Musicllaneous

2011-09-28T09:29:00.003-04:00

Hosted by Austin Classical Guitar, Austin Pictures (October 1st, Moody Theater) celebrates our city’s rich artistic tradition by highlighting the intersection between three mediums under one, unifying theme--Austin and Central Texas. Each musical piece, picture, film and mural highlights an aspect of the region. For example, a new piece by Austinite Joseph William II, named for the event, consists of five movements: Hill Country, Floating on Lady Bird Lake, Dance of the Grackles, Violet Crown with Cicadas and Capital City Construction.

Guests will have the chance to view the paintings by young local artists in the gallery before the show begins. Led by Austin Symphony conductor, Maestro Peter Bay, Act I is the world premier of Austin Pictures and will feature a 100-member guitar orchestra composed of musicians from the nonprofit’s school programs playing alongside the Miró Quartet. Following the piece is a 12-minute film about the painters who created the art showcased in the gallery. Act II features renowned classical guitarist Jorge Caballero and the Miró Quartet. Act III places the spotlight on Caballero as he performs Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition.

“At it’s heart Austin Pictures is about promoting an arts-rich lifestyle in Austin,” Dr. Matt Hinsley, Executive Director of Austin Classical Guitar, said. “We’re bringing together members of our diverse community through art, music and film. The world class professionals along side of distinguished students artists will create an evening that will be both entertaining and inspiring.”

Tickets are on sale through AustinPictures.org.

Passions

2011-06-17T10:38:00.000-04:00

I’m passionate about words. How each word consists of letters in a sequence that, when the order is correct, conjures an image in ones mind like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a top hat. I love that they have a history, and I’m not referring to their etymology. I’m talking about the personal meaning of a word to each person. Take “hippopotamus,” a word according to the OED that means “a large thick-skinned semiaquatic African mammal, with massive jaws and large tusk.” But when I hear “hippo,” I start to sing the ludicrous carol about a little girl wanting one for Christmas. A water-wallowing beast fitting down the flue—imagine that! Absolute madness.

Words are powerful stuff. Four letters spell the difference between love and hate. They have the power to give hope, declare war, and to celebrate Christmas on a blazing summer afternoon.

Brit and Nicki at @ the 2011 Billboard awards

2011-05-23T22:57:00.003-04:00

Dear Britney,

The only reason I sped through the DVR recording of the Billboard awards was so I can see you perform with the infamous (at least in the high school set) Nicki Minaj. Your 45-second performance, if you call walking down the stage lip syncing your new single, a "performance." I mean, I was expecting a little watermelon-watermelon action since lip syncing is the standard for you, but where was the glitter? Where was the attitude? Where was the showmanship that I love you for? The billing played up the circumstance, but you were sadly missing the pomp.

You looked uncomfortable, like you stepped on some boo-boo. Check out that fake smile.

Perhaps you were worn out after your opening romp through Rihanna's hit single S&M. I mean any person would be tired after a pillow fight involving whips and chains. But you're not a normal person--you're Britney! Anyone who saw the show could see Rihanna was the main domme in that set, not you.

Love,
your disappointed Resalin

Summer Sessions, July 10, 2010

2010-07-20T11:07:00.004-04:00

Summer Sessions at the beatific One World Theater Saturday night was a dance party made better by the gorgeous view, art, cocktails in the gallery. There were a couple of surprises; one being that Cowboy and Indian (and Rider) never saw the stage but was banished to the gallery. Their balanced harmonies and costumes managed to steal a handful of fans from the sunset, the art, and the bar in the opposite corner. L.A.X* began in the upstairs theater soon after Cowboy and Indian dismantled, followed by the headliner.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Black and White Years,” and with flashing red lights, the band launched into a set that got the hipsterati to pause their photo opps and do what they drove out to Bee Caves to do: dance.

For a solid hour pulses climbed as blood pumped by an ecstatic collective heart, which had napped through the preceding acts, was finally awakened by shuddering guitars, thunderous drums, and frantic yips from lead vocal Landon Thompson. His stage presence is goofy but dangerous. Nervous, maniacal giggles and the glare of stage on Thompson’s thick glasses transformed him from mere mortal to demon nerd hopped up on prescription study aides; guitar as his pitchfork. Up-tempo grooves spanning their work induced brownian muscle spasms among the crowd and band. Scott Butler’s twisting grew in proportion to the accelerated thumps coming from Billy Potts’s drums during Steady as it Goes, the climax of a frantic set. It wasn’t until the first song of their encore, Broken Hand, that the band slowed, but only for the verses.

*The second surprise was more of a disappointment. What may have been a nice warm-up turned into a Charlie horse as L.A.X was overshadowed by their own theatrics and over Autotuning.

An excerpt from "The Vegan Affair"

2010-07-15T01:40:00.004-04:00

"But symbolism aside, there’s nothing carnal about kale and chickpeas. Brown rice is not sexy even when spiced up with quinoa (keen-wah). FYI, the childhood rhyme about a bean’s side effects is still true in your twenties. Gastronomically speaking, nothing says “lets just be friends” more than a vegan macrobiotic lunch."

Hungry for more? Visit waiting4johnmayer.wordpress.com

The Mercers @ The Parish, 7/3/2010

2010-07-07T14:02:00.003-04:00

The Mercers don’t need pillow talk as foreplay or to supplement their sound. Without pomp and circumstance, the four members took their positions and filled the Parish Saturday night with thrashing guitars and keening wails. While two fans expressed their enthusiasm with manic turns and leaps, most showed their appreciation with gentle sways and bobbing heads. More joined the dance party (albeit not as extreme as the spinning duo monopolizing the dance floor) as the waves from the speakers grew stronger, climaxing around lucky number seven.

The Mercer’s sound is like contained liquid bubbling over itself: the only thing keeping it from spilling over is the tension and attraction between individual molecules. Peter Wagner’s voice—evocative and resonant; ethereal and redolent—is backed by driving beats from drummer Ethan Herr and bassist Bryan Ray while synthesist Erik Ray adds ornamental flourishes like the jangling of a tambourine in between sips of Lonestar beer.

The set was comprised of tracks from their full-length album Pretty Things Walk as well as their two EPs, Hovercraft and the recently released Giant. Their new song "Urgency" was welcomed by the crowd, though the two improv dancers were shown the door before the Mercers delivered their rendition of the Genesis song "Abacab".

Scene--Vietnamese restaurant

2010-06-15T23:53:00.001-04:00

An Asian woman and her baby eat dinner in a vinyl booth. The baby’s hairs stand on their ends and form an electrified black halo. In a few years the strands will lay flat and form a shiny sheath like her mother’s. Mom keeps a hand on the high chair at all times should the wriggling child slither to the cement floor. Sometimes she gives the baby rice and lettuce, more as a distraction than food. Tiny hands fling the scraps to the floor. With her free hand, she alternates between siphoning water into the child’s mouth with a straw and taking bites of her meal. Finally, she unsnaps the buckle and sits the baby on her lap. Mother and daughter coo at each other for a few minutes before she signals for the check.

Saturday night with Vampire Weekend

2010-04-11T17:50:00.006-04:00

This week, my friend Bailey surprised me with recycled tickets to the sold out Vampire Weekend show at Stubb's as a thank you for taking him to Fun, fun, fun fest.

I went thinking that the band wouldn't live up to the hype; I went thinking that the crowd lining Red River waiting to get in would be disappointed; I went thinking that my friend John, who claims VW is "the real deal" would be really wrong.

John, you were right. They totally killed it. The video clip doesn't do it justice but the crowd throughout their set covering their eponymous album and the more recent Contra was enthusiastic at the least and damn rowdy at most (Bailey's spilled drink can attest to that).

I'd see them again fosho.

After the jump:

2010-04-09T21:09:00.004-04:00

Dudemen.

Y'all may or may not have realized this, but my presence in the blogosphere has been spotty if not absent in the last months. My new career as educator and taskmaster has kicked my ass.

But, as I sit at my teacher desk on a Friday night, I see a glimmer of hope...summer. I feel it; my skin crawls with the craving for stretches of time when I answer to no one but me--"Resalin"--not "Ms. Rago" or "Rago." My first name has never sounded so good.

To get us ready for my birth season, here's my new favorite single, Rocket by Goldfrapp. I believe it's appropos.

The Walkmen

2010-03-20T15:27:00.002-04:00

They're here, among the many leather-clad musicians clogging up Austin streets. I didn't catch any of their SXSW 2010 sets but I'll make sure to buy a ticket next time they're in town.

Hope you enjoy "Canadian Girl" as much as I do.

"Wait....they don't love you like I love you."

2010-02-20T12:12:00.004-05:00

I just now found this as I was falling down the cyberspace rabbit hole known as youtube.

I love the amped version but this one gave me a new perspective. While the original is full of angst and violent desperation the tone here is resigned and lonely.

xoxo, Lola and Resalin

2010-02-14T15:32:00.002-05:00

Now that's love--warm, surprising, fuzzy, and sometimes, slobbery.

Song three: "Help me make it through the night"

2010-02-13T01:16:00.001-05:00

Let the devil take tomorrow, because tonight I need a friend.
Today is dead and gone, and tomorrow is out of sight,
And it's bad to be alone,
help me make it through the night.

Song two: "Something" by the Beatles

2010-02-11T22:11:00.003-05:00

Because sometimes you know without understanding why.

"One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you."

2010-02-04T23:36:00.001-05:00

Black, knee-high, with a two-inch heel, I bought my rubber boots to repel the slick wet rain. What I didn’t realize, as I left the store with my purchase, was that my practical boots were going to be a selling point to the opposite sex.

All kinds of men—not just kinky boot lickers—pay homage to the rubber boots as they stomp by.

On dry carpet, with caked mud smeared on the side, the boots are dull and lifeless. I can’t figure out why they’re such a turn-on.

But maybe they love them because I love me in them.

There’s power embedded in the soles. I feel it tingling my toes, shimmy up my leg, and settle in my hips, making them sway, side to side, as I stride away and leave them staring, fascinated by the girl working her boots, who’s going, going, gone.

"Africa"

2010-02-01T22:48:00.003-05:00

Because it's that season--the dreaded time of year when society grudgingly or cheerfully celebrates love and all its trappings--I've decided to post a love song every day until the 14th.

Enjoy (or not).

The first one:

It's catchy and upbeat keyboards make me feel like I just saw my current crush(es) headed my way.

Ola Podrida

2009-12-14T22:07:00.004-05:00

I don't know how I found the time but I actually wrote a story...sorta.

The following is an excerpt of my Q&A with David Wingo of Ola Podrida. Read the full story on The Deli Austin.

What’s the difference between writing music for film versus writing music for Ola Podrida? Obviously, it seems like you have less freedom doing soundtrack work because of the script, but in terms of the creative process, is it the same?
I try to make the core of it the same. It reminds me of doing art projects as a little kid in school. You’re given supplies and tools and you’ve got to make something. It’s a totally different process but still gratifying in its own way. You’ve got to take a few tools to make something that can make a wide array of emotions pop. However, I do think that it has helped me with my own stuff because I’ve learned to have a single-minded focus and to not use the blank canvas to my advantage. I have parameters now. I’ve learned to gauge what the song needs. It’s helped to maintain the “less is more” aesthetic for sure.

If Belly of the Lion was a movie, what would it be about?
I think this album would be about a weird, oppressed teenage kid in the suburbs doing what he can to have a bit of freedom in the claustrophobia while trying to meet girls and doing some drinking in the process.

Holy crap: Taylor Swift beat George Strait.

2009-11-11T22:57:00.005-05:00

Not that I'm agreeing, but she sure is cute (and tall!).

Maybe she won because in our complicated world, where so many empty and useless words are said, we yearn to listen to someone singing--plainly and frankly--what we don't have the guts to say.

Hallway romances, heartbreak, and true love--it's what we live for.

Thanks Taylor.

In yo' face Kanye.

Hipsteria: The Mohawk

2009-11-06T07:11:00.002-05:00

But here is where Too Short left with female co-eds and tequila bottle in hand. Here is where Michael Stipe (REM) supposedly puked his guts out.

“[Stipe] needed to go to the bathroom,” Moody said. “He was on the roof deck and it was jam packed with people so I asked an employee, an ex-Marine, to help Stipe. Not knowing that Stipe is a frail, nervous guy—grabs him and says ‘Come with me dude.’ He puts [him] in a headlock and starts yelling: ‘He’s gonna puke! He’s gonna puke!’ The crowd cleared out and Stipe got to the bathroom. For the longest time, the rumor was that Michael Stipe puked in the Green Room at the Mohawk.”

Jump to the Deli Magazine Austin for the full scoop.

(It's not my best work but I'm going to pull the over-worked teacher card now and I'm sure it won't be my last).

"New Moon" Soundtrack

2009-10-21T22:25:00.002-04:00

I will probably see the movie but I will definitely buy the soundtrack.

Bon Iver & St. Vincent? Thom Yorke? Are you fucking kidding me? Yes please.

I'm alive.

2009-10-19T20:10:00.003-04:00

I moved to America when I was eight years-old. Unlike my American counterparts, I didn't know how to swim. Even though the Philippines is made up of 7,100 islands, I had never seen the beach or a swimming pool.

It was May when I landed in Dallas, TX, so learning how to swim was top priority. Everyday, my family took me to the apartment pool where I learned to swim underwater and doggy paddle--basically enough to enroll me in lessons at the YMCA.

My teacher there taught us basic strokes--freestyle, back stroke, and side stroke. I was good at side stroke, decent at back (though I swam into other lanes), but terrible, just awful at freestyle. Tilting, breathing, kicking, and stroking--all while trying to breathe in water--was too much for me.

In order to pass the class, we all had to jump into the deep end and freestyle down the length of the pool. We had to do this alone, one at a time, in front of the class. I passed, but just barely and it took me forever. It is, by far, the hardest exam I've ever taken.

Being a first-year teacher makes me feel like that eight year-old kid who is trying to catch her breath before going under again.

My favorite soldier

2009-08-23T22:19:00.003-04:00

We are very proud of him.

500 Days of Summer

2009-08-03T13:51:00.005-04:00

Some thoughts...

1. Joseph Gordon-Levitt
2. Summer Finn's trademark blue ribbon (it brings our her eyes).
3. The jumbled time line. (I didn't like it at first but all the jumps came together in the end)
4. Joseph Gordon-Levitt and his dance to You Make My Dreams (Hall & Oates) the morning after.
5. How Amber and I were surrounded by couples. 500 Days is the perfect date movie...hopeful yet realistic. Some parts are cheesy and a little too earnest but Gordon-Levitt and Deschanel are good at being cheesy and earnest so it works.
6. The soundtrack. Because of Ben Gibbard's liaison with Deschanel, I expected Postal Service or Death Cab to contribute. However, I wasn't disappointed by the roster. (She & Him, Temper Trap, The Smiths, Regina Spektor, Hall & Oates, Carla Bruni, etc.)

Behind the Counter

2009-08-03T01:07:00.002-04:00

Counter Café is a long, skinny restaurant on the northwest corner of S. Lamar and 6th street. The interior is dark and cramped. The breakfast counter, where customers eat and watch the short-order cooks cook, take up most of the room and leaves only a narrow walking space between the bar stools and the row of two-tops hugging the west wall. It has a small staff, too small to accommodate the large volume of customers. While the food is above average, the service is slow and sub-par. After requesting a biscuit after we’d already given our order, (I forgot I needed a carb-sponge to soak up the egg yolk), she asked me if there was “possibly anything else I could want.” This is a common question in the hospitality industry. However, the question conveyed annoyance instead of a desire to please. Couldn’t I see that she was too busy to fetch forgotten food requests? This is true. She was busy. Regardless, as a waitress, it’s her job to wait on me. It’s not her job to teach me the polite way of ordering. She made me feel so bad that I poured my own coffee refill instead of troubling her for one.

The blueberry pancakes are the only reason I would come back. Fluffy and riddled with ripe fruit--they forced me to overeat. (Shocking, I know). My brunch companion was very disappointed with her Counter Eggs Benedict because the yolks were completely done. They looked like slimy marbles sitting on top of a biscuit. Blech.

The next time I crave blueberry pancakes, I’ll order from Counter Café, but I’ll get them to go.

Y’all Have a Good Night: Better Than The Van

2009-07-30T12:34:00.003-04:00

“The worst experiences are earlier on,” Todd Hansen said. “I was in my early twenties, Fayetteville, AR. We played a really good club that’s not even there anymore. Somebody asked if we needed a place to stay and we said yes. He was living with his parents in a doublewide trailer a half hour away from the club. His dad had a machine shop where he did plastic injection molding. It was just cement floor in a big metal shed that was as big as this patio. That was it. ‘Y’all have a good night. Cement floor, enjoy!’”

A decade and 500 miles later finds Hansen sipping Fireman’s lager at UT hangout Spiderhouse Café, no longer burning asphalt in a ragged 1988 Chevy Conversion van (stripes on the side, no AC) van as a drummer for various rock bands. In the “Live Music Capital of the World,” where Austinites trip over musicians, Hansen’s drums sticks are still. Now, he’s parked behind a computer monitor, banging out the kinks of his website, BetterthantheVan.com, an online community that hooks up touring musicians with people offering free places to stay.

For the complete story, go here.

Thrice more with feeling

2009-07-16T20:15:00.003-04:00

Both nights were hot as balls. Heat—especially at extreme temperatures—does crazy things. It can melt plastic, cause shiny sticky faces to suck down cold cans of Tecate and Lone Star beers, and it might even alter the physical properties of sound waves. Alright, the last point isn’t accurate. Temperature has no effect on the propagation of sound waves whatsoever. However, the humidity that pressed down like a warm wet rag felt like it was thick enough to slow down waves emanating from the stage. Even poppier songs like Cherry Bomb sounded limp and faint like they too were suffering from heat exhaustion.

(Click on Cherry Bomb for the full review on theDeli.com).

Prunus mume: Hardcore pretty things

2009-06-17T00:40:00.004-04:00

Being a girl singer means dealing with the inevitable comparisons to female leads who have come before you. Lauren Larson of Ume is no exception. From Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth to Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, she has heard them all and accepts most with a resigned smile. Situations where Larson is equated to Courtney Love, however, are not handled as graciously as the others.

“She is my antithesis,” she said before her show at Emo’s last Friday night.
“How so?”
“I play sober, first of all.”

Read the full article HERE.

Hey 311 heads: Uplifter drops today!

2009-06-02T12:51:00.001-04:00

I’m was in my room ironing and talking to my mom on the phone when I heard someone beeping in on the other line. I ignored the call and my mom and I continued our discussion about my little sister’s hair extensions.

“Didn’t you notice that her hair was longer?” she said.
“Yeah, but I guess it didn’t click. It looked like it was all hers.”
My phone beeped again: same number.
“Hold on mom.”

“Hello?”
“Hi,” the caller said. “This is Chad Sexton.”

Holy Guacamole Batman.

Chad Sexton, the drummer for 311, one of my favorite bands ever, is on the other end of the telephone wire that stretched from my bedroom in Austin, TX to the Music Farm in Charleston, NC where Sexton is waiting for sound check to begin. Dead air ensued. I was too busy jumping up and down to speak.

Warped Tour 2001 was the first time I saw the reggae-inspired rock band. The tour had set up camp on a gigantic asphalt desert in Dallas Fair Park. The summer sun beamed UV rays down and dehydrated fans were dropping like flies but I didn’t care. I was feeling the music and Tim Mahoney, 311’s bassist, just smiled directly at me—the world was irie.

“It’s definitely more rock than our last two records were. We explored the sounds that we’ve done and a few new ones. Our reggae stuff is on there, our hard rock stuff, some funk going on.”

The adrenaline-induced euphoria (and the jumping) made it extremely hard to concentrate and maintain my reportorial composure. Sexton was talking about Bob Rock’s influence on the new album, Uplifter. Bob Rock. I looked down at my notes: “Legendary sound engineer. Metallica—St. Anger, The Cult –Beyond Good and Evil, and Bon Jovi—Slippery When Wet. All albums with a harder edge.”

Did you decide to go with Bob Rock because you wanted to extend the hard rock aspects of your sound or did it happen organically?
We knew we wanted to have some fun. By the end we had 18 songs and we put 12 on the record. We really like the rock and that thought carried us through the record and we think our fans will love it.

Why was there such a long break in between the albums?
We came to the conclusion that we shouldn’t be on a schedule. Lets get back to our roots and the reasons that we want to play music. We love to play for people so we decided that we’re going to go out there and let the record come to us in its own time. We waited for the inspiration.

What was the inspiration for this album?
It’s an overall inspiration to move on with our band and to grow. We always want to do well. We want to do our best and get outside the box we’ve been working in and that’s why we chose Bob Rock. He came to the group and he hasn’t worked with us before but we were totally open to his suggestions and to letting him take care of the audio—making sure we’re doing the bridge, what parts should be in different keys, what lyrics work and what don’t—stuff like that. It was a great experience working with him.

Watch Out For Rockets

2009-05-23T12:49:00.003-04:00

Some of my favorite quotes from my interview with Dave T. Jones and John Tehaar of Watch Out For Rockets.

"I used to want to get eaten by a bear; that's how I wanted to die."

"If a horse could kill Superman...fuck." (Dave has had a fear of horses since a close friend was a severely injured in an equine-related accident. Consequently, he was practically traumatized by The Ring).

"I find shit to be more endearing than something that's fake and contrived."

Read my review of the show at The Deli Magazine.

Cage the Elephant

2009-05-05T23:24:00.005-04:00

This isn't their best, but Youtube wouldn't let me embed the video for Ain't No Rest For the Wicked, the single from their debut album which encapsulates their sound so much more than this...whiny, Delilah-esque ballad.

Check out my story on bbook.com.

Best of Incubus

2009-05-04T15:40:00.003-04:00

My obsession with Incubus (fueled in part by Brandon Boyd's beauty mark and tendency to disrobe during performances), during my high school and undergrad years has tapered off due to my disappointment over their last two offerings. However, the video for Black Heart Inertia, with its many closeups of Boyd's perfect imperfection, may revive my it.

Incubus - New Music - More Music Videos

Is it wrong to watch a music video on mute?

311 Drumline--Two more weeks until I see it live!

2009-05-04T12:25:00.001-04:00

"It’s not pleasant to learn something at the very beginning. It involves a lot of muscle memory so we have to practice a lot but we’re better at it now than we ever have been."
--Chad Sexton on learning the drum combo

Jazz Fest. (Why am I not there?!)

2009-04-29T15:41:00.004-04:00

I was nineteen when I fell in love with the Big Easy and it’s an affair that has bested time, distance, and natural disasters; and like Louis Armstrong, I know what it means to miss New Orleans. I miss the wrought iron balconies, the musky scent of magnolias, the waxy banana leaves, and decadent crawfish etouffé. But more than what I see, smell, or taste, I miss what I hear—the music—of the Crescent City. There’s always a jazz band blowing brass into the swampy air and bustlers working to make my hips swing a little more as I walk the Quarter. I once paid a homeless man $10 to sing R&B classics while I waited for the trolley to take me back uptown. He didn’t have any teeth but he still had some chops.

This weekend is the last half of New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, a thick gumbo of musical styles and traditions with twelve stages, food booths, and collapsible bars stewing on the Fair Grounds Race Course, a mere ten minutes from Bourbon Street. The first half of Jazz Fest showcased bands like Joe Cocker, Drive By Truckers, Spoon, Wilco and Erykah Badu. This weekend promises to be even bigger, and the following acts should not be missed.

Ben Harper (Thursday, 5:30 pm, Acura Stage)
Ben Harper is a music festival staple. It seems like you can’t have one without the other. After Jazz Fest, Harper and his Relentless 7 will headline Beale Street, and then Sasquatch, Bonaroo, Southside, Hurricane, Austin City Limits in October…

Kermit Ruffins (Friday, 3:55 pm, Gentilly)
If you missed Ruffins last weekend, you have a second chance to hear his trumpet this Saturday. His new album Living a Treme Life pays homage to his hometown of Treme, one of America’s oldest African American neighborhoods in Orleans parish, and now, the title of a new TV series directed by David Simon (The Wire, Homicide). Ruffins is a consultant for Treme and is also a central character in the pilot season.

Sugarland (Friday, 5:30 pm, Acura Stage)
The duo is nominated for six CMT Music Awards (the country equivalent of MTV) including Video of the Year for All I Want To Do, a summery ditty about playing hooky. Buy a hand grenade and sing along.

Tony Bennett (Friday, 5:45 pm, Gentilly Stage)
Listening to Tony Bennett will be more interesting than watching Anthony Benedetto paint. The two men, musician and artist respectively, are actually just one. Apparently, the lauded crooner has been painting for as long as he has been singing and his portrait of Duke Ellington hangs in the Smithsonian.

Aaron Neville/ The Neville Brothers (Saturday, 3:30 pm, Gospel Tent/Sunday, 7:00 pm, Acura Stage)
I don’t know much, but I know you shouldn’t miss the Neville brothers. That may be, all you need to know.

Kings of Leon (Saturday, 4:55 pm, Gentilly Stage)— Their single Sex on Fire catapulted them from opening-band status to the cover of this month’s Rolling Stone. Their rock star status and Caleb Followhill’s skinny jeans should draw a ridiculous crowd.

Bon Jovi (Saturday, 5:00 pm, Acura Stage)—Come on…it’s BON JOVI. Plus, wouldn’t you go just to see if the humidity will turn Jon’s famous coif into a dandelion? Look for Sugarland’s Jennifer Nettles during Bon Jovi’s set. The two collaborated on the hit country-rock single Who Says You Can’t Go Home.

Neil Young (Sunday, 4:55 pm, Acura Stage)
Aretha Franklin is out and Neil Young is in. Listen for tracks from Young’s new album Fork In The Road as well as crowd favorites.

Allen Toussaint and Trombone Shorty (Sunday, Foundation Gala)
Toussaint plays piano, Shorty plays the slide trombone; Toussaint graces vinyl covers, Shorty could be in a music video. One is old school and one is new, but both are amazing in their own right. See the two perform side by side at the Foundation Gala, the festival’s capstone event.

Ghosts at Great Lake Swimmers

2009-04-09T14:57:00.004-04:00

Last night, I saw Great Lake Swimmers at Stubb’s. It was my first time to hear the band, my first time at the venue, and also my first time to go to a show without work or friends to keep me company. I wasn’t there to write a review. I was there to witness a unique event; to be inspired; and to be transported from my present life to another world created by the music—a place where storm clouds scuttled over still dark waters.

I had been seeing a man for six months who I had grown to really, really like. The only thing that stopped me from loving him is the fact that he didn’t want me to. He had his reasons for staying away—he was moving, he had just gotten out of a serious relationship, etc. He was being kind by keeping his distance and hopefully, someday soon, I’ll realize that he did me a huge favor.

So I was at the concert to forget. But instead of forgetting, I remembered:

I remembered my first concert experience. It was at Fair Park Music Hall and my boyfriend at the time had gotten us floor tickets to see Incubus (circa Pardon Me) who was opening for Deftones (circa White Pony). The lineup promised a good time for all. It gave me the opportunity to drool over Brandon Boyd and he got to hear Chino’s vodka-fueled screaming first hand.

Before Incubus came on, we managed to get to the barrier that separated the stage from the audience, a feat that required luck, finesse, and a mercenary attitude. While I was quite proud of my accomplishment, my rookie self learned that the mosh pit—with its ricocheting bodies, jabbing elbows, and random shoes flying around—is a rough place, especially for a petite, 16 year-old girl. Luckily, my boyfriend (who really wasn’t much bigger than me) stood guard and pushed off any sweaty bodies that were hurling in our direction. I relished his protective attitude but I liked it best when ballads slowed the moshing down enough to let him put his arms around me and then I would sweetly lean against him.

We went to a lot of concerts during the course of our six-year relationship. Music was our common denominator and our time together fostered my interest in music and also jumpstarted my lead-singer fanaticism. (He was the lead singer of his band). We spent hours in his room—white Christmas lights glowing—listening to Radiohead, Pavement, 311, Roger Miller, Air, Sparta, Wu Tang, Mos Def and A Tribe Called Quest. To this day, I can’t hear “Bonita Applebum” without thinking of him.

The relationship ended before my senior year of college and we didn’t speak for a long time, both of us needing space to grow and discover new bands of our own. But by the end of the substantial grieving period, we somehow managed to rewire our old romance into a new friendship. We check in on each other every few months and during our brief conversations, we always talk about what we’re listening to.

I stood next to a young couple at the Great Lakes Swimmers show. The boy was behind his girlfriend with his arms around her and his chin rested on top of her head. They made a sweet picture and they made me remember how nice it was to lean on someone after standing alone for a long time.

Ostentatiousness at the American Country Music Awards

2009-04-06T20:42:00.003-04:00

When Amber asked me if I had seen what Carrie Underwood wore during her performance at the ACM, I thought that she was implying that Underwood wore another slinky number from Bebe. I couldn't have been more wrong.

It was a little...much.

"It's like lava," the singer said. Yeah...the kind that swallows whole villages. Her bedazzled microphone was the perfect accessory.

TAKE ME TO THE CIRCUS.

2009-03-31T17:20:00.003-04:00

My Brit-hater friend , who shall remain nameless per her request, texted me this morning to tell me that Brit's tour bus was parked in Dallas. I wanna go dammit!

While my b-fri Kat Marshall dances it up at the concert, I'll be schlepping steaks and lobsters to rich legislators and lobbyists who publicly denounce Ms. Spears but still secretly dream of doing the nasty with her.

I hate my life.

Theresa Andersson Sees Dead People. OK, just one dead person...

2009-03-24T00:10:00.005-04:00

For more of Theresa Andersson, check out bbook.com

"There were a lot of ghost stories where I grew up in Sweden and it used to freak me out as a kid but I didn’t think much of it. When I first moved to New Orleans, I was living in a slave quarter, which is the back house from the bigger, main building. A voodoo priest lived across the courtyard from us and every night, I would see her walk around the rooms with sage as the sun went down to chase out the bad spirits. One night, I was upstairs on my futon and I was still awake, my eyes were wide open and from around the corner came this very large, totally black shadow in the shape of a man. It came towards me and it jumped—throwing itself at me. I sat straight up and screamed for my life and then it evaporated. I couldn’t sleep after that. It was not a friendly presence at all. Maybe there’s something to the sage. Maybe the she chased them over to me. "
On the first and only time Andersson saw a ghost.

Justice Records at SXSW

2009-03-23T00:28:00.006-04:00

A really blurry picture of Justice Jamail, guitarist for The Manichean and son of Randall Jamail, CEO of Justice Records.

For Randall Jamail's interview with Blackbook, click here.

Randall Jamail is the son of Joe Jamail, legendary litigator (there are TWO statues of Joe at UT Law) and BFF with Daryl Royal and Willie Nelson.

Jason Reece of ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead on SXSW

2009-03-19T15:52:00.003-04:00

See the article on Blackbook Magazine.

Plus more:
RR:If I was a shitty band and I was coming to you for some guidance, what would you tell me?
JR: Quit while you’re ahead. Unplug your musical equipment, sell it on eBay and work in a normal job like everyone else.

RR:Where is this coming from?
JR: It’s that oversaturation of mediocrity. The bands that I like and see, I’ve discovered by accident. It seems like SXSW is this ridiculous, debaucherous, crazy, drug-fueled, alcohol-fueled party. It’s fun but does anyone really watch the music?

You know, Trail of Dead was once an aspiring band.
JR: I guess that makes me an asshole for saying that but that’s how I feel. But the cool thing about SXSW is that it’s great to have that sort of party, festive atmosphere.

The stars at night, are big and bright, deep in the heart of SXSW.

2009-03-19T03:34:00.006-04:00

Dave Grohl, frontman extraordinaire and overall awesome dude, was spotted chowing down some fish tacos at Wahoo on Rio Grande. Joseph Gordon-Levitt also sated his appetite at an Austin eatery located a few blocks east of Wahoo. This establishment, while known for their prime seafood (no more than 72 hours between boat and plate) does not serve fish tacos.

Fritz Lamb

2009-03-18T14:55:00.001-04:00

Towards the end of his long life, we started calling Fritz our “grumpy, old man,” because he had the appearance and outlook of a grumpy, old man. He had a gray beard and his black beady eyes looked at you accusingly, like he knew that you were up to no good. We heard his shrill bark more and more, especially in the mornings when he would bark by our bedside until we reached down and scooped him up, only for him to bark at us again when he needed to get down a few minutes later. It was annoying. I would roll over and glare at him before putting him down. But now that Fritz is gone, I feel terrible for being so mean to him, for not understand what it’s like to get old, to not be able to do the things you used to do.

My favorite memory of Fritzy was of him jumping up on my bed in the mornings and snuggling with me. He would come after the family had already started waking up and after he had breakfasted in the kitchen at the other end of the house. I could hear his approach two rooms away. His nails clacking against the hardwood floors as he raced to the room I shared with Melanie sometimes seemed like a figment of last night’s dream, in my half-awake state. On his morning runs to our bedroom, Fritz would gain enough momentum to open our door. I’d hear it bang open and then he would land on my bed with a thump, uninvited. Sometimes he’d land at my feet and I’d move my legs to make a little hollow for him. Sometimes he’d land right on top of me. On those mornings, he’d march right up, real close until I could smell and feel his doggy breath on my face. I’d open my eyes and see two black marbles staring at me. On those mornings, I’d put my arms around him and we would sleep a little longer, spooning.

He didn’t always snuggle with me. There were two twin beds and sometimes he would choose the other one. It never made me jealous when he chose Mel’s bed over mine because we both knew that he truly belonged to Judy. We were just lucky that she knew how to share.

SXSW: Day 4 (1 for me)

2009-03-16T03:09:00.004-04:00

Lets blame my lack of enthusiasm for SXSW on the weather. Unlike Austin City Limits Music Festival which is localized in one spot, SXSW is a creature with tentacles reaching over downtown and into South Austin. This means that attendants must brave the elements as they go from one venue to another. I don’t know if y’all have been watching the Weather Channel, but for the past week, the entire state of Texas has been unseasonably cold (in the forties!) and rainy, a combination that’s not conducive to waiting in lines, not even for the next hottest musical import from Norway.

Actually, rock stars and those aspiring to become one won’t hit the stages until the latter part of this week. The first half of the festival is films and interactive*. However, my weather person predicted sunshine throughout the duration of the festival so nothing should bar me from hanging with Norway’s finest musicians. Whether it’s for a film, a band, or for some guaranteed interaction, I’ll be waiting in line with Torchy’s tacos in one hand and a refreshing beverage in the other.**

*I’m not quite sure what “interactive” entails. I think Google has a booth or something.
** Ian Moore is the shiz...especially his newest shiz.

Don't do it.

2009-02-27T15:43:00.003-05:00

For anyone planning on proposing to their sweetheart, may I make a teensy suggestion:

Please don't go to a nice restaurant and have some poor server write "Will You Marry Me?" in chocolate icing. You will be the laughing stock of the entire restaurant staff. They will discuss, during smoke breaks and in the dry storage, nooks, and the walk-in refrigerator, how horribly tacky table eight is for popping the question on a freaking chocolate mousse plate.

Bad Kissing

2009-02-25T02:12:00.003-05:00

The worst kiss I’ve had was with the most attractive boy I’ve ever kissed. He was tall with a solid build, luxurious brown hair and dark blue eyes. He looked like a young Tom Cruise but hotter and I would come to find out during our date that he lived in new York City for a few years and worked as a model. The whole package was impressive and I was excited about the prospects until his tongue lolled out of his mouth and licked my face by way of introduction.

We were driving to a restaurant for dinner and we were paused at a stop sign. He leaned over the small console dividing the truck’s bench seat in half and gazed at me with his blue eyes. At that moment, with the light from the setting sun filling the cab and framing the former model, the image of the Beast’s face after his transformation back to human form in the Disney movie popped into my head.

“Would it be okay if I kissed you?” he asked as we sat at a stop sign. “Wow,” I thought. Nobody had ever asked for my permission before.
“Sure,” I said.

After a sopping pink sponge scrubbed the inside of my mouth clean in three seconds flat, I realized that I should have said no. I thanked the Lord that we were only temporarily stopped instead of parked on Lover’s Lane. I would have been stranded then and would have had to resort to white lies or a crazy scenario that involved me climbing into another vehicle and begging the driver to take me away, far away and quickly, from the make out marauder.

I don’t remember how I got through the rest of the date without kissing him. Without the force field emanating from the intimidation factor of the “first kiss,” my mouth was vulnerable to his unwelcome advances. However, I’d like to think that I was perfectly nice to him during the rest of the evening. I smiled and laughed and pacified him by holding his hand. I didn’t lead him on. Rather, I didn’t want to ruin his day by telling him what a horrible kisser he really is. I’ll leave that chore for someone else.

“A bad kiss is bad, but a good kiss is great,” my friend Vanita said.

I couldn’t agree more. Concerning the model, I decided that the women he’s ever been in a comfortable relationship with were too struck by his physical perfection to critique his romantic mastications, and I decided after the date was over that I wasn’t going to waste my breath because there will only be just the one kiss.

But I remain optimistic. Somewhere out there, there’s a man whose kisses I’d hold up traffic for.

Grammy Awards

2009-02-09T00:18:00.006-05:00

• Was Bono wearing guyliner?
• JT’s “general store” joke was delivered badly but damn that white boy can sing! (Matt, you did give him my number right?)
• You would think that Coldplay could afford to buy clothes without holes. Sheesh.
• Carrie Underwood, lay off the bronzer. You look like you’re wearing Hooters pantyhose and, your mic needed to be turned up. Your back-up singers were louder than you were.
• The best part about Kid Rock’s performance was that he wasn’t wearing a wife beater though according to Judy, “he still looks like one.”
• Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift are best friends?
• “Isn’t it great to see Stevie Wonder and Jonas Brothers together again?” - Mark Hoppus, Blink 182
• I think it’s great that Blink 182 are together again.
• I’m sorry. Just because you’re one of the few bands who sold a discernible amount of records (read: made profit), doesn’t mean you deserve to win Rock Album of the Year.
• Katy Perry looked like a bedazzled fruit bowl.
• Morgan Freeman and Kenny Chesney are best friends?
• Diddy….nice lilac bomber jacket.
• Dave Grohl!!!! Behind the drum set again!!!!
• RC, you’re wrong. Thom Yorke is definitely in Top 10 Best Rock & Roll vocalists.
• Best performance: TI and JT collaboration.
• Yes We Can…have a Secretary of the Arts?
• Did y’all see Lil’ Wayne jump and click his sneaks together? Adorable.
• “And Album of the Year goes to Ra-ising Sand, Alison Krauss & Robert Plant.” (Not Radiohead like I had wanted).

Try A Little Tenderness

2009-02-07T04:17:00.001-05:00

Last spring, a boy wrote me a love letter. It’s my first, and currently, the only love letter I’ve had the honor of receiving. I said “honored,” not because it led to a great relationship, but because I feel like I did something, or was enough of something, to warrant such a ballsy move.

So for the first of my favorite love songs, here’s “Try A Little Tenderness” by Three Dog Night.

Oh she may be weary
young girls they do get wearied
wearing that same old miniskirt dress
but when she gets weary
try a little tenderness….

Now it might be a little bit sentimental,
but she has her grieves and cares
but the soft words they are spoke so gentle
it makes it easier to bear.
Oh she won’t regret it,
them young girls they don’t forget it,
love is their whole happiness.
But it’s all so easy
all you got to do is try
try a little tenderness

Thank you, Rose, for your letter.

This just in: "Let The Right One In" is not, I repeat, NOT, a German film

2009-02-06T01:16:00.004-05:00

But in fact, Swedish.

That's all folks.

Thanks RC. Lemme know if you wanna be my intern. I'll pay you in pesos leftover from my last trip to the mother land.

There's No Such Thing As A Free Lunch

2009-02-06T00:57:00.001-05:00

Ray Stone opened the door to Pete’s Café and walked directly to the register to order some lunch to go. Before stopping at the diner in Farmers Branch, Stone tried to go to Denny’s in Addison to cash in on their Grand Slam campaign that was aired during a commercial break on Superbowl Sunday. He didn’t get very far. “I didn’t go in,” Stone said. “There were so many people there. It was at least an hour wait.” A FedEx salesman, Stone drove down the street to Pete’s Café because he doesn’t have time to take a leisurely lunch. He waited ten minutes before he was served. His bill was $6.77, including tax.

Big corporations—like Denny’s—are trying to lure new and old customers with drastic promotions and price cuts. It’s a risk but they have the capital to absorb a small loss. A Dallas radio station reported that one store ordered a week’s worth of food in anticipation of the rush fueled by the promotion. But what about smaller, local businesses like Pete’s Cafe?

“I can afford to go one day without any sales,” Judy Lamb, co-owner of Pete’s Café said, “but it wouldn’t benefit me in the long run. I would get some new business but I would venture to say that I would know 90% of the people that walked in that front door by their first name.”

During peak hours at Pete’s Cafe, waitresses are taking orders, serving food, and patrolling the walkways with coffee pots and ice tea pitchers. Customers can see cooks flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs through the small window. A throng of people waiting to be seated normally blocks the center aisle. Now that North Texas is starting to feel the recession, the path is noticeably clearer.

This summer, Lamb, raised prices to accommodate for rising food costs. However, her total sales for January 2009 is almost even with last year’s, even with the price increase. “That’s bad,” Lamb said, with a worried look in her eye. “Very bad.”

Pomp and Circumstance: Inauguration 2009

2009-01-20T11:37:00.005-05:00

There he is, walking in a slow stately pace, the future leader of our country, and thus by default, the future leader of the world. What is he thinking? Is he as scared? Is he doubtful? Is he hopeful?

There's a small, drawn smile on his face. In comparison, the Speaker's smile is wider and flashier.

His wife is hugging and kissing cheeks. Her butter yellow suit and matching coat is easy to spot amidst the somber blacks, navy blues, and grays.

----

Ahh..that's a smile--genuine, a crinkling around the eyes and jaws as the muscles work to lift his mouth.

"We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness." Barack Obama, 44th President of the United States, January 20, 2009

American Idol vs. Vamps

2009-01-15T10:14:00.005-05:00

I haven't watched an episode of American Idol in years though my friend Stephen Kroll suggested I do so, not to look for upcoming talent or even to laugh at those unfortunate enough to have friends that allowed or even encouraged them to embarrass themselves on national tv, but to look at the female talent sitting on the judicial panel.

Really Stephen?

I'd rather watch vampire movies like the German film Let the Right One In. A haunting soundtrack accompanies an intriguing storyline and while scenes are sparse, each one is meaningful. It's going to be hard to forget Eli's cloudy, blue, blood-rimmed eyes. Thanks RC for reccommending the film.

Zooey and Ben Sitting in a Tree...

2009-01-05T00:29:00.007-05:00

I have a thing for musicians, I do. I would love to deny it but my track record and my friends would call me out faster than Slash can shred a guitar string. However, I think Zooey Deschanel--the She of She & Him--has me beat.

She assumed the role of Mrs. Rushmore when she dated Coconut Record's Jason Schwartzman and was linked with Maroon 5's Mickey Madden for a long spell. Now, hours after rumors of an engagement to AFI's bassist Hunter Burgan flurried around the Elf songstress, Rolling Stone reports that Miss Deschanel will become Mrs. Ben Gibbard. (Check it out here: http://www.rollingstone.com/rockdaily/index.php/2008/12/30/death-cab-for-cuties-ben-gibbard-she-hims-zooey-deschanel-engaged/)

Who knew they were even an item? Apparently, the two have been dating for almost a year! Way to keep it on the lowdown.

Congrats and good luck to Mr. Postal Service and his Postmistress. May y'all make beautiful melancholy music together.

The Office

2008-12-31T16:07:00.007-05:00

My name is Resalin Rago and I have an office.

It's quiet, has plenty of storage space, and, best of all, tons of sunlight when the garage door opens.

Yep. I've set up shop in my mommy's garage. It's not much and certainly not what I had in mind after graduating from a top 5 J-school, but it's my own think tank and no one disturbs me, unless of course my mom pulls up in her SUV.

The Bargain

2008-12-28T23:16:00.004-05:00

The following is my theory on why the Cowboys can't win a play0ff game, and now, after the jaw-dropping loss to the Eagles, won't even get to play in post season.

Jerry Jones made a bargain with the Devil.

I think that in order to come up with the billions of dollars, euros, rupees, and solid gold bars needed to build his shrine in Arlington, Jones struck a deal with the greatest conman ever.

Seriously y'all. This is just embarrassing.

For post game commentary and a look at Romo's dapper chapaeau, click on:
http://www.dallascowboys.com/multimedia/multimedia_center.cfm?id=80B7C1A6-E8D5-52EF-29F1423468A42132

It's good to be TO:
http://www.dallascowboys.com/multimedia/multimedia_center.cfm?id=80CBCB28-A7A2-6505-7A44C24D67DCED1A

A Christmas Wish

2008-12-23T01:03:00.002-05:00

Dear Santa,

This year, all I want is for Texas to install a massive public railway system so that I don't have to buy a car. This is a very selfless wish. Not only would it be good for the environment but it would also keep the insurance rates for Asian drivers at a low (for them) premium. Must I remind you of the time I ran into Mike Herman's car in the student parking lot in front of the whole senior class. Or the time I backed into a minivan at the country club. Or the time I ran over a wheelbarrow on 75 which coincidentally spun my then boyfriend's mom's Lexus across three lanes of traffic before finally ending up on the shoulder facing the wrong direction.

So Santa...I know that I already gave you my Christmas list when I saw you at Macy's with Liz and Melanie but if you could add this wish to the top of the list, I would be most grateful.

Best,
Resalin

PS. If you're looking for homemade cookies, you won't find it at Judy's house. All of her cookies (regardless of what Mr. Bruce might think) come from a plastic bucket or a handy single-serving-just-add-1-tbsp mix that you stir and zap in the microwave for 45 seconds, 55 if you prefer your cookies crispy.

Happy Fucking Birthday Britney!

2008-12-02T15:05:00.002-05:00

Britney Jean Spears turned 27 today. She is an adult and has been legal for nine years now. She’s not a girl, but according to the judges, she’s still not a woman and not adult enough to make any decisions: She can’t drive; She has no say in the hiring and firing of her personnel; She can’t freely spend her fortune. And, based on her new album, the 27-year-old can’t say “fuck” in the studio either.

Fuck: It’s probably one of my favorite words and much to my mommy’s chagrin, one I use quite often. It’s also in Brit’s lexicon as she dropped the F-bomb in the MTV tell-all. But there was no cursing, none, in Circus. No damn, hell, shit. Nothing. She can sing about partying all night, beating up photogs, and even phone sex, but when it comes to using four-letter words, Jive makes her use shitty PG stand-ins like “effing” and “fugly.” The sixth track, If You Seek Amy, is a three-minute fuckimism. (Say the phrase “If You Seek Amy” quickly enough and you’ll hear what I mean).

I’m not pro-potty word. You don’t need use them to have a hit song or to purport an edgy image. (We know that Brit can do edgy quite well). I know replacements are necessary, especially when children are present, but they need to stay in Dodge minivans. There’s no place for them in pop culture.

I would have to agree with many of the critiques out there and say that Circus is almost as good as Blackout. The ballads—saccharine, trite, and badly executed—severely drag the greatness factor down. I would add Kill the Lights, Circus, Phonography, Shattered Glass (the gay man’s perfect post break-up song and this album’s Stronger), and Unusual You to her second Greatest Hits album.

I’m glad that Justine and I went to Virgin at midnight to buy the album and I know that sometime soon, Circus will be on and I’ll be dancing around in my bra and panties, joyously singing along—even during the not-so naughty parts.

Dudeman: It's pronounced "Wa-lay" (apparently).

2008-10-22T10:47:00.013-04:00

Wale Folarin

Mark Ronson sans velvet

Mark Ronson playing the electric sitar with Danie Merriweather's band

Daniel Merriweather and the Dap Kings

Daniel Merriweather

Alright. The comments on the last post established the fact that I can't decipher lyrics: "illegal woman" for "mean, evil woman," "secret Asian man," for "secret agent man," etc. Whatever. There's a lot of people who are similarly afflicted. If I may refer y'all to the Friends episode where Phoebe mistakenly combined John Elton's Tiny Dancer with Who's the Boss "Tony Danza" which resulted in the bastard lyric "Hold me closer Tony Danza."

But after last night's show at SOB's, I've come to the realization that I'm not so good with names either. Wale Folarin's first name is pronounced "Wah-lay" not "Wally" and is most certainly NOT a homophone of "whale," (as in Moby Dick, Willy, and Shamu), which is how I've been pronouncing it. Alex, the PR guy for SOB corrected me at last night's show.

After we finally got in (we had to wait outside for half an hour because SOB was at capacity since Allido records added 700 people to the guest list at the last minute), we scored a sweet spot close to the small, raised stage, right behind photogs from legit publications. They had their "professional" black Nikkons and I had my Sony Cyber-shot that Judy and Kathy gave me for my 24th birthday. Despite my amateur equipment, I think that I walked away with some pretty good shots.

I'm there as long as Wale doesn't brag about the Redskins.

2008-10-20T13:05:00.003-04:00

DC rapper Wale Folarin has a high opinion of himself. Listed after “Sounds Like” on his myspace page, Folarin wrote:
“Think of what a deaf person’s interpretation of very good music would sound like ...multiplied by your favorite song’s impact when you knew you loved it, multiplied by what would happen if music never existed until you heard it, add a million to that and you’d be 1/100000 of the way to understanding my sound.”

So Wale’s music is lyrically mind blowing and inspirational….like Dangerous Minds mashing with Mr. Holland’s Opus; Coolio over Gershwin; band director’s paradise indeed (hold the Astroturf). That’s the kind of impact his music has on one’s tympanic membrane: His rhymes makes them bust faster than flying at 30,000 feet above sea level without any gum to relieve the pressure. That shit be booming…or so he claims.

Rappers talk game; that’s what they do. They can only talk about weed, prison, bitches, head, Cadillacs, lip gloss, booties, Superman, dollar$, sex, and mammas so much before the discussion veers onto bigger and better things: their sheer awesomeness.

But my jealousy is getting the best of me. I have a healthy respect for the bionic wordplay of rap superstars and I’m being unfair and snarky because I find myself opening rhyming dictionaries and looking up entries for simple monosyllabic words like “cake” or “purse.” There’s no way I can perform rhyming social commentary that’s entertaining and on beat. Yet Folarin in “WALEDANCE” manages to allude to the steroid epidemic and brag about his lingual prowess in the second verse:

“And I must admit
I bring creatine to the scene
Your developmental league don’t see a team
I got a stitch lil nigga
You can see my seam…”

Or brag about his “headspace:”
I get brain everyday, I’m a know-it-all

Or drop names:
“My climate is way higher then Lindsay Lohan’s nostrils on powder
Sorry Mark I don’t want offend your sisters good friend
But when my pen get in
It pretends it’s a soul and an entity,
And it interferes and gets the best of me…”

He’s good times and I’ll be at SOB’s tomorrow at 8 PM to see if Folarin can c-walk the walk, and talk the talk. Check out www.myspace.com/wale for more info and some awesome pictures of Miss Lohan and company.

Folarin, Daniel Merriweather, Rhymefest, the great, velveted Mr. Mark Ronson, (and perhaps some pop tartlets) will be shaking things up go-go style tomorrow night. Fun times and facebook photo ops to be had indeed.

The BRIT is BACK.

2008-10-12T12:31:00.004-04:00

What can I say besides I told you so!

It's not surprising that Brit's team decided to piggyback off the video's debut before releasing "Womanizer" on iTunes. We all know that she's more of a performer than a vocalist anyways.

At last...WOMANIZER

2008-10-08T15:33:00.004-04:00

Britney's new single from her upcoming album (set to drop on her birthday) is certainly catchy and that's putting it kindly. It's the most infectious, no, most ear-worming of all her singles. It enters the ear canal, tunnels into the cerebellum and sets up house. Before the second chorus is over, the song has house plants, matching bathmats, and plastic covering on the couches. The beast is a squatter.

And I consider myself a loyal Britney fan.

It's not the droning beat (if you can even call it that. It's more like a buzzing airplane than a beat)
that bothers me. It's the fact that "womanizer" is half-sung/half-spoken 40 times in three minutes.

Chorus: Womanizer, Wo-womanizer, You're a womanizer, Oh--Womanizer, Oh--You're a Wo-womanizer,
You, You-you are, You, You-you are,
Womanizer, Womanizer, Womanizer, Womanizer.
Boy don't try to front, I know-know just what you are.
Boy don't try to front, I know-know just what you are.
You, (you got me going), You, oh so slimy.
But I can't do it. You Womanizer.

Boy don't try to front, I know-know just what you are.
Boy don't try to front, I know-know just what you are.

You say I'm crazy, I got you crazy.
You're nothing but a womanizer.

Seriously?

AND. If you count the title, "Womanizer" (shocking!), it's 41 times.

ACL: Day 2

2008-09-30T12:16:00.002-04:00

Austin City Limits: Day Two

The festival was more crowded than the day before; everyone that planned on attending made it. It was game day and Austinites wore burnt orange and cheered for their Longhorns who were battling the Razorbacks at Royal Memorial stadium from Zilker Park.

At halftime, TX was up 31-3, Sharon Stone and the Dap Kings have finished their set and Brooklyn’s MGMT was playing a main stage. I walked over to the designated area but it wasn’t long before I met a wall of people and had to stop two football fields away from the stage. All I saw in front of me were the red necks of hipsters who should have put on sunscreen before putting on their fluorescent wayfarers. MGMT’s crowd was as big as the one that amassed at their free show in Williamsburg but this was in Texas for Pete’s sake! It was all too much. I didn’t want to fight the newly American-Appareled rookies from Austin and the veteran hipsters from northern climes. I left soon after Electric Feel for Conor Oberst and The Mystic Valley Band and open air.

After Oberst was Dallas-native Erykah Badu, her natural freshly teased (she left her pick in for safe keeping) and glowing like only a hot, pregnant woman could. But her delicate condition didn’t prevent her from delivering a passionate performance or from proselytizing. Badu cut into her performance when she used the stage as a soapbox for at least ten minutes. She had just started singing Honey when a timekeeper gave her a warning. Badu then ditched the new single in favor of crowd-favorite Tyrone (minus a verse) and she exited on time, dancing all the while to Lil’ Wayne’s A Millie.

Beck, along with Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, were Saturday’s headliners. Both played an amazing set, or so I’ve heard. I didn’t make it to the west side of the park for Plant and Krauss, choosing to stay on the east side for Beck’s entire show. While ACL offers fans a wide variety of acts, one of its biggest drawbacks is that fans have to choose between them. Should I go to Gnarls Barkley or The Raconteurs? M. Ward or Gogol Bordello?

But Beck didn’t let me down. Technically sound, innovative and expansive, his set and the crowd response it drew carried across Zilker’s expanse over to the competing show. “Their [Plant and Krauss] music was beautiful but you could hear Beck because it’s so mellow,” said one ACL attendee who was on my flight back to New York. Well Mr. Plant, Ms. Krauss, you’ll have to excuse the Beckheads. In his defense, you can’t not sing along when Beck—Beck!—is onstage singing Loser or Devil’s Haircut. Just try to keep mum. I double-dog dare you.

ACL: Day 1, Pt. 2

2008-09-29T15:33:00.001-04:00

Austin City Limits: Friday, Day One

After flying south with Jakob Dylan (he, sprawled out across two leather seats in first class; me, flanked by two big-boned passengers in coach), I arrived in sunny Austin, TX for day one of Austin City Limits, a 3-day music festival with eight stages, local vendors, makeshift head shops selling custom-made glassware, countless cans of beer, and oh yeah, about a jillion bands.

It was past two o’clock pm and ninety degrees by the time the shuttle dropped me off at Zilker Park and the sweet smell of sun-baked (and lighter-lit) grass was high in the air. I could hear the last five minutes of TK as I walked to Patty Griffin’s show at AMD, one of the four main stages. Fans had claimed their area by planting festive flags and were waiting patiently on picnic blankets and lawn chairs for the singer-songwriter. The flags were everywhere. From American to Australian, store-bought or homemade, the cheerful banners represented the various tribes who migrated to Zilker for the weekend. They also functioned as landmarks for fans that had strayed from home base. (Finding a familiar sweaty face amongst the thousands of other sweaty faces proved to be a difficult task after sunset).

While Mars Volta played a show worthy of their headline status, Hot Chip was also a hot ticket. Their set was Revenge of the Nerds: The Musical. Dressed in white coveralls and thick glasses (my 5th grade math teacher had the same pair), Alexis Taylor totally owned lead geek status. I’d never heard the electropopers before, but I quickly joined the party. Listening to Hot Chip is like going on a Super Mario binge without the guilt of wasting a beautiful day indoors. You find yourself grooving to strange beeps and clicks except there are no Luigi or magic mushrooms, just five Brits who make really cool sounds with strange instruments.

Austin City Limits: Day 1, Pt. 1

2008-09-26T15:01:00.004-04:00

I landed in Austin-Bergstrom International ten minutes early--go Continental! Slept the whole flight sandwiched between an Indian man and a big White guy who looked very uncomfortable. His knees pushed right up against the seat in front of him and he had tried to squeeze his wide frame within the arm rests so as not to invade my personal space, but it just wouldn't happen. Poor thing. I was woken up several times by accidental elbow nudging.

Amber, Jason, and I had lunch at Magnolia and now we're back at the casa waiting for Stew God They're napping and I'm trying to wait patiently. Maybe we'll make it to Zilker Park before Vampire Weekend's set is over. I'd love to see if the Columbia alums are making headway with UT students.

More later..much, much more!
Resalin

PS. Jakob Dylan was on my flight. His blue eyes are unmistakable, even underneath a fishing cap. He was sitting in first class, of course, and I passed by him on my way to seat in coach. He was already asleep, sprawled out on two leather seats. One of those could have been mine Jakob!

Do You Want To Be A Canadian Rap Superstar?

2008-09-08T23:31:00.005-04:00

Everybody knows who Akon is. The Senagalese rapper has made millions of people smack it on the dance floor. Everyone has heard his nasal, yet surprisingly catchy voice half-sing hooks for American rap stars like Eminem.

But who's the guy rapping with Akon in Dangerous and why does he want me to make his "black snake moan?" His name is Jason Harrow and he hails not from the islands like his dance hall beats suggest, but from Canadia--Scarborough, Ontario even.

Harrow is known as Canada's hip-hop ambassador. Indeed he's worked with artists who are regulars on Billboard charts: Rihanna, Jay-Z, Pharell, and Sean Paul. But while he's earned industry cred for his notable singles (BaKardi Slang, Ol' Time Killin'), Dangerous was my first introduction to Harrow's work. I didn't like it at first because Akon's voice grates on tympanic membranes; everytime I'd hear the single on a top 40 station, I'd turn the dial. But the first time I head Kardinal rapping about "Jessica P" and "trying to give a home girl sex in the city-ti-ty", I knew that there was a reason why Kardinal's Dangerous is No. 22 on the iTunes chart. (I also spent $1.08 for the single). Let's ignore the sexist lyrics and just have fun! Dudeman: Anybody that can use a biscuit as a vehicle in a metaphor has my vote.

Mr. Offishall's new album dropped today and the release party is at S.O.B.'s. Doors open at 7 pm and the concert starts at 9 pm.

August 13, 2008 (Happy Anniversary New York!)

2008-08-13T21:47:00.004-04:00

My feet are ugly now. They used to be so pretty and so delicate—small and well taken care of. I indulged in pedicures twice a month. The ladies at the nail salon in Addison, TX knew my face, and my size 5 ½ feet. They knew I liked to bring my own nail polish—small bottles of OPI in varying shades of black and red—and for my 25^th birthday, I brought gold, a color I’d never worn before. It was summer and I wanted to be golden all over. My toes were lacquered gold one year and one month ago.

Now, my feet are dry, covered in blisters and calluses, and the red, Essie polish is chipping. The nails are uncomfortably long and push up against my running shoes. One nail has fallen off, choosing to defect instead of hang around for abuse and neglect. Its replacement is growing in green and bumpy. It looks more like a wart than a nail. There is a small patch of black hair on each of my big toes. The hairs are coarse and have a tendency to stick straight up in a defiant stance, like they’re daring me to shave them off. Sometimes I accept and mow the hairs down with my razor. Now, more often than not, the insurgent strands grow long and strong under my ignorant and lax rule.

I blame New York for my feet’s disgraceful state. The metropolis was fourth in a poll which ranked the top walkable cities—and I believe it. Walking the miles and miles and miles of sidewalks have maimed and marred what was once a source of confidence for me, and have reduced them to a source of insecurity. I’ve started covering them in socks and sneakers to shield them from disapproving eyes. Summer is agony. Espadrilles, peep toes, and flip-flops taunt me constantly. The season’s airy footwear reminds me of the glory days when my feet were sun-bathing appropriate. Little about them now is glorious or appropriate, but it’s simply too hot to hide the poor, unsightly darlings. Too much heat induces sweat and sweat causes odor, so I wear sandals and risk public ridicule because it’s much easier to avert one’s eyes than to escape rank odor. Even baby powder can’t mask the pervasive stench of feet—something that smells like rotting garbage soaked in vinegar.

The city is too expensive and I’ve no allowance for pedicures. I’d rather eat or buy a cocktail than treat my feet. If I do get a pedicure, I make the hour-long trek to Astoria where I can get a mani-pedi for $20—and they shave off the calluses. Tomorrow, to celebrate my one-year anniversary of living in the Big Apple, I’m going to take the yellow line to Queens. I’m going to visit my nail salon and pick out a bottle of red, Essie nail polish. Then, I’m going to relax in the massage chair and let the nice Mexican lady shave, massage, and polish because I’m going back to Texas in ten days and I can’t let my home state know that New York City has gotten to me—or my feet.

Lesson Learned

2008-07-30T11:35:00.003-04:00

I’m just an intern. I do mass mailings. I unpack boxes. I offer to get lattes in the hopes that coffee runs will garner a good rec at the end of my four-month stint. But I’m lucky enough to intern for a publication that gives me editorial assignments instead of typical admin bullshit expected of bottom-rung feeders. And when prized opportunities arise, like doing red carpet interviews with Chris Brown, Ne-Yo, and Julianne Hough at the Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum Press Conference, I’m smart enough to take them. (Plus, I like totally heart Chris Brown and Ne-Yo). Yesterday afternoon will forever be one of the most exciting, educational, and humiliating afternoons of my life. It was exciting because I had the undivided attention of a certified-platinum superstar for 1.3 minutes before PR reps/refs blew the whistle, educational because new experiences always are, and humiliating because I let someone delete photos of Brown I took during his performance.

After the press conference, I wandered around the theatre waiting for the concert to begin; and somehow, I made it backstage. I, a lowly intern, was backstage eating a homemade sandwich and watching Brown gyrate his hips for his screaming fans. I, a nobody, was in the wings, directly across a female R&B sensation with a pixie haircut, and was watching her sing along to the ballad, “No Air.” Perhaps she felt a deeper connection to the high-flown romantic lyrics. “This is what it’s like to have access,” I thought as I started to take pictures. I’ve made it.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. “What are you doing? How did you get here?” a woman asked me. She demanded that I give her my camera. Unknowingly, I had apparently done a very, very bad thing and Chris’s “people” were very, very upset.

So I, being just an intern—and one ignorant of her rights—delivered the goods. I was then asked to leave the area by a different PR rep who, again, asked how I managed to breach security. We were met in the lobby by yet another PR rep who also asked the question du jour. Then the second rep provided the icing on my humiliation cake when she confiscated my press conference pass.

After finding the nearest exit, I rushed downtown to relate my experience to my editor. He explained that while they couldn’t legally steal my camera, they could have had me arrested for trespassing if I chose to be uncooperative. But what did I know? I’m just an intern.

Superstar Smorgasbord

2008-07-30T11:26:00.005-04:00

The adrenaline and energy surging between stars and reporters during red carpet interviews is amazing. To a red carpet virgin such as myself, I could only imagine that photo and interview ops like the Wrigley’s Spearmint Press Conference are akin to feeding chum to a school of ravenous Great White sharks. Reporters, lured by the scent of expensive cologne, circle the carpet with their tape recorders in hopes of getting a juicy bite for their publication. Here, Blackbook offers you the chum of the day—a succulent stew of Chris Brown, Ne-Yo, and Julianne Hough. Bon Appetit!

Ne-Yo: The perfect gentleman gives a shout-out to Lindsey Lohan. RR: You're looking so rat pack these days. Can you tell me about what you're wearing? Ne-Yo: button down, red shirt, tie, nice fedora. This is my thing--the year of the gentleman.

RR: How did you come up with this concept?
Ne-Yo: Basically, it's me making an assessment of the business and seeing that the essence of what it means to be a gentleman is lacking nowadays. For example, the guy that will pull a woman's chair out for her when they sit down to eat, the guy that will open a car door for a lady, the guy that takes the time to make sure he looks his best when he walks out of the house, that guy is far and few in between. So I'm basically leading by example, trying to show cats what it means to be a gentleman again.

RR: Would you ever consider doing your own fashion line?

Ne-Yo: I don't really have a lot of free time but maybe once I slow down on my artistry.

RR: I know you're working with John Legend, Lindsay Lohan. Are you planning on changing or adding to their respective sounds?

Ne-Yo: John Legend is John Legend. There's no changing that guy--he is who he is. Lindsay Lohan—I didn't really know what to do with her. It was a shot in the dark with that one. We did something a little dancy and tried to bring a little energy to her and she loved it. She cut it and it was fantastic.

Chris Brown: Matchy-matchy in blue and yellow from his flat-billed cap to his Nike sneaks, CB talks shop.

RR: I hear that you're doing your own reality dance series. How is that working out?

CB: My dance series is still in the works right now. It's not gonna be like America's Best Dance Crew even though that's an incredible show. But it’s gonna be different from the more cliché dance shows.

RR: How are they cliché?

CB: Because all of them are based on the same thing: Judges. You know what I'm saying? They get certain people to judge for ratings. This won't be about big judges. No offense to JC Chasez or Lil Mama or none of them. Lil Mama dances to a degree but she's not a trained dancer. JC, he danced in a boy band, so he was taught everything he danced. You know what I'm saying? They need to get the old Gods of Breaking. They need to get legendary dancers that people might not know of, but who are hands on, that do real choreography. Right now, we're thinking it might be called Break Nation. It's grittier, more street, showing the urban elements of hip-hop and b-boy. It's not a bubblegum-type show. I'm just included because I believe in it.

Julianne Hough: Two-time Dancing with the Stars champ trades glittery heels for cowboy boots.

RR: How is your tour with Brad Paisley going?

JH: Oh my gosh, it's unbelievable. He's such an amazing artist, writer and I just think he's a great guy. He's really generous. He lets his opening acts--me, Jewel, Chuck Wicks--we all get to use the stage.

RR: Do you get to do much dancing on the stage?

JH: Not too much. I'm not breaking out into a waltz, or a tango, or a pasodoble, but I'm definitely moving around the stage, having a good time, and getting the crowd involved.

RR: I know you're remaking the gum jingle, but if you were to remake a country song, what would it be?

JH: Re-do a country song?! Oh my gosh, there's so many. Dolly Parton! Nine-to-Five, that would be so fun. Pam Tillis, anything by her, that would be great. I'm just such a big country fan that I would want to collaborate with any of them and maybe do a duet. That would be cool.

RR: If you could two-step with anybody, who would it be?

JH: I would probably say George Strait. He's probably the hottest older man ever.

Saul Williams aka Niggy Tardust

2008-07-21T17:37:00.005-04:00

Sorry for the poor photos. They were taken with my Blackberry and I was in the very, very back.

You're on a spaceship that's hurtling through outer space at the speed of light. Stars, moons, comets, time itself--whiz by. But you're calm because you have absolute faith in the captain commandeering the ship. His ebony skin is covered in war paint and a crown of feathers
jaunt out of his fauxhawk. Perhaps he descended from the bloodlines of an indian war chief or he’s of a fierce aborigine from the jungles of Peru. His name is Niggy Tardust.

An homage to David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust, Niggy Tardust is Saul Williams’s alterego; although onstage at S.O.B.'s, Williams claims that Tardust is Barack Obama. Is he though? When asked who Tardust was during a recent interview with Blackbook Magazine's Ben Barna, he told the reporter that Tardust was "you." Who is it then? The presidential hopeful or a twenty-something writer? Is he you? Am I, him?

From what I gathered at Wednesday night's show, Tardust is a spirit that's embodied by those who are fearless and commanding. Those possessed strut the line between hate and love; ugliness and beauty. They crow loudly, sound the alarm, and demand peace. They fight under a banner portraying an eagle clutching both an olive branch and arrows in its talons. In order to lessen suffering, one must "question, demand, and fight," Williams/Tardust said before launching into his rendition of U2's Bloody Sunday, a crowd favorite.

There aren’t that many Tardusts in this world, but the ones we have make their presence known.

For Blackbook's take on the show: http://www.blackbookmag.com/article/saul-williams-as-niggy-tardust-sobs/3493

A Hamptons Alternative

2008-07-21T17:31:00.002-04:00

For those living on a grad school budget, a weekend getaway to milder climes is as feasible as… well, I can't even complete the simile. I think the scorching temps have fried whatever brain cells I had left. Picture the sunny-side up egg in the "This is your brain on drugs" public service announcement starring Rachel Leigh Cook and you'll understand my state of mind. The effects of heat and humidity on the noggin are comparable to that of a narcotic's: NYC inhabitants walk around dazed, confused, and suffering from cotton-mouth. But what's a broke journalism grad student to do when Sallie Mae refuses to fund a trip to the Hamptons?

Yesterday afternoon, I took the 1 train to South Ferry and boarded the prison-orange Staten Island ferry for a cool, breezy jaunt on the Hudson River.

My friends and I raced to the top deck and waved goodbye to sweltering Manhattan and said hello open water. We were lucky enough to be on the starboard side so we had a fantastic view of Lady Liberty. When we got thirsty, we made our way down for $3 beers—cans, no bottles. The bar is sparsely decorated with gleaming stainless steel instead of campy, nautical décor I expected. It's not Babette's, but there's fresh popcorn, pretzels, and hot dogs to snack on. And most importantly, if one popped too many tabs of domestic beverages, one doesn't have to wait in a long line to use the sparkling clean facilities. While the ferry isn't a yacht bobbing on the Atlantic, it beats sweating on the city's sidewalks and in the subways.

Trips to and from Staten Island run every half-hour. Admission is free. My only other tip is to resist the temptation of sitting on the railing, no matter how debonair you may look or what an awesome facebook pic it would make. Have fun and bon voyage!

Departure (leg 2)

2008-07-04T13:04:00.001-04:00

After six hours of waiting, I finally got on the fifth flight to LAX: Flight 1605, seat 14 C, flying 1,576 miles over west Texas, our nation’s desert, and the Rockies before making its descent into the City of Angels.

However, I was happy to be marooned on the island of IAH—George Bush International Airport. The airport covers hundreds, maybe even thousands of Houston’s acres. It’s designed like an old airplane hanger—wide open with terminals as big football fields and walls of windows with views of clear blue skies, flat green fields, and navy blue airplanes taking off without me on them. Continental’s corridor spans terminals C through E. Within this corridor, notable eateries include members of the Pappas Corp such as Pappasitos, Pappadeux, and Pappas barbecue. I’ve walked by a Panda Express, Café Famiglia, Auntie Anne’s pretzels, There are two watering alcoholic watering holes for those looking to ease their flight anxieties and standby frustrations. There are two Starbucks servicing Continental fliers. One can also unload wallet contents in the retail stores that hearken to passengers with their enticing window displays. My favorite? The Bass Pro Shop. Just in case you forget to pack the camo or you decide to stock up on fishing lures for the weekend camping trip in the Yukons, you can duck in and stock up on all your outdoorsman needs.

Los Angeles: Departure (leg 1)

2008-07-04T12:46:00.001-04:00

I don’t know if this cross-country journey is starting off on the right foot. After I finished packing, I laid down on my bed and promptly fell asleep. But not to worry, I woke up from my brief cat nap in time to haul ass to the street corner so that I could hail a cab because I thought it would be cheaper than ordering a car from Dial 7, which is what I normally do. Hailing a cab in Harlem during rush hour is hard. Since NOBODY wanted to go to La Guardia, I decided to risk it and take a gypsy cab, a beat up Lincoln sedan driven by a Maverick cabbie who charges unsuspecting tourists and desperate New Yorkers exorbitant fees. I could have used public transportation but it’s my first time to fly standby as a travel companion and so I wanted to get there extra early. Plus, I’m spoiled.

So right now, I’m sitting in Gate A2 in New York’s La Guardia Airport hoping and praying that Continental grants me a seat. While I dressed according to first class regulations, I would gladly sit in coach next to a loquacious 500-lb man as long as I get to Houston in time to hop on the connecting flight that would take me to Los Angeles. Yep…coincidentally, my layover is in my home state.

Well, I couldn’t get on the first flight and was rolled over to the next flight to Houston which landed in George Bush International one hour late. On my flight to Houston, I sat between a man whose breath smelled like he had just dined on Jamaican Jerk chicken, and a man who had his volume to his headphone at a decibel level loud enough for me to hear Owen Wilson deliver his mind-blowing lines in Drillbit Taylor. I didn’t watch the movie but from the chuckles and snorts emitting from my fellow passengers, I’m guessing that it was hilarious in a lets-watch-three-kids-get-the-snot-beat-out-of-them-by-two-bullies-for-two-hours kind of way. After landing at 11:16 pm CST, I headed down to baggage claim and saw La Quinta’s ad hanging over the carousel. Being bereft of bed and lodging, I promptly booked a reservation for the night ($146.25, tax included) with Yasmeen who with her smiles and generosity with free toiletries* restored my faith in humanity.

After a hot shower, I crawled into my double bed, read half a chapter of Mitchell’s southern epic, and didn’t stir until the phone rang to wake me up call at 5:15 am. I dressed in yesterday’s attire and made my way down to the lobby to break the night’s fast. A formidable spread lay before me: rock hard-boiled eggs, muffins, bagels, cereals, instant oatmeal and grits (it is Texas), do-it-yourself Belgian waffles, kolaches, and eggrolls—continental indeed! I ate a bagel and schmear and grabbed a banana and coffee for the road.

* As of this moment, my teal suitcase containing my clothes, four pairs of shoes, and my toiletries is waiting for me in LAX airport in the City of Angels. As my mommy pointed out, my luggage made it to LA while its owner did not. All I had with me at check-in was my wallet, chapstick, and Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind.

July 1st (three days before America's birthday and four days before mine!--I know, shameless plug)

2008-07-01T15:13:00.004-04:00

It’s Canada Day which means that we should take shots of maple syrup and watch lots of old school hockey (pre- helmet regulations) on ESPN to celebrate our friendly neighbors north of the border. We should also take some time to listen to schmaltzy Celine Dion power ballad her way to our soft sides and eardrums. Our hearts will go on, Celine, for Canada. Stereotypes aside, I’ve enjoyed really getting to know the Canucks I’ve met in the past year since moving from Texas to New York. Very few Canadians make it to Tejas—I think they’re afraid of the sun. Seriously, Canadians are just like us albeit some minor differences: They say “aboot”, we say “about” properly; they have Timmy Hortons, we have Dunkin’ Donuts; they smoke pot in Ontario, we smoke pot undercover. See! We’re all one big North American family. There is one thing, however, I never understood. What’s up with Canadian bacon?

One of my favorite Celine Dion songs. Yes, I am a fan--Filipino's LOVE la chanteuse extraordinaire.

"Showdown in Chinatown"

2008-06-26T09:29:00.013-04:00

My, my, my. I do love to watch a game of pick-up soccer, especially when the pros are playing. And ladies, if you want to pick up some men, organize a celebrity soccer match. It will be the Field of Schemes: If you build it, they will come.

Raja Bell

Yellow Capitan: Steve Nash
(I can't believe I talked to him about his booty. Lookin' Good, Nashty).

Kidding around with Thierry Henry

Henry is the best doctor around--or should I say "medecin?"

Nice outfit, Baron

Going for it

See ladies, I told you.

My First Star Sighting

2008-06-26T01:13:00.001-04:00

Steve Nash and I don’t have much in common. The height disparity between my Filipino self and the Canadian is huge, for one. In checkered Vans, the stylish baller stands at 6-3 while I barely graze the 5-foot mark. Secondly, he’s a 4-time all-star and one of the greatest point guards to ever two-step down the court, and I can’t even win a game of HORSE. Still, there is one thing we both share and that’s our love for cold beers on a summer afternoon. Nash and his posse, which included footballer (“soccer” in American) Robbie Fowler, striker for Cardiff City, and Steve McManaman, ex-winger for Liverpool, were toasting tour bus passengers riding by at Phebe’s, an East Village pub. (Little old me sat directly behind them, trying not to hyperventilate).
Nash, who summers in New York with his wife and twin daughters, is entertaining fellow athletes participating in “Showdown in Chinatown,” an 8-on-8 football match benefiting Nash’s and Claudia Reyna’s respective charities. Reyna plays midfield for the Red Bulls. NBA stars Raja Bell, Leandro Barbosa, Jason Kidd, and Baron Davis are expected to try their hand (oops—I mean foot) at dribbling a checkered ball for once. Maybe France’s Thierry Henry can show them a thing or two.
Kickoff is at 5:30 pm, tomorrow, at Sara D. Roosevelt Park. Admission is free. An auction will be held during the after party at Replay in SoHo.

NOTE: This was written yesterday. Stay tuned for current news on Nashty and crew. Pics to follow.

Eavesdropping on Girl Talk

2008-06-22T23:11:00.006-04:00

What do Cheap Trick, Lil Wayne, and Earth, Wind, and Fire have in common? What about Radiohead, Tag Team, En Vogue? Ace of Base, Yeal Naim, Jay-Z?

All of these artists take part in Girl Talk's pop music pastiches. In his new album, Feed the Animals (thanks Amber!), the DJ parachutes in artists from across the soundboard--old/new school hip-hop, 80's hair rock, and cocoa butter soul classics--to produce tracks that make you want to shake it. I dare you to stand still while listening to Busta Rhymes flowing over the Police's Every Little Thing...

Girl Talk is a meticulous tailor who seamlessly stitches together anything he can get his hands on. Beginning with Play Your Part (Pt. 1) and ending with its counterpart (Pt. 2), the fourteen tracks listens like one long playlist that will have you pop locking your shit until closing time.

Rolling Stone's review of Feed the Animals: http://www.rollingstone.com/reviews/album/21457036/review/21463543/feed_the_animals?utm_source=daily-newsletter&utm_medium=email

Game 6: 2008 NBA Championship

2008-06-18T10:21:00.008-04:00

The following is my assessment of Game 6 of the 2008 NBA Championship: The LA Lakers dropped the soap and the Celtics made them their bitch.

The routing of the Lakers in game 6 gave the Celts its 17th NBA championship. Maybe green is lucky...or maybe Garnett is just golden.

My Morbid Morning Jacket

2008-06-17T11:25:00.005-04:00

James is the second one from the left

Maybe it’s just me or maybe I just woke up on the morbid side of the bed this morning, but does anybody else see the resemblance between Jim James, the frontman for My Morning Jacket, and the late Heath Ledger?

Evil Urges, the band's latest album, dropped last Tuesday while Ledger's, The Dark Knight, will hit theaters July 18.

"When I Grow Up..." by the Pussycat Dolls

2008-06-16T16:29:00.003-04:00

When I Grow Up is the Pussycat Dolls’s latest single. I didn’t even know they were working on new material until I saw the video in PC Richards. So being a fan of bubblegum pop and burlesque, I youtubed the video last night to get a closer look.

As expected, navels, fishnets, and overly-amped up hair jiggle their way through the five-minute video. It’s fun to watch, though certainly not as good as Buttons, my favorite video in the Dolls’s repertoire. I’m sure it will make it on TRL.

Other than the fact I found the video visually stimulating and physically motivating (it makes me want to get my ass in the gym), I did find that the lyrics related to our society’s current state of mind—one that’s self-promotional at best and self-obsessed at worst.

But I ain't complaining
We all wanna be famous
So go ahead and say what you wanna say
You know what it's like to be nameless
Want them to know what your name is

Not too far back, I read an article that talked about a little girl who, when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, replied that she wanted to be famous. She had no idea how she was going to become famous, just that she wanted to be famous. The strange thing is that with the help of social networking sites like facebook and myspace, she can be famous without having an ounce of talent or drive.

Tila Tequila became famous for having the most friends of myspace. Now the “baddest bitch” has a record deal, was on the cover of the May issue of Blender, and her MTV reality show, A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila, is in its second season. (Apparently, the last shot didn’t go down as well as the bisexual mistress had planned.) Her myspace music page has been viewed over 140 million times and she has 3.5 million fans. Kristin C from Laguna Beach is traipsing her way through her second music video, Gavin Degraw’s In Love With a Girl. Her nemesis LC is even like, more famous, and involved in a feud with reality tv star and consort Heidi, who also has a record deal. WTF. I’m not saying that these people aren’t deserving..okay…I am saying it: They don’t deserve it. Whatever happened to talent and hard work? Or, at the very least, sleeping your way to the top.

"Gobbledigook"

2008-05-28T23:48:00.004-04:00

Sigur Ros's new video, Gobbledigook, makes me believe in fairies, elves, and nymphs--creatures that will be saved through recycling, hybrid cars, and other attempts at minimizing our carbon footprint.

It looks like a camera man went on a nature hike (with his camera of course...what kind of camera man goes on nature hikes through virgin forests without his trusty gear?) and stumbled upon a fairy celebration complete with bonfires, stick-banging, a wooden swing, body paint, and skinny dipping. In fact, everyone that's participating in Ros's version of a woodsy rave is frolicking, jumping, and rolling around stark naked. While there are plenty of boobs and butts, the innocent glee on faces and childhood games like hide-and-seek depicts innocence instead of perversion. It's all good, clean fun without the danger of someone's eye--or anything else--getting poked.

"Football"

2008-05-22T09:55:00.005-04:00

I had never seen my demure, British friend, Sophie act so loud and so vulgar before yesterday; but then again, I had never seen her root for her football team, Chelsea, as they fought Manchester United in the European Football Final, an event which parallels the spectacular displays of fanaticism of the Superbowl: It's kind of a BIG DEAL. The Londoner in Addison, TX was packed mostly with red jerseys for Man U even though there was a small, but boisterous, contingent of blue jerseys making merry at the other end of the bar. (It seems that even in a bar setting, the reds will always outnumber the blues in TX). It was my first futbol match and I was trying to figure out why the sport that is far more universal than American football. Futbol spans the globe. People in North Texas take off work to sit in a dark bar in the middle of the day to watch a match that's being played in Moscow thousands of miles away.

It seems like everybody has a team, a favorite player, and knows the rules. For example, in futbol, the ref just flashes a penalty card--yellow or red--and magistrates, officials, or registrars (I don't know what they're called) keeps tally and the offender is punished accordingly. They are warned or if they commit a big no-no, they are ejected from the game immediately. Chelsea's striker, Didier Drogba, was ejected before the penalty shootout after he slapped United's Vidic.

In football, there's a litany of fouls--holding, blocking in the back, horse collaring, etc.--that fans have to watch out for. Plus they have to match the foul to the ref's hand motions, a difficult task since sometimes the ref looks like he's trying to land a plane. (Thank God for mics and friendly sports announcers). Sometimes, the foul happens so quickly that the offense isn't noted until refs review the tapes, which could be days after the fact, and subsequently delaying punishment.

What I did understand was the camaraderie between fans of the same ilk and the blind hatred between fans of opposing teams. It doesn't matter what sport is being played on the field: There will always be some guy in face paint calling someone a wanker or a douche bag.

The Guess Who

2008-05-19T14:12:00.004-04:00

Carl Dixon on the big screen

Last Saturday, I didn't have to guess who was behind the classic rock hits American Woman, No Sugar Tonight, and These Eyes. Even though I could sing along when they were played on the radio, I had no idea that they were by the Guess Who; but plenty remembered the Canadian rockers and they were at the Wildflower Festival in Richardson, TX to hear the soundtrack of their youth. Before long, the Guess Who had the crowd up from their picnic blankets and lawn chairs and dancing. Each thrust of the hip and devil horn hand sign brought listeners back in time to the halcyon days of scenic overlooks, bell bottoms, and muscle cars. While my group enjoyed the music from the beginning, the close-ups of Carl Dixon, the lead vocalist and guitarist, posted on the giant screen above the stage, caught our attention: Dixon is sexy. His flat-ironed blonde hair caught the summer breeze and gently blew away from his lined, yet handsome, face, and his tight pearl-snap shirt showed off a taut physique. (He unsnapped towards the end of the show). Jenny, 25, kept asking if he had a son. The band finished with American Woman; and Mary, 31, thought that the #1 hit was written by Lenny Kravitz. She was joking, of course. Even is she wasn't, Kravitz has nothing on the Guess Who.

I heart Britney

2008-05-18T21:30:00.001-04:00

We’ve all heard her story by now as each chapter of the Britney saga—a fairytale turned tawdry tabloid—has been meticulously recorded by the media. First, she was an innocent Mouseketeer, then the Bubblegum Pop Princess, and now she’s a pudgy has-been, a drug addict, and a bad mother. She’s gossiped about like the high school slut. People think she’s mentally ill. But as someone who has always been a fan, I’m rooting for her. I get sad when I watch her music videos because they’ve become a documentary of her downfall, her disgrace.

It seemed like Britney happened overnight. Her wave crested and all of sudden there was a deluge of saccharin sweet pop flooding the radio and TV airwaves. Then again, nobody notices the plates shifting on the ocean floor until the tsunami hits. When I saw the video for …Baby One More Time, I wondered whose genius idea was it to play up the Lolita, catholic school girl stereotype in order to sell Britney. With one video, Britney Spears usurped the Spice Girls to become my new guilty pleasure. I loved it and I wasn’t the only one. Baby debuted as No. 1 on the Billboard charts and to this day has sold 13 million copies. She was only 17 years-old when she became an international superstar.

As with all of her songs, Baby is overproduced, especially the vocals. Her alto voice deepened to evoke a sultrier tone. Sometimes her vibrato sounds like a bleat. None of her songs are vocally demanding because she’s not a strong singer. You want powerhouse vocals? Bop over the pop aisle and play Christina Aguilera. If you want to be entertained, stay with Spears. She has the ability to look past the camera and fix her brown-eyed gaze at the viewer. In all of her music videos, Britney uses tricks she learned from her small town dance studio to connect with her audience and each move is calibrated to appeal to young girls and to pervy old men. The exaggerated lip-synching conveys the agony of teenage of crushes and draws attention to her glossy, shellacked mouth.

Britney is a talented dancer and her gift is displayed in all of her performances. She moves through the music fluidly, confidently. The years of marking 8-counts have instilled rhythm in her bones; the result being that she’s never worried about getting off-beat. Her certitude gives her time to maximize and accessorize each movement with finishing touches—a wink, an impertinent lift of the chin, a giggle. She demands your attention. The choreography in the final dance combination of the Baby video is particularly demanding with a lot of level changes. In sixteen beats, Britney slides on the floor, where she does a knee spin that flows directly into a deep lunge, which launches her into a triple pirouette. She spots the whole time she’s stretching and spinning to maintain the connection with the camera.

In Baby, Britney captivates her audience but in Prerogative, her audience is confronted. As she states in the Gimme More introduction, “It’s Britney, Bitch.” In hindsight, the car crash in the opening scene of the My Prerogative video foreshadowed current news stories. We are bombarded with stories detailing Britney’s vehicular mishaps: driving with her baby on her lap, a fender bender, assaulting a paparazzo’s SUV with an umbrella. In Prerogative, the dancing and bubbly charm is replaced by fetishism. At one point, she’s wearing black lace lingerie and brandishing a whip as she poses in front of a screen which shows flashes of her writhing on a bed in matching white bra and panties. The tease has been replaced by a dominatrix. Prerogative is the beginning of the end of Britney’s reign. Her relationship with Justin Timberlake ended, her 24-hour Vegas marriage to a high school boyfriend was annulled, and people were taking bets as to how long her marriage to backup dancer Kevin Federline would last. Prerogative was her three-minute response to all the Britney haters: “The say I’m crazy, I really don’t care.”

But does she? Can you go from pop star to burnout and not care? I like to think that Blackout (2007 Jive Records) is evidence proving that she does. If she didn’t care about her career, she wouldn’t have agreed to do the album, especially one that caters to her fan base. The bass-heavy, danceable tracks and the half-sung, half-spoken come-ons are all for Team Britney. There are no PG-13 filler songs like Sometimes or Lucky that exist to suck up to parents and tone down her sex appeal. We like it when she’s sexy. We don’t like it when she’s white trash.

Which is the real Britney? The charming Louisianan or the one who walks barefoot around gas stations? I’m making the assumption, of course, that Britney the performer, and Britney Lynn Spears is the same person. But the dividing line separating the persona and person becomes more porous as we continue to be inundated with Britney news, both private and professional. In order for her to make a comeback, the line must be re-drawn which means the parasitic relationship between Britney and the paparazzi must end. Once that happens, I forecast a resurgence. At this moment, Britney is just off-beat, but I’m sure she’ll get back on rhythm.

NFL 2008 Draft Day, Radio City Music Hall, NYC

2008-05-18T21:23:00.003-04:00

It was a cool day, overcast with a brisk wind. A man wearing New York Jets jersey jogged down the street, his sneakered feet maneuvering around pockets of tourists huddled around tables displaying handbags and cheap sunglasses. He turned right at the intersection of West 50^th St. and Sixth Ave. and looked both ways before crossing the busy thoroughfare to Radio City Music Hall. It was 2:50 P.M. He got in ten minutes before Roger Goodell, NFL Commissioner, kicked off the 2008 NFL Football Draft.

Football fans not lucky enough to score tickets into the music hall went down the block to the ESPN Fan Watching Center, a pigskin pick-watching party with video game consoles, raffle contests, and bikinied Philadelphia Eagles cheerleaders: Amy, Jamie, and Kristy. And of course no football party is complete without a monster sound system and a 60-inch HD flat-screen TV hoisted above an elevated stage between a yellow goal post. Kids and adults jumped on inflated bounce houses and tossed footballs while draft commentary boomed over their heads. Those not interested in playing games were busy managing their team’s future roster.

“With the fourth pick, in the 2008 NFL Draft, the Oakland Raiders select Darren McFadden, running back for Arkansas,” Goodell announced.

Brad Sample, 46, sported a Green Bay Packers jersey. He thought the Oakland Raiders made a good choice by choosing McFadden since they should see quick returns on their multi-million dollar investment. “Running backs take a shorter time to develop than quarterbacks. Look at Adrien Peterson and JaMarcus Russell,” he said. Russell, the 2007 number one pick, went to the Raiders while Peterson, the number 7 pick went to the Minnesota Vikings. While Peterson had an outrageous first year with 5.6 yards per carry, Russell only managed a 55.9 percent quarterback rating. It’s clear that the Vikings got the better deal. But now that Russell and McFadden are on the roster, Raiders fans should expect more points from the offense.

As owners bang their heads against the salary caps to get the high profile draft prospects and free agents, the expectations from coaches and fans for a vetted player to perform become bigger. Miami fans are expecting to win at least two games now that Jake Long, Offensive Tackle from Univ. of Michigan and number one overall draft pick, signed up for a five-year pleasure cruise with Bill Parcells and the Dolphins. The contract is worth $57 million. “He’s making more money than veterans,” Sample said. Having never played one down as a pro-football player, Long became the highest paid lineman in the NFL.

There are great NFL players that don’t go in the first round: Tom Brady, for example. Brady went in the sixth round and was the 199^th overall draft pick. Tony Romo was invited to Valley Ranch as a free agent. Both quarterbacks led their team to the playoffs last year.

“With the fifth pick in the 2008 NFL draft, Kansas City Chiefs select Glenn Dorsey, Defensive Tackle, LSU,” announced Goodell.

During the commercial break following the Chief’s pick, the emcee introduced Tony Richardson. It was Richardson’s first time at the NFL drafts but he wasn’t there to sign a contract. He was there to sign autographs. In 1971, Tony Richardson signed with the New York Jets as a free agent after failing to get drafted out of Auburn University. His 6-1 frame, stuffed in a lilac button-up, looked small onstage. “It doesn’t matter how high you go in the draft,” Richardson said before signing autographs. “You have to bust your butt, you gotta work hard. You have to put your head down and go to work.” During his 14^th NFL season, he carried the ball 7 times and rushed for a total of 13 yards, averaging 1.9 yards a carry. The median average of productive running backs is between three and four.

“With the sixth pick in the 2008 NFL draft, the New York Jets select Vernon Gholson,” announced Goodell.

The TV cameras zoomed in on the green and white painted faces of the Jets fans screaming for their rookie. By picking Gholston, the Jets made NFL draft history. For the first time, the anointed six went as the first six picks. Who could forget the panicked on Brady Quinn’s face as one by one, his competitors were chosen and he was left alone, a worried kid with shaggy hair dressed in a nice brown suit? He finally went to the Cleveland Browns as the 2007 22^nd overall draft pick.

Football fandom doesn’t end in February. After the Superbowl, there’s the draft, followed by training camp, and then preseason. Then sideline tidbits—team politics, trades, rumors, supermodel girlfriends, court trials—keep devoted followers chained to the media for the latest news about their team. Some fans will waste an entire spring afternoon watching the draft. Sample got to the ESPN festival well before the first pick and he will be glued to the screen, waiting for the Packers’s selection. “My feet are killing me,” he said. “But I gotta be here at least until 30^th pick.”

Carly Simon, Starbucks at Astor Place, NYC

2008-05-18T21:18:00.003-04:00

On this sunny May Day afternoon, I was fortunate enough to grab the last neon green wristband to Carly Simon's five-song acoustic set at Starbucks on Astor Place. The cavernous space was packed with fans hoping for a musical afternoon delight, and they noshed on complimentary pastries as they waited for the show to begin. After a short introduction, Simon came up and sat on a stool at center stage wearing a black blazer and beatnik poet sunglasses. Her four-piece band, which included a barefoot bongo player, framed the blonde singer. She eased into her set with three mellow songs from her new album This Kind of Love which dropped this Tuesday. While slow, the bongos and the wooden hinge box Simon played added a Peruvian groove as bold as the coffee beans brewing in the background. During the second song, Hold Out Your Heart, Simon and her bongo player, perhaps inspired by the coffee house setting, began to snap their fingers to the beat. But the crowd knew things were going to pick up when Simon exchanged the box for a guitar. "It's fun to redo songs when they take on new meaning," Simon said before launching into Anticipation and You're so Vain. They didn't have an electric guitar wailing in the background but it didn't stop Simon and her crew from rocking out Vain. (I didn't know the cowbell could produce such a strident and angry sound until this afternoon). The song started out slow but forceful, with Simon spitting out the scornful lyrics. Soon the whole band joined in, which increased the volume and attitude during landmark phrases like "clouds in your coffee" and "wife of a close friend." It was a good move on Simon's part to close with the karaoke favorite—something old to promote something new.

Sheryl Crow at Irving Plaza, NYC

2008-05-18T21:12:00.003-04:00

Some shots taken with my handy-dandy Blackberry

Sheryl Crow
February 6, 2008

Strumming her guitar and decked out in weathered jeans and a vest the color of ripened pomegranate, Sheryl Crow looked seventies-hippie chic. Crow portrayed a confident and engaging persona. She shook her ass and entertained the crowd with sassy and sarcastic banter. Her set consisted of songs plumbed from past albums and her new one, “Detours,” a politically-laced and personal record, which she promoted during the gig. “You can buy it or steal it. I don’t care, just listen to it," she said. The show climaxed to “Gasoline,” a song about a future society free from oil and political manacles—an obvious nod to the Bush administration. Her parting words show that her last two years didn’t break her: “All I wanna do is have some fun, no matter how fucked up things are.” A fierce flower child for sure.

The Arcade Fire

2008-02-25T00:12:00.000-05:00

The Arcade Fire’s trajectory from Indie obscurity to popular acclaim is a rock-and-roll fairy tale. Once upon a time, Win Butler left Texas suburbia for snowy Canada. There, in the ivory towers of McGill University, he met the pixiesque chanteuse, Régine Chassagne. One day, Win attended Régine’s jazz concert and awed by her vocal talent, convinced her to start a band. They fell in-love, of course. In one year’s time, Win and Régine assembled a seven-person band, exchanged vows, and brokered a deal with Merge Records. The band completed “Funeral” in 2004 and the album blew everyone—Pitchfork, U2, Chris Martin, etc.—away. Three years later “Neon Bible” debuted at No. 2 and garnered stellar reviews from critics. Having successfully eluded the sophomore curse, Win, Régine and the rest of Arcade Fire are poised to live happily ever after.

“Funeral” is a ten-track lament that eulogizes people, places and various concepts without being overly maudlin. One sees this in “Haiti,” the album’s eighth track. The bilingual (French/English) song alludes to Reginé’s family’s flight from the island, then under Duvalier’s dictatorship. The image of an idyllic Haitian beach is summoned by the soothing sound of waves at the beginning of the song and instead of focusing on vengeance, the lyrics focus on the refugee’s triumphant spirit; on homecoming instead of leaving home: “Rien n’arrete nos espirits (Nothing stops our spirits). Guns can’t kill what soldiers can’t see.”

“(In the Backseat)” is the final track and also “Funeral’s” emotional finale. In the song, the mourner is narrating her ride to a burial while sitting in the backseat. The car is a metaphor for the loss of control one experiences during the grieving process. While the driver has active control over the car, the backseat passenger is just along for the ride. The instrumentation supporting Régine’s delicate and sometimes breathless voice is especially powerful in this track. Also, Sara Neufeld plays the violin with a poignancy that pushes the strings to the forefront alongside the vocals. As the song progresses, more instruments are added and Régine’s voice gets louder, and by the end of the song, Régine crescendos to breaking point. Her vocals in the outro (the ooh, ooh, oohs) are haunting—a wailing sound symbolizing emotional overflow. The band is weeping for themselves and for anyone who has ever lost a loved one.

Contrasting with “Funeral’s” straightforward lyrics and storytelling is “Neon Bible’s” dense symbolic imagery. Water is a leit motif used to explore weighty subjects, and to borrow the band’s chosen theme, emotional gulfs. In five out of the eleven tracks, the singer (usually Win) sings fearfully about the ocean. For Win, the ocean evokes memories of family sailing trips out on the Texas Gulf Coast. In a recent interview with “New York Times Magazine,” Win spoke about a nightmare he had about being stranded in a boat, out on the ocean, in the middle of the night. Win alludes to this nightmare in “Bad Vibrations/Black Wave.” In the first half of “Bad Vibrations/Black Wave,” Régine sings about the ocean as a means for escape,“We can reach the sea, They won’t follow me,” and as a way to “run from the memory.” While the instrumentation at the beginning of the song has a faster tempo, Win’s solo in the last half is much slower and helps to convey a dire tone. Supported by heavy thumping and an eerie sounding choir, Win’s lyrics in this half shout out a warning, “Stop now before it’s too late…There’s a great black wave in the middle of the sea, for me, for you.”

I first heard Arcade Fire in January of 2005. My friend sent me “Neighborhood #1” over Instant Messenger and after listening to the song a few times, I typed out a brief review: I was overwhelmed—the accelerando! Piano! Strings! The ooh, ohh, oohs!—I loved it. At that time, the song stirred within me an emotion that I couldn’t quite peg but could only liken to homesickness. To this day, I have a cathartic experience every time I hear or see an Arcade Fire performance and I know that I’m not the only one. The band’s ability to speak to people, to wake them up—aesthetically, politically, and emotionally—make them the most popular Indie-Rock band in the world.

Le Fin

Snowfall in the City

2008-02-22T04:33:00.002-05:00

There is nothing more
Jarring -- than hip-hop's booming bass
on a snowy night.

"Ode to the Mixed Tape"

2008-02-14T01:55:00.000-05:00

The last time I made a mixed tape was in 1999. I was a freshman in high school, it was Sunday morning, Casey Kasem was counting down America’s Top 40, and I was waiting for Number One. I was waiting patiently, busying myself with mundane tasks of teenage girldom—cleaning my room, doing some homework, and talking on the phone to whoever my current BFF was at the time. I was waiting for America’s deejay to introduce Number One so that I could add it to my personal audio canon, “Resalin’s Favorite Songs”, my very own, homemade, mixed tape.

I used to make mixed tapes all the time. There was a point in my life when I always had a cued, blank tape in the deck so that when I heard the opening notes of a favorite song, I could sprint to the stereo and simultaneously hit the PLAY and REC button. The audio quality was not so good (but what else was I supposed to do?) The tapes sounded grainy and my cheap stereo did not have the high-tech capability of filtering out background noise so there was always some rustling, talking, or coughing in the background. But the most annoying recording imperfection was the opening screech—I hated that sound. To me, that grinding sound is worse than hearing nails on a chalkboard, as painful to me as chewing tin foil.

I started making mixed tapes in the Philippines. I would record myself talking and singing and then my Nanay (grandmother) would send the tape to my mom who lived in Texas. That’s what we did. While I remember corresponding through letters, packages, and phone, I mostly remember the tapes. They were of course more personal, certainly more time consuming, and definitely more embarrassing. There was always a crowd gathered around the tape recorder, eavesdropping on the one-way communication. It was a performance, like Karaoke but worse because I wasn’t just singing the words that lit up on the screen: I had to come up with your own material. Questions and Insecurities. What would she want to hear from me? What if she thinks I’m boring? What if she doesn’t like my voice?

It has been a long time since I made or gotten a mixed tape. I think the last mixed tape given to me was circa Yanni and “Satellite” from Dave Matthews Band. Even if I wanted to rewind the past a bit to nurture my nostalgic side, I fear that the invention of the compact disc, CD, has made the cassette obsolete. Also, user-friendly programs like iTunes have improved quality and amped up convenience. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and there will be thousands…millions of people popping in a mixed CD filled with slow jams, thoughtful acoustic guitar, and heartfelt lyrics. And I’m not a traditionalist; I’ve burned my fair share of mixed CDs and they are one of my favorite presents to give and receive. But my mom is the only person to ever receive a “Resalin” mixed-tape original.

Baby-Mama-Grammy-Drama

2008-02-12T00:30:00.000-05:00

The drama preceding the 50^th Grammy Awards led to many questions: Who’s attending? Who’s performing? Who’s going to watch? Who’s going to be let into the country? After the most boring and least watched (4.8 Nielsen Ratings) Golden Globes ever, Big Daddy Clive gathered his children and called roll to make sure that viewers had something to see and more importantly, something to listen to. (This is after all, the Grammys.) And the obedient children, with Beyonce and Dave Grohl as the line leaders, marched onto the stage at the Staples Center and delivered a performance to the 17.3 million viewers who tuned in last Sunday night.

My favorite and most moving performer of the night was Kanye West who performed “Stronger” from “Graduation” (2007) and “Hey Mama” from “Late Registration” (2006). His performance was a tribute to his hip-hop and personal heroes. Red flames shot up behind the rapper as he started to flow “Stronger” against Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” His moves were not Jackson’s but those of a futuristic robot—bending, bobbing, and snapping to the bass—and he repeatedly asked the crowd: “Is this what you’ve been waiting for?”

The mood shifted dramatically when Kanye began “Hey Mama.” When the neon lights receded and the bright-white shades were shed, the lone spotlight focused in on a son who loves and misses his Mama. “Last night I saw you in my dreams, now I can’t wait to go to sleep. And this life is all a dream, so my real life starts when I go to sleep. This life, this night, this Grammys, is all a dream, and my real life starts when I go to sleep. My Mama, Mama, Mama.” The audience gave him a standing ovation.

If I can be so bold as to make a bald statement, it is this: Kanye West will be talked about the morning after any award show he chooses to attend. After the 2006 MTV Europe Music Awards, Ben Sisario of the New York Times called Kanye “a sore loser” when he railed against the panel after losing Best Video, and let’s not forget the time Kanye swore he would “never return to MTV” after losing big (0-5) in the 2007 MTV music awards. Today, the buzz is that Vince Gill, winner of Best Country Album, “dissed” Kanye during his acceptance speech. This is, in my humble opinion, false.

“I just got an award given to me by a Beatle,” Gill said after Ringo Starr handed him the Grammy for his album “These Days.” Gill then said “Have you had that happen to you Kanye? Just kidding.” He was and Kanye knew he was, and he acknowledged Gill’s smartass comment with a smirk. If Kanye thought Gill had meant harm, he would have said something about it: Kanye always does.

Kanye did manage to spit and spin at the podium during his acceptance speech after winning Best Rap Album for “Graduation.” But when Kanye finally got around to thanking his “Mama” (Mrs. West died after cosmetic surgery in 2007), the muzak attempted to cut him off. Pissed at the sound guy, he said, “Now would be a good time to cut the music.” The sound guy heeded the order, Kanye finished his piece, and as he walked away from the podium, the audience got a good view of the words “MAMA” he had shaved into the back of his head.

The iPod Shuffle

2008-01-29T21:17:00.000-05:00

My iPod is broken.
More specifically, my 2GB iPod Nano's screen is broken. I can still upload songs and I can still listen to music, but I'm screwed when it comes to navigating the menu. When my iPod is off, I see four black stripes of varying band widths and the screen looks a bit like a section of a barcode. When I turn my iPod on, inky, black shapes--a triangle, a trapezoid, and a rectangle--are all that I see. I press the control wheel, skip forward, go backward, press pause, press play, and although I can't see what I'm doing, I can plug my headphones in and hear that my iPod is following my blind commands. But I can't scroll through my music library. I can't tell if I'm on playlists, songs, artists, changing time, or changing songs. I can't tell if I'm clicking on Britney Spears or Barry White, Arcade Fire or Aerosmith. There's no way of knowing what I'm subjecting my ears to.
Listening to my iPod, an activity that was one of the few things I had control over, has turned into a crapshoot.

My First Post

2008-01-28T00:31:00.000-05:00

This blog is supposed to focus on music—album reviews, concerts that I attend, what I’m listening to, artists, etc. But since I have a lot of interests and lack discipline (I blame Adult onset ADD), I will probably get sidetracked. What you will find here are musings that yes, will be about music, but also posts about sports, fashion, my experiences as a transplanted Texan living in New York, and anything else that I want to write about.

I also began this blog to build discipline and confidence in my writing. It’s hard to put yourself out there but my fear of criticism and rejection is something that I will have to get over if I hope to one day write professionally. Another reason I started this blog is because my writing professor also hinted via handout how important it was to be blog savvy.