6.30.2006

"Honestly now, when this weekend will you wear your Red Sox hat?"
"I don't go on a trip without my Sox hat. It just doesn't happen."


Twelve in a row. Sixteen straight without an error. Four game lead in the AL East, two ten-win pitchers, stellar defensive play and run support. Even when Wakefield takes the mound.

I almost can't enjoy it. Don't get me wrong - I'm loving it. But still.

The other night, I listened to a Mets commentator who'd stopped over to say hi to the NESN guys during that evening's broadcast. During the conversation, he mentioned that the Red Sox are head and shoulders above the other AL teams New York had faced during interleague play. No question, absolutely, by far the best team.

It was great to hear, but I felt an urge to reach through the television and hit the guy.

You can't SAY that kind of thing about Boston. They'll go and screw it up.

Watching the team execute textbook-gorgeous double plays and congratulating each other with every run scored is a joy for anyone who knows the nightmare the team has been in past seasons. Despite being quite the fan of Gonzales, I still instinctively hold my breath when a ball is hit to shortstop. I half expect simple throws to first to sail wide. I worry that the throw from the outfield will miss the cutoff man.

Now? I'm worrying about when that's going to happen. We already had our magical season. Actually, wait. We had our magical fall - because anyone who was there throughout the 2004 season knows that at this time that year, we were ready to bang our heads against the walls.

Only two years later, they're playing with a professional poise and icy strength that leave me wondering "Could they actually...?"

Which makes me nervous. Remember, in 2003, I couldn't even watch the playoff games, for fear of jinxing.

Old habits die kind of hard.

6.29.2006

And it’s going to take microphones and stages,
Many people rearranging what their plans are for the night time
Hope they show up at the right time
And I’ll sing them my song
And I hope they sing along
I know they always sing along in my imagination.
- Ryan Montbleau, "Stretch"


Looking for that last-minute weekend adventure? Take to the high seas - or, at least, Boston Harbor.

The quick details:
Ryan Montbleau Band
Rock & Blues Cruise
Ship departs at 8 p.m. sharp
Tickets are $25, online purchase (and more information) is available by clicking here

Those attending can get in on the party within the party. One Miss Michelle is celebrating her birthday with the fiesta, and there's a posse prepared to celebrate it with her, sing and dance to the Montbleau gang.

Good time? Goodness, yes.

Be there.

6.28.2006

June 26, 1999.

Visiting family in Massachusetts (this was back in the day when Boston-area trips for me were rare), my father, brother and I decided to embark on one of those random adventures that always left my mother shaking her head in amusement.

"You're going to go pay money to stand at Fenway?"

Four words, Mom: It's a Pedro Game.

The game against the White Sox proved to be the only time I saw Martinez pitch in person. It was a massacre - 17-1 final score, an 11-run first inning, five Boston home runs (including two by then-favorite Nomar), and Pedro dominating in the five innings he pitched. Our standing spot was on the third base side, but the back row of seats was empty, so we decided to use them until their owners arrived -- which wasn't until the fourth inning. By the end of the game, T and I had made our way to seats in the second row behind home plate, sitting among the folks touting radar guns.

(Those were the days, huh?)

Our crew of three arrived back in Beverly with beaming grins, and my brother and I overlapped each other as we recapped the game for the amused family members who had stayed behind.

"TWO STRIKES, but I just KNEW Nomar would connect -"

"- you should have seen V's face as Dad picked on her about him -"

"- because he just doesn't have as much FAITH in Nomar as I do -"

"- you should have seen HIS face when Nomar hit the homer!"

"I never thought I'd actually almost get tired of the Red Sox scoring runs!"

I complained when Pedro left, but I'm now just looking forward to seeing him take the mound back at Fenway. The big question today has been "How would you greet him, if you had tickets to the game?"

Well, I'm going to be perched in front of the television at home, cheering for him.

That said, it would be glorious to see another Red Sox slaughter.

My nostalgic tendancies only go so far.

Update:
Dear Pedro - Sorry, dude.
Dear Red Sox - Whoo hoo! Many thanks!
xoxo - Vix

6.26.2006

Forget cats and dogs.

It is raining gerbils, lemurs, platypi and perhaps even a small pony or two.

The kicker?

I'm working a RFAR food drive this evening. Train and Anna Nalick.

Outdoor venue.

And this bad boy is supposed to go on rain or shine.

6.23.2006

June has become in recent years my own sort of New Year's Eve.

It's a time for reflection, contemplation, a chance to gauge where I am and where I want to be. Some years it kind of-sort-of-if-you-tilt-your-head-and-squint lines up. In other instances, I find the two disappointingly apart.

Why June? Well, over the past half decade, this is the month that includes the most random of the bizarre circumstances in which I tend to find myself. In one instance, I traveled a greater distance than ever before. In another, I saw two long-time musicians prepare for the (surprisingly) slow process of exploding onto the mainstream music scene. There was one June that I found myself chilling on a certain house's lawn in D.C. (or, more appropriately: trying to appear cool and collected while standing on the said lawn). It's also a month peppered with friends' birthdays - as they reflect on entering a new year of their lives, I become reflective by association.

So here I am at June 2006. Status check: 25 years old. Writer. Friends? Check. Family? Check. Misadventures? Absolutely check.

But I've felt as if I'm treading water. Not diving into something, the way I always have in the past. Get into the thick of it and then figure it all out. That's my M.O., and that's how I feel most comfortable. Too much relaxation makes me nervous. Complacency leaves me simply feeling as if I'm missing out on an opportunity I should have seen coming.

So, this June, I got to it. Projects. Contests. Groups. Ambitions. Miles. Minutes. I'm attacking it all. I'm determined to enact some change, make things happen.

I'm diving.

So it no longer involves the district city, and it has nothing to do with a plane ride. I get the feeling that it will reap just as delightful a result - if not more so - in the end.

Everybody starts out playing to win. But when sometime in their twenties they realize how hard it is to succeed, to fulfill their dreams, they give up. They make internal excuses. They become fans as opposed to players. They become shadows of their former selves. With no schoolmarm to push them, and out of their parents' sight, they're lost and broken. No, you just can't have it all. But you're entitled to quite a bit. But you've got to fight for it. - Bob Lefsetz

6.22.2006

Have you met Mr. A-Z?

OK, bear with me here. Unless you live under a rock, you've probably at least heard of the Mraz guy. One can only wonder how many times I've made reference to him here over the years.

But consider this a commentary of sorts. A discussion prompted by recent events and even more recent news. I decided to mix things up slightly for this week's "Have you met...?" - so enjoy and, as always, feel free to comment.

Week Three: Have you met Jason Mraz?

About a week and a half ago, I rode in a car with friends, traveling over rain-slickened Massachusetts roads on a gray, dismal sort of Saturday. The gloominess outside the vehicle was belied by the smiling faces within the car. We were belting out the words of the sunshine pop pulsing through the speakers.

The summer storm relief was courtesy of Jason Mraz, the San Diego-based troubador who graduated from coffeeshops to mainstream success with a couple of studio releases and several years of extensive touring. He's "The Remedy" guy, the "Geek in the Pink" known for his plucky "Wordplay."

Hey now, don't judge, naysayers. And don't squeal, teenage girls. We weren't listening to that Mraz. We were listening to a live rendition of "1000 Things," a song that has never made the jump to a recording studio. You know, the good stuff.

Whenever a musician hits the musical jackpot and becomes a widely recognizable name, there are those clusters of fans that grumble about how things were before, back when the music was still pure, unaltered by A&R guys or songwriting teams. The word "sellout" is always at least whispered, if not shouted aloud.

Many could assume that those fans are just upset over losing a secret, that the gem they've followed and gotten to know is now easily accessible to anyone with iTunes or a radio. Just another example of musical snobbery, one could say.

With Mraz, however, the difference in craft pre- and post-big break are startling apparent. Longtime listeners who tried to chalk it up to transitioning or concessionary changes are faced with the reality that the musician they touted to friends as "The Next Big Thing" is now the musician who elicits grimaces in grocery stores or elevators.

Which raises the question any invested music fan hates to ask: When does that fan stop trying to blame a label, manager or screaming new fanbase and accept the fact that she and the artist have simply taken different paths?

The best example of the Mraz I once zealously followed remains "Recorded Live at Java Joe's," a 15-track collection of songs performed at an Ocean Beach coffeeshop in 2001. Saucy, sweet and characteristically witty, Mraz and percussionist/harmonist Toca Rivera bob their way through the material; three of the songs on "Java Joe's" made the jump to studio production a year later on Mraz's debut solo album, "Waiting For My Rocket to Come."

On "Java Joe's," however, Mraz delivers the songs as they were crafted - stripped down and intimately playful or sensitive, depending on the nature of the particular piece. Unconfined, Mraz and Rivera unleash the scatting that has become a trademark of live performance but gravely underused in studios. Laughter, witticisms and banter are included on the tracks, providing a sense of what made Mraz stand out against the sea of sensitive guitar guys who have cropped up in recent years.

That warm and comfortable ambiance is a complete 180 from the slick performances captured on 2005's "Mr. A-Z," the album that listeners prematurely championed as a return to the Mraz they knew.

The major label initiation behind him, Mraz was going to be able to deliver the album he wanted to create, they (and I) thought, and live previews of the material delivered the summer before suggested a return to the intimate and introspective songster of old. Dispatches they received from the musician along the way promised the best collection of material yet.

Instead, the material had grown contrived, cliched, overthough and overwrought. Instead of simply being witty and clever, Mraz seems to elbow the listener, winking and chuckling with each "Oh! So! Smart!" turn of phrase.

The emotions that made an audience member lean forward and gasp with delight during the 2004 Curbside Prophet tour are buried beneath synthesizers and glossy pop beats; a sharp and tongue-twisting "Geek in the Pink" is transformed into a song noted most for trying desperately to be hip-hop - and failing.

Presumably intended to reflect a musician's wide-scope of interest and talent, "Mr. A-Z" instead indicates a musician uncertain of where he's going, who he wants to be. Rocker? Singer-songwriter? Freestyle MC? Teen sensation? Mraz's attempts to force each persona upon himself leaves an audience puzzled and unsettled.

Live performances in the fall of 2005 did nothing to help. The overproduction carried over to the previously untainted stage setting, with Mraz dancing like an animetronic doll, delivering a static set that offered none of the personalized touches for which he'd become known. During shows in Montreal and Boston, it appeared he was going through the motions, catering to the screaming teenage fans who clamored for his singles.

The journal entries that followed seemed to offer confirmation:

"I had too many expectations. I heard about too many expectations of others and I grew tired. I was giving up," Mraz wrote on his official website in January. "I subconsciously sabotaged my own projects in hopes of being released from the popular reality back into the wild, to have time once again to reclaim my own path, a path not written by another, a path that leads not to a predestined location based on a series of formulas one can follow to receive a lucrative reward."

Plans were announced today for four intimate acoustic summer shows, to be recorded, in Chicago, New York and Saratoga, Ca. In the announcement, Mraz described the "promise I made to myself to go back to my roots, pay tribute to the present and acknowledge the future of my fanship to music."

After the long journey of following the musician that has brought both memories and missteps, a listener must wonder: can a musician who has strayed from that path for so long every really get back?

6.21.2006

So. Soooooooo...hi.

A hectic few days have left me feeling as if it should really be Friday by now. Seriously.

I suppose I'm just trying to cram so much into my days that I'm bending the space/time continuum again. Much like how college used to be.

Huh.

So. A little catching up:

- B celebrated her birthday on Monday, and I celebrated with her. Huzzah! Play! Soccer balls! Waterfront! Forays into Lake Champlain! Check out the flickr, as we were shutter happy. Yay for birthdays! Yay for Bs!
- I've joined a new (to me) blogging group: blogcritics.org. Check it out - there is a mindblowingly immense collection of material there - I'm pleased to be a newbie!
- A couple of other ideas and projects are being kicked around inside my head. I'll keep you posted.
- The latest "Have you met...?" is being finished - I'll be posting it tomorrow.

Yep, there you have it. Now if you'll excuse me, I've more continuum-bending to do...

6.17.2006

What was all that aboot?

Is it the Canada thing? Is that the shtick? Because that's truly all I'm capable of coming up with.

Last night, I stood among a group of downright rabid Sam Roberts fans, who were flailing, hooting and saluting up a storm as they cheered on the Montreal-based contemporary classic rocker (stay with me on this one, I'll explain).

It was crazy - I saw a strange sort of hopping dance that could only be described as "premature conga-ulation" (V definition: dancing that might be acceptable in a conga line, but comes off as downright bizarre when performed by one or two people). I saw asses grabbed, arms twirled, beer sprayed and fists raised. I saw people jumping and singing the ole soccer chant whilst waiting for an encore. The people were going wild...

...and then there was me. Standing there, holding my bottle of Stella, looking about in utter disbelief.

People were actually enjoying this?

I don't tend to be mean when I go to shows. I believe that there is something inherently good in any performance or performer - sometimes it just takes a little digging around to actually determine what that good happens to be.

But when I realize that I am going to see a show to its end just to take in the surreal, wacky train wreck the headlining set is? That's when I get snarky.

He's extraordinarily earnest, I'll give him that. The people at the show last night - many of whom had made the trip from Quebec - LOVE his band. And he loves them, taking the time after saying goodnight to slap hands with every single person who extended their arms, grinning like a fool, basking in the glory...

But let's try to describe this in a manner that Roberts could understand. Since I bet he's the kind of guy who'd laugh and say "Hell yeah!" if anyone shouted out "Freebird," we're going to go back to "Almost Famous" and Jeff Bebe, who says:

I work just as hard or harder than anybody on that stage. You know what I do? I connect. I get people off! I look for the guy who isn't getting off, and I MAKE him get off!

Sam, I was one of those people at the back of the house, keeping tabs on the length of that ridiculous jam (oh wait. You don't know what one I'm talking about? That's because there was a musical masterbation jam session EVERY OTHER SONG). And I was most certainly NOT GETTING OFF.

I just don't get what is so special about that music! And it frustrates me because I spent a lot of time last night trying to figure it out. It's nothing particularly new, it's nothing done with a certain special flair or penache. I dig classic rock, I enjoy downhome stylings. But when I wanted to go out of my way to see that kind of a show live, I went to see it done well. I saw the Black Crowes. Or if I want to listen to it? I cue up some CCR or Allman Brothers.

It just made no sense at all.

Strangest, though, was the headlining set when compared to the opening acts (who, um, I'd actually gone to the show to see).

Slow Runner and The Damnwells? Yes, please.

See, I'm a person who loves to see bands or artists many (many, many, many) times. Repeat concertgoer, for sure.

But there's something particularly special about having a band whose music you really, truly enjoy and finally getting to see them live for the first time. You've never looked upon these people before, and yet you're grinning and mouthing the words that form lyrics you've known by heart for ages - and you realize that you're going to be following the tour schedule to see when you'll next be able to take in a show.

That was the Damnwells set. Three or four songs off the new album (including two I'd already been digging, thanks to the wonder that is myspace), with the remainder of the 10-song set coming off "Bastards of the Beat." I know I was smiling like an idiot the entire time, but I didn't care. I loved it.

And then there's the experience of seeing a band whose material you thought was decent enough on album and then being delightedly surprised in a live setting.

Hello, Slow Runner. Fun and charming, the band adds a warmth to the electronic-heavy material in a live setting. There's an added bonus in watching them perform, as they get so intensely wrapped up in the music that the rest of the world seems to just disappear to them.

It's engrossing, it's entertaining, it's a good compliment to The Damnwells...

...and it makes the lunacy of the headlining act all the more evident.

6.16.2006

I receive mailings from Bob Lefsetz. The mailing list to which I'd subscribed boats that it is the "first in music analysis."

It tends to be interesting, I'll say that. I look forward to the little bits of insight that can come across sometimes, amid the huffing and puffing often contained within the work.

(I don't use those words disparagingly - doesn't all music discussion boil down to huffing and puffing in the end?)

"True Companion," one of the latest mailings, however, included something I thought quotable and then some. We're not talking music here. We're just talking about life and relationships in general. And it's painfully accurate.

I don't want to talk about things. I want to talk about you, who you are, what you feel. Not only your victories, but your losses. Hold back, and probably we won't be spending too much time together. For not only is our interaction unfulfilling, you make me feel like some kind of freak, for wanting to know. And, if you tell enough, and feel the warmth from the bond, and gently investigate, I'll tell you my story too. Which is so hard for me to do, but what I'm dying to do.


Have a great weekend.

6.14.2006

Week Two: Have you met The Damnwells?

It's That Band.

You know, the band that seems to be doing everything required to do to make it in the highly fickle pop-rock scene. Loyal following? Unique sound? Savvy lyrics bolstered by catchy hooks?

Check, check, check.

The Damnwells teeters on the fine line that separates Obscure Indie Rock Bands from Widely Recognized Indie Rock Bands. It could make the jump -- and listeners are clamoring for the chance to take in as much as they can now, just in case lightning strikes and the rest of the world starts to take notice.

In the meantime, the Brooklyn-based five-piece (as the typical quartet has added keyboardist J Barlcay for their current tour) continues to hone songs of Sensitive Tough-Guy Pop Rock (a genre that doesn't officially exist, but should, considering the multitude of such bands in existance). Electric guitar riffs and snare drum rhythms back the love-centric lyrics belted with gravelled intensity by lead singer Alex Dezen. Dezen and company serve as brilliant couple rock -- rock and roll enough for the guys, insightful and sweet enough for their girlfriends.

Mutually beneficial music from Brooklyn. Who could ask for more?

The Damnwells will perform with Slow Runner and Sam Roberts at Higher Ground in South Burlington on Friday. Information about the band and tracks available for listening can be found at their myspace. A new album, "Air Stereo" is scheduled for release on August 15. Recommended tracks: Kiss Catastrophe, Sleepsinging, Golden Days
A 232

"A 232" won't make sense if you haven't read the book; actually, odds are good that it won't make sense even if you have.

All I know is that I'd finally picked up the book I'd inexplicably been incapable of finishing, and then I read a paragraph that made me want to throw the book down onto my bed and yell, "THAT'S IT! EXACTLY!"

I didn't. But I came quite close. Instead, I jumped out of bed, plodded barefoot into another room in my apartment and held out the book. When my flatmate took it, I jabbed my finger onto a page with a silent command. READ.

Sometimes it's easy -- natural, even -- to feel as if an experience or mentality is exclusive to yourself alone. There can't be anyone out there who has gone through it, because it is feels so unique, personalized to you -- for better or worse. Sure, people might have come close, but they didn't really get it - not the frustration and stress somehow still laced with optimism. You're left wondering what the hell is wrong with you for your to quasi-willingly subject yourself to the absurdity of it all.

You just can't quite shake it when you try to. A moment will just come along when you realize that you already have.

I'd like to think that perhaps there was something inherent within the 200-odd pages I'd already read that suggested that this particular insight would appear. That's why I held off on finishing the book -- I waited until I was primed for it, ready to agree wholeheartedly with what was being said.

It's more likely that I just didn't want to keep on reading right then. That I had other things to do and kept forgetting to bring the book with me on my travels.

But the timing was pretty crazy, as I'd come to the conclusion on my own about a week and a half prior. During a long drive that reduced to a standstill in Friday afternoon traffic. Crawling forward intermittently at five miles an hour gave me plenty of time to think (and curse other travelers, but that's neither here nor there). That moment came and passed and that was that.

And then, about a week and a half later, I read a paragraph that told me that it wasn't exclusive. The details were a little different, of course, but it wasn't particularly out of the ordinary or special.

It just was what it was.

6.12.2006

Museums exhibits on music tend to feel jarring. A study of sound in a location known for its silence - it's not quite right.

That the silence helped the experience within the National Heritage Museum on Saturday was almost more of a surprise than the quality of the special exhibit. "Gerswhin to Gillespie: Portraits in American Music" focuses on music photography, but the spirit evoked is one that seems sacred, a look back to different times.

Ghostly. The silence suits the sights.

The collection's 50 photographs run the gamet, loosely separated into four rooms of specific subcategories: Champions of American Music, Great American Composers, Legends of American Jazz, and Icons of American Pop. The overall collection is tied together by a predominant - although not exclusive - theme of black and white photography, and the shift from one section to another feels natural, continuous but marked by small signs noting each change.

Fans of American music's historical twists and turns will find delight in seeing the musicmakers whose names often stood above musical revues. George Gershwin, for instance, sits at a piano, studiously hunched over music with a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lip. Cole Porter leans toward the camera, hands folded with the intensely sad gaze that belied many of his most well-known songs. Jim Morrison kneels behind a television, framed by empty closet walls and unused hangers.

But it is the jazz section that draws the strongest gasps. Predominantly a collection of Herman Leonard images, the photographed subjects jump out in lines shockingly crisp are clear. Louis Armstrong's eyes bulge in an intense closeup, complete with spittle.

They are images that capture sound's creation -- but deserve silence. The only way it would feel fitting to take in music while looking at a portrait of Sonny Stitt would be if the jazz saxophonist were able to be in the room, wailing away on his instrument.

Without that, any other sound would serve as a pale substitution - almost an insult.

"Gershwin to Gillespie: Portraits in American Music" is on view through Sept. 17 at the National Heritage Museum, Lexington, Ma. The exhibit is free and open to the public.
You can burn a show, but you can't burn the experience of being there. - John Mayer, 2001

Concert posters dominate the collection of art, photographs and otherwise visual pieces in my personal collection. Nearly six years of memories, marked (most often in the essential black Sharpie ink) with dates, locations, age restrictions and ticket or cover charges.

The collection provides an eclectic mix, tied together by one theme: all from shows I attended*. There are pieces commissioned by musician or venue, posters that once hung on lamppost or bulletin boards and, in one case, a poster I personally hung on door after door on my college campus to promote a show I'd organized.

Two of them were signed by the musician or bands they promote, but those are early submissions, from before the time I decided I'd rather not solicit a signature.

I made the decision to focus on my experiences because I enjoy the association each conjures. Don't get me wrong - if a vintage Doors poster promoting a show at the Fillmore came my way, I'd be happy to rethink the collection's parameters. But since the odds of that are painfully nonexistent, I'll stick with what I know.

As pieces accumulated over time, and as I made the transition from residence hall masking tape to clean lines and frames, I began to purchase oversized poster frames in which I could create collages. Tickets, photographs and mementos were carefully arranged and assembled. Three of the frames were hung on the largest wall in my bedroom. A fourth waits for me to find a proper place for it. Pieces for a fifth are ready for assembly.

I enjoy noting how an artist conceptualizes a particular style of music or personality of performer. The way little details on a relatively generic piece come to specify an musician's style.

I have a number of Howie Day posters - the broody singer-songwriter never looks at the camera, and all but one are black and white shots. Speechwriters LLC, one of the quirkiest bands I've seen, likened a show with The Alternate Routes to the pairing of coffee and doughnuts, dinner and a movie. An Averi poster got the time of the show wrong, which was fitting. Rufus Wainwright lay spread out on the ground in full Lancelot armored regalia, a nod to his then-recent album release and his extravagant taste.

After I began collecting, I began appreciating. The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston is currently offering a special exhibit on rock art, known as "Light My Fire: Rock Posters from the Summer of Love." I made the trip shortly after the exhibit opened and found myself standing rapt before 60s era posters, many of which shifted in moving black lights. Victor Moscoso? Amazing.

When I happen to find myself at a record store or art shop, anywhere that has rock posters for sale, I flip through the racks, studying the pieces.

Which is a long-winded way to explain how I found myself at a Newbury Comics this weekend, drooling over a Belle and Sebastian poster that I would not buy, but certainly enjoyed. I flipped to the next poster and grinned.

Ray LaMontagne.

I thought to the Paradise, packed with bodies that created sauna temperatures despite the fans near the stage and the January chill outside. Lights blue and purple, drenching LaMontagne's profile with color as he unleashed a molasses-and-whiskey voice. Watching a musician battle painfull shyness as he tried to share his work with a rapt audience.

Just seeing his name on a poster took me back to the show and the five minutes of awe-inspired silence that accompanied our walk out of the venue and down the street.

I studied the poster. Stock cardboard, silkscreened with a green box and LaMontagne's name in simple white. The design included several streaks of paint, evoking the thought of wanting to hurry to get the poster finished and up for display before LaMontagne changed his mind about the show.

I lifted the piece to take it all in, noting that it was signed and numbered by the artist. And in the lower left corner, the date and location.

January 15, 2005. Paradise Rock Club. Boston.

The poster is now ready and waiting for Frame Five.

*Rules and themes, of course, have their exceptions. There is one poster for a show I did not attend: a Howie Day poster for a show in Chicago. I bought the poster on eBay, justifying the purchase with the knowledge that there were many poster-less HD shows I attended and the name of the theater is a nickname of mine. Totally works.

6.09.2006

I'm a gonna get-get-get-get you drunk...
OR
The Neverending Joy of Cohabitation

The composition of this entry requires the disclosure that I have "My Humps" on my iPod.

I think it's worth it.

So, anyway. I'm packing my bag for the weekend's journey, letting iTunes provide some background music. The player reached "My Humps," and I'm bobbing my head around, shimmying a little bit...good times.

Now there are three of us in my apartment. A V, a B and a C. V and B are the ladies of the household; C is our token lord, as it were.

Which of us is the one to walk through the room, accompanying Fergie?

6.08.2006

You do it to yourself...you do...

Sometimes I wonder about this whole technological advancement thing.

As I ranted last month, I missed out on Radiohead tickets for the BoAP shows that took place earlier this week. After some cursing and badmouthing Ticketmaster, I came to terms with the fact that I'd just have to wait a bit (or a lot) longer to see the band live for the first time.

And then I read on Stereogum that Monday night's show was available for mp3 download.

A dilemma. It's available. Do I download it and listen to what was refused to me? Will it make me feel better? Worse?

Am I overthinking this a bit too much? Probably.

So I downloaded all 23 tracks and loaded them into the iPod last night. As I wrote in my notebook before going to sleep, I cued up the show.

And became bitter. Very, very bitter.

(If you're a glutton for punishment, same as I, you can download the tracks from Bradley's Almanac. Recording quality, all things considered, is quite fantastic.)

6.07.2006

Have you met...?

One of the most difficult things - for me, I should say - is to write short about music. I've tried to do so on several occasions lately and decided that I'm a bit too rusty for my own personal comfort.

With that in mind, I'm starting a weekly writing exercise, which I'm calling the "Have you met...?" series. Every Wednesday, I'll write a short snippet about an artist or a band. And I stress "snippet." Brevity is key. A quick introduction.

On a related note, if you have a recommendation for a musician I should check out, send it my way. Email, comment, whatever. Please let me know.

So. Saturday night's trip to Manchester included the perfect inaugural introduction. Here you go...

Week One: Have you met Patrick Thomas?

A singer-songwriter based in New York but with roots in Detroit, Patrick Thomas brings elements of soul and alt-country to the acoustic realm. But it's good-natured humor and an intangible aw-shucks factor that makes new listeners quickly feel as if they've known both the musician and his music for years.

"Maybe that's the way, an answer to a love that's gone astray," he sings in the plaintive title song on his 2005 "Here's To You" EP. "One of us the devil, one's the angel, that would mean I'd have to go to hell."

Whether backed by the rollicking band he urges to "country it up again" on "Metaphor," on stage solo or joined by regular touring companion (and fellow songster) Syd, Thomas shows balances insightful turns of phrase with a straightforward approach to conveying an emotion.

A song may be simply put, but when done right, it can be just as emphatically felt.

Selections from Patrick Thomas' "Here's To You" EP are available for listening and download at his myspace page. He will perform at New York's 169 Bar on June 15. Recommended tracks: Metaphor, My Sweet Time
Geeked Out.

What do you think? I decided to finally eradicate the annoyance that has been nagging at me each time I've looked over here for the last couple of weeks - how small the actual window proved to be - and tidy up the place a bit. I like clean lines and neat spaces...and this design (thanks, francey.org!) is pretty lovely.

If you note, there are a few different features that I added into the mix, all easily accessible through the navigation bar to the right. First, a permanent link to my flickr site - I upload new photos almost daily, although I may not make reference to that effect here.

Second, last.fm, the newest little geek-out gadget I've acquired. Thanks to the wonders of technology, one can see what music I've been playing and when I've been playing it. Each time I charge my iPod or update it, last.fm gets an update. Want to know if I really liked some album? Go look and see if I'm playing it. Want to know who's gotten into my head? Check it out. Want to know if I really did wind up blaring Lindsay Lohan's "Rumors" on the trip back north, after being denied the right to play it (in my own car, no less) on the way to Milly's?

Er. Hypothetically speaking.

The most-played artists each week are listed in the little chart here - click on the link to go to the main profile page, with additional information.

My email is also included, so drop me a line and say hello at any time. And check back later for the launch of a little weekly feature I'm going to kick off today. Because I'm feeling productive and whatnot.

In other news, today's is June 7...while she's not a computer person - at all - I'll say it anyway: Happy birthday, Mom!

6.06.2006

Don't judge me, man.

I know that I look silly. I'm crouched down along the edge of a puddle-turned-pond in the Common, snapping photographs of the duck calmly wading through the shallow water, moving toward me with no concern.

I could justify the apparent goofiness if I feel the need to, you know. And here you are, gazing at me with a quizzical glance beneath your three-cornered hat.

Paul Revere, you're probably the last person with any right to pass judgement on me. And you're musket's crooked.

We exchange quick smiles as I walk away and he moves in to toss bread to the ducks. Bread stored in his musketball pouch. Ahem.

The smiles clearly translate. I won't ask if you don't.

***
Little known fact: The Milly's Tavern site falls within the New Hampshire equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. It's true. I don't know what the NH triangle is called. Or if it's a triangle, even - it could be a square, a hexagon, maybe even a trapezoid. I'm not aware of anyone investigating the crazy stuff that happens there. I don't expect to see a Time Life book about it.

(Anyone else remember that book? I had it. I was obsessed with reading about paranormal events when I was younger. I blame Robert Stack and "Unsolved Mysteries.")

It's pretty trippy, though. Time stands still. The Red Sox are always playing a game, no matter when you happen to walk in. Full pints of beer are suddenly empty, and then there's another one waiting behind it. Long sets pass by at the blink of an eye.

There's just something that happens on when you walk down those steps and through the door. I'm sure of it.

More than seven months had passed since my last trip to Manchester -- back in AT (Averi Time). And yet I fell right back into the familiarity. Our regular seats at the back of the bar were open and waiting for us. The ballgame was airing from three televisions within easy view. The sound guys were still making me wince with the soundcheck feedback.

It's just how Milly's rolls.

But it felt good to be back. It's not my favorite venue -- not even close -- but I always have a good time. Some of my favorite show experiences have transpired between Milly's walls.

And this evening managed to join the shortlist of favorite concert nights. For two reasons.

First, the music. Great performances. They didn't suck (as I deadpanned at the time). Syd and Patrick Thomas, Mieka Pauley, Chad with Dennis and Steve.

Frankly, it would take a lot of effort to screw up a lineup like that. Two people who just bring me joy; someone I've wanted to see live for quite a long time; and, well, Chad, Dennis and Steve.

The sets were goofy and brilliant. Humor and talent woven together to show just how good you have to be to make silliness really work.

Trying to describe specific moments is tricky. I was determined not to overthink this show. No analysis, just fun, which means I can't look at the moments with a critical eye now.

Besides, it was an evening that made much more sense sense if you were there. Let's say I decided to tell you about P's face when C personalized the "Freak Me" tease. It's an image that is now seared into my brain. It's hilarious. But I'll guess that you'd get puzzled -- or disturbed -- the moment I mentioned the nipple rubbing, right?

Well, it made perfect sense if you were there. Sort of. Anyway. See my point?

There were many highlights: S's smile as he sat in a chair onstage, bobbing his head as he mouthed along the words to "Metaphor." Hearing "The Way It is" when it was not being butchered by my car karaoke rendition. The delight I felt in hearing "Used To Dream" songs come alive, interspersed with older songs presented in an entirely new context.

I suppose what I can say is that there were many smiles in the audience. Mine among them, from a little spot near the soundboards. It was the first time in a (really, really, I can't even begin to tell you how) long time that I went to one of these shows and just enjoyed it.

Second, the people.

See, I tend to be pretty quiet by nature. With many people, I find it difficult to let down my guard. Can't help it. I'm shy.

But among those in the crowd were people with whom I've never felt anything but comfortable. So my inner extrovert came out and I was ready to celebrate.

Laughter, shared stories. Conversation that included earnest catching up. And hugs. A lot of hugging went on, and it felt glorious.

There was one moment, in which a small group had come together. An overall conversation was underway, and people would contribute to that while falling occasionally into smaller chats. Part of this organic assemblage, I looked around me with a smile, realizing that I adored each of those around me and there was nowhere else I'd rather be right then.

A little cheesy, I know. But hey.

Don't blame me, blame the New Hampshire Parallelogram.

Weekend

6.05.2006

As I drove north on 89 yesterday evening, bobbing my head along with the Eliot Morris sampler I'd recently received (good stuff, I recommend checking it out), I noticed a white car zooming up from the passing lane behind. With sparks flying out from behind.

Having just seen the trailer for "Ghost Rider" earlier in the day, I half-wondered if Nicolas Cage's demonic alterego was going to lean out of the vehicle as it passed, lashing a fiery chain whip at my innocent little spark-free vehicle. He didn't, I'm pleased to report. But the car did flash by me, probably going about 80 or so (for once, I wasn't speeding myself), its muffler dancing along the pavement as it clung precariously to the car's metalwork.

Four thoughts went through my mind:

- Thank goodness that wasn't Nic Cage. I don't like him much.
- Who speeds along the highway that fast when there's a MUFFLER SPARKING AS IT DRAGS BEHIND YOU?
- That muffler is going to fall off the car and smash into my windshield. It is going to suck and I'm going to be pretty pissed off. Or hurt.
- That driver probably had a pretty lousy weekend and just wants to get home. I did not.

I was worried though, standing beneath the rain-drenched awning on Stuart Street on Friday evening. Everything that could have gone wrong with the trip up to that point had - capped with a walk from South Station to the theater with no umbrella (left behind at the T station from which I'd departed) and plenty of rain.

The part of V would be played that night by A Drowned Rat.

That's when things turned funny. I'd arrived at the theater ready to take in a friend's show, accompanied by another friend and a whole bunch of people I didn't know.

By the time the house lights dimmed, I was sitting with L, a new acquaintance (hello, Nicole!), M's parents, another acquaintance and a whole bunch of people I didn't know.

And my friend was walking out on stage with the other four ladies of "I'm the Rhoda."

Now, I know I mentioned the show last week. And you can naturally assume that I would get a kick out of being anywhere a friend - let alone one of my best - is debuting a show, so I would come back to you with glowing things to report about the performance.

And it's true. I knew that the odds were good that I was going to enjoy myself and be thankful that I was there. But if anything, my expectations were even higher than they might be for another show. I knew who the Rhodas were and I knew of what they were capable of accomplishing.

They rocketed right up and through the high bar. Seriously. If you're in the area, you should just trust me and go to see that show while you can (the next three Friday evenings). If you're a woman, you'll connect with the funny-because-it's-true-but-the-truth-also-hurts frankness of the piece. If you're a man, you'll hopefully get a clue. And if you at all appreciate seeing vulnerability beautifully shown on stage, you'll want to hug all of the women by the end of the night.

I found myself wiping at my cheeks a few times - some because I laughed so hard, but also because I was just so incredibly proud of everything that The Rhoda Five accomplished.

I felt my grin beaming through the darkened house as I watched Michelle lean forward in her chair and describe a Sunday brunch in Southie, with four friends assembled to share, laugh and sigh.

L's face shone as she listened to the same description and remembered the experience.

And M, shortly before wrapping up her piece, looked at the two of us and blew us a kiss.

Turns out that all of us were misty-eyed at the same time.

But I did NOT spill that candy bowl, thank you very much.

Celebration turned to Cambridge, a shot of tequila (brief dalliances with Jose Cuervo always turn out well, it's the serious relationship-caliber encounters that leave me with two-day hangovers), and 80s night. Dancing like mad, hair in face, arms raised, livin on a prayer.

I'll get into Saturday tomorrow.

Consider this intermission.

6.04.2006

You know how it goes: you're riding along Wollaston Beach at 2:30 a.m., quoting the instant classic line from a Pete Thurston musical movie review:

"Snoop Dogg, hell yeah, he's Huggy-to-the-mothertruckin-bizzer."

Good times, you Know what I mean?

Wait, you don't? Is it just me?

Huh.