Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Flotsam and jetsam
I know it's a little late to jump on this bandwagon, but the new Grandaddy album is sublimely good. Also, the latest Weakerthans offering confirms that John K. Samson is the best lyricist in the biz today. I really should start practicing my frigging scales, but can't seem to get motivated. Plus, I'm convinced both my guitars need tune-ups. Today is moving too slow.
Monday, September 29, 2003
Wishlist
I want stuff. Does that make me a shallow victim of hyperconsumerism, striving in vain to fill the void in my life with material goods? Yeah, probably.
1) A new, half decent winter jacket. Maybe I'll go with a yuppie fleece or something, though I'd like to find something woolly for work.
2) Shoes. For work and for play. Went sneaker shopping this weekend to replace the tattered Converses with something more durable: no joy at all. I fail to see how stores and companies can justify prices like $250 for a fugging pair of sneakers.
3) The new NHL 2004 for PS2. Yes, I know I've been let down by every hockey videogame since NHL '98 for the Genesis. But that doesn't mean I don't want something to tide me over till Medal of Honor: Rising Sun drops in November.
4) "Main Lines, Blood Feasts and Bad Taste": the new Lester Bangs antholgy. I've ordered it from Audrey's Books just to stick it to Chapters. Boo ya, you fucking souless corporation!
5) A new amp. Nothing fancy, though something in a Fender would be sweet...
6) A bed. A real bed.
1) A new, half decent winter jacket. Maybe I'll go with a yuppie fleece or something, though I'd like to find something woolly for work.
2) Shoes. For work and for play. Went sneaker shopping this weekend to replace the tattered Converses with something more durable: no joy at all. I fail to see how stores and companies can justify prices like $250 for a fugging pair of sneakers.
3) The new NHL 2004 for PS2. Yes, I know I've been let down by every hockey videogame since NHL '98 for the Genesis. But that doesn't mean I don't want something to tide me over till Medal of Honor: Rising Sun drops in November.
4) "Main Lines, Blood Feasts and Bad Taste": the new Lester Bangs antholgy. I've ordered it from Audrey's Books just to stick it to Chapters. Boo ya, you fucking souless corporation!
5) A new amp. Nothing fancy, though something in a Fender would be sweet...
6) A bed. A real bed.
Movies, movies, movies
Going to see "Lost In Translation" tomorrow. Saw "Charlie's Angel's: Full Throttle" yesterday. Now, the first one didn't make much sense, but it was a fun, brainless romp. The sequal, on the other hand, is a train wreck. It's as if they had the three screenwriters working in seperate rooms on seperate scripts and then just randomly slapped the finished products together. God, but it was awful. Demi Moore is, naturally, brutal, while Crispin Glover's "Thin Man" (the only good character from the first movie) appears for about 5 minutes, then gets killed for no particular reason. Bernie Mac is pretty funny, but not enough to save this steaming piece of horse crap from itself. Ugh. That's two hours I'll never get back.
Also, at the roomate's behest, watched part of the film "Dreamlover" starring Madchen Amick and James Spader. I don't remember the last time I laughed so hard at a movie. This one was like a weird, extended episode of TV's "the Red Show Diaries" (itself based on a crappy movie). Truly hilarious in its awfulness.
Also, at the roomate's behest, watched part of the film "Dreamlover" starring Madchen Amick and James Spader. I don't remember the last time I laughed so hard at a movie. This one was like a weird, extended episode of TV's "the Red Show Diaries" (itself based on a crappy movie). Truly hilarious in its awfulness.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Adrift in a sea of lameness
1) The fact that the new season of "Friends" starts tonight makes me more excited than is probably healthy, natural or normal is disturbing on a large number of levels.
2) Bachelorette parties are, if possible, even gayer than stags. Nothing says "pathetic loser resigning herself to a life time of mediocrity and infrequent, joyless sex" than a girl drinking out of a plastic cup shaped like a big cock. 'cept maybe an embarrassed looking mechanical engineer in khakis pulling a "What would my mom think?" face while he flips Loonies at a peeler's twat to a chorus of drunken hoots from his former frat buddies.
3) Tuesday's Black Halos show was precisely the kind of gig that, five years ago, would have had me hopping up and down like an excited schoolgirl who just found a pony under the Christmas tree. As it was, I just sorta stood there, drinking water and occasionally nodding.
4) Non-Tiki themed bars. Seriously, why can't more bars rock the bamboo and voodoo mask motif? Bars 'round here are either too meticulous in their artiness (ie. Halo, the Savoy) or are the esthetic equivalent of "I just rolled out of bed and through on the first thing I pulled out of the laundry basket." (hellooo New City). Sure, you don't want to drink out of a coconut every night, but it'd be nice to have the option, dig?
5) The upcoming NHL season will likely be the last for a while, unless through some miracle the league and players can get a new CBA done before next fall. That's unlikely as the players won't accept a salary cap, which is pretty much the only thing that could save the league from over-pricing, fan-alienation and increased crappiness (if such a thing is possible in today's league). Assholes.
2) Bachelorette parties are, if possible, even gayer than stags. Nothing says "pathetic loser resigning herself to a life time of mediocrity and infrequent, joyless sex" than a girl drinking out of a plastic cup shaped like a big cock. 'cept maybe an embarrassed looking mechanical engineer in khakis pulling a "What would my mom think?" face while he flips Loonies at a peeler's twat to a chorus of drunken hoots from his former frat buddies.
3) Tuesday's Black Halos show was precisely the kind of gig that, five years ago, would have had me hopping up and down like an excited schoolgirl who just found a pony under the Christmas tree. As it was, I just sorta stood there, drinking water and occasionally nodding.
4) Non-Tiki themed bars. Seriously, why can't more bars rock the bamboo and voodoo mask motif? Bars 'round here are either too meticulous in their artiness (ie. Halo, the Savoy) or are the esthetic equivalent of "I just rolled out of bed and through on the first thing I pulled out of the laundry basket." (hellooo New City). Sure, you don't want to drink out of a coconut every night, but it'd be nice to have the option, dig?
5) The upcoming NHL season will likely be the last for a while, unless through some miracle the league and players can get a new CBA done before next fall. That's unlikely as the players won't accept a salary cap, which is pretty much the only thing that could save the league from over-pricing, fan-alienation and increased crappiness (if such a thing is possible in today's league). Assholes.
Friday, September 12, 2003
The Man in Black
Rest in peace, Mr. Cash. I'll raise a glass for you tonight.
I loved Johnny Cash.
Not just as a fan. I loved him. He was, and will always be, a legend of a musicianship and artistry. Some people are born to share their talent with other people, and that is what he was, and that is what he did.
He was not perfect. As a matter of fact, he was the definition of imperfect. His face was stony and uneven, eyes heavy, crooked smile. His voice, so lauded by all kinds of singers as being so moving and inspirational, was not perfect, but it was Great.
So great that his impact on sonwriters and singers is without parallel. No one but Willie and Merle,and I guess George Jones, remain now in that group of legendary alumni. Today is George Jones's birthday, as a matter of fact. It won't be a happy one. That was the first thing I heard on the news this morning when I got in the car at 6:30. I thought to myself "these guys are getting old," and had this funny feeling... and then ten seconds later, they announced about Johnny. I wish I had turned around and gone home.
It is a tremendous loss. When any sort of artist passes away, no matter their medium, a void is created that can never be filled. Someone may come along some day who is as talented as Johnny, but it won't be him.
His maudlin style was more intelligent than most others in his class. It was the sort of quiet intensity about him that made him so alluring to people. He wore black, as everyone knows, and became famous for it, representing the downtrodden and maligned with his black clothes, black hair and black eyes. What an amazing man. People identified with him because they felt like he was one of them, on of their own representing them, but he wasn't. He was much bigger and much stronger. Johnny Cash was a hero - not in the sense that he saved people from drowning in wells, or lead an army - he was the literal figure of a hero. Bigger and stronger. Man, yes, but more.
His weaknesses were well documented, but isn't what forms people into heroes their ability to overcome weakness? It's in every hero story from Greek myth to the Bible. Most heroes suffer the weakness of pride, and he was no different. Johnny Cash was the first to admit the abuse he heaped on himself back in his darkest of dark days. He gave all the credit for his redemption to his wife, June, who died not very long ago.
Their relationship was what hero stories are made of in the oldest stories of the oldest books. He loved her. He loved his wife. If you've ever seen the footage of the two of them singing "Jackson," you can see it plain as day. He did some bad things to his family, he said, drinking and carousing and generally abusing himself almost to death many times. What makes him a hero is that he used the depth of his wisdom to control his pride - he didn't do it for June or his children, though. I think he did it because he was too smart to let himself go down like that. Bigger and stronger.
The Cash's relationship is one I want my own to emulate. I know I sound like I am doing that Southerner's thing where we get dramatic and stomp around saying "by God," but I assure you, I am being as serious as I have ever been. In life, you don't have to love somebody. There's no law. As a matter of fact, it's harder to do it than to not do it. There is no guarantee, at birth, that each person in the world will experience love on Earth. Human beings are not pack animals, by nature. We are singular and individual, and to commit yourself to another person is a chore and ocassionally in the middle of it, you wonder why in the world you're bothering. There are times when it takes superhuman, heroic strength to love someone, even if they are good and beautiful. That is the imperfection inherent in being a person. It's equally hard at times to just be good and decent, and to rise above these flaws in their makeup and become better than what they are, just out of a pure desire to do it, makes someone like Johnny Cash a hero.
The man was just a brilliant performer and American songwriter. Willie Nelson, who I think may be this country's greatest poet, loved to hear Johnny Cash sing. I feel like, when I hear Johnny sing, that he's telling the truth. He was a great storyteller, a real writer of stories crafted into songs. Kris Kristofferson may have put it best: "Johnny Cash's voice... it sounds like the real thing, which is what he is."
No question. To see him go is heartbreaking. I'm sitting here at my desk at seven in the morning, crying about Johnny Cash. It's amazing. If you go back and look at the man's life and career, from an historical perspective, you can see very plainly the literary path of the hero. He was bigger and stronger and when people heard him they were affected by his depth and by his honest way of living - even when he was living crazy and kicking out lights on the Opry stage, high as a kite. They were watching what seemed like the spiral into downfall. But, they saw him come back up. He didn't just clean up his act, he transformed himself into his destiny, and he was smarter for it. He made other people smarter just telling them about it. This last album of his has a song on it that he said he spent more time on than any song before. It's all over the place and includes a bunch of stuff from the Book of Revelations. Listen to it, and try to figure out what he was trying to tell you. Even at the door of death, Johnny Cash was allowing things to be revealed to him. If every generation is given a hero, I hope whoever comes next can do even half the job.
-Lifted from here.
I loved Johnny Cash.
Not just as a fan. I loved him. He was, and will always be, a legend of a musicianship and artistry. Some people are born to share their talent with other people, and that is what he was, and that is what he did.
He was not perfect. As a matter of fact, he was the definition of imperfect. His face was stony and uneven, eyes heavy, crooked smile. His voice, so lauded by all kinds of singers as being so moving and inspirational, was not perfect, but it was Great.
So great that his impact on sonwriters and singers is without parallel. No one but Willie and Merle,and I guess George Jones, remain now in that group of legendary alumni. Today is George Jones's birthday, as a matter of fact. It won't be a happy one. That was the first thing I heard on the news this morning when I got in the car at 6:30. I thought to myself "these guys are getting old," and had this funny feeling... and then ten seconds later, they announced about Johnny. I wish I had turned around and gone home.
It is a tremendous loss. When any sort of artist passes away, no matter their medium, a void is created that can never be filled. Someone may come along some day who is as talented as Johnny, but it won't be him.
His maudlin style was more intelligent than most others in his class. It was the sort of quiet intensity about him that made him so alluring to people. He wore black, as everyone knows, and became famous for it, representing the downtrodden and maligned with his black clothes, black hair and black eyes. What an amazing man. People identified with him because they felt like he was one of them, on of their own representing them, but he wasn't. He was much bigger and much stronger. Johnny Cash was a hero - not in the sense that he saved people from drowning in wells, or lead an army - he was the literal figure of a hero. Bigger and stronger. Man, yes, but more.
His weaknesses were well documented, but isn't what forms people into heroes their ability to overcome weakness? It's in every hero story from Greek myth to the Bible. Most heroes suffer the weakness of pride, and he was no different. Johnny Cash was the first to admit the abuse he heaped on himself back in his darkest of dark days. He gave all the credit for his redemption to his wife, June, who died not very long ago.
Their relationship was what hero stories are made of in the oldest stories of the oldest books. He loved her. He loved his wife. If you've ever seen the footage of the two of them singing "Jackson," you can see it plain as day. He did some bad things to his family, he said, drinking and carousing and generally abusing himself almost to death many times. What makes him a hero is that he used the depth of his wisdom to control his pride - he didn't do it for June or his children, though. I think he did it because he was too smart to let himself go down like that. Bigger and stronger.
The Cash's relationship is one I want my own to emulate. I know I sound like I am doing that Southerner's thing where we get dramatic and stomp around saying "by God," but I assure you, I am being as serious as I have ever been. In life, you don't have to love somebody. There's no law. As a matter of fact, it's harder to do it than to not do it. There is no guarantee, at birth, that each person in the world will experience love on Earth. Human beings are not pack animals, by nature. We are singular and individual, and to commit yourself to another person is a chore and ocassionally in the middle of it, you wonder why in the world you're bothering. There are times when it takes superhuman, heroic strength to love someone, even if they are good and beautiful. That is the imperfection inherent in being a person. It's equally hard at times to just be good and decent, and to rise above these flaws in their makeup and become better than what they are, just out of a pure desire to do it, makes someone like Johnny Cash a hero.
The man was just a brilliant performer and American songwriter. Willie Nelson, who I think may be this country's greatest poet, loved to hear Johnny Cash sing. I feel like, when I hear Johnny sing, that he's telling the truth. He was a great storyteller, a real writer of stories crafted into songs. Kris Kristofferson may have put it best: "Johnny Cash's voice... it sounds like the real thing, which is what he is."
No question. To see him go is heartbreaking. I'm sitting here at my desk at seven in the morning, crying about Johnny Cash. It's amazing. If you go back and look at the man's life and career, from an historical perspective, you can see very plainly the literary path of the hero. He was bigger and stronger and when people heard him they were affected by his depth and by his honest way of living - even when he was living crazy and kicking out lights on the Opry stage, high as a kite. They were watching what seemed like the spiral into downfall. But, they saw him come back up. He didn't just clean up his act, he transformed himself into his destiny, and he was smarter for it. He made other people smarter just telling them about it. This last album of his has a song on it that he said he spent more time on than any song before. It's all over the place and includes a bunch of stuff from the Book of Revelations. Listen to it, and try to figure out what he was trying to tell you. Even at the door of death, Johnny Cash was allowing things to be revealed to him. If every generation is given a hero, I hope whoever comes next can do even half the job.
-Lifted from here.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
The Metric system
Took in Toronto buzz band Metric last night. First, why do shitheel promoters in this town start weeknight shows so goddamn late? The headliners didn't go on till about 11:30, and the first band (an appalling Evanesence-esque goth-prog outfit whose name mercifully escapes me) got about 45 minutes of stage time. 45 minutes for their first show! Jebus. Anyway Metric was a thrill, especially for the boys in the crowd. Vocalist Emily Haines (who also does duty in Broken Social Scene) is one foxy rock'n'roll mama, bouncing and shimmy all over the place inna itty-bitty skirt. The music took me by surprise, as pre-show buzz indicated atmospheric electro-pop would be on the menu. Instead, Metric offered up a tight set of bouncy, synth-flavored, Blondie-ish guitar pop that got heads nodding and a few feet moving. Check out the band's Web site (ilovemetric.com) or read this Exclaim magazine article. Or just buy the album, dingleberry.
Took in Toronto buzz band Metric last night. First, why do shitheel promoters in this town start weeknight shows so goddamn late? The headliners didn't go on till about 11:30, and the first band (an appalling Evanesence-esque goth-prog outfit whose name mercifully escapes me) got about 45 minutes of stage time. 45 minutes for their first show! Jebus. Anyway Metric was a thrill, especially for the boys in the crowd. Vocalist Emily Haines (who also does duty in Broken Social Scene) is one foxy rock'n'roll mama, bouncing and shimmy all over the place inna itty-bitty skirt. The music took me by surprise, as pre-show buzz indicated atmospheric electro-pop would be on the menu. Instead, Metric offered up a tight set of bouncy, synth-flavored, Blondie-ish guitar pop that got heads nodding and a few feet moving. Check out the band's Web site (ilovemetric.com) or read this Exclaim magazine article. Or just buy the album, dingleberry.
Monday, September 08, 2003
Weekend fallout
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
I don't why, but for some reason it seemed like a good idea to wade into a beer-and-absinthe-fueled argument with my best friend (a rather belligerent drunk in her own right) at New City's One Night Stand on Friday. Now she's not speaking to me and I feel like a bit of a shit (though, in my defense, it takes two to tango and I wasn't totally in the wrong.) Agh.
Oh well. "Maybe the Weakerthans will ease my troubled head," I thought on Saturday. While the Winnipeg folk-pop-punk combo put on a stellar performance, the small, unenthusiastic crowd and the cavernous Shaw Conference Centre venue put a damper on what would have been an otherwise outstanding show. And don't even get me started on the fucking hippies.
Sunday's Black Dog free show featuring locals the Film Stills and the Vertical Struts (ska-sters the Mad Bomber Society also played, but I bailed before they came on) were an improvement. The Film Stills are a neat little '60s inspired pop combo with revolving vocalists, while the Struts are a two-piece British Invasion guitar/drums explosion that is, hands down, the most exciting band our little burg has to offer.
This week, I've decided to adopt a new theme: sobriety. I figure, if I'm going to attempt to make it to Texas next week for the Austin City Limits Festival, I'd better save some dough. One way to do that is lay off the sauce for a bit. It'd probably be a boon to my liver and my waistline too. Of course if it turns out that I need a passport to go to the States, I'm totally hooped.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
I don't why, but for some reason it seemed like a good idea to wade into a beer-and-absinthe-fueled argument with my best friend (a rather belligerent drunk in her own right) at New City's One Night Stand on Friday. Now she's not speaking to me and I feel like a bit of a shit (though, in my defense, it takes two to tango and I wasn't totally in the wrong.) Agh.
Oh well. "Maybe the Weakerthans will ease my troubled head," I thought on Saturday. While the Winnipeg folk-pop-punk combo put on a stellar performance, the small, unenthusiastic crowd and the cavernous Shaw Conference Centre venue put a damper on what would have been an otherwise outstanding show. And don't even get me started on the fucking hippies.
Sunday's Black Dog free show featuring locals the Film Stills and the Vertical Struts (ska-sters the Mad Bomber Society also played, but I bailed before they came on) were an improvement. The Film Stills are a neat little '60s inspired pop combo with revolving vocalists, while the Struts are a two-piece British Invasion guitar/drums explosion that is, hands down, the most exciting band our little burg has to offer.
This week, I've decided to adopt a new theme: sobriety. I figure, if I'm going to attempt to make it to Texas next week for the Austin City Limits Festival, I'd better save some dough. One way to do that is lay off the sauce for a bit. It'd probably be a boon to my liver and my waistline too. Of course if it turns out that I need a passport to go to the States, I'm totally hooped.
Friday, September 05, 2003
Aw shit.
Yeah, I had the best of intentions of doing a nice big write up of my Vancouver trip. I honestly did. However, I wasn't counting on work to be such a pit of rabid dogs this week, so that plan went down the shitter. Instead, enjoy this Reader's Digest condensed version.
Highlight
Radiohead, fer sure. A full on sensory experience. It was like being born and seeing the world for the first time (while surrounded by thousands of pot smokers).
Lowlight Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks.
"Hi, I'm Stephen Malkmus. I hope you don't mind if I waste everyone's time for the next 40 minutes with a truly half-assed set of the most inaccessible gibberish going, do you? Thanks."
Best Bar The Railway Club.
Best demographic observation by an obsessive fan
Sue, the Dandy Warholoholic who was rocking out during the (rather mellow) Dandy's set on Friday, on the rather aged appearance of the crowd in the Zone (a fenced off area in front of the stage, apparently reserved for the elderly and infirm): "Look, there's a guy wearing a fuckin' Peter Gabriel shirt!" Yeah, everyone knows Peter Gabriel sucked since he quit KISS. (Note: Sue was heading down to Bumbershoot on Saturday for the Dandy's show there. Hope it was fun)
Best Dive
The Cambie, baby.
Best way to kill 2 hours on a hot afternoon
TAFU on Granville has cheap suds and an itty-bitty, but strategically located, patio. Perfect for sighting gap*.
Best stage banter
Wilco's Jeff Tweedy: "I just had sinus surgery, so I may sound a little funny. I don't know why they had to shave my scrotum for that, though."
Weirdest phenomenon
The lack of men's medium T-shirts at every wacky boutique on Granville. Still kicking myself for not buying the kick ass shirt with the cover of the "London Calling" single on it, though.
Fuck-me-in-the-ass-that's-expensive!
$7 pints at YVR's lounge. If we hadn't been so drunk already, we wouldn't have stood for it.
Well that about wraps it up, kids. Stay tuned for highlights from One Night Stand, the Weakerthans and a bunch of other shit that no one but me will give a crap about.
*Gap: (n) The visible portion of a girl's back between the bottom of her shirt and top of her pants. See also: awesome.
Yeah, I had the best of intentions of doing a nice big write up of my Vancouver trip. I honestly did. However, I wasn't counting on work to be such a pit of rabid dogs this week, so that plan went down the shitter. Instead, enjoy this Reader's Digest condensed version.
Highlight
Radiohead, fer sure. A full on sensory experience. It was like being born and seeing the world for the first time (while surrounded by thousands of pot smokers).
Lowlight Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks.
"Hi, I'm Stephen Malkmus. I hope you don't mind if I waste everyone's time for the next 40 minutes with a truly half-assed set of the most inaccessible gibberish going, do you? Thanks."
Best Bar The Railway Club.
Best demographic observation by an obsessive fan
Sue, the Dandy Warholoholic who was rocking out during the (rather mellow) Dandy's set on Friday, on the rather aged appearance of the crowd in the Zone (a fenced off area in front of the stage, apparently reserved for the elderly and infirm): "Look, there's a guy wearing a fuckin' Peter Gabriel shirt!" Yeah, everyone knows Peter Gabriel sucked since he quit KISS. (Note: Sue was heading down to Bumbershoot on Saturday for the Dandy's show there. Hope it was fun)
Best Dive
The Cambie, baby.
Best way to kill 2 hours on a hot afternoon
TAFU on Granville has cheap suds and an itty-bitty, but strategically located, patio. Perfect for sighting gap*.
Best stage banter
Wilco's Jeff Tweedy: "I just had sinus surgery, so I may sound a little funny. I don't know why they had to shave my scrotum for that, though."
Weirdest phenomenon
The lack of men's medium T-shirts at every wacky boutique on Granville. Still kicking myself for not buying the kick ass shirt with the cover of the "London Calling" single on it, though.
Fuck-me-in-the-ass-that's-expensive!
$7 pints at YVR's lounge. If we hadn't been so drunk already, we wouldn't have stood for it.
Well that about wraps it up, kids. Stay tuned for highlights from One Night Stand, the Weakerthans and a bunch of other shit that no one but me will give a crap about.
*Gap: (n) The visible portion of a girl's back between the bottom of her shirt and top of her pants. See also: awesome.
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