ACL: Day 2

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

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

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?

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.

August 13, 2008 (Happy Anniversary New York!)

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

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

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.