Sleepytime at the Planetarium

Last night I went to Webster Hall to Yo La Tengo. Although I've seen them once before, when they played at Battery Park two summers ago, this is the first time I've seen them do a full set at a proper venue. And, unlike that show, where they treated the 4th of July crowd to an upbeat, pop-heavy set and a kick-ass cover of "Sheena Is a Punk Rocker", they (for better or worse) pulled no punches and made no compromises in last night's set. Though they did play some of their poppier material, the bulk of the show was comprised of slow, dirgy ballads and no fewer than three extended noise jams.
















Performing in front of a starry backdrop, they opened the show with the soporific "I Feel Like Going Home" - an excellent song, but both tonally and thematically, probably inappropriate as a way to kick off a concert. Erin compared the experience to when you go to the planetarium in elementary school and the combination of the teacher's monotone voice and the simulated night sky are pretty much guaranteed to put you to sleep no matter how strong your interest in astronomy. As the show went on they picked up the pace a bit but seemed to take some joy in generally keeping it on the soft side. They mostly played material from their new album, including "Pass the Hatchet, I Think I'm Goodkind", the 10-minute (primarily instrumental) noise jam that kicks off the record. They didn't play "Black Flowers" (my favorite song on the album), but they did do an awesome rendition of "Mr. Tough" (sans horn section) that got the crowd pretty lively (or at least as lively as a crowd of Yo La Tengo fans can be). For the most part the band skipped over its more "classic" material, playing almost nothing from I Can Hear The Heart Beating as One or And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out. They did play (a rather sloppy version of) "Sugarcube" but no "Autumn Sweater" or "Cherry Chapstick". Towards the end of the show they played an extended version "Big Day Coming", which I guess is like the meandering noise-rock equivalent of "Free Bird" for WFMU set (I remember them doing something similar when I saw them in Battery Park).

The echoey acoustics of Webster Hall were perfect for the band's reverb-heavy sound. It made all the squalls of noise that much noisier and made even the most subtle ambient sounds fill the room. I only stayed for the first encore, where they just started picking members of the audience at random and asking for requests, but it seemed like they could have kept going all night (and maybe they did). Though it certainly wasn't the most entertaining show they could have played, it was still nice to see these three middle-aged music geeks from Jersey have managed to make a career out of valuing good taste and eclecticism over being hip or trendy (or accessible), and still managing to pack clubs.

You Gotta Keep 'Em Separated

The other day I was at the gym and happened to hear from one of the spinning classes a relic of a song from my younger days - "Come Out and Play" by the Offspring. On any other day I would have simply slipped into a nostalgic reverie over all the crappy alterna-rock I listened to in middle school and thought nothing of it, but with the ubiquitous news coverage of the Virginia Tech shootings still in my mind I couldn't help but notice that this song is actually a tongue-in-cheek song about public school gun violence ("the kids are strappin all the way to the classroom/getting weapons with the greatest of ease. . . hee-eeey, come out and play"). So either the spin instructor is giving the world's most tasteless tribute to the victims of the shootings. . . or he's a moron.





The Offspring have always been a band with a social conscience, covering issues as diverse as juvenile delinquency, unemployment, and white kids with racial identity problems (all timeless), but "Come Out and Play" stands out for being, on one hand, ahead of it's time and covering the issue of school gun violence before it reached the national agenda, but, on the other, seeming incredibly naive and dated. While gang violence is certainly still a problem, it's really remarkable that a couple of socially retarded suburbanites with delusions of grandeur have made that all seem irrelevant. So here's to the good 'ol days (as I like to call them) when the only people getting shot up in schools were minorities in the inner city.

Paul Rudd (feat. Of Montreal) @ Studio B

Last night I trekked all the way out to Greenpoint to see psychedelic glam rockers Of Montreal blow the minds of a club of jaded hipsters with a set of their own material followed by an even more entertaining set as the world's greatest karaoke machine. As expected, they skipped over their earlier glee pop material (which wouldn't quite fit their MO at this point) in favor of their darker, more dancable recent material (I think I may have even seen a few members of the audience nodding their heads in a way that approaches actual dancing). Despite the coziness of the venue, the band still came with full theatrical force. I recognized most of the props from the "Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse" video and their performance on Conan the other night, and the show was worth the price of admission just to see what the mustached guy in the black body suit would come out with next. I also counted at least four costume changes from Kevin Barnes, including a 10-foot-tall robe that put him at about eye level with the stage lights (though he was kind enough to keep his pants on for the duration of the show).













Then, after a brief intermission, Michael Showalter came on as his character from Wet Hot American Summer to deliver a series of (intentionally) terrible jokes and MC for the karaoke portion of the show. The band blew through an eclectic mix of songs that varried anywhere from ABBA to the Pixies without breaking a sweat (of particular note was Kevin Barnes effortless shredding of the guitar solo on "Sweet Child O Mine"). At points I felt bad for the singers, like the awkward Asian kid that came up to sing the Kinks' "All Day and All of the Night" in full Ray Davies getup only to have his vocals killed by microphone problems. At other points I felt sorry for the band, as when these two obnoxious girls came up to sing "Blister In the Sun" (not a difficult song by any means) and completely fucked it up. Though, for the most part, I was pleasantly surprised with the quality of both the vocals and the performances. The guy who did "Moonage Daydream" dressed as Aquaman was truly inspired, and the "Rocks Off" guy was so spot-on in his Jagger impersonation that I wondered what the fuck the two of them were doing performing karaoke instead of, say, starting a band. Michael Showalter's performance of INXS's "Need You Tonight" (totally in character) was excellent, though by far the best performance of the night came when Paul Rudd came on stage with David Wain (of Stella/State/WHAS fame) to do a kick-ass rendition of "More Than a Feeling". Wain put up a good effort but was completely upstaged by Rudd, who confirmed my suspicions that he might, in fact, be the greatest comic actor of his generation.



(props to the folks at Stereogum for posting these videos.)

Trash Culture Snobbery

Grindhouse. Posthumously coined genre term for the tawdry scuzzploitation films that flourished in sticky-floored adults-only movie houses before the advent of videos and the tidying up of Times Square.
-The Film Snob's Dictionary


After seeing Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez's latest pet project, Grindhouse, this weekend I came to the conclusion that Tarentino is (for better or worse) a bona fide genius (which should in no way be construed as any kind of endorsement of his acting ability), and Rodriguez is (for better or worse) one of the most amazingly skilled hacks in the world.

Planet Terror, Rodriguez's contribution to the project, is an exploitation film in the truest sense. It's a whole story set up around one central gimmick (that being the M16 grafted to Rose McGowan's leg), and the gore and violence are gratuitous in the best possible way (not to mention enough T & A to make Larry Flint blush). Its sometimes difficult to tell whether the writing is being bad in the name of camp value or if he's just using the film as an excuse to indulge his own bad taste, but basically he succeeds (in the same way that Snakes on a Plane fails) by having so much style that you wonder why you even go to a movie expecting substance. It's also worth noting that, aside from writing, directing, editing, and shooting the film, Rodriguez also does the music, which is arguably better than the actual filmmaking (as tempting as it is, I'll spare you the "one-man band" pun).

Tarentino, on the other hand, spares with the tongue-in-cheek routine and makes a movie that actually stands up as a great film in it's own right. Like his previous work, he manages to distill his own quirky cinematic obsessions into something that's infinitely smarter and slicker than any of the films to which he's paying tribute. Owing a certain debt to Richard Linklater, the film consists primarily of its protagonists roaming around the city of Austin and making witty banter, but the dialogue is never tedious and the payoff is always worth it. And, in an unlikely twist, Tarentino makes all the sassy girl-talk sound surprisingly natural. Nevertheless, Tarantino still uses a male lead to manifest his apparent love-hate relationship with women. Since Tarentino apparently can't resist the urge to dredge up low-brow icons of the seventies and eighties and squeeze performances out of them that makes you wonder why they haven't been off doing Shakespeare for the last 20 years, he brings Kurt Russell in as the charmingly psychotic stunt driver that provides the centerpiece to the ensemble. And whereas Rodriguez relies on his slick digital effects (along with some wonderfully grotesque makeup and bladder effects) to carry his film, Tarantino goes the old-school route and delivers possibly the most suspenseful car chase ever filmed with nothing but muscle cars and mentally ill stunt drivers.

If you haven't seen this film yet (which, if the box office figures are any indicator, is probably the case) you should hurry up before the Weinsteins lose their spine and decide to split the two movies up and make you pay double to see both (which, mind you, would still be well worth it). And if you need any more incentive, the mock trailers that they insert before and in between the movies are just as awesomely ridiculous as the films themselves.

Isn't It Ironic?

In case you haven't already seen Alanis Morissette's video for her cover version of the Black Eyed Peas' "My Humps", you should probably watch it right now, since it's probably the most ridiculous (and disturbing) video I've ever seen. If it's meant to be a joke, it's totally deadpan (give or take the laughter at the end, which may or may not have just been added by whoever posted it) and not really very funny. If it's supposed to be serious, what the hell is the point? Furthermore, why would Alanis Morrisette , a somewhat respectable recording artist, record a cover of the worst song ever recorded?

At first I thought it was some kind of lame statement about the exploitation of women in hip-hop culture or something like that, since Alanis does add a pathos that's (for better or worse) distinctly absent from the original. Unfortunately, the lyrics are so asinine that they basically force any interpretation into the realm of self-parody. So, given her experience doing sketch comedy, one might then assume that this is some kind of satire, which, as I mentioned above, would be completely redundant. The only way I can make sense of this video is as a gross misintermpretation of the concept of irony, which is apparently a recurring theme in her work (appropriately - or perhaps ironically - this video ends up being about as ironic as rain on your wedding day). So I've come to the conclusion that the reason that thinking about this song/video is giving me a headache is because there is, in fact, nodiscernible meaning behind it. It's pretty much the musical equivalent of a "Bong Hits for Jesus" banner whose bizarre combination of signifiers ultimately conveys nothing other than the astounding ability of pop singers (Alanis included) to pour their total conviction into terrible poetry.