousness could go.

And there is “Gone With the Wind,” which I would shorten to this:

“Civil War?” said Scarlett.

“Fiddle-de-dee!”

But Atlanta burned! Rhett left!

“I will think about it tomorrow,” said Scarlett, “for tomorrow is another day.”

That’s so good you could probably fit “Dombey and Son” in the same edition. Or shorten “Tess of the D’Urbervilles” to a National Enquirer headline:

UNFORTUNATE GIRL SLEEPS THROUGH RAPE, IS LATER HUNG.

Jonathan Franzen, author of “The Corrections”

Mr. Franzen said he can’t think of any great work that he would like to see slashed, but tinkered with some book titles, should they be chopped.

“The Pretty Good Gatsby”
“Alyosha Karamazov”
“The Adventure of Augie March”
“Paler Fire”
“Lite in August”
“Shortmarch”

for the entire text of rich's article, see nyt here.

coachella 2007: baby's first music festival

three days of desert concerts left me feeling tired, but invigorated in a way i have not been in a long time. from the incredible loving-kindness of willie nelson, to the occult energy of ghostface, to the dance punk genius of LCD soundsystem, the weekend was full of generous performances and heartfelt moments. but leaving the event on monday morning, i could not help but feel that it was the increasing class division in america that was really on stage at coachella 2007.

i went in thinking that an outdoor musical festival was, in essence, a populist experience and that part of what would make it special would be its ability to bring together many different kinds of people under the auspices of a shared love of music. but that was not the case at coachella, where class divide, as much as the music, was hugely on display. the experience drove home the truth of an idea that i usually ascribe to the paranoia of those who have an above average understanding of economic history – namely that the class division in this country is greater and more noticeable than it has ever been in my lifetime. (see NYT for more.)

the coachella attendees fell into three categories: glammed up rock stars and their crews, privileged VIP insiders and celebs, and the port-o-potty hoi polloi. such glaring divisions are expected in the hollywood nightclub environment, which is designed based on the idea that everyone wants to be a celebrity and will go to extreme economic (or moral) lengths to gain access to the golden inner circle -- the VIP area (on the good nights) and the after party, high in the hills. but, at least for me, there is something off putting about a music festival that adopts the hollywood model.

scarlett wasn't much of an economist singing

back up vocal for the jesus and mary chain.

unfortunately, she wasn't much of a singer either. (cute look though.)

overall, it seemed that the designer clad VIP crew who were more interested in seeing and being seen than in engaging in a communal experience with the people around them were a blight on the festival experience since the people who attended coachella to get away with the music they loved were constantly reminded of the LA from which they were attempting to escape.

as i watched the interaction between groups taking place, (thought there was not much, as the VIP-ers rarely strayed out into the festival grounds), i couldn’t help but wonder if the class-divided landscape was just an error on the part of the coachella planners, or if it was a sign of an increasingly disturbing shift in overall american culture.

beyond the music, which again, was wonderful (and at times even transcendent) the weekend was a fascinating sociological study. in trying to offer a little bit of everything to everyone, in some ways coachella seemed to effectively offer nothing -- except the ability to alienate attendees who had not paid hundreds of dollars for VIP access. my privileged perspective was the result of my own extraordinary mobility -- access to the VIP area (granted by a music insider friend). even though I was let down by the clear social division, the sets i saw were phenomenal and i absolutely loved the experience. i would even go back to this or another festival, though maybe before next year's coachella, i’ll try a festival that is a little less “LA.” in the interim, if i’m in the mood for that kind of scene, i can always get my fix in hollywood.

dance force one: goerge bush gets a remix from best week ever

if you haven't already seen wolf blitzer's cnn coverage of george bush's foray into interpretive dance, you should 1) ask yourself what the hell you have been doing for the past two days, 2) watch the clip on you tube below, and 3) remind yourself and everyone you know that malaria awareness is, indeed, a cause for dancing.




and if you're really feeling adventurous, alex blagg over at bwe has given us a very clever take on that same dance...because there's nothing like a remixed president to bring a smile to your face.

not so secretly canadian: sunset rubdown at the troubador

please note the lamp. (i promise, it will be important later.)

when spencer krug joined band mates michael doerkson, camilla wynne ingr (pony up!), and jordan robson cramer (xy lover) on stage at the troubador last night, he introduced the band with a gentle voice and an unassuming greeting. “ah, hi. so, we’re not wolf parade,” he said. the audience laughed and so did the band. and then sunset rubdown launched into some of the most unique and wonderful live music i have ever heard. (though i can't lie, i did go into the show with a positive bias; i'm a huge fan of wolf parade and am also enjoying the new handsome furs album. gorilla vs. bear has more on that here.)

it is the band's strange combination of characteristics, krug’s soft, often humorous and always unassuming persona and the band’s tormented, otherworldly sound that made sunset rubdown's performance so effective -- something like the musical equivalent of the tales of edgar allen poe -- as read aloud by mother goose.


at the troubador show, krug used a bedroom lamp (see picture above, as promised) to light his keys and the soft, homey glow of its light made the show feel all the more intimate. it was as though we had all been invited into his bedroom, into his most intimate thoughts and moments. the effect of the light was soft and warm, a striking juxtaposition with the music and lyrics the poured out of the band.

despite the darkness of their sounds, in the lamplight, sunset rubdown had a comforting, almost hypnotic effect on the audience. you wouldn’t expect to be comforted by a band that sings songs replete with images of graveyard skeletons, drowning sailors, and the unknowable carnivorous things that reach out from our dreams to drag us into the shadows near death, but despite these figures of loss and hollowness, sunset rubdown managed to live up to the glow of the lamp. their effect was almost indescribable, dark and warm, terrifying even as it consoles.

mmm...sunset rubdown...

(shut up, i am blogging)

with a huge sound and a constant, toe-tapping drum beat, sunset rubdown managed to defy all of my musical expectations, keeping time without a base and rendering songs that are as haunting as they are friendly. Each one was delivered beautifully by master musicians, each almost clearly a product of krug’s extraordinary brand of oddball genius. if we could sleep with our eyes open, as krug intimates, sunset rubdown is most assuredly the band that would greet us from the dark, strange depths of our most wonderfully aberrant dreams.

a+

for more on sunset rubdown, check out passion of the weiss' top 25 albums of last year...right around number one.

a funny bit of chemistry: the hold steady, live at fingerprints

anyone who has listened to a hold steady record knows that the brooklyn group’s brand of updated rock relies heavily on spiraling guitar riffs and aggressive drums. on their three albums, that hard, clean sound has provided a backdrop for front man craig finn’s simple but poignant lyrics, resulting in aggressive, upbeat songs that have the strange ability to make you want to dance while simultaneously capturing the sad, hollow ache of a pained and desperate america.

it is that dichotomy, the tension between bruce springstein-type bar rock and new york school-type poetics, that has given the band it's unique flavor and made the hold steady a polarizing force, a band that is alternatively loved and hated by the intellectual set. (apparently, there is some ongoing debate about whether or not bands that use melody are too plebian for the more advanced folks.)

the hold steady in black and white. black and white!

looks pretty arty to me...

featuring five songs including citrus, chips’ ahoy, you can make him like you, and the cattle and the creeping things (and no, this one’s not about the current administration vacationing at the summer ranch), their recently released acoustic ep, live at fingerprints, allows the band’s polarizing hard rock sound to fall away, leaving listeners with softer melodies and a whole lot of accordion. the shift also lays bare the spare, haunting words of finn’s truth-heavy lyrics.

although the band sounds a little tired on the live recording, all of the songs translate well, some coming through better than others. “citrus,” a softer, more heavily picked song, accoustic in its original incarnation, sounds almost effortless. and the jaunting, bluesy “you’ve gotta dance with who you came to the dance with” is a surprisingly fun addittion not featured on any of the band's other albums.

overall, the hold steady’s unplugged sound is milder than their usual fare, which may disappoint those looking to this ep for their signature bar rock americana. instead, the ep shifts the hold steady's tone, softening their sounds and losing some of their usual, captivating tension. but against this gentler backdrop, finn’s voice and words are even more decisive and indelible, not having to compete against heavy guitar riff’s for the listener’s attention.

like the drugs they refer to often in their lyrics, the hold steady is powerful medicine and this ep, though perhaps not as potent as some of their other work, is still strong stuff, wild and warm. and, as with all of the hold steady’s songs and albums, in the center there is a hot, soft light.

the ep is a limited edition and only available at record stores that are part of the think indie consortium

the emperor's new band

the following is based on a danish fairytale by the late, great hans christian anderson. it was originally titled keiserens nye klæder rock band.

once upon a time, in a gentrifying neighborhood, far away (at least it seemed far if you had to get there in traffic), there lived a group of very progressive, intelligent people called hipsters. the hipsters ruled their bohemian kingdom well, patronizing non-corporate establishments and cooking with all organic ingredients.

then one day, a band called deerhunter came to see the hipsters. deerhunter, or more specifically, deerhunter’s exceptionally thin front man, bradford cox, told the hipsters that the band could make a very special kind of music – music so unique that it would sound like the cacophonous wail of a dying chimpanzee to everyone who was stupid or unfit for his position. (most of the hipsters didn’t have day jobs, so they weren’t too worried about that last part, but they were deathly afraid of being singled out as stupid.)

and deerhunter had promised the hipsters that this music was so magical, it could separate the critics from the fan boys and the vegetarians from the vegans…

so the hipsters listened to the music and found it sounded like a very untalented rendition of the music from hedwig and the angry inch, but they were afraid their friends would judge them and their MFA degrees, so they praised deerhunter and wrote positive reviews of their albums in their trendy indie magazines. eventually they turned deerhunter into “trindie” rock darlings.

(almost clever 80's images anyone?)

deerhunter played large, well attended shows and each time the audience pretended to enjoy the nails on a chalkboard mania that the band performed. But then, one day, a very small-time blogger (a.k.a. me) went to one of these shows and proclaimed, “deerhunter has no rhythm! deerhunter has no style! deerhunter isn’t making music – that’s just noise.”

the whisper of truth was passed all around the internet, from blog to blog to myspace comment until, finally, the hipsters realized that they had been taken advantage of and, had they not embraced separatist nerd culture, wanting to prove themselves smarter than everybody else to mask their childhood insecurities, they could have spent their money on tickets to a show they would have actually enjoyed.

alas, they could not get a refund on their tickets or reclaim the wasted hours of their lives, but from then on, the hipsters realized that the smart thing to do was to actually tell the truth about their musical preferences. (this seemed like an especially good idea when they considered that their SAT, ACT, and CTBS scores, along with their regular viewing of the colbert report, had already confirmed that they were pretty smart. (or at least that they knew the vice president's name.)

and so they lived happily (a.k.a. organically) ever after -- their closets full of vintage tees, their fridges full of PBR, and their i-pods full of music they could actually enjoy.

the end.

god bless you, mr. vonnegut

today we are the same america we were yesterday, but we have lost ourselves one very important writer.

even so, the new york times today reminds us that, at the end of his last book, a man without a country, kurt vonnegut wrote:

when the last living thing

has died on account of us,

how poetical it would be

if earth could say,

in a voice floating up

perhaps

from the floor

of the grand canyon,

“it is done.”

people did not like it here.

this is the first morning in 84 years that saw the sun beating down an vonnegutless earth. whether he liked it here or not, he was one of this planet's greatest human storytellers.


share sadness and favorite vonnegutisms here or here.


read kurt vonnegut's article on the new millenium via rolling stone online


buy his books in bookstores everywhere.


and remember, the only rule we have babies, is that you must be kind.


so long mr. vonnegut, thanks for hanging on, and thanks for all the stories.

you're up in heaven now.*

(heard, not scene.) the deadly syndrome. not so deadly. actually pretty cool.

their myspace page claims that they are "influenced by silence," but last night boardners in hollywood was anything but silent as the deadly syndrome delivered a knock out performance that had the entire tented courtyard dancing around the venue’s artfully candlelit central fountain. (this dancing was surely reminiscent of, but in no way similar to, the cocaine fueled bumping and grinding that i suspect was going on at element and les deux nearby. (sigh.) oh, hollywood.)

i saw the deadly syndrome play once before, when they opened for their close friends, oh no! oh my! at the echo. they were great then, but tucked into the ivy-ringed stage at boardners, they were spectacular and their performance last night assures me that this band is "one to watch" (and not just because they are cute in that irresistible, shaggy indie way).

the band followed a strong set by the happy hollows (who are somewhere in between love is all and the yeah yeah yeahs) and the candle fueled night came on in waves of warm, ethereal energy that the deadly syndrome rode to their utmost advantage. (at least, i think it was the night coming on warm and ethereal. though it might have been the sierra nevada...which now that i think about it, would explain my hangover...)

the band members say that they are interested in chaos theory (i imagine because they too saw ashton’s tres-dramatique performance in the butterfly effect), but there was nothing random about their full, generous performance. arguably, the best moment of the night was the band’s performance of “animals wearing clothes,” a song that uses simple lyrics and a poignant melody to remind listeners of the wonderful but ephemeral nature of life, music, and that formerly ice cold beer in your hand.

(the title “animals wearing clothes” might also have reminded some concert-goers of their coked up counterparts across the street, although that judgment may have been a little harsh as I’m not sure mini-skirts and tank tops actually count as “clothing” per se.) whatever their take on the meaning of the song, the band's vibrant guitars, killer drums, and occasional accordion riff left the crowd of radio free silverlake readers feeling satisfied and cozy, the happiest bunch of so-called "animals wearing clothes" that i have seen at a concert in a long time.

it's a little cheesy, but i enjoyed the show so much i feel compelled to send out a thank you to everyone who contributed. (i was sorry to have missed the lights from here as i heard they were great too.) and happy belated birthday to radio free silverlake. (you’re one year old! at my parents' house, that means it’s time to start studying for the SAT! but no pressure, it’s just "practice"…)

the anagramitization of rock ≠ menomena

the word “anagram” comes from greek and is a combination of the phrase “back again” and the infinitive verb “to write.” in my experience, anagrams are often constructed using an "equals" sign (=) to express the one-to-one character relationship between the words on the left and the words on the right.* although you wouldn’t suspect a mathy feel from a word game, anagrams, with their equals sign implications, often feel decidedly calculated.

menomena, who used an anagram to title their debut album, “i am the fun blame monster” (which = “the first menomena album”) is not unlike the language game itself. their music incorporates something of the element of surprise with a little controlled fun and a decidedly calculated feel, which might be the product of the knopf computer program they have used to develop so much of their music. the portland group’s sophomore album, “friend and foe,” leaves off the anagrammed title, while maintaining the group’s numerically digestible feel, as though you could divide the melodies into perfectly numbered equations, algorithms, and patterns.

but menomena’s saturday night performance at the echo just didn’t live up to that promise. the show was colder, techier, and thinner than the album had suggested it might be. and the three-member band seemed most propped up by the presence of their laptop, which, although tastefully adorned with a cute hear sticker, was more foe than friend when it came to delivering a show stopping performance. the best, and seemingly least technologically fueled moment of the night was their soft, warm performance of “wet and rustling.” (also my favorite track on the album.)

the popularity of anagrams is documented as far back as the middle ages, giving the one-to-one correlated word puzzles a long, robust history. the anagram’s popularity comes from its time-tested, long-loved nature. in contrast, menomena’s popularity comes from their freshness and innovation. but their thinner than necessary, highly technologically fueled stage show might be strengthened by taking a cue from the past. namely, that live music shows are more improved by the addition of feeling than by numbers, a base instead of a laptop.

* for example: information super highway = a rough whimper of insanity

old chick lit dies hard: no conceit in pride and prejudice

jane austen and i have a lot in common. at least i think we do. she was born the year that the last german execution for witchcraft took place, i was born at the beginning of a decade when being a witch was hip (if you had enough cocaine and leather to pull it off properly).

jane austin lived in bath. i used to take them frequently. (forgive me. it's true) her father was in the clergy, my father was in insurance. both professions sell people something they already know they want: only slightly overpriced reassurance. She never married, I’m not currently married. (you get the picture.)

this glut of similarities became apparent to me last week, when, on a quiet tuesday night, i was looking for something to make fun of, i mean watch. the objective, at least in my mind, was to find a genre work that i could parody for this site and other writing. when i saw that the latest pride and prejudice adaptation, directed by joe wright and adapted by deborah moggach, was available for my viewing pleasure, i thought that i had found perfect fodder.

of course, fodder is as fodder does,* and i ended up spending more time berating myself than i did criticizing the movie. when all was said and done, most of it with gorgeous costumes and english accents, i was hard pressed to criticize the movie in any way.

despite my best efforts to find faults, i found myself on the edge of my couch, completely riveted. i think my interior monologue actually went something like, “oh, mr. darcy. go to him! he loves you!” of course followed by, “why are you such a chick! eww! gross! stop it already!” then i did the only reasonable thing to do when you’re upset about being too much of a girl. i cried, ate some chocolate, and shopped online for shoes. i’m not sure if ballet flats are a good look for me, but i felt a lot better afterward.

like the flats trend, i had heard that the movie had some problems. various people had mentioned that the film was less than perfect and i’m not afraid to admit that i went in hoping that it would be easily mocked. though admittedly less than perfect, the movie held up well in the face of my critical (read: bitchy) analysis. (in a thumbs up, thumbs down world, it was a reasounding thumbs up. the new york and la times agreed, too.)

which leads me to believe that jane austin, widely regarded as a master of the storyteller’s form, is a winning bet every time. (unlike german witchcraft, which apparently didn't work out well for a number of people.)

in just forty-one short years, austin, whose stories we all know as pointed analyses of the effects of social mores, managed to leave the world with a group of books that have been read by generations. (and in my case re-re-re-reread. or is that something i shouldn’t be admitting to in public?)

pride and prejudice, sense and sensibility, and northanger abbey are some of the most perfectly crafted chick lit novels i have ever laid hand, eye, or (late in plot) tear to. reminding me, that being a girl, while sometimes a hazard to yourself and your chocolate stash, can not only be great, it can get you absorbed into the cannon, remembered for all eternity, and even lauded by hollywood. in the case of last tuesday, being a girl can also get you a cozy movie night and a what i sincerely hope are a really cute pair of flats.

*What does that mean exactly and why am I so amused by it? I imagine it’s because it evokes images of cannons, which somehow makes me think of pirates…or maybe it’s just that Keira Knightly reminds me of pirates. Well, me and all the folks at Disney.

rock starts and movie stars

this week has been, uncomfortably, unreasonably, and surprisingly busy. on top of which, i seem to be coming down with something that bears a frightening resemblance to a serious cold (note: the phrase “serious cold” is only an oxymoron in the non-jewish world. something about wandering 40 years in the desert left my people with a terrifying penchant for illness. and still we don’t tan!)

despite my illness and workload, I did manage to see blog buzzband oh no! oh my! at the echo last saturday night. the bland played with a polish and professionalism i didn’t expect from a DIY group. proving the old adage that if a band is from austin, they must be good, oh no! oh my! put on a great live show and the crowd left smiling.

orlando bloom also graced the scene with his presence, challenging the legions of hipster hopeful girls to keep their cool in the face of an actor who had actually been involved with the making of the lord of the rings. I hear one or two of them even asked him what working with tolkein was like. (hey, at least they get points for pronouncing the late john ronald reuel’s last name correctly.)

many non-hipster, but still hopeful girls turned out for the night’s first opener, the upbeat and enjoyable honey brothers, featuring adrian grenier. the n.y.c. based group reminded everyone to watch entourage next season and to forgive grenier’s quasi-bearded look (he is in a band after all ).

l.a. band the deadly syndrome were also wildly impressive. the group, self-described “best friends” with the band members of oh no! oh my!, did their best friends a favor and played a fiercely electric set, even offering to draw spontaneous, individualized cartoons on the all-black cover of their five dollar e.p.

three sets and one very cool e.p. cartoon later, i drew the only logical conclusion: oh no! oh my! = oh wow! check them out next time you have the chance. you won’t be disappointed.

the true story of the seemingly innocuous touch

It is one of the most horrific social experiences known to man. And it is out there, lurking quietly behind counters and uniforms. It is next to you on the treadmill at the gym, or teaching the spin class that leaves before your yoga.

No matter your class, status, age, or occupation. Somewhere, at sometime, it has happened to you. Most likely it was at your local coffee shop, where an innocuous looking coffee-guy type* took making change as an opportunity to run his finger oh-so-gently across the palm of your hand.

If you patronize bars or clubs – either the top 40 kind or the live indie stage show kind – it may have happened to you there. Actually, the list of possible places for it to happen is almost endless: at the dog park, at the zoo, at the record store, while buying shoes, etc., etc., and so forth.

And if it has ever happened to you, you know the dark terrors of the seemingly innocuous touch and it’s potential to drive whoever it is inflicted on bat-shit insane.

After being the victim of the seemingly innocuous touch, a thousand thoughts inevitably race through your head:

Did I accidentally flirt with him?

Is he flirting with me?

It is hard to tell when someone is flirting. I guess I'm just not very good at stuff like that.

It's 'cause I'm weird.

Am I putting a weird “vibe” out there?

Was it one of those, “hey, I think you could use a hug, but since I don’t know I’ll just seemingly innocuously touch you” moments?

Do I need a hug? If so, why?


No, I don't need a hug. He was definitely into me.

Or maybe he was just trying to give me my change and I have a psychotic disorder where I think everyone I meet is into me?

Oh my god, am I insane?

I AM artsy. Van Gogh was pretty nuts.

But, of course, I’m nowhere near as talented as Van Gogh.

Plus, I’m not a painter.

Why am I worrying about Van Gogh? This seems irrational. Could it be irrational paranoia?

I do still have both ears -- that must mean SOMETHING…

Is that really my measure of sanity? Having two ears? Maybe I am losing it.

At which point you leave the coffee shop to stumble into the closest dive bar for a whiskey straight up. (Or at least you do in my fictionalized scenario.)

Another outing ruined by the seemingly innocuous touch. So, citizens beware. Someone out there may be looking to seemingly innocuously touch you. Once you’ve received the touch, it may be too late. Just look at what happened to Van Gogh.

* A note to reader(s): I try not to patronize Starbucks, which is why I can’t use the phrase “barrista-type,” even though, for writing purposes, it does seem much clearer. I try not to be an annoying tree-huggery liberal, especially because I drive a plain old non-hybrid car, but there is something wonderful about Mom and Pop shops and, whatever that wonderful thing is, it makes me want to do everything within the realm of my tiny powers to keep people out of chain stores and in little local gems. But, I digress...

she said words alone never could save us

In my travels through the so-called blog-o-sphere, I have noticed a few things. Depending on whose site I’m viewing, I can get a lot of information, entertain myself, and even occasionally learn something imminently useful -- including but not limited to the number of times Britney Spears has checked in and out of rehab. (I’m counting 2 in and out’s, with perhaps a third on it’s way later today or tomorrow.)

I have been reading other people’s blogs for months (okay, okay, more like a year) and I have finally worked up the courage to develop my own. And so, on an unusually gray and rainy February afternoon, I have decided to make an unusual move and join the party.

As a cyber laggard, I imagine I will suffer all of the ills that latecomers to parties always face. Primarily, everyone will already be drunker than me when I arrive. Also, the single guys will have met girls and developed so-called party-rapport with them, so I may find myself hard up for someone to converse with. And, most importantly, people will be giving me that especially intimidating who-the-hell-are-you-and-why-are-you-so-late look when I walk through the door. (All this, even though I RSVP-ed that I would come late and even walked in with a six pack of beer!)

Despite these terrible odds, I have decided to show up anyway. After all, this is Los Angles, land of six hundred dollar shoes, small men in large cars, and not-so-tastefully veiled whispers of “you should go out with him…his father is worth [insert obnoxious and exaggerated sum here].” Poise, grace, and etiquette don’t really seem to be much of a Los Angeles cultural value. So, among the other advantages of living here (the weather, the music scene, the amazing Mexican food) the city’s complete and utter lack of propriety has emboldened me. (And as long as I find a place to street park so I can avoid the valet, I feel like this party might just be okay.)

Anyway, for all five of you reading this right now, (okay, so five may be a little ambitious…) please ignore my unfashionable lateness and forgive my fondness for parenthesis. If you do, I promise to use this space to post fascinating essays unpacking my intricate, pithy and well thought out interpretations of art, literature, music, and the most essential socio-cultural aspects of contemporary American life. Either that, or provide you lots of ammunition with which to mock me.