Treefallinginthewoods, Treefallinginthewoods...

(Ari Up and the new Slits configuration)

So Ari Up and The Slits played Don Pedro's (still the worst venue in Brooklyn, though the basement at The Charleston is a close second in pointlessness) oh... a week ago at this point, and what should have been a welcome home party for Dead Dog and Shellshag and Stupid Party and Bad Blood (that's everyone on the bill) ended up being marred by an aging lady whose sense of entitlement and divatude is misrepresented as "punk."

One way or another, and for the benefit of those closest to me in the situation I won't name them, Ari managed to get a few of my friends kicked out of the bar and when they left, all THEIR friends left. A few baseless claims of offense, a bogus wounded sense of pride and one hair-flipping-teeth-sucking-on-stage-on-mic tantrum later, and The Slits are playing to an empty house with a few Japanese Brooklyn College Fanboys (the worst kind) and some older holdouts from the original scene -- basically Ari doing Slits karaoke by herself defiantly in an act of pure narcissism. So I was torn because -- hey -- how often do you have a name band all to yourself? But then again, my loyalties always end up with the people I know and the bands they're with. The Slits don't know me from Adam except for the guitarist, Michelle, who is a lousy advertiser in that I had no idea she was in the band (seriously. I still can't wrap my head around how I didn't know that).


(Michelle has a really long cord, allowing her to escape to freedom)

Now, one could say that Ari Up can be excused as just another holdout/true believer who has done a lot of drugs in her past, and that anything she does or says that offends should just be dismissed as the effects of a life of living the dream. This also lets her off the hook. One could go the other way and say that she's Ari Up and who the fuck am I to criticize her, considering her history and all that she comes with and why should she care what I think? Well, that's kind of the point, isn't it? I mean, the medium is the message and if she wants to prance around in a shitty empty bar in the border-country of Brooklyn then God bless her. Let her stay there. It keeps the rest of us from having to listen to her.


(This way leads to madness)

I Feel Like I'm Moving Further Away From It.

It's been almost a week since I shot Radiates and because I am old and my memory fades easily, I'm having a difficult time recalling details. Seeing as I'm left with impressions, I have managed to make the lamest music review since that time that Chris Ott reviewed the Slanted And Enchanted reissue for Pitchfork with the [awful], scanned, hand-written pages.

As we might (or might not) remember, being young means curfew and the promise of swift and brutal justice at the hands of parentals if curfew is broken. This is not all together unjustified as The City is a horrible place full of crazies and situations that would put Young White Girls In Peril. In short, I get the point. This leads to a certain problem for young bands that draw the last straw and go on with the post-curfew slot in a three-act bill: You have no one to play to, or the number of people has decreased to the point where the room is half empty. Sad story, bro.

Please recall the Ideal Gas Law, which can be used to show that the pressure of a gas (particles) in a small volume is greater than that of an equal amount of gas (particles) in a large volume.

Because the Ideal Gas law is expressed as an equation (PV=nRT), you can also determine how small a volume has to be to achieve the same pressure with fewer particles. Of course, people don't react in the same way that a gas does -- they'll go where the want to. It's up to the band to make them want to go. With that in mind, I think this illustration makes sense:



I call it Gin's Ideal Crowd Law.

In practical terms:

We Are In Great Danger

I am typing this on a borrowed laptop, which reminds me that I need (need) to spend money and get one for times like this. Also, DIA wi-fi is mondo sketch and its webvertisements are sending Firefox into fits.

I've had my flight bumped three times (we were originally supposed to be in the air at 3:30 MT and have now been pushed back to 10:30 MT). I had dinner (corn dogs) and drinks (beers) with Danny and Nina and Ezra last night. When we left at 12:00 AM (MT), I was still waiting for my pictures to come out of the Sputnik photo booth (having taken the pictures 30 minutes earlier). I had explained this delay away as part and parcel of the color process. I should have seen this as a cause for alarm and a sign of impending doom.

More later.

I'm here for Microwave Cookery No, wait. Coping with Senility.

Oh. My. God. The. Slits.

Details to come; a Radiates review first, then Antimagic, THEN The Slits.

After I come back from Denver.

Jesus.

DO YOU WANT THE LAMINATE?

Playing back to the 'too young to care' feelings from previous entries and offering all ages chiptune madness for all ages is Starscream -- 8-bit plink-pop for you and yours to enjoy unapologetically. Perhaps, upon hearing them, you would feel the urge to surf the willing crowd or bruise your neighbor with you hips and elbows. All of this is encouraged. One should also take special notice of the floors buckling under the strain of three classes of teenagers pogo-ing in unison and retreat to a more load-bearing part of the building; such is the urge for people with the burden of debt.



I was at the Knitting Factory last night (3/22) and continued to be rendered inert by the lack of FUN that bands seem to be having once they escape college. Everyone wants to be in a band, but no one wants to be a Rock Star. There are exceptions to every rule (Tunnel Of Love -- I'm talking to you...) but overall I yearn for showmanship; for bands to engage with the crowd; to push BACK when the pit swallows you up; to let the pit swallow you up.

To have a pit in general. I guess it's hard to dance when you're protecting your seven dollar beer. That's a serious investment these days.

Multiple Post Day (Pt.2)

OK, so plans have gone tits up -- Flickr is being, how you say, a motherfuckingdouchebag and is not working. So the slowly leaking TMH and Starscream and Radiate pictures are going to be leaking even more slowly. Standby.

Multiple Post Day (Pt. 1)

I'm back from Pennsylvania (at the Cannondale Plant) and Delaware (at the Dogfish Head Brewery). Not much to say about that other than we escaped from Delaware by boat (see above), which I would like to believe lent a certain prison-escape-ambiance to the end of the trip. Obviously I am delusional and tired.

Dogfish Head beer has, shall we say, certain alcoholic properties that are above and beyond most beers. I like to drink beer and became confused and disoriented after having no more than my regular serving of said liquid. Also, they sponsored one of the Punkin Guns from last season, giving me another chance to be self-referential on this blog. Oh well. Cannondale Bikes were pretty neat, but it was an odoriferous tour and shoot and everything was loud and squealy or windowless and air-tight so it made for a clammy, sweaty affair.

Upon my return, I shot the Handful (links down there somewhere. You know who they are at this point) and Starscream and Radiates at their (the Handful's) insistence. This proved to be a strong call.

Double reminder: ANTIMAGIC TONIGHT

Antimagic, at the Knitting Factory, 8PM. Be there, be square.

Onward and Upward

The Mighty Handful show on Saturday disappointed me because of my friends. Because of their lack of commitment to excellence I am/continue to be alone in my age group and in my appreciation of said band. I also made new friends with Dulaney Banks (just scroll down. I don't feel like hyperlinking myself) and was told to check out Calamity Sam's next show in April; the discussion of the particulars and wherefores went something like this,

Sam: Hey Richard Gin, I'm Sam.

Me: Hey dude. 'sa pleasure.

Sam: You're here for the Handful?

Me: You know it.

Sam: Yeah, they were in my band... ...supposed to be in my band.

Me: They ditched?

Sam: Yeah.

Me: Bastards.

Sam: Totally.

Me: They dropped you like Gary Young, huh?

Sam: Yeah! Exactly! Awesome! You should come shoot my band?

Me: Right on.

Sam: Yeah. We're better than them.

Me: Word. I'm on it.

END

Anyway, that should be interesting.

NEW THOUGHT:

True to form and as I suspected, the Lord Has Provided. I'll be away for the next work week in Pennsylvania and Delaware for... ...work and will likely not be updating or blogging in the mean. Hopefully this will be because I am having breakfasts across from the Holiday Inn Express at a Waffle House. This of course means no pictures for a while followed by a frantic upload on Saturday and Sunday.

Fuck it. How about some news you can use:

BEHOLD THE MAJESTY OF ANTIMAGIC

Antimagic, Ted McGrath's non-Savonarola-based project (featuring both members of Savonarola) will be at The Knitting Factory on Saturday the 22nd of this month. I will be there with bells on. Doors at 8, apparently though I'm sure that is subject to change. Past instances where Ted's solo-projects were found to be belligerently oppressive have been relegated to the past with hidden Smile-ish sub-melody. It will rule.

Following the next weekend I will be in Denver for two days (as of now -- these things change) and will hopefully be dining or drinking irresponsibly with Danny and Nina, whom I have not seen in... since they moved to Denver. Or before that. I think I missed the going away party for some reason.

Now, I rest.

He Said Captain, I Said Wot

Dulaney Banks don't need press from me -- any germane facts are on their Myspace (linked to; above. Please visit) but I'll boil them down for you nonetheless. Guy and girl are a duo that sings folk and spirituals and songs about murdering them wot done you wrong. They are will be legally able to busk in the subways once they turn eighteen (18) because they won a permit through the MTA Arts For Transit/MUNY audition. They are not yet 18, so they have no permit.

This is insane on several levels, most notably of which is the fact that they should not be performing in the subways for any reason other than for fun; they should be making the circuit through your usual medium/large touring venues with a proper sound system. Not to give short shrift to the Dulaney half (it's a great skill to do all the heavy lifting through one guitar, it's a wise man who knows when not to play), but to call the Banks half's voice "mature beyond [her] years" is an understatement and an absurd joke.

A Dramatization:

Jack: You're going to shoot Dulaney Banks?

Me: Oh yeah.

Jack: They're great, right?

Me: Yeah. I went to their Myspace link. I was like, 'who is this girl and how did she steal Nina Simone's voice?'

Jack: Yeah.

END

They are fantastic.

Own A Piece Of History

In the continuing spirit of plugging my friends' shit in this blog in the name of goodwill and glomming on to people and personalities who are far more socially advanced than mine, I offer the following news you can use.



This is Ted. This picture of Ted is as old as the ones of Bill and Nick and Dana, so please see the comments on those pictures for timeline information. Also, I don't think this particular picture is very good, though it gets both of us in the time we were in.


THE BIG NEWS:

Ted has been featured in Print Magazine this month, the one with this cover,



As one of their 20 Under 30 profile. I personally think 30 Under 30 has a better ring to it, but that's not the point. Can't be diluting the talent pool, can we? The point is that you, while celebrating the careers of a gaggle of young upstarts, can own an image made by me, Richard Gin. Please see the screen capture, below.



That image is, of course, THIS image,



Only cropped to hell, desaturated and therefore inferior to all the other profile pictures which capture artistic rapscallions at their most gloomy/moody/contrasty/artistic. As you can see, Ted was having two (2) milkshakes before they were popular. Ted chose my picture of him because his mom liked it. I think she said it was one where he didn't look too weird. I am paraphrasing.

Also in this issue and also in this article on dashing young men and demure young ladies are profiles of Phil Lubliner, stand up dude and commissioner of my fantasy baseball team, and Gary Fogelson, man about town and stand up dude. I will not post pictures of them because I have none, nor was I involved in their profiles. Gary and Phil are active dudes, and have various and sundry satellite projects and sub-domains that are worth checking out and are awesome.

The magazine itself is available now at your local magazine deployment concern and you should make it the bestest selling issue of Print Magazine, like, ever.

To You From Failing Hands We Throw The Torch

It's bad news when a new venue treats its lighting design as an afterthought. You can tell things are wrong when the drummer for The Orion Experience is stretching, trying to tilt the par cans over his head off of him with his drumstick. I mean, honestly; you have ten lights pointed STRAIGHT DOWN to slash the soundproofing on the back wall and no edge lights hitting the front of stage. You have one row of fixed cans at the front of house with deep amber (!!??!) gels on them dimmed to about 40% -- a dimmed tungsten light is warmer than a tungsten light at full power so the result is a warm light... with a warming gel on top of it. Net result is a color temperature somewhere around 1900K.

WHAT FUCKING GOOD DOES IT DO TO LIGHT THE BACK WALL?



And there are sidelights with no punch on stages right and left gelled BLUE. This post is incoherent and choppy and rambly. I'm furious. I mean, the building is just over a year old. Someone -- a loved one; a caring friend -- should have told the owners to hire a LD to set something reasonable up. It's not like the old Luna Lounge where you could understand a converted bar slapping up a few lights because people couldn't see shit; this was a ground-up install that should have taken into consideration EVERYTHING and they dropped the ball. What should have been a quality medium/small venue in Brooklyn becomes just another bar with a stage attached. You shouldn't have to worry about making your own separation happen when your subject is on a fucking STAGE.

Something To Du

I have had a difficult time explaining why I like the Mighty Handful so much. Most of my thoughts are scattershot and age-ist of the "talented enough to be good; not good enough to care" variety and don't do them justice. The pleasure might be in the thrill of discovery -- those precious few months you have where the secret is yours to share with everyone and anyone who will listen.



Most of the seminal bands I've enjoyed in my life were discovered a few years (or more) past their sell date; The Who, The Replacements, all of the NY post-punk bands. There are notable exceptions (including Pavement, Sleater-Kinney, Neko Case, and all the new [bands] out there that sound like them), but my music has historically been acquired a day late and at a bargain price in the resale bin. Some of this was due to (my) date of birth, some due to the inevitable decline that bands go through once they stop having hard-ons for anything that moves and embrace the rapidly advancing twilight of middle age.



The Mighty Handful are nowhere near that place, so they seem fresh and new even as they chatter amongst themselves and realize that Oh Domestic Me! sounds suspiciously like Tangled Up In Blue. Developmentally, they are at the time and place where small steps are giant strides; They are tighter than when I saw them two months ago, and though Aviva keeps slinking off to the side to avoid the carnage (live, they are 5/6ths Keith Moon) they have developed the good common sense to not tack her solo song at the end of the show; the previous result led to a, "...and this is my adopted daughter Margot," sense of unease as the rest of the boys packed themselves away.



They're playing Southpaw on the 15th and I intend to go out of loyalty and curiosity and to take my "adult" drunken friends who look at me like I'm chicken little every time I start muttering about how absurdly great "Uptown Drunks" is. First one on the train gets the best seat.