9/21/2003 11:38:11 PM
I pedaled to the Khyber last night to see Stars, my second blind date in as many nights with a Canadian pop band. Once again, the decision was a good one. Live, Stars could be described as an atmospheric Britpop outfit; on record, it’s more of an electro-twee-pop affair, without the detached cynicism. The band does both equally well. You can definitely hear traces of The Smiths and New Order, but somehow Stars’ heart on its sleeve doesn’t come off as embarrassed as Morrissey’s, and its stage presence is both fun and heartfelt. The whole package is passionate, sweet, and unforgettable.
9/20/2003 01:31:09 AM
I hadn’t heard Broken Social Scene before tonight. Having recently been informed that the band is comprised, in part, of Do Make Say Think and A Silver Mt. Zion members, the power of Canada compelled me to have my first listen in a live setting. This was such a good idea. As all three bands on the bill (including Jason Collett and Metric) are involved in the same Toronto collective, the stage had a revolving door throughout the night, and a number of performers were involved in more than one set, appearing as needed. The ever-morphing creature onstage played soaring, cacophonous pop music, often a more accessible and concise take on the brooding experimentation that has come to characterize Montreal’s political-post-rock-collective scene. The chemistry commensurate with a collective of this size, as well as the tremendous joy it obviously receives from performing, made this show special beyond the mere music (which was exceptional to begin with), and I’m thrilled to have been able to witness it.
9/14/2003 08:58:09 PM
Kevin Cornell recently launched Bearskinrug version 4; it is as delicious as might be expected.
Lots of shows lately: The Raveonettes, Luna, Stinking Lizaveta, Mogwai, Andrew W.K. Some scattered moments: Meathead Group A on the TLA floor uses cell phones to call Meathead Group B in the balcony to alert Group B to being given the finger by Group A. “E-A-G-L-E-S!” chants abound. The Troc house lights don’t go up until Luna has played not one, but three obviously planned encores. Many a Philadelphia Mogwai fan is apparently uninterested in the low end of the band’s notorious dynamic shifts and sees the circumstances fit to have discussions over the music. After being asked to quiet down by someone who actually wants to hear the band, I overhear someone say this: “Is she serious?”
Rest in peace, Johnny. We’ll miss you.
9/6/2003 03:35:33 PM
At exactly 5:33 PM yesterday, I joined a small horde of people in caps and shades at the Center City Borders bookstore for the first ever Philadelphia flash mob. It was over at 5:37.
9/5/2003 09:49:31 AM
Some Kutztown arts news:
Josh Rickenbaugh has some new and affordable “Art Under $20” available from his “War Series” and “Manna Series” over at Knewseen.
Support these creative people, won’t you?
9/3/2003 01:37:30 AM
The summer technically ends on September 22 (as anyone eagerly anticipating the redesign of this site should note), but most people pack up their lawn sprinklers and sun dresses after Labor Day, moribundly lumping the whole of September into the Autumn category. Apparently Mother Nature’s embitterment toward this trend compelled her to adjust the calendar herself; it was 65° and raining in Philadelphia this afternoon. The crap weather seems to have followed me back here from Chicago, from which I returned Monday night. My apologies, Philadelphia.
Friday evening, late crew arrival and “weather” delayed my flight departure just shy of four hours, most of which time was spent rather uncomfortably waiting for more detailed information out on the tarmac. We finally took off, and after six hours in the plane, I emerged into O’Hare International Airport, half expecting to be in Scotland.
I stayed at my friend Lauren’s place in Wicker Park, which appears to be the indiest neighborhood in the Indie City. Many galleries, cafés, book stores, record stores, and bars, most coated with various show posters and flyers. Few people over thirty years of age. Reckless Records on Milwaukee Avenue still has the only Merzbox I have ever seen, and has had the same one on display for at least the last two and a half years, the amount of time passed since my first visit to the store.
On Saturday, an aimless walk north along Lake Michigan caused Lauren and I to stumble onto some massive beach volleyball event. The attendees numbered in the thousands, and generally resembled a vast sea of meat. Many a corporation had set up camp with its promotional wares, and if I so desired, I could have walked out of that place with a frat boy’s bounty of Chapstick, Right Guard Xtreme, Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issues, and countless other applicables and gawkables. I opted instead for a more sophisticated Nissan henna tattoo.
My refusal to accumulate anything more substantial than a clumsily branded birthmark turned out to be wise, as my budget was blown and my arms were filled at our next stop, Quimby’s, Chicago’s finest merchant of underground publishing. The armload’s greatest treasure wasn’t actually all that underground: Chris Ware’s astonishing Acme Novelty Datebook was my belated birthday present to myself.
That night, at a little Polish restaurant in Jefferson Park, I was served—and I consumed—exactly one half of an entire roasted chicken, along with some soup, potatoes, and vegetables. The entrée cost me $5.25. What a dreamy day.
Sunday contained the main purpose for my journey: My good friends Anna and Paul were getting married. Their wedding was as all weddings should be: self-written, officiated by friends, honest, and brief. I think it was the first friend’s wedding I’ve been to that wasn’t creepy and just made perfect sense. I’m really happy for them.
A few hours later, darkness fell and I headed over to a bar called Louie’s with Lauren and her man John in search of karaoke. I performed from the rich and varied discographies of Lionel Richie, Vanilla Ice, Burt Bacharach, Human League, Georgia Satellites, B-52s, The Carpenters, Englebert Humperdink, Prince, and Journey. I made a fan of a local regular named Tony, who pretty much picked up my liquor tab for the rest of the night. I discovered that the bartender and I had a mutual friend in Kelly Hands, so he bought me a drink, too. To ask for a better final night in Chicago would indeed have been gluttonous.
Upon my return home, I was greeted with a series of “Fun Without ROb” photographs, taken in my absence by my roommates and other friends, who are depicted hanging out in my room, crowding onto my bed, wearing my clothes, and playing with my stuff.
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