So here's the thing. In the next 48 hours, my life is going to change-- a lot. I have no idea what I will be doing next Monday morning, but the options are either a Starbucks run on my way to a corporate America job in the suburbs of Atlanta, wearing a band t-shirt and pretending I know something about marketing... or downing a cup of cinnamon coffee on the quietest mountain this side of the 16th century, then heading out in my hiking boots for a day of trail-clearing, bug-bitten, out-of-breath labor. And either way, I am totally ok with it. Not quite true; either way I'll be mildly disappointed and mildly relieved-- I just want the next three months solved ASAP. Either way is going to be fun, but really all I've done is prolong my jump into real real life.
To put it in the immortal words of the man from the mountain himself: "Where are you going?"
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Saturday, October 13, 2007
The city's summer always smells like perfume...
The Honorary Title is a band that I have been rooting for since the first time I saw them live three years ago. Then comprised of only two guys, they gave off a hipster vibe that already said they knew they were too cool to be opening for Switchfoot. (I still don’t understand how that tour happened...?) Anyway, now on tour with Cartel, they have moved up to five members and have remained awesome.
I remember the first time I saw the Honorary Title I was blown away much more by their performance than by the headlining band’s. The lead singer has a stage presence that can’t be taught; the original two members played a brand of rock and roll that I thought died twenty years ago. Seeing them again was amazing– I have followed their progress through the years, and their newest album, Scream and Light Up The Sky remains as retro-rocking as ever. Their sound is hipster, retro rock and roll that sounds like you should probably only listen to it live or on vinyl. And the best part? They know they’re going somewhere, and they don’t care whether the teenybopper pre-hipster Cartel-listening Atlanta crowd is likes them or not. The lead singer wore the same unisex sideswept haircut as me, with a Boy Scout uniform shirt I only wish I was thin enough to wear, but what made their set so amazing was his running commentary between songs– he knows the crowd he is playing to, he knows they aren’t the kind that he wants to be listening to their music, and he knows that they won’t understand the jokes he tells at all. I exempt myself from those generalizations only because I was there more to see his band than Cartel and because I had a wristband around my arm signifying that not only was I old enough to have driven myself there, but also I was holding a beer in my hand, proving my cool level.
Just enough asshole to be a real rock star, just enough sensitive to write amazing lyrics, just enough style to be a real hipster, these guys are on their way.
Song of choice: Along the Way.
~The Honorary Blair
I remember the first time I saw the Honorary Title I was blown away much more by their performance than by the headlining band’s. The lead singer has a stage presence that can’t be taught; the original two members played a brand of rock and roll that I thought died twenty years ago. Seeing them again was amazing– I have followed their progress through the years, and their newest album, Scream and Light Up The Sky remains as retro-rocking as ever. Their sound is hipster, retro rock and roll that sounds like you should probably only listen to it live or on vinyl. And the best part? They know they’re going somewhere, and they don’t care whether the teenybopper pre-hipster Cartel-listening Atlanta crowd is likes them or not. The lead singer wore the same unisex sideswept haircut as me, with a Boy Scout uniform shirt I only wish I was thin enough to wear, but what made their set so amazing was his running commentary between songs– he knows the crowd he is playing to, he knows they aren’t the kind that he wants to be listening to their music, and he knows that they won’t understand the jokes he tells at all. I exempt myself from those generalizations only because I was there more to see his band than Cartel and because I had a wristband around my arm signifying that not only was I old enough to have driven myself there, but also I was holding a beer in my hand, proving my cool level.
Just enough asshole to be a real rock star, just enough sensitive to write amazing lyrics, just enough style to be a real hipster, these guys are on their way.
Song of choice: Along the Way.
~The Honorary Blair
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
I know you're better than that
Dear Travis Barker,
I’m sorry, but you have been bumped from your previous position as my favorite drummer of all time by Chris Kamrada.
Yes, I know, it must come as a crushing blow to be knocked out of the running by a guy almost half your age and completely devoid of tattoos, but it’s true. Why? Because, Travis, I never saw you lick a drumstick.
Sincerely,
Blair
There For Tomorrow is a band made to be seen. I’ve been listening to them since May, and they are one of the few bands I’ve ever encountered where, upon one listen to any of their songs, I was hooked. And not hooked as in "I like that..." but hooked like spending the rest of the day muttering "when we turn these PA-GES!" under my breath. The Orlando-based quartet is all younger than me (quite a feat considering the majority of this year’s Warped Tour graduated high school the same year I did), but they’ve got what it takes to make it big: catchy hooks, addictive sampling, wicked stage presence, and perhaps most appealing for the mostly-high school age crowd at the show I caught, they’re all gorgeous.
What goes around comes around, I guess, right? We had the beautiful boys of the late 90's (Backstreet Boys and their ilk), the ridiculously unattractive men of the early millennium (Matchbox Twenty, anyone?), the emo bands with just enough ugliness to be credible (Fall Out Boy, Escape the Fate, and all the others with only one remotely handsome guy) and now, perhaps There For Tomorrow is bringing us full circle and back to the gorgeousness of yesteryear.
Anyway, how are these guys not signed? Never mind, I know how they are not signed, but the question that remains is: how long is it going to be before the entire audience of Friday night’s show is bragging to all their friends about how they were there "when There For Tomorrow played in a church youth group hall for free!"
I remember discussing the merits of There For Tomorrow with my boss this summer, and he said "what makes this band really good is that, even though they are so young, they are so in control. Especially the drums... they don’t let the music take over, they own it all." At the time I thought he was right, but it wasn’t until I saw the band play live that I realized that what makes this band really good is... well, the drummer. They’re a strong band, but as an avid concert watcher, I can tell you this– it’s hard to be a good enough drummer that you attract the attention of anyone in the audience who doesn’t happen to play drums. My eye usually never strays farther past the lead singer than the bassist, but over and over during Friday’s set I found myself entranced by the drummer’s antics instead of the lead singer, who was great but much less exciting than a drumstick-licking shaggy-haired nineteen-year-old beating the crap out of his sparkly drums.
So give it a year, folks. They’ve gotta get signed. And write some new stuff. And then record it and release it. But once they are touring the nation? They’ll be a household name and I’ll be the one saying I told you so.
Choice song: Taking Chances from the Pages EP.
Here for today,
B
I’m sorry, but you have been bumped from your previous position as my favorite drummer of all time by Chris Kamrada.
Yes, I know, it must come as a crushing blow to be knocked out of the running by a guy almost half your age and completely devoid of tattoos, but it’s true. Why? Because, Travis, I never saw you lick a drumstick.
Sincerely,
Blair
There For Tomorrow is a band made to be seen. I’ve been listening to them since May, and they are one of the few bands I’ve ever encountered where, upon one listen to any of their songs, I was hooked. And not hooked as in "I like that..." but hooked like spending the rest of the day muttering "when we turn these PA-GES!" under my breath. The Orlando-based quartet is all younger than me (quite a feat considering the majority of this year’s Warped Tour graduated high school the same year I did), but they’ve got what it takes to make it big: catchy hooks, addictive sampling, wicked stage presence, and perhaps most appealing for the mostly-high school age crowd at the show I caught, they’re all gorgeous.
What goes around comes around, I guess, right? We had the beautiful boys of the late 90's (Backstreet Boys and their ilk), the ridiculously unattractive men of the early millennium (Matchbox Twenty, anyone?), the emo bands with just enough ugliness to be credible (Fall Out Boy, Escape the Fate, and all the others with only one remotely handsome guy) and now, perhaps There For Tomorrow is bringing us full circle and back to the gorgeousness of yesteryear.
Anyway, how are these guys not signed? Never mind, I know how they are not signed, but the question that remains is: how long is it going to be before the entire audience of Friday night’s show is bragging to all their friends about how they were there "when There For Tomorrow played in a church youth group hall for free!"
I remember discussing the merits of There For Tomorrow with my boss this summer, and he said "what makes this band really good is that, even though they are so young, they are so in control. Especially the drums... they don’t let the music take over, they own it all." At the time I thought he was right, but it wasn’t until I saw the band play live that I realized that what makes this band really good is... well, the drummer. They’re a strong band, but as an avid concert watcher, I can tell you this– it’s hard to be a good enough drummer that you attract the attention of anyone in the audience who doesn’t happen to play drums. My eye usually never strays farther past the lead singer than the bassist, but over and over during Friday’s set I found myself entranced by the drummer’s antics instead of the lead singer, who was great but much less exciting than a drumstick-licking shaggy-haired nineteen-year-old beating the crap out of his sparkly drums.
So give it a year, folks. They’ve gotta get signed. And write some new stuff. And then record it and release it. But once they are touring the nation? They’ll be a household name and I’ll be the one saying I told you so.
Choice song: Taking Chances from the Pages EP.
Here for today,
B
Sunday, July 15, 2007
How To Save A Life...
"Heaven forbid you end up alone, and don't know why..."
~The Fray
Note to all aspiring acoustic-y indie bands: if you don't want a career in music, but you do want a diversion for a couple years (and then millions of dollars to play with for the rest of your life), hire The Fray's manager. They have been touring for two years on one album, have re-released three different versions of the same album, and scored at least three major radio hits. They're about to take a year off to record a new album, but my (amateur) prediction is that they will hit major sophomore slump– after success that quick, who wouldn’t? That said, I have still always had a soft spot for them. Wednesday I went to work feeling vaguely sick. Fifteen minutes before I finished, I got a text from a friend with an extra ticket to see The Fray-- an hour later. I said yes. Mainly because The Fray is one of those bands that I've liked since before anyone had heard of them, but now they are famous and I would never spend $40 to see a band that has gone so mainstream. The spare ticket had been provided by a record label, which meant that it was a really good seat. Rock on. Despite the lead singer's lack of stage presence when he WASN'T behind the piano, they were a fun band to watch, playing a hilarious cover of the Shakira/Wyclef Jean hit "Hips Don’t Lie" and lapsing seamlessly into Oasis' "Wonderwall" during the ending jam on "Vienna."
Anyway, the show was cool. I’m not big on piano-centric concerts, but this one was great. And The Fray, if nothing else, proves that the dorky kid you went to high school with WILL come out on top. You know the kid– he graduated high school having never shaved a day in his life, wore a calculator watch on a daily basis and played piano. Looks may not improve and he may keep on wearing that calculator watch, but your mom was right, ladies. Be nice to him now; someday you'll be begging for tickets to see his show.
Song Of Choice: "Heaven Forbid"
Everyone knows I'm in over my head,
Blair
~The Fray
Note to all aspiring acoustic-y indie bands: if you don't want a career in music, but you do want a diversion for a couple years (and then millions of dollars to play with for the rest of your life), hire The Fray's manager. They have been touring for two years on one album, have re-released three different versions of the same album, and scored at least three major radio hits. They're about to take a year off to record a new album, but my (amateur) prediction is that they will hit major sophomore slump– after success that quick, who wouldn’t? That said, I have still always had a soft spot for them. Wednesday I went to work feeling vaguely sick. Fifteen minutes before I finished, I got a text from a friend with an extra ticket to see The Fray-- an hour later. I said yes. Mainly because The Fray is one of those bands that I've liked since before anyone had heard of them, but now they are famous and I would never spend $40 to see a band that has gone so mainstream. The spare ticket had been provided by a record label, which meant that it was a really good seat. Rock on. Despite the lead singer's lack of stage presence when he WASN'T behind the piano, they were a fun band to watch, playing a hilarious cover of the Shakira/Wyclef Jean hit "Hips Don’t Lie" and lapsing seamlessly into Oasis' "Wonderwall" during the ending jam on "Vienna."
Anyway, the show was cool. I’m not big on piano-centric concerts, but this one was great. And The Fray, if nothing else, proves that the dorky kid you went to high school with WILL come out on top. You know the kid– he graduated high school having never shaved a day in his life, wore a calculator watch on a daily basis and played piano. Looks may not improve and he may keep on wearing that calculator watch, but your mom was right, ladies. Be nice to him now; someday you'll be begging for tickets to see his show.
Song Of Choice: "Heaven Forbid"
Everyone knows I'm in over my head,
Blair
Friday, July 6, 2007
Why am I dying to live if I'm just living to die?
"California... the state where you never find a dance floor empty."
~ 2Pac, California Love
Ok, ok, I admit it. I like a good conspiracy theory as much as the next 21-year-old record label intern... at least when it has to do with a musician. I read a book a few years ago called "The Walrus Was Paul" about the alleged death of Paul McCartney. I don't know how well-known the theory was back in the day, but the book argued that Paul had died (probably in a car wreck) during the Beatles' heyday, immediately prior to the release of "Let It Be." After his death, because the record label and the rest of the band didn't want to quit recording, they found someone that looked like him and faked that he was still alive. The book had all kinds of awesome "proofs" of the theory, some of them believable, some of them ridiculous, and some of them just creepy.
After I read the book, I had nightmares for a week. I don't know why, it wasn't a ghost story. But it completely freaked me out. Conversely, there's a theory now that Tupac Shakur is still alive. Tupac, in case you don't know, was a rapper killed in the mid-90's in a drive-by shooting. Not known for his pacificity, he was in a car with the owner of his record label (Suge Knight, a known gang member) when he was shot in the head and killed. Or at least that's what most everyone thinks. Two months after his death, a rival rapper, Biggie Smalls, was killed in a similar fashion, and there has always been [logical] theories that his death was retribution for Shakur's. Neither death was very well investigated, which is odd, because I think if it happened today (eleven years later) it would be the center of news for weeks. Things like that just don't happen now, and it seems odd that only eleven years ago, it was considered par for the course and no big deal. Maybe it has more to do with the rise of rap as a mainstream genre of music than anything else, but today the hiphop industry is not looked at as legit, to coin an MC Hammer phrase. No one thinks that famous people are actually part of gangs or actually deal drugs, primarily because it's been proven that artists like Vanilla Ice and others came from middle-class backgrounds and never set foot on the other side of the tracks. But back in the 90's... Suge Knight and his henchmen beat up artists trying to get off their label; kidnapped rival record label owners; and killed each other in gang-related shootings. The only ones left today who are still famous and were around back then are Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre, but Dr. Dre (as everyone knows) is dead and locked in Eminem's basement, so really that leaves Snoop, who coaches a little league team somewhere in California, which means he's kind of a sellout.
The LAPD, never known for its righteous officers, had been exposed over and over as having connections with Tupac, Dre, Knight, and the rest of the Death Row Records crew, so is it really so much more farfetched to think that they could help him fake his death? I'm not saying I believe it, but I am saying this theory has a lot more validity than a lot out there.
You know the saying about protesting too much? It's not directly related to this, but when most famous people die, there are not photos of them on the autopsy table available online. But there have always been photos of Tupac widely available on the internet, even on posters and t-shirts, which is the only way I knew they existed. It seems like the whole situation was orchestrated to be easy to "prove" his death.
Again, I'm not saying I believe he's going to show back up on Saturday, but after reading through the "proofs," all of which revolve around the number 7 (hence the Saturday return-- it's 7/7/07), at least I see where the theory originated. Most of them are fairly coincidental, BUT thanks to computer music programs like ProTools, it's easy now to listen to music played backwards. I've never believed in the validity of backwards music, mainly because I've never listened to anything backwards. But after listening to "This Life I Lead" recorded backwards on WavePad, the words "Yeah, I am alive" are so obvious it's creepy. And the fact that he's come out with more albums since his death than he did while he was alive? Weird. I don't think it's true. I don't think he's coming back. But the theory is creepy and weird to me, and if he were to show back up, it would be a little bit nuts.
Plus, let's look at this logically. Faking your own death is not legal, so if he shows back up now, he'd be immediately arrested. If, somehow, he has managed to stay alive and under the radar for ELEVEN years, why not keep it up and stay on permanent vacation, collecting royalties from his "posthumous" albums and chilling on a beach in Jamaica?
It still gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Thug Life, B
~ 2Pac, California Love
Ok, ok, I admit it. I like a good conspiracy theory as much as the next 21-year-old record label intern... at least when it has to do with a musician. I read a book a few years ago called "The Walrus Was Paul" about the alleged death of Paul McCartney. I don't know how well-known the theory was back in the day, but the book argued that Paul had died (probably in a car wreck) during the Beatles' heyday, immediately prior to the release of "Let It Be." After his death, because the record label and the rest of the band didn't want to quit recording, they found someone that looked like him and faked that he was still alive. The book had all kinds of awesome "proofs" of the theory, some of them believable, some of them ridiculous, and some of them just creepy.
After I read the book, I had nightmares for a week. I don't know why, it wasn't a ghost story. But it completely freaked me out. Conversely, there's a theory now that Tupac Shakur is still alive. Tupac, in case you don't know, was a rapper killed in the mid-90's in a drive-by shooting. Not known for his pacificity, he was in a car with the owner of his record label (Suge Knight, a known gang member) when he was shot in the head and killed. Or at least that's what most everyone thinks. Two months after his death, a rival rapper, Biggie Smalls, was killed in a similar fashion, and there has always been [logical] theories that his death was retribution for Shakur's. Neither death was very well investigated, which is odd, because I think if it happened today (eleven years later) it would be the center of news for weeks. Things like that just don't happen now, and it seems odd that only eleven years ago, it was considered par for the course and no big deal. Maybe it has more to do with the rise of rap as a mainstream genre of music than anything else, but today the hiphop industry is not looked at as legit, to coin an MC Hammer phrase. No one thinks that famous people are actually part of gangs or actually deal drugs, primarily because it's been proven that artists like Vanilla Ice and others came from middle-class backgrounds and never set foot on the other side of the tracks. But back in the 90's... Suge Knight and his henchmen beat up artists trying to get off their label; kidnapped rival record label owners; and killed each other in gang-related shootings. The only ones left today who are still famous and were around back then are Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre, but Dr. Dre (as everyone knows) is dead and locked in Eminem's basement, so really that leaves Snoop, who coaches a little league team somewhere in California, which means he's kind of a sellout.
The LAPD, never known for its righteous officers, had been exposed over and over as having connections with Tupac, Dre, Knight, and the rest of the Death Row Records crew, so is it really so much more farfetched to think that they could help him fake his death? I'm not saying I believe it, but I am saying this theory has a lot more validity than a lot out there.
You know the saying about protesting too much? It's not directly related to this, but when most famous people die, there are not photos of them on the autopsy table available online. But there have always been photos of Tupac widely available on the internet, even on posters and t-shirts, which is the only way I knew they existed. It seems like the whole situation was orchestrated to be easy to "prove" his death.
Again, I'm not saying I believe he's going to show back up on Saturday, but after reading through the "proofs," all of which revolve around the number 7 (hence the Saturday return-- it's 7/7/07), at least I see where the theory originated. Most of them are fairly coincidental, BUT thanks to computer music programs like ProTools, it's easy now to listen to music played backwards. I've never believed in the validity of backwards music, mainly because I've never listened to anything backwards. But after listening to "This Life I Lead" recorded backwards on WavePad, the words "Yeah, I am alive" are so obvious it's creepy. And the fact that he's come out with more albums since his death than he did while he was alive? Weird. I don't think it's true. I don't think he's coming back. But the theory is creepy and weird to me, and if he were to show back up, it would be a little bit nuts.
Plus, let's look at this logically. Faking your own death is not legal, so if he shows back up now, he'd be immediately arrested. If, somehow, he has managed to stay alive and under the radar for ELEVEN years, why not keep it up and stay on permanent vacation, collecting royalties from his "posthumous" albums and chilling on a beach in Jamaica?
It still gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Thug Life, B
Monday, June 18, 2007
Tonight the bulls are in Los Angeles...
"I've found the cure to growing older, and you're the only place that feels like home."
~Fall Out Boy
Last night was the Honda Civic Tour at the LA Forum, which is not in Los Angeles at all, but in Inglewood, which is only approximately half a step above Compton. I went by myself, kind of at the last minute, but I still managed to end up with a second row ticket directly next to the stage, which means I didn’t get a full-on view, but I had the best view of anyone there except those kids in the pit getting smashed. Cobra Starship opened, and though I tend to disapprove of any emo/rock bands with girls in them, they rocked. Not only do they have their own hand gesture ("Get your fangs up!"), but the girl in the band plays the keytar. All the time. And the lead singer, though not gorgeous, was the most fun performer I have seen since Motion City Soundtrack.
Following them was Paul Wall– I purposely waited to go check out the merch table until he hit the stage. I mean, first of all, he’s a rapper. (Note to Paul Wall’s record label: there is nothing an emo kid hates more than a rapper, except perhaps a carnivore.) And more importantly, he’s a no-good rapper. Not to mention the fact that rap went out when tight pants came in. Enough said.
And then The Academy Is... hit the stage, which is really the reason I was there. I saw them live a couple years ago, and they were amazing, but even now that they are more famous, they are still amazing in concert. I think the lead, William Beckett, has gained weight since the last time I saw them (which is good– I think I could have broken him in half with one hand last time I saw them). Their new album came out two months ago, and they’re not headlining for it, which is pretty awesome. Not to mention the fact that the lead singer is probably going to be the next candidate for a Blair haircut AND he sang all the instrumental parts from the album, which pretty much kicked.
+44 came out after that... not because they are any good, but because when any band is composed of exactly two thirds of Blink-182, you let them do whatever they want. When Blink broke up, the lead singer/bassist and drummer stayed together, found two more guys, and became +44. They kept the immaturity of Blink-182, and apparently some of the music rights, since they performed my all time favorite Blink song, Girl At the Rock Show. The mature, less prone to playing music in nothing but a tube sock remainder of Blink (Angels and Airwaves’ Tom DeLonge) moved more away from their roots, which is awesome, and the reason why Angels and Airwaves has always been my preferred piece of Blink. But nevertheless, +44 put on a good set– I know I have never seen a drummer as amazing or as entertaining as Travis Barker... he came out with a mohawk and jeans and nothing else, covered in tattoos from the waist up. As soon as he played the opening solo for the opening song, the mohawk was limp from the headbanging. I noticed a woman in the wings of the stage, carrying a sleeping baby girl in a white dress with HUGE headphones on– the kind that block out all noise. The woman stayed there with the baby for the whole set, and I knew it must belong to one of the guys in the band, but I didn’t know who until they left the stage, Travis climbed down from the drum riser, walked past the woman, and took the baby from her arms. (All of which makes sense since the whole band is from LA. Of COURSE their families were there.) But then I started thinking about it– I mean, honestly, how crazy for that little girl... can you imagine growing up with a dad covered with tattoos (and a mohawk) known for having played on top of the Radio City Music Hall marquee naked? But it was clear he loved the baby, so I've gotta hand it to him.
Fall Out Boy was the headlining act, and even though I had seen them before (in Atlanta a year and a half ago), they were still amazing. The dynamic between Pete Wentz (the bassist but not the singer) and the rest of the band is odd– he writes the songs, but just because he happens to be the most attractive one in the band, he is always the one that narrates between songs, and the one everyone loves to love (or loves to hate, depending on your level of emo-ness). Anyway, this was the first set I had seen involving a change of clothes since the last time I saw the Backstreet Boys, which may or may not have been on their last major tour... A little too much pyrotechnic activity, but they played all the good songs (and some of the bad ones– WHY does ANYONE like "Where Is Your Boy Tonight?" I’ll tell you where your boy is tonight: he’s hiding in the green room until you finish this song). Plus, I would give anything for a shiny black bass with a red bat on it.
All in all, the show was amazing... despite the fact that the cab ride I took home from it cost me as much as another ticket (thanks, Dodgers game that got out the same time as Fall Out Boy concert. Thanks).
I guess what it comes down to is that I like Fueled By Ramen and their bands, I think they put on good shows, and I am finally not afraid to admit it. Well done. And throwing +44 and a rapper in with a bunch of semi-emo trendy-indie bands? Maybe not a stroke of genius, but still an interesting night.
Going deaf from the sounds of the freeway,
Blair
~Fall Out Boy
Last night was the Honda Civic Tour at the LA Forum, which is not in Los Angeles at all, but in Inglewood, which is only approximately half a step above Compton. I went by myself, kind of at the last minute, but I still managed to end up with a second row ticket directly next to the stage, which means I didn’t get a full-on view, but I had the best view of anyone there except those kids in the pit getting smashed. Cobra Starship opened, and though I tend to disapprove of any emo/rock bands with girls in them, they rocked. Not only do they have their own hand gesture ("Get your fangs up!"), but the girl in the band plays the keytar. All the time. And the lead singer, though not gorgeous, was the most fun performer I have seen since Motion City Soundtrack.
Following them was Paul Wall– I purposely waited to go check out the merch table until he hit the stage. I mean, first of all, he’s a rapper. (Note to Paul Wall’s record label: there is nothing an emo kid hates more than a rapper, except perhaps a carnivore.) And more importantly, he’s a no-good rapper. Not to mention the fact that rap went out when tight pants came in. Enough said.
And then The Academy Is... hit the stage, which is really the reason I was there. I saw them live a couple years ago, and they were amazing, but even now that they are more famous, they are still amazing in concert. I think the lead, William Beckett, has gained weight since the last time I saw them (which is good– I think I could have broken him in half with one hand last time I saw them). Their new album came out two months ago, and they’re not headlining for it, which is pretty awesome. Not to mention the fact that the lead singer is probably going to be the next candidate for a Blair haircut AND he sang all the instrumental parts from the album, which pretty much kicked.
+44 came out after that... not because they are any good, but because when any band is composed of exactly two thirds of Blink-182, you let them do whatever they want. When Blink broke up, the lead singer/bassist and drummer stayed together, found two more guys, and became +44. They kept the immaturity of Blink-182, and apparently some of the music rights, since they performed my all time favorite Blink song, Girl At the Rock Show. The mature, less prone to playing music in nothing but a tube sock remainder of Blink (Angels and Airwaves’ Tom DeLonge) moved more away from their roots, which is awesome, and the reason why Angels and Airwaves has always been my preferred piece of Blink. But nevertheless, +44 put on a good set– I know I have never seen a drummer as amazing or as entertaining as Travis Barker... he came out with a mohawk and jeans and nothing else, covered in tattoos from the waist up. As soon as he played the opening solo for the opening song, the mohawk was limp from the headbanging. I noticed a woman in the wings of the stage, carrying a sleeping baby girl in a white dress with HUGE headphones on– the kind that block out all noise. The woman stayed there with the baby for the whole set, and I knew it must belong to one of the guys in the band, but I didn’t know who until they left the stage, Travis climbed down from the drum riser, walked past the woman, and took the baby from her arms. (All of which makes sense since the whole band is from LA. Of COURSE their families were there.) But then I started thinking about it– I mean, honestly, how crazy for that little girl... can you imagine growing up with a dad covered with tattoos (and a mohawk) known for having played on top of the Radio City Music Hall marquee naked? But it was clear he loved the baby, so I've gotta hand it to him.
Fall Out Boy was the headlining act, and even though I had seen them before (in Atlanta a year and a half ago), they were still amazing. The dynamic between Pete Wentz (the bassist but not the singer) and the rest of the band is odd– he writes the songs, but just because he happens to be the most attractive one in the band, he is always the one that narrates between songs, and the one everyone loves to love (or loves to hate, depending on your level of emo-ness). Anyway, this was the first set I had seen involving a change of clothes since the last time I saw the Backstreet Boys, which may or may not have been on their last major tour... A little too much pyrotechnic activity, but they played all the good songs (and some of the bad ones– WHY does ANYONE like "Where Is Your Boy Tonight?" I’ll tell you where your boy is tonight: he’s hiding in the green room until you finish this song). Plus, I would give anything for a shiny black bass with a red bat on it.
All in all, the show was amazing... despite the fact that the cab ride I took home from it cost me as much as another ticket (thanks, Dodgers game that got out the same time as Fall Out Boy concert. Thanks).
I guess what it comes down to is that I like Fueled By Ramen and their bands, I think they put on good shows, and I am finally not afraid to admit it. Well done. And throwing +44 and a rapper in with a bunch of semi-emo trendy-indie bands? Maybe not a stroke of genius, but still an interesting night.
Going deaf from the sounds of the freeway,
Blair
Sunday, February 4, 2007
On her face is a map of the world...
Quote of last night: "Open it up, MOSH, right now– I want to see it. North, South, East, West, go. I SAID MOSH!"
~30 Seconds To Mars
I.Am.So.Hardcore.
And you know it is true, because when you are hardcore, you.have.to.type.like.this.
Some people who live in other countries deal with homesickness for the US by talking on Skype. Some people deal with it by paying 1Euro every 10 minutes to have their clothes put in the dryer at the laundrymat. Some people find overpriced import stores and buy Dr. Pepper.
And some people go to concerts. Tonight was the 30 Seconds to Mars concert here in Paris. I had my eBay-purchased ticket, was going by myself, and could not have been more excited. Now, a word about this band for those of you who do not know: they are ridiculous. Whether you like their music or not is irrelevant to the point that they have this ridiculously insane fanbase which is composed of some of the most hardcore people I have ever seen. Their fans, incidentally, are mostly guys, which was pretty cool and made for a way different vibe than the tough-girls-who-want-to-listen-to-guy-rock that is the crowd at most concerts in the States now. I got to the venue (Le Bataclan, a 19th century burlesque house now in the garment district on the far east side of Paris) about an hour before doors were supposed to open, and the line was already pretty long. I quickly realized I was overdressed for the occasion (what’s new?) in my black halter, black jeans, Beetlejuice tights, and black sparkly ballet slippers. Everyone else showed up in black t-shirts with their black jeans and black hoodies and faded black Chuck Taylors. At least I got the color right.
So I’m standing out there, in the dark, in the garment district, in front of a Kosher Jewish Italian café (what?), and it is freezing. Literally. And of course, I am wearing as little warm clothing as possible, because once I get in to the show it is going to be meltingly hot. Over my halter I have my rock star/marching band jacket (in guess what color?) that wouldn’t keep me warm in Florida on Thanksgiving, much less in Paris in the bleak of winter. (I also had on wristies, but those count for absolutely nothing when it comes to keeping warm.)
And then it started to rain. And I almost burst out laughing at the thought of the whole situation: I’m standing in line for the concert of a band I love, the only one within earshot who actually can pronounce the name of the band in English (come on, guys, it’s not "Trente Secondes à Mars", get it right), alone, overdressed, foreign, hungry (oh, yeah, our refrigerator is getting replaced, so I couldn’t find any food, so I didn’t eat dinner... which means all I ate all day was a lump of baguette for breakfast at 9am and then a cup of coffee at 14h), and cold, and now it has started to rain. But as I am sitting here thinking how ridiculous it all is, the crowning point of the night (other than getting to be in the same room as Jared Leto for a couple hours) happened when a man about my grandfather’s age drove down the street where we were all standing... in a convertible from probably the 1930's, one of those really old, really long, really low ones... in the rain... with a world war II pilot hat on, straps fluttering in the breeze behind him and driving goggles, on the right side of the car. I suppose it was an English car (who am I kidding, it had to be. No one but an Englishman would wear that outfit in the rain in the middle of the night in Paris), but it was probably the funniest thing I have ever seen (other than four grown men in fingerless leather gloves with their rock fists in the air and ninja masks)...
I mean, really, just as soon as I had convinced myself that I was at a real concert, just like a real American, something like that happens and there goes the sham. The rain never got hard enough to actually soak all of us, just sprinkled enough to look like tiny bits of glitter in the hair (now frizzed) that I had spent so much time trying to fix. They let us in eventually, I found a spot with a great view, and pretty soon, the mayhem commenceth. European concerts of American bands (particularly in non-English speaking countries) have this crazy weird atmosphere because of all the complicated factors going into the show. The opening act is almost always a local European group, because 1) what small-time band can afford to go tour Europe? And 2) what’s the point in doing it if they haven’t even made it big in the US yet? So the opening act was a Parisian band (Quidam), who were amazing, though everyone just kind of yawned at them. I felt bad for them, but they were amazing. And then the lights re-dimmed, and out came 30 Seconds To Mars, in fully black clothing with ninja masks and bandanas tying the masks to their faces. Amazing show, full of masks and tight girl-pants and enough eyeliner to paint a small house... Kind of the emo equivalent of a rock opera. And we are all out there in the audience with our rock fists in the air, more fingerless gloves than I have ever seen in one place before in my life. So we’re moshing to our heart’s content in the pit, and the lead singer is jumping around like a spider monkey (if I could have fit into his pants, I would have looked like a spider monkey too). And any inkling of homesickness I did have disappeared with the pride in my heart that my country makes such good music (is it bad that the biggest pride I have in my home is music made by four guys ten years older than me who all wear more makeup than I do?). And to make it even cooler, the band actually learned a few French phrases, said with surprising accuracy and a pretty good accent. (Though I truly hate to think of the vocabulary gained by the English-challenged French people in the crowd... the most common word used throughout the show was not one that really ought to be used in everyday talk.)
But they only played for 50 minutes! This is not nearly long enough to be considered a whole concert, even if you have thrown six water bottles into the audience and exhausted your microphone’s supply of guitar picks by the end of the second song. Even if you do jump around like a monkey and stagedive into the audience to the point of ripping one sleeve of your shirt off... I understand it must be tiring, but 50 minutes? Come on...But then I realized that it is really only 50 minutes because afterward, they hung out with everyone there for more than two and a half more hours. As they left the stage, they promised to "say hello to every single one of you" and I thought that was a load of crap, but then, sure enough, they stayed outside in the freezing cold with all of us greasemonkey sweaty fans, most of whom don’t even speak English. So I stayed for awhile, in the cold, until I realized that, though the rest of them could stay for hours because they had to drive home to some suburb somewhere, I actually live in Paris, so I had to leave or risk missing the Metro. And though I can walk home from the Musee d’Orsay in the middle of the day, I most certainly cannot from the garment district (as far in Paris as one can get from my apartment) at 2am. Which means that this is a very anti-climactic story, because there were no lies to huge bouncers or sneaky attempts to look like I knew what I was doing and get backstage. Because there was no need to.So the debate becomes: short concert but chance to actually meet the band vs. long show but snobby artists who get straight on their bus?If I was 17, I’d be all about the first one. But now? I don’t know, man, it’s a tough call.And now I am home, a little cold still but otherwise none the worse for the wear of the night. I tried to wash my face as soon as I got home because I felt so sweaty and greasy... but all that happened was that my eyeliner went from lining my eyes to lining my face, and I somehow got glitter all over myself (where in heaven’s name did that come from?). Since when did makeup start requiring mineral spirits and a buffer to get off?I think I need red streaks in my hair.On a mission over the hill,BP.S. I want to be the guy in charge of holding the guitar of the lead singer and looping it over his head when he wants it back on him.
~30 Seconds To Mars
I.Am.So.Hardcore.
And you know it is true, because when you are hardcore, you.have.to.type.like.this.
Some people who live in other countries deal with homesickness for the US by talking on Skype. Some people deal with it by paying 1Euro every 10 minutes to have their clothes put in the dryer at the laundrymat. Some people find overpriced import stores and buy Dr. Pepper.
And some people go to concerts. Tonight was the 30 Seconds to Mars concert here in Paris. I had my eBay-purchased ticket, was going by myself, and could not have been more excited. Now, a word about this band for those of you who do not know: they are ridiculous. Whether you like their music or not is irrelevant to the point that they have this ridiculously insane fanbase which is composed of some of the most hardcore people I have ever seen. Their fans, incidentally, are mostly guys, which was pretty cool and made for a way different vibe than the tough-girls-who-want-to-listen-to-guy-rock that is the crowd at most concerts in the States now. I got to the venue (Le Bataclan, a 19th century burlesque house now in the garment district on the far east side of Paris) about an hour before doors were supposed to open, and the line was already pretty long. I quickly realized I was overdressed for the occasion (what’s new?) in my black halter, black jeans, Beetlejuice tights, and black sparkly ballet slippers. Everyone else showed up in black t-shirts with their black jeans and black hoodies and faded black Chuck Taylors. At least I got the color right.
So I’m standing out there, in the dark, in the garment district, in front of a Kosher Jewish Italian café (what?), and it is freezing. Literally. And of course, I am wearing as little warm clothing as possible, because once I get in to the show it is going to be meltingly hot. Over my halter I have my rock star/marching band jacket (in guess what color?) that wouldn’t keep me warm in Florida on Thanksgiving, much less in Paris in the bleak of winter. (I also had on wristies, but those count for absolutely nothing when it comes to keeping warm.)
And then it started to rain. And I almost burst out laughing at the thought of the whole situation: I’m standing in line for the concert of a band I love, the only one within earshot who actually can pronounce the name of the band in English (come on, guys, it’s not "Trente Secondes à Mars", get it right), alone, overdressed, foreign, hungry (oh, yeah, our refrigerator is getting replaced, so I couldn’t find any food, so I didn’t eat dinner... which means all I ate all day was a lump of baguette for breakfast at 9am and then a cup of coffee at 14h), and cold, and now it has started to rain. But as I am sitting here thinking how ridiculous it all is, the crowning point of the night (other than getting to be in the same room as Jared Leto for a couple hours) happened when a man about my grandfather’s age drove down the street where we were all standing... in a convertible from probably the 1930's, one of those really old, really long, really low ones... in the rain... with a world war II pilot hat on, straps fluttering in the breeze behind him and driving goggles, on the right side of the car. I suppose it was an English car (who am I kidding, it had to be. No one but an Englishman would wear that outfit in the rain in the middle of the night in Paris), but it was probably the funniest thing I have ever seen (other than four grown men in fingerless leather gloves with their rock fists in the air and ninja masks)...
I mean, really, just as soon as I had convinced myself that I was at a real concert, just like a real American, something like that happens and there goes the sham. The rain never got hard enough to actually soak all of us, just sprinkled enough to look like tiny bits of glitter in the hair (now frizzed) that I had spent so much time trying to fix. They let us in eventually, I found a spot with a great view, and pretty soon, the mayhem commenceth. European concerts of American bands (particularly in non-English speaking countries) have this crazy weird atmosphere because of all the complicated factors going into the show. The opening act is almost always a local European group, because 1) what small-time band can afford to go tour Europe? And 2) what’s the point in doing it if they haven’t even made it big in the US yet? So the opening act was a Parisian band (Quidam), who were amazing, though everyone just kind of yawned at them. I felt bad for them, but they were amazing. And then the lights re-dimmed, and out came 30 Seconds To Mars, in fully black clothing with ninja masks and bandanas tying the masks to their faces. Amazing show, full of masks and tight girl-pants and enough eyeliner to paint a small house... Kind of the emo equivalent of a rock opera. And we are all out there in the audience with our rock fists in the air, more fingerless gloves than I have ever seen in one place before in my life. So we’re moshing to our heart’s content in the pit, and the lead singer is jumping around like a spider monkey (if I could have fit into his pants, I would have looked like a spider monkey too). And any inkling of homesickness I did have disappeared with the pride in my heart that my country makes such good music (is it bad that the biggest pride I have in my home is music made by four guys ten years older than me who all wear more makeup than I do?). And to make it even cooler, the band actually learned a few French phrases, said with surprising accuracy and a pretty good accent. (Though I truly hate to think of the vocabulary gained by the English-challenged French people in the crowd... the most common word used throughout the show was not one that really ought to be used in everyday talk.)
But they only played for 50 minutes! This is not nearly long enough to be considered a whole concert, even if you have thrown six water bottles into the audience and exhausted your microphone’s supply of guitar picks by the end of the second song. Even if you do jump around like a monkey and stagedive into the audience to the point of ripping one sleeve of your shirt off... I understand it must be tiring, but 50 minutes? Come on...But then I realized that it is really only 50 minutes because afterward, they hung out with everyone there for more than two and a half more hours. As they left the stage, they promised to "say hello to every single one of you" and I thought that was a load of crap, but then, sure enough, they stayed outside in the freezing cold with all of us greasemonkey sweaty fans, most of whom don’t even speak English. So I stayed for awhile, in the cold, until I realized that, though the rest of them could stay for hours because they had to drive home to some suburb somewhere, I actually live in Paris, so I had to leave or risk missing the Metro. And though I can walk home from the Musee d’Orsay in the middle of the day, I most certainly cannot from the garment district (as far in Paris as one can get from my apartment) at 2am. Which means that this is a very anti-climactic story, because there were no lies to huge bouncers or sneaky attempts to look like I knew what I was doing and get backstage. Because there was no need to.So the debate becomes: short concert but chance to actually meet the band vs. long show but snobby artists who get straight on their bus?If I was 17, I’d be all about the first one. But now? I don’t know, man, it’s a tough call.And now I am home, a little cold still but otherwise none the worse for the wear of the night. I tried to wash my face as soon as I got home because I felt so sweaty and greasy... but all that happened was that my eyeliner went from lining my eyes to lining my face, and I somehow got glitter all over myself (where in heaven’s name did that come from?). Since when did makeup start requiring mineral spirits and a buffer to get off?I think I need red streaks in my hair.On a mission over the hill,BP.S. I want to be the guy in charge of holding the guitar of the lead singer and looping it over his head when he wants it back on him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)