La Vie En Robe

This Too Shall Pass

Ugh.

The tough thing about hope is that it doesn't always pay immediate dividends. Since my last Robe post, the Cubs have tied their longest losing streak of the year, looking fairly pathetic in the process; last night's 9-7 loss to Barbara Bush's favorite ballclub saw them failing to capitalize on numerous opportunities, before finally blowing it in extra innings. I don't think this is necessarily a harbinger of a collapse to come, but at the same time I haven't seen this team play this badly all year. Not to mention that it seems like Big Z's arm may be in worse shape than anyone's previously admitted. And three errors for A-Ram, all in the late innings? God, that was painful to watch.

Not nearly as painful to watch, though, as this week's GOP convention, which is surely the largest gathering of crooks, bullies, liars, god-botherers and pandering shitbags in recent American history — and Bush and Cheney aren't even in attendance. John "The Maverick" McCain has even managed to up the pandering quotient by choosing Sarah Palin over his preferred running mate, Joe Lieberman, because the Christian conservatives didn't like Whiny Joe. (Which is, actually, one thing that Christian conservatives and I can agree upon.) And, of course, McCain and his people cynically expect that American women will now turn out in force behind him, because he's picked a running mate with the same lady-bits as Hillary Clinton — the fact that Palin is diametrically opposed to almost everything that Clinton has worked for over the last three decades entirely notwithstanding.

Oh yeah, and did I mention that my Mom's purse got snatched last Friday afternoon, on a quiet and sunny residential street in the Mid-Wilshire district? She got knocked down and dragged down the sidewalk a ways, but — aside from being rattled and pissed off about the hassle of putting fraud alerts on her credit cards, etc. — she's okay, for which I am very thankful. But seriously folks, it's getting rough out there; despite McCain's claims that the US economy is in fine shape (and his pal Phil Gramm's statement that we're just a "nation of whiners" who clearly should be grateful for the few crumbs tossed to us from the rich mens' table), it's increasingly tough for a lot of folks to make ends meet these days. And when that happens, you don't need an advanced degree in sociology to know that crime goes up. So be careful out there...

On the positive tip, I am THISCLOSE to finally finishing my book manuscript, which feels great, and I'm getting ready to take my first paid vacation in over a decade. I'll be flying to NYC next week to hang out with my Dad, see some pals, and generally celebrate not dying two years ago when my appendix went bad. And I just got a new digital camera (a Sony Cybershot DSC-W170) to replace the one those cocksuckers stole from me last month, so I'm looking forward to being able to take some good snaps of Manhattan. I'm not gonna have a ton of free time, but if anyone can recommend some good eating and drinking establishments (preferably on the inexpensive side), I'm all ears...

A Little Bit of Heaven

Took an evening off from my literary labors last Saturday, so that Carole and I could catch our first Palm Springs Power game of the year. The Power is an unaffiliated minor league team that's part of the Southern California Collegiate Baseball Association, though they play teams from all over the west. They've only been around since 2004, but they play in a charmingly spartan ballpark that dates back to 1960 — actually a full decade earlier, if you count its original incarnation as a polo grounds — and which has plenty of history in its (lack of) walls: the California Angels, San Diego Padres and the Seattle Raniers of the old Pacific Coast League all used to train there.

Carole and I have been going to Power games ever since they started playing in 2004, and — along with the games, which are always a blast — it's been fun to watch the gradual improvements the organization has made each year. Although our jury's still out on the new "VIP" tickets, which gets you all the hot dogs and popcorn you can eat (and unlimited $1 draft beers) for $17; not because it doesn't seem like a good deal, but because the seating area is in a lonely section of the park, past the visitor's dugout on the first base line; it's more fun to sit with the rest of the fans. Plus, there didn't seem to be any misters in effect in the VIP area. (I don't mean dudes, but rather the little nozzles that cool you off by spraying water into the air. Though the dudes were in admittedly short supply, as well.)

Great view from there, though, as you can see above — that's the foot of Mt. San Jacinto's lovely slope in the background, with a bit of the San Bernardino Mountains in the distance.

One of the other new additions to the Power experience is the presence of soul food on the concessions menu. Yep, for real — I've had some great dining experiences at minor league ballparks, but I've never been to one that's offered a genuine pulled-pork sandwich. (I know, I know, one can probably find 'em at ballparks all over the south; but I've never been to a minor league game east of the Mississippi.) The chow in question is catered by Big Mama's Soul Food from Cathedral City; we'd been there once about a year ago and were fairly underwhelmed, but the pulled-pork sandwich I had at the ballpark was very good; the meat wasn't as flavorful as I would have liked, but it wasn't too greasy or fatty, either — and the barbecue sauce had a nice zing to it. Fine cole slaw and tater salad, too!

Oh yeah — the game itself, against the Colorado Sox, was pretty exciting. A back-and-forth game that included some fine fielding plays (and a few awful ones), a long home run by the Sox first baseman (first time I've ever seen someone hit one out of Palm Springs  Stadium) and some questionable umpiring (I could SWEAR they gave the Sox four outs in the top of the first), the Power finally won it 6-5 in the bottom of the ninth. Second baseman Dominic Zuniga (who had already gone 4-for-5, and was half of a very exciting double steal) came in from third on a wild pitch for the winning run, and there was much rejoicing.

Baseball, BBQ, cheap beer, a warm night and a desert sunset, all enjoyed with your best girl by your side? A little bit of heaven, for sure. Can't wait to go back for more in July...

In Other News...

... this photo, which I took about two years' back at the Farmers Market — one of my favorite places in Los Angeles — has been selected for inclusion in the Schmap!! California Guide. I commend them on their good taste.

(And while we're at it, how about a banana split for lunch?)

Blind In Texas, Part Four

Woke up late Saturday morning feeling rather groggy, and it took an hour or two for the events of the previous night to fully return to my memory.

Bryan: "Dan-Fu," huh?

Me: Wha?

Bryan: You were doing martial arts chops and kicks on the street. I asked you what was going on, and you kept saying, "It's Dan-Fu, man! It's Dan-Fu!"

Me (holding head in hands): Oh, fuck...

Thankfully, our work at SXSW was just about done. We had just one interview to go, an early afternoon shoot with Nick from DeVotchKa. Since all of our other interviews had been quite successful, despite the myriad distractions, Bryan, Randy and I joked all the way there about how this one was going to be a disaster, Nick was going to be a total asshole, etc. Happy to report that it was not the case, however. Nick was quite friendly and funny, though he seemed about as burned out as we were. We shot the thing with Nick sitting on the porch steps to the Moonshine Patio Bar & Grill; with his rumpled black suit and mussed-up pompadour, it looked like Nick had watched the morning's sun come up from these very steps. Maybe he actually had.

As happens with many dining and drinking establishments at SXSW, the Moonshine Patio had been completely taken over by a variety of sponsors, who were basically underwriting free food and beverages all weekend to wristbanded festival-goers. Randy booked a table for us while Bryan and I were interviewing Nick, and within 45 minutes we were chowing down on excellent burgers and sandwiches. (The free booze was all margarita-related, so I passed, determined to make this Saturday tequila-free.) There seemed to be some kind of "Save the Environment" aspect to the event, though the message was pretty much lost amid the crush of people and the overload of sponsorship advertisements. MOR singer Ben Jelen stopped by our table to say a few words on behalf of the Ben Jelen Foundation (and hand us some "free download" cards), but I wound up being too distracted by his striking good looks to figure out what the fuck he was actually saying. I mean, geez, I don't fancy male bum (as Keith Richards once memorably put it), but this kid looks like he could have been a winning contestant on Ancient Greece's Next Top Kouros Model...

After lunch, my colleague Stella and I wandered up Red River to the the Roadrunner Records/Revolver Magazine party at the Creekside Lounge. It was already really hot and humid out, and you could tell it was just gonna get worse. On my way into the party, I ran into Tom and his pals Tracy, Sid and Carise, all of whom were on their way across the street to see In This Moment. I tagged along, and though the band was a little more "extreme"-sounding than I was up for at that moment in my hangover, I was really impressed with the stage presence of their singer, Maria Brink; though she's got a total "Alice Through the Windshield Glass" vibe (RIP, Troy McClure), it's also clear that she has a very playful sense of humor. She takes what she does very seriously, but doesn't take herself seriously at all. I can totally relate.

Back at the Creekside, it was way too packed  out back to see (or even hear) The Parlor Mob, though I got good reports afterwards. Worked my way out there in time for a riotous set by Airbourne (pictured above), an Australian band whose sheer love of AC/DC goes beyond tribute, beyond parody, and all the way into something more deeply bizarre. Tom and I got into one of those time-honored rock critic debates about whether or not the guys from Airbourne really are as retarded as they seem — and, if they aren't, does that somehow make their music less valid? Found out later that they've recently relocated from Australia to New Jersey. If that isn't some bona-fide bonehead behavior, I don't know what is!

I had been entertaining notions of heading back to my hotel room to take a nap, but I'd somehow found a second (third?) wind somewhere along the line; and besides, I was having too much fun bullshitting with Tom and his friends to split. One thing we all agreed on, though — we needed air-conditioning, we needed liquid refreshment, and we needed to get the fuck away from live bands for a few hours. We took a leisurely stroll through the heat on 4th Street over to the Warehouse District, passing several exhausted-looking publicist pals on the way. Jessica from Roadrunner joined us, and we set up camp at the bar of some fine restaurant (whose name sadly eludes me now), and  proceeded to cool off and crack each other up for the next few hours.

[This just in from Tracy Z: "[The restaurant] was called “Starlite” and besides the mad A/C action – also featured spotless toilets". So now you know.]

In the past, I've always dreaded these kind of SXSW dinners — sure the publicist pays for it, but you wind up getting stuck talking to various A&R douchebags, arrogant journalists, and music biz toadies who simply don't "get it". This dinner was an entirely different affair, however. Not an ounce of dead weight anywhere at the table, and everyone was so sharp and funny, it felt like being part of a rock n' roll version of the Algonquin Roundtable — except maybe with gross-out stories instead of zingy bons mots.



Suitably refreshed, we went our various ways, with plans to meet up again before or after Pride Tiger's set at Esther's Folly. As I mentioned in an earlier post, these guys are my new favorite band. Not only were they really cool, funny and down-to-earth when I interviewed them, but their debut album The Lucky Ones is the best approximation/update of Thin Lizzy's twin-Les Paul rock that I've ever heard. "So, we went to see an AC/DC tribute band this afternoon," cracked Tracy, "And now we're seeing a Thin Lizzy tribute band?" Well, yeah... but these righteous dudes from Vancouver definitely put their own house-party spin on the thing. Plus, their singer Matt Wood (who sounds a LOT like Phil Lynott) is also their drummer — and it's not damning him with faint praise to say that he is the most charismatic singing drummer I've ever seen. Wood has a swing in his groove that seems both effortless and totally infectious, and the look on his face while he plays is one of sheer delight. "That guy loves to play the drums," Bryan laughed at one point, and you just had to agree.

Wood also has an easy way with between song banter that would make Lynott proud. "Thank you, Aspen!" he cried at one point. "And... wherever else you all came from!" Pride Tiger's set was, unfortunately, way too short, and beset early on by technical problems. But they never let their energy flag, and by the end they had everyone in the place crammed up at the front and boogieing like it was 1976 all over again.

After that little hard rock epiphany, me and my roundtable pals wandered back up 6th Street, half-heartedly looking for something else to see. While the mood along the thoroughfare had been jubilant the night before, tonight the vibe was closer to Altamont; people were sweaty from the heat, cranky from three days of heavy drinking, and pissed off about having to stand in line. I didn't want any part of it (I also didn't want to see Jarboe — sorry, Tom!), so I coaxed my pals into just heading back to a hotel bar for a festival-ending drink. Nobody was too resistant to that kind of talk, so we ended up on the balcony of the Intercontinental Hotel, where most of them were staying, and Tom and I brought SXSW to a close with duelling Paul Stanley stories and imitations. Really, isn't that the way everything should end?

Blind In Texas, Part Three

"I'm not drunk yet, are you?" Randy asked me, somewhere around 10 pm on Friday night. Maybe it was the padding provided by the super-fine soft chicken tacos and guacamole I'd eaten earlier at Chuy's, but the truth was that I barely felt a buzz myself, despite having already downed several beers and two shots of Randy's beloved Don Julio. I must admit that I'm not a person who typically ventures out with total inebriation in mind; but having somehow made it intact through two unbelievably chaotic and tension-filled work days, we wanted nothing more than to get completely out of ourselves and our heads — either through music or alcohol, or preferably both.

Truth was, on this night, neither had been working very well for us. We'd started out at La Zona Rosa, where we said hello to several of our co-workers and hung out for about half of Phantom Planet's set. Much as I love good power pop (be it classic stuff like Cheap Trick and the Flamin' Groovies, or sorely underrated practitioners like Flop and Silver Sun), I find mediocre power pop about as useful as a limp dick — and Phantom Planet definitely falls into the erectile dysfunction category. After that, it was on to Stubb's for MGMT and The Cribs. I really like the former's Oracular Spectacular album, but their glammy electro-psych just didn't translate very well for me across Stubbs' big back yard. (To be fair, Randy waded deep into the throng up front, and reported that it sounded much better up there.) The crowd cleared out pretty quickly afterwards, so we went up close for The Cribs (pictured above), who sounded a lot like early Stranglers without the keyboards. It was good, they were energetic... but I was gonna need something more stimulating to make me ignore the ache of all that built-up tension in my knees and ankles.

That something turned out to be just down the street at The Mohawk, in the form of Nashville trash-punk teens Be Your Own Pet. They're kind of like the Bad Seed version of Paramore — three guys fronted by a cute and energetic blonde, who are way more likely to give props to John Waters than to Jesus Christ. Their set at The Mohawk had been interrupted before we showed up by a generator failure; it sucked for the band, but it gave Randy and I a chance to catch the rest of their set (and enjoy another shot of Don Julio besides), which was absolutely killer. BYOP's brand of garage rock is ridiculously stripped down, to the point where if one person stops playing, the whole thing falls apart; and yet, guitarist Jonas Stein and bassist Nathan Vasquez throw themselves around the stage like they're trying to start their own mosh pit, while singer Jemina Pearl rolls her eyes back in her head and flails about like a newly reanimated corpse with too much electricity running through its veins. Their new album Get Awkward just came out, and it's more fun than an army of break-dancing zombies.

After BYOP, the rest of the night felt like we'd been shot out of a cannon into musical hyperspace. Halfway up the block from Emo's Annex, I heard an absolutely crushing version of Mose Allison's "Parchment Farm," played as only one band in the world could play it. "Holy shit, that sounds exactly like Blue Cheer!" I cried, and indeed it was Blue Cheer, the pioneering late-60s heavy rock trio led by original bassist/singer Dickie Peterson. Their show was way too packed to get into, but of course we could hear 'em just fine from the street, and they sounded fucking amazing; even with all of the stoner and doom rockers out there, few can boast a singer with even half of Dickie Peterson's snarling vocal presence, and guitarist Andrew McDonald's way with a wah-wah pedal could give any of them longhair whippersnappers a total run for their weed. Long may they continue to turn the air around them into cottage cheese.

Turning west on Sixth Street, the epicenter of SXSW, we stumbled across a band playing behind a chain link fence, blasting out pure primitive garage rock madness like it was 1965 all over again. They turned out to be The Hall Monitors, straight outta Washington DC — and for the ten minutes we stood and watched them rocking out in their makeshift corral, they looked sounded as cool and crazy as The Sonics themselves. Their bio says they all met when the three dudes were arrested for public drunkenness by their female guitarist. I definitely wanna know more!

After that, we continued on our woozy way up Sixth, where we ran into Tom and made tentative plans to hook up later and watch Magic Christian, Cyril Jordan of the Flamin' Groovies' new band, which also now features Eddie Munoz of the Plimsouls and Clem Burke from Blondie. While we were standing there discussing the evening ahead, a hip-hop dance party suddenly broke out all around us. The street had been blocked off for pedestrian traffic, but someone had managed to wheel in a portable DJ station and sound system, and they had the most diverse crowd I saw all week at SXSW — whites, blacks, latinos, tourists, freaks — rocking like crazy. Among those getting seriously down was this cat, who was wearing only a painted body-stocking, a top hat over his head, and a sign reading "Free Hugs". I totally don't wanna know where he was keeping his wallet and keys...

The portable sound system moved on, and so did Randy and I, over to Maggie Mae's. Our basic concept was to catch three songs by Scouting For Girls, go next door to catch three songs by campy indie-pop dudes Scissors For Lefty (who had easily been one of my favorite interviews of the week), and finish up the night with Magic Christian up the street. Of course, given the insanity of SXSW, this was far too ambitious; the shows were running late at Maggie Mae's, which meant that we wound up seeing the last few songs of British dance-rock band The Whip, whose propulsive groovesmanship was actually quite impressive. We also ran into some friends we (or at least I) hadn't seen in years — Sony publicist Randy Haecker and publicist-turned-scribe Barbara Mitchell. It was delightful to see both of them; celebratory cocktails were consumed, and Mr. Haecker and I posed for a pic in our semi-matching Thin Lizzy t-shirts.

There was no discussion as to why we both happened to be wearing Lizzy t-shirts on this festive night; none was needed. Thin Lizzy simply kicks almighty ass — and if you don't already know that, you're reading the wrong blog.

Was less into Scouting For Girls  than I thought I'd be; they seemed kinda like the Ben Folds Three to me. But amid all the fun catching-up conversation, we totally forgot to see Scissors or Magic Christian (Tom told me the next day that the latter were actually pretty great). Feeling no pain by this point, we all headed back to the street and wandered around people-watching for awhile before going our separate ways. At about 2:30 in the morning, I was apparently spotted by several colleagues busting some solo martial arts moves on the corner of 4th and Red River; no photographic or filmic evidence of my "Dan-Fu" demonstration apparently exists, much to my relief. Somehow, I found my way back to my hotel.   

Blind In Texas, Part Two

My Friday at SXSW pretty much defies easy description — the evening was packed with the most music-related fun I've had in ages, but the day that preceded it was one of the most challenging and stressful workdays of my life, one which actually saw me come THISCLOSE to slugging it out with a drunk guy twice my size.

It didn't help, of course, that I woke up with the spins, which I immediately blamed on Randy's bright idea for us to do shots of Don Julio tequila at La Zona Rosa the night before. (Randy, feeling not much better, pleaded no contest.) Disgusted by the idea of food, but knowing that I had to eat something if I was gonna get through another afternoon of non-stop interviews, I had a small lunch of white bread and brisket  — no stomach-riling BBQ sauce this time! — and got my interview notes together. The bands started showing up around 12:30, and for the next five hours it was all I could do to keep focused on the interviews while all kinds of chaos exploded all around me. (Not to mention inside my skull.)

You see, some nameless brain surgeon had come up with the bright idea of having us set up our interview station in the same room where xBox Live was demoing their Rock Band game, which meant that we were constantly bombarded with karaoke-esque performances during our interviews. Not only was this incredibly distracting for both me and my interview subjects, but I often couldn't even hear the answers of the more soft-spoken ones; rather than follow up on what they were saying, I just nodded my head, smiled, and moved on to the next question.

Still, there were fun moments scattered throughout the afternoon. The lovely ladies of SoCal punk band Civet gave a hilarious interview, as did High On Fire and Pride Tiger (the latter of whom is my new favorite band — more on them in a couple of posts), and one of the guys from British Sea Power playfully challenged me to a Cumbrian wrestling match. Despite the encouraging chants of "Dan! Dan! Dan!" from my co-workers, I respectfully declined; not only was I sure that the BSP dude would totally kick my ass, but the odds of me puking all over the floor during the match were uncomfortably high at that particular instant.

Thankfully, all of the artists I interviewed on Thursday and Friday were really cool. We kept waiting for some of them to act like assholes or primadonnas, but they never did — even on those occasions when four bands showed up at once for the same interview slot. Randy somehow managed to diffuse those particular situations with a combination of gentle diplomacy and the offer of free beer; unfortunately, I also had a situation of my own to deal with, which beer and sweet-talk did little to sort out...

During an interview with the very cool but very soft-spoken DC pop duo Georgie James, a guy who works for my company drunkenly wandered over to our interview station and started fucking with me. With all the extraneous video game noise going off at deafening levels behind me, I was struggling to keep my composure as it was, and this ass-clown kept butting his head in and shouting things like, "Ask them what really pisses them off!"  He clearly thought he was being funny, but none of us were laughing. I whispered a few "Hey, man, that's not cool"s to him, but he grew more obnoxious as the interview went along. He started tapping me on the left shoulder while standing to my right; thinking it was Randy giving me the "five minute warning," I looked over to my left; "It's just me, Bro!" the ass-clown chortled in my right ear.

This was the last straw, and as soon as I wrapped the interview, I completely went off on the guy. I'm generally a friendly, good-vibes kinda guy, and I reckon that only a small percentage of my friends and acquaintances have ever seen me blow my top. But you can only push me so far — and like Doc Bruce Banner, you wouldn't like me when I'm angry. In fact, I can't remember the last time I unleashed a tirade like this on someone, however deserving. It was only about halfway through that I realized that the guy was a good head taller than me and pretty bulky; he probably could have knocked me down with a single punch, but he was so stunned by the force of my rage that he just stood there and took it. That is, until I turned away to apologize to the Georgie James folks; at that point, the ass-clown got in Randy's face with a whole "Don't you know who I am?" rant. "Um, just so you know," Bryan whispered to me, "that guy is one of the company's longest-serving employees."

Honestly, I didn't give a shit. I'm an easy-going guy, but I take a lot of pride in what I do — and doing my job right requires preparation and focus. Whether you're this guy or Mother Teresa, if you show up drunk off your ass and start screwing with my interview, I'm gonna call you out, simple as that. I can totally understand now why Pete Townshend booted Abbie Hoffman off the stage at Woodstock, or kicked that fire marshal at the Fillmore East...

As of this writing, there hasn't been any real fall-out from the incident, other than my co-workers making a collective mental note that Dan's patience has its limits. But we'll see what happens...

Blind In Texas, Part One

Ah, silly me. I actually thought I'd have the time, energy and lucidity necessary to update this thing on a daily basis from the South By Southwest Music Festival? "Ha Ha," he laughed to himself, somewhat ruefully...

Finally made it home late this afternoon, with ears still ringing, shins still sore from hoofing it all over town, shoulders still aching from schlepping video equipment, head still vaguely fogged from the imprudent intake of alcoholic beverages. While the work I had to do — conducting video interviews with about thirty different artists over the course of two and a half days — was phenomenally stressful, it all turned out quite well. And when evening fell, I was free to wander, mingle, eat, drink, and occasionally get my mind (and eardrums) blown. My memory is a little blurred at this point, but I'm gonna use this and the next few posts to lay out some choice recollections from each day:

THURSDAY

Ate the above plate on a brief break between interviews. I don't remember which restaurant was catering the Hot Topic daytime event where we were working, but I do recall involuntarily throwing up some of it in my mouth while interviewing British pop trio Scouting For Girls. Not because of anything they said or did, mind you — lovely chaps, they were — it's just that BBQ and beer probably wasn't the most advisable breakfast under the circumstances.

On the other hand, should you ever find yourself at Austin's charming and friendly Shady Grove Cafe — as Randy and I did on Thursday night — I would definitely advise ordering the brisket nachos. Good God, y'all!

I started off my Thursday show-going at La Zona Rosa, where Enter Shikari were playing. They're a thrash-meets-techno band from the UK, who've been described by one British rag as "The band that no-one over twenty understands," or something pithy like that. In reality, they reminded me of Nine Inch Nails without the angst and late 80s/early 90s Ministry without the heroin. The singer treats the stage (and PA stacks, and lighting rigs) like one big jungle gym, and the band is incredibly fun to watch; the drummer even ran out from behind his set at one point to bust some hilarious Backstreet Boys-style moves. Don't think I'd put em on my iPod, but I'd be more than happy to go see 'em again.

Enter Shikari were followed by the Black Tide, one of my favorite new bands. They're all eighteen and under, they play a killer mixture of 80s thrash and Sunset Strip-style sleaze-metal, and they improve by leaps and bounds each time I see them. Though their singer and lead guitarist Gabriel Garcia may lack stage presence at this point (hey, give the kid a break, he's only fifteen), he's already a mighty fine guitarist, and the headbanging antics of his goofball bandmates more than make up for the lack of frontman charisma. "We are the warriors of time," they sang; and really, how could you argue with that?  Their first record, Light From Above, comes out this Tuesday; it's rock-solid (not to mention solid rock!), and it doesn't take a Nostradamus to predict that these four young dudes from Miami are just gonna get better with age.

After erroneously wandering the Emo's complex in search of the Relapse Records showcase (and finding instead some horrific jam band with two violinists), I finally got wise and crossed the street to Emo's Annex just in time to catch an incredible set by High On Fire. If there's such a thing as a 21st Century Motorhead, it's these Bay Area dirtbags; they play it loud, hard, and unremittingly nasty, and the roaring sounds that Matt Pike unleashed from his custom nine-string guitar were fearsome indeed. Their excellent Death Is This Communion has been racking up rave reviews, and they'll be on this summer's Gigantour. Pike has paid more than his fair share of dues, both with Sleep and High On Fire, and it's nice to see him and his pals get a bit of a payday for once.

SXSW, Day One

Behold the remains of the very fine crawfish dinner I shared with my dear pal Michael Azerrad last night. The Boiling Pot on 6th St. has been an Austin institution for well over a decade, and for good reason — these were easily the juiciest and spiciest crawdads I've ever had outside of New Orleans (and actually better than some I've had in that fair city). My lips and fingertips were on fire for an hour afterwards, and my right eye is still stinging a little this morning from one wee crawdad that was a little too juicy; guess he decided he wasn't gonna go down without taking somebody with him...

I knew from the get-go that Michael wanted to go see R.E.M. later in the  evening at Stubbs, which I had about as much interest in as buying a new three-piece suit. During our
leisurely post-dinner stroll over to Club DeVille, where Michael's friend A.A. Bondi was playing, we were joyfully accosted by my friend and Revolver editor Tom Beaujour; about the third sentence out of Tom's mouth was, "Hey, are you guys going to be at R.E.M. later?"  "What the fuck is wrong with you people?" I shot back, but at that point I knew the fix was in — given the choice between spending the evening drinking with two of my closest pals from NYC or actually searching out bands I wanted to see, I took the path of inebriated fellowship.

A.A. Bondi was quite good — very Dylan in Woody Guthrie mode, spiked with his own gently twisted wit. I never cared much for Bondi's old band, Verbena, which sounded like rehashed Nirvana to me; but the stuff he played on this night was pretty soothing and satisfying, and he totally held his own against the chaos of the festival, despite being armed with only an acoustic guitar and occasional keyboard accompaniment. His rambling between-song tales about urinals and dinosaurs were pretty hilarious, too.

After that, we headed over to Stubb's, where we hooked up with Tom and a bunch of other old friends. There were several acts on before R.E.M., the best of which were Jonathan Rice — rootsy SoCal stuff with some definite Gram damage; they surprised me by covering J.J. Cale ("Call Me The Breeze") and 60s garage obscurities The Dovers ("What Am I Gonna Do") in the same set — and Dead Confederate, a spacy, Crazy Horse-heavy band from Georgia, whose use of subsonic frequencies sent me back to the porta-potties on two different occasions.

Then, at the stroke of midnight, R.E.M. hit the stage.

They seemed simultaneously relaxed and energized, and Stipe was charming in his gnomish way, but I just wasn't feeling it. I still miss the sublime jangle of their first handful of records — for me, they never cut it as a "rock" band, and still don't. After about eight songs (including "Second Guessing," a nice shout-out to their early days), I said my goodbyes and
took a peaceful (and sobering) mile-plus walk back to my hotel.

I woke up today with sore feet, and about fifteen bands on my interview schedule, many of whom are now trying to change their time slots. I think I'm gonna need some serious meat to get through this day...

So Much Manhattan, So Little Time

Miraculously managed to make it into JFK airport yesterday before the big NYC snowstorm shut everything down. Actually it turned out to be not as bad as originally forecast — more like three inches, rather than six — but the storm still really screwed up air travel yesterday; and as I'm just in town until Sunday for my dad's 70th birthday celebration, I'm thankful that I get to spend my weekend stomping around in the Manhattan slush rather than pacing agitatedly at LAX.

There was a time when I'd arrive in Manhattan with a checklist of all the people I wanted to see, all the places I wanted to eat, all museum exhibits and record and book stores I wanted to hit, etc. But limited to a three-days on a whirlwind visit like this one, I just didn't feel up for trying to cover every inch of the island. (Maybe I'm just too California mellow these days; I don't know. Or there's that annoying "getting older" thing...)

I did manage to grab lunch with my Mom at the always excellent Bar Pitti, dinner with my pals Tom, Maria and Rebecca at Craftbar — the "spicy fish stew" wasn't actually very spicy, but it was delicious — and couple of slices at the highly-touted Bleeker Street Pizza. (The crust was ultimately too thin and crunchy for my taste, but it definitely hit the spot.) And I tramped through Central Park (above) and made it over to the Metropolitan Museum of Art's newly remodeled Greek and Roman wing, which was fantastic; they have numerous artifacts and pieces I hadn't seen before, including a couple of restored bedrooms from Roman villas. I learned something new from it, too: Apparently, the Romans believed that the farthest reaches of Africa were ruled by pygmy tribes who — in the curator's words — "engaged in epic battles with cranes". Here's part of a 3rd century C.E. mosaic panel inspired by this legend:

Man, screw 300 — THIS is the swords n' sandals movie I wanna see!

Bombay Beach Boogie

After years of talking about it, Carole and I (along with our visiting sibs-in-law Tom and Sherry) finally got our asses out to the Salton Sea this past Sunday to do a bit of exploring. One of SoCal's biggest evironmental conundrums, the current version of Salton Sea — there's evidence that there was another, smaller one three hundred years ago called Lake Cahuilla — has higher saline levels than any of our oceans, and is slowly dying as a result. Various attempts to turn the Sea into a popular recreation destination have foundered through the years, the most famous example being the Albert Frey-designed North Shore Yacht Club, which was built in 1958 but was already long abandoned by the time the Seventies rolled around.

Of course, the Yacht Club was the first stop on our excursion. The place seemed less creepy than I would have expected, but then again it was a sunny day; I imagine that the graffiti-covered, boarded up structure emits a much more malevolent vibe once the cold and clouds roll in. The Sea itself is absolutely gorgeous and peaceful, surrounded by purple mountains and home to an amazing variety of birds, including some very active pelicans; you can totally see why people would want to turn the spot into a vacation funland. Of course, when you look down at the ground, and realize that the "beach" is entirely made up of bleached shells, bones and salt deposits, it starts to feel a little less inviting.

People do still make it out to the Salton Sea for recreation, apparently — we saw a couple of beaches lined with RVs — and an intrepid few even live there year-round, in tiny communities like the unincorporated Bombay Beach. Founded in 1929 as a private development, Bombay Beach was actually a fairly happening spot until 1977, when tropical storms caused the Salton Sea to rise. An entire mobile home park wound up underwater, and you can still see the remains of the disaster today. Coming over the hill to beach was a true "Holy Shit!" moment, as we were suddeny surrounded by the rusting shells of old trailers and other debris. And, of course, there was an old organ just sitting there surreally in the middle of it all, as if the floodwaters had caused the local Jimmy Smith to abandon the instrument in mid-gig. I couldn't resist the photo op...

After rooting around the trailer graveyard for awhile, we slaked our thirst at the Ski Inn, one of Bombay Beach's two restaurants. It was the first place I'd been in years (decades?) that actually served Natural Light, but they also had a decent variety of things on tap — I had a Fat Tire, served up in a mason jar — and a round of beers for four people set us back only $7.75. The Sunday buffet spread looked a little dubious, but the folks were friendly, and for a few minutes it seemed like Bombay Beach wouldn't be the worst place to retire when the time comes. Of course, actually waking up there on a hundred-degree morning, with a vicious hangover and the smell of dead Tilapia in your nostrils, might have you singing a different tune.

It was truly a great day, best of '08 so far. For more pics of our expediation, check out my Flickr set here.