View And Response: Kate O'Brien's Portrait Of Amanda Palmer

This portrait of Amanda Palmer by Kate O'Brien reminded me of a little Valentine's Day incident last year wherein I was lured into attending a "Happening" in Ft. Greene with the promise of exotic and swarthy companionship (shall we say).

The location: It was seemingly a squatted factory of the kind that was so popular Pre-9/11 with poor college students and reprobate young adults; red brick and crooked floors and exposed beams. Paintings were on the wall in a fresco style and they were poorly done, garish and ugly. There were several floors of the party and several rooms per floor and at least one corner of each floor had a makeshift bar with tiki lamps, christmas lights and cheap off-brand liquors and cans of watery, warm beer. Also on each floor was a stage whose boundaries were marked on the ground with reflective tape. Naturally, there was a band playing each stage in a different musical style. The crowd was young -- perhaps underage -- and enthusiastic in the way that young people are when they are allowed outside of the house and horny and drunk and drugged.

So the Girl I was with (who shall remain nameless) and I couldn't figure out what to do. Some of our more resilient traveling companions (the idiots that took us there) went off in search of booze or weed or both. Some of the others lingered against the furthest wall from the action in hopes that death would come swiftly and painlessly. The Girl and I looked at each other and slipped off past the throngs of sweaty, bepatchouli oiled college freshmen and we stumbled downstairs to dance. And we danced close... very, very close... to swingin' oldies and sweet soul music for what seemed like seconds but was more like hours and the room stopped spinning and our buzz wore off and we both realized that -- hey -- we were both huddled for comfort because we were fascinated by each other, true, but also because we were trying to protect each other from sweaty, bepatchouli oiled college freshmen. Time to go.

I grabbed her hand and we headed back upstairs from the room we had left hours before. As we fought up against the current of stumbling girls in awkward heels I heard the sound of a broken piano and a female voice singing in a strange affected English contralto.

"Fucking bitch thinks she's Amanda Palmer!" I turned and said to the Girl.

"What?!" She didn't hear me.

I turned back to find the exit. Of course it was Amanda Palmer playing a solo show on a broken piano on Classon Ave. with about sixty rapt post-teens sitting cross-legged on the floor like kindergarteners waiting for story time.

I turned and whispered in the girl's ear, "We need to go. Now."

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.

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.

Stage Diving 101

Stage Diving Etiquette 101

Intro:
So you've decided to join our feathered friends (and bats and squirrels) in the sky through the act of flight! Congratulations! The choice to sacrifice your body and equipment through the impulsive and destructive act of stage diving can be a rewarding and entertaining experience. I've cobbled together this primer to help you through the process. Band-mates should have no fear! I've taken the time to include portions and positioning for them as well. Please note the handy guide numbers in the upper left corner of the images.



1) Ascend.
While common stage dives (off a stage or the more simple "crowd surf") can be enjoyable, a true epic stage dive should be executed from the highest point available. In this instance, our hero has chosen a conspicuously well-placed rolling staircase to the left of the stage. Ascend as high as comfortable, but note that the higher the platform, the more awesome you will appear. Bonus points for continuing to play while preparing to plummet.

2) Pose.
Make sure the crowd sees you! We all know the rhetorical question regarding the tree in the woods. Here, the bassist has taken the "notes become bullets" a.k.a. the "...because of the wang" pose. Several paying customers are already laughing with joy as he readies his body for immortality. Band Note: At this point, you should still be playing at top gear, oblivious as to the throngs of women and young girls no longer eye-fucking you.

3) "The Four Winds."
With mind cleared from distraction and body poised for certain doom, one must cast one's mortal being into the abyss with righteous fervor and a complete disregard for the young girls in the front row. What's more, your band friends have noticed you for the first time in months! The drummer expresses joy and jealousy as he is locked behind his cruel metal cage. A proper guitarist will show no interest in the goings on around him or her, but will instead seethe inwardly as the ill trim in the front row has suddenly developed a taste for "bottom end," if you know what I mean.

4) Landing.
Never assume that someone will catch you. Extending your arm to brake your fall will usually lead to a broken wrist and will lead to an end to excellence, so be prepared to tuck and roll. Use the crowd to increase your coefficient of friction and slow your now-bruised body -- like a bowling ball into hapless pins. It is at this point that the drummer has cocked his arm in an "Atlanta Tomahawk" position to deliver a frustrated drumstick to the head of the bassist. This is custom and one should always be prepared to deflect a stick headed for an eye or an orifice.

5) Momentum and the "Last Resort."
If you are out of audience members to collapse into, the guitarist or lead singer is usually the last safety and one should use any and all gymnastic means to use him or her as a brake. Our bassist has cleverly used the neck of his instrument to hook into the kneecaps of the guitarist as a Navy jet hooks into the cable on the deck of an aircraft carrier. Note that he has tucked his chin down to shield his eyes from the drumstick, which has found its target -- a bruised forehead is better than a bleeding eye.

6) Injury, Recovery and Hospice.
Pain! Pain is fleeting, and death is for the weak. You are alive and you will recover thanks to modern 21st Century medicine and the finest health care system that your parents can provide! Take a breath to fill your lungs with life-affirming oxygen and to clear your mind of suffering -- those are not twins you are seeing, mouthing incomprehensible words as you lie prone on your bruised coccyx, but rather the pretty freegan from two towns over who has a 40 year old canadian boyfriend. You're seeing double, friend! Band mates: Now is the time to elevate your concern.

7) "The Checkdown."
Like a boxer that has just been knocked down, it is best to walk through a checklist in your head while on the ground -- if you're on the floor, there's nowhere lower to go, so you avoid further injury due to collapse. It is recommended to take stock of one's limbs from the bottom up: feet, legs, hips, chest and head. It is now appropriate for other band members to abandon their positions and rush to your aide. At this point, the show is effectively over and no more music will be played. All that is left is for the stage diver to milk his feat for all it's worth.

8) Results.
The last step involves regailing the hero for his feat of daring. Audience members should applaud and those of the opposite gender should become sexually aroused. Band mates should stand about and deliver the line, "are you ok?" in as dispassionate a manner a possible. A traditional response should be something along the lines of, "I need a [drink/drug/whore]," but feel free to improvise! After all, YOU sacrificed your body like a virgin to Pelé, YOU have the right to demand offerings of your choice.

(Stupid Party at Java Studios, 2/22/08)

They Covered Can't Hardly Wait. The Suicide Lyrics Version.

So yeah, The Mighty Handful. Great name. They are actually a sextet, and I like to think it's all part of the joke. I know them through Dan and more specifically Dan's kid, who's the drummer. My deep thoughts about this event are still gestating. in the meantime, I will offer you the rich, reduced broth of the experience.

"We're gonna play a song... ...the last time we played it someone's -- and I won't say whose -- someone's parents got upset."

(From the back of the house) "Were they yours?"

"No, they weren't mine. This song is called 'Uptown Drunks'."

(cheers)

The song is on their Facebook and Myspace pages. It has a medium tempo and a singable chorus. It's about teenagers "experimenting with each other," if you know what I mean. Just sing about sex. Of course. Cut to the chase. If you're going to make parents upset go right for the jugular. If you're trying to woo Sally from homeroom go straight for her skirt.

Bringing a Camera to Knife Fight, 3/17/07

I finally got around to seeing Knife Fight live after many years of broken promises and late-night cancellations due to late night calls for work the next day. They played Union Hall (no link, see previous entry) which I had been to in a drunk capacity, but not in a music show capacity and I can't say that I enjoyed it (the venue; Knife Fight is AWESOME) -- too-low lights caked in red and blue gells making white-balancing a motherfucker to figure out. I did get to fiddle around with remote flash placement, an example seen here,



The flash was propped up haphazardly on the stacks, and I might try it again with two next time, but it'll depend on the venue. There were also low-hanging speedrails that I could have mounted a unit on if I had packed a maffer or similar. Something to think about carrying around in the future. More on Flickr

My life is about to get heavier. As per multiple friends, I'm going for the 5D. As per examples of the quality of the ASA at 3200 posted on Flickr, it's really a no-brainer.

Oi.

PR Lady: You should meet this girl on stage now! She's going to be the next Gwen Stefani?

RG: WHAT.

Pr Lady: She's AWESOME!

RG: WHO?

Pr Lady:

RG: OOOOOHHH...

Playing Catch-Up Yet Again

It feels like I'm primarily using this Blog-thing to catch up on releasing stuff from last year, and feel a little lame about it -- I really only had two resolutions this year:

1) To make crisp decisions.

2) To make sure I didn't bitch out and carry my camera At All Times (emphasis mine) no matter how heavy it got.

Neither have been lived up to with any sort of regularity.

Anyway, this is Anna from These Are Powers from November of last year when they opened for The Fall. Sadly, I only saw their set because of an outstanding comittment to work at 6 AM the next day. These things happen. I'm pushing for the 7" cover with this particular one.

Another, for old times' sake

In a further effort to get things going over here, I'll add an oldie from 2002 (I think) of Carrie Brownstein of Sleater-Kinney.