Party Pictures 2

Party Pictures Set 1

Party Pictures

Another One Bites the Dust

Hippie Chic

Last June the higher-ups at Relix decided that I’m in need of new wardrobe. Realizing that most members of the Relix masthead are in need of a ‘clean eye for the heady guy’ makeover themselves, they enlisted the aid of an FOR (Friend of Relix for you civilians out there) named Jenny who has one foot firmly planted in both the jam and JAP worlds. According to reports from the shopping trenches, Relix’s makeover was a success, mostly thanks to Jenny’s ability to select items which are ‘hippie chic’ (the rarely visited middle ground between Banana Republic and Be Good Family). Her ability to pick cloths which matched both my black Relix t-shirt and my exposed white Jambands.com undershirt immediately impressed me and, when and if I ever get a raise, I’m defiantly going to hire Jenny as my fulltime stylist (right after I hire someone to teach me how to tie my shoes and brush my hair---I clearly failed kindergarten). Until then I can only repay Jenny with free tickets to see the Dirty Dozen Brass Band and with endless praise on my blog, a combination of which you see above.

The Face on Mars

I’m not usually one to give into supernatural superstitions and conspiracy theories, but I’ve always been somewhat fascinated with the so called “Face on Mars.” According to my Uncle Mark, who follows these sorts of things, the Face is the exact size and shape of the Egyptian Sphinx and proportionately located to another pyramid-like mound. The image below was taken by the Viking Space Craft in 1976.


Here is a picture of the Egyptian Sphinx when its body was buried in sand circa 1860. If its head fell backward, it would look suspiciously like the infamous Face on Mars.

According to these more recent images taking last month the Face on Mars and its rocky neighbors look more like a plate of gold mash potatoes than an Egyptian valley, but it makes you wonder if, in deed, there are ruins of a great civilization buried on mars (and perhaps an undiscovered breed of first generation jambands!---sorry Max Creek).

While I don’t think an ancient race of Flintstones skirted around the universes building Sphinxes (if they did, they’d at least look like Betty Rubble), I have stumbled across at least one interesting theory. According to The Mars Mystery, and as quoted by Wikipedia, “...we have demonstrated with a substantial body of evidence that the pattern of stars that is "frozen" on the ground at Giza in the form of the three pyramids and the Sphinx represents the disposition of the constellations of Orion and Leo as they looked at the moment of sunrise on the spring equinox during the astronomical "Age of Leo" (i.e., the epoch in which the Sun was "housed" by Leo on the spring equinox.) Like all processional ages this was a 2,160-year period. It is generally calculated to have fallen between the Gregorian calendar dates of 10,970 and 88810 BC (op. cit., p.189) Which means that, if some form of life did exist on Mars back then, they might have built a series of monuments based on the same set of stars which inspired the Egyptians.

Who knows, maybe before people had blogs, they built Sphinxes to waste time while they should be studying (or at least sleeping)

The Disco Biscuits in the Mike-Mike

Last Wednesday I spent an afternoon in the studio with the Disco Biscuits. After interviewing the group regularly for almost three years, I feel like I’m finally at the point where we are comfortable enough to have a real, deep, unguarded conversation which is nice for any “journalist.” I sometimes feel like the Almost Famous life is wasted on me since I don’t smoke weed or play an instrument. But, since I still have Cameron Crowe’s haircut cira-1976, Magner did invite me to play keyboards with the band while he fixed his microphone levels. So, here is my first (and only?) jambands.com-approved sit-in with the Disco Biscuits. I sure hope my performance makes the album’s final cut. Jammys 2007 anyone?

I’m a Black Belt in Karaoke

I’m not sure why I never got into Karaoke. Since I pretty much spend my entire day walking, err bouncing, around singing to myself anyway, logic would suggest that Karaoke would be my sport of choice. But, for whatever reason, I prefer to listen to music in solitude, with only an imagery audience to observe my disheveled dance step.

Friday night, however, my friend Jen tricked me into a half-night of Karaoke with some of her teacher friends. It seems that New York City public school teachers are much like any other urban workers, meaning that they tend to end their work week downtown intoxicated, complaining about their colleagues with their colleagues (and all this time I thought they were FOILing quadratic equations, go figure)

Apparently at least some teachers also like to sing to one another, so, while the east village temporarily relocated to New Jersey for a Yo La Tengo concert, I found myself on St. Marks Place, singing with a group of people who in any other setting would have surely given me detenion. Even though my music taste is pretty specific, I'm usually able to wing a good music conversation in any setting. I have , after all, suffered through concerts by such diverse artists as Rod Stewart, the Sugar Hill Gang, Backstreet Boys and Bright Eyes (wow, my music journalism cred just vanished quicker than a plate of bangles at brake-fast).

But, scared that I'd out Jen as a closet hippie, I sat silently, nodding along as a group of obviously intelligent people recited the “Barbie Song” as if it were a missing passage from Beowulf with the aid of their friend Jack (Daniels that is).

It’s odd how genre stereotypes inadvertently play into everyday life. It’s somehow socially accessible for a group of academics to publicly spoon with a bottle of whiskey, yet mentioning the three-letter j-word could very well have cost my friend Jen her job.Perhaps in couple of years Trey will be so far removed from jam-nation that good natured, but square thinking , teacher types will spend their Saturday’s singing the words to “Shine.” I already noticed that “Heavy Things” has creeped its way into the Karaoke machine---and if that’s not a sign of the hippie-rock apocalypse I don’t know what it.

As for me, I’m going to go to bed now and mouth the words to “Airplane/Primitive,” an awesome track off the Slip’s new album Eisenhower. Its opening line has been stuck in my scull since I first slipped in the disc yesterday: “It’s the day before the rest of my life.” And, if that’s not a great High Holidays message, I don’t know what is.

L’Shana Tova

Lazy Saturday

Some random shots I stole from the summerSunrise, Sunset
Good Vibes at All Good



Brazilian Girls at Camp Bisco...Sabina sure is crazy (if only she were jewish)

Wow Heady J

They say a picture tells a thousand words right? hehe

Home for the (Jewish) Holidays

Coming home to Armonk is always a cathartic experience. There is something calming about sleeping in my own bed, surrounding myself with my old memories and, since I always forget to bring a change of cloths, draping myself in my old belongings.

My bedroom is a worm-like portal into a not-so-distant past: my shelves are
lined with old soccer trophies, SATs prep books and dated ticket stubs (which, somehow, managed to make it this far un-crumpled).

Time literally stands still. My cell phone doesn’t work and my alarm clock has long since run out of batteries. When I toss-and-turn at night, I have no idea how late it is or how long until my Dad will wake me up for temple.

Since my family moved into a new house when I was in high school, my true
“growing up home memories” are already tucked in distant corner of my mind, locked away awaiting some late night blog entry. Instead, returning home reminds me off my. adolescent years and the gentrified, 21st century planned community my family now calls home. It’s funny how time changes your perception. Earlier this summer, I took a train to Westchester to have lunch with an old friend I see far too little, whose wedding day approaches with rapid speed. As Metro North zipped through suburbia, I felt a strange disconnect to my surroundings, like I no longer belonged. I'm the type of person who enjoys life more in retrospect, but I've reached an odd stalemate with my adolescent aggression: not quite far enough from home to feel nostalgic, too far removed to remember why I was angry.

When builders first excavated the lot of land now known as Thomas Wright Estates. they found a somewhat magical spring emitting from the side of the street. People came from all over for a slip, filing in line and filling their jugs for future healing. Then, one day, someone discovered a broken city pipe not so far away, the line connecting an imaginary fountain or youth to a harsh, suburban reality.

In the 1970s, my adult neighbors smoked pot and made babies at Watkins Glen. In the mid-1990s, they knocked down trees and built houses in Armonk. They are part of a generation of suburban settlers, the nouveau riche. Like many, they arrived to give their kids a better life, but I'm not sure how many of them remember that. I don’t blame them. It’s hard to look backward while trying to figure out how to move forward.

Trey is Eric

Last year I was lucky enough to see Cream’s high-profile reunion. A few weeks later, I had the utter misfortune of seeing Trey play with 70 Volt Parade. Immediately, I was struck by the many parallels between the, at first glance, vastly different guitarists. Both cut their teeth in improv-oriented bands. Both eventually traded in their tie-dye for blue button-ups (both literally and metaphorically). And, apparently, both look their they are going to organism onstage. Take a look for yourself:



Which begs the question, is Trey aging into Eric? At some point, Cream-heads who followed Clapton and (tagged London’s streets with the phrase “Clapton is God”) must have cried mutiny when Slowhand slowed down his sound. But, who knows, maybe one day Trey will pen his own “Tears in Heaven”-style adult contemporary hit (and hopefully it will swallow better than “Shine”)

Lost in Gentrification

If you look closely you can already see them digging the grave. It’s roughly one block long by one avenue wide, just large enough to fit a one-story club between its thick wooden walls. As of now its placard reads A&D Construction but, by the time this column goes to print, it might very well also read CBGB: 1973-2005. Another victim of urban renewal, another byproduct of progress.

I never felt any sort of sentimental attachment to CBGB, and I can count the number of times I passed under its red-and-white awning on a single hand (and that's even after hippies and hipsters began to mingle on Brooklyn’s gray colored L train). But it’s still comforting to know that it’s there, propelling another generation of punks into larger pogo halls across the country. Honestly, I feel guilty mourning something that isn't mine---that I don't emotionally 'own.' But then again CBGB has always been one of New York's most populist clubs.

September marks the two-year anniversary of my return to Manhattan after four years in the wilderness of upstate New York academia and a summer of suburban soul searching on the road with Phish. Like many, New York City has always held a certain voodoo in my life, this huge impersonal place made tangible mostly by the West Side highway bottleneck and the dirty downtown clubs that have become mini-Meccas for those of us who grew up in the City's suburban shadow. Four years ago, I spent a summer squatting in an NYU dorm and tried my hardest to touch, see and mostly hear as much of New York as I could. Like a dog staking claim to his territory, I visited every club worthy of a Village Voice plug including the graffiti covered venue located at 315 Bowery. I vividly remember my first trip to CBGB. I had no idea who I was going to see and, really, it didn't matter because most likely I wasn’t going to like the music anyway. But by simply passing under CBGB’s awning, I felt a part of the club's history, music's history, New York's history. I'm not sure, but I think I got excited about pissing in the club's sticker covered bathroom. It seemed pretty hardcore at the time and pretty young and stupid now---kind of like the punk scene in general.

I often revisit that summer, not so much because of my trip to CBGB, but because of my time at another club, The Wetlands. If I had known what September 2001 would bring, I try to tell myself, I would have viewed the club’s closure in a different light but, in reality, it’s impossible to separate that month’s tangled emotions. Even now the Wetlands’ untimely demise remains a tangible sign of change, both in my life and in New York in general. At the time, in the Skidmore News precursor to this column, I remember likening the World Trade Center to a skyscraper-size nightlight, providing a watchful eye as I struggled with insomnia in a deeply impersonal city. In the months following September 11, it was hard to look at that empty space in the skyline, yet, I felt drawn to it. It was easier to wade through the aftermath of the Wetlands' impending closure, which, at the time, seemed like the end of the world and certainly the end of the jamband scene. Like CBGB, it didn't matter who was playing the Wetlands on any given night, it just mattered that you were going. Some have criticized such scenester motives as the sign of a bad music fan. But I’ve always seen it as a characteristic of a great New Yorker, trying to absorb a bit of his city before it is inevitability swept away by gentrification.

It’s easy to get lost within the maze-like web of clubs and concerts which adjoin New York’s divergent downtown districts, like a giant game of connect the dots. Indeed, musical trends seem to bounce around the Bowery at pinball speed, sparking cultural revolutions before gently gliding into newer, emptier alleyways. It’s an age-old story which has unfolded simultaneously in cities around the world: music, art and activism join forces to form something loosely defined as a scene, before falling prey to money, rent, boredom and newer trends. It’s happened to just about every niche---to such an extent that the terms post-punk, post-grunge and even post-rock are now easily digestible parts or even in an amateur music critic's vocabulary. Sometimes I fear that jam is the next term to secure a plot in the genre graveyard. But then I remember that there’s a reason clubs like CBGB are more often than not called wombs. At some point every style is forced to find its own way. Richard Gehr once said that “the history of rock/roll is among other things, a half-century litany on death.” For a medium driven by individual destruction, it’s odd that styles don’t really die so much as they adapt and morph to meet modern trends. This summer, Green Day became the first punk act to headline a stadium show without the help of a radio station or festival-size bill. Perhaps the punk movement has finally grown too large to fit within CBGB’s walls.

At the beginning of August, I took what could very well have been my final trip to 315 Bowery to see RANA --- the love child of the Wetlands and CBGB. I once heard that CBGB’s only rule was that no covers were allowed. I wonder what Joey Ramone would say if he knew that a band formed by four former Phish heads opened their final CBGB show with a Neil Young cover. More than anything, he’d probably be confused having missed out on all the gradual changes that turned CBGB into what it is today. But I think he’d also be pleasantly surprised that his favorite club’s vision has evolved along with the music he helped create.

I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of change, mostly because I’ve also always feared it. Sometimes it happens suddenly, other times it happens more gradually. It seems fitting that I first heard the term gentrification used in a editorial discussing the demise of the New York City rock club, a trend which, in the past few years, has absorbed Brownies, the Cooler, Fez, Tramps, the Bottom Line, Tobacco Road, the Wetlands and now, most likely, CBGB. Like a scene out of Lost in Translation, it all happens so quickly that it’s hard to pinpoint individual events, but, in the end, it’s easy to realize something is different. I’d be remiss if I didn’t take this time to mention the tragedy of hurricane Katrina. Like that day in September, it rightfully overshadows one single club’s struggle. It’s also easy to understand its gravity by looking at the Big Easy’s entertainers, musicians and, yes, clubs whose futures lie in a state of permanent flux. Set against such weighty matters, gentrification seems strangely beautiful. But it’s a sad beauty---a sign of a healthy city evolving, if not always in the right direction.

As I walk to work everyday, I try hard to notice the subtle changes that define my neighborhood --- new storefront here, an out-of-business sign there. Change is a scary thing but, more often than not, it’s also out of our control and its effects will eventually become a natural part of life. Sometimes during lunch, I take a lap around the block which surrounds Relix and look towards the edge of Manhattan. It’s hard to grasp that thousands of individual stories are simultaneously unfolding within a single, evolving skyline. It’s easier to look at the jackhammers digging holes to bury the past as I continue to wander, lost in gentrification.

My Night with Natalie Revisited

Since everyone in my office is obsessed with Garden State this summer, I thought I'd bring you this not-so-classic cut from the Greenhaus Effect archives, remastered for your spell check's pleasure.

Above: She's Like Every Girl I've Ever Dated, But Hotter

I’m not quite sure if I’m in love with Natalie Portman or her character from Garden State, but either way she’s high-up on my list of celebrity crushes. But, unlike most unobtainable Hollywood hotties, Natalie (yes, we’re on a first name basis) always seemed to exist somewhere on the fringes of my very tangible social circle. She attended Harvard with my best friend, danced at a wedding with a co-worker and, most importantly, falls comfortably into my limited area of female expertise: short, Jewish and neurotic (oh come on, she grew up on Long Island after all.)

Since I’ve always fashioned myself something of a Zach Braff character, I imagined our first encounter would be somewhat cinematic, set against the Shins’ “New Slang” or awash in Simon and Garfunkel’s “Only Living Boy in New York.” So, you can imagine how off guard I was when I found myself sipping Icelandic vodka just one seat away from Ms. Portman at the overstuffed, over priced, Maritime Hotel. It happened last Thursday at a Sigur Ros after-party, sometime during a heated jamband debate with two of my closest cubical neighbors. While on some (in-retrospect) embarrassing Disco Biscuit-tangent, I noticed my friend’s eye moving slowly to my right and then down to my shoulder. After a few seconds of self-conscience confusion, I glanced over only to find out that I had been sitting next to the one and only Natalie Portman for the past fifteen minutes (and apparently she didn’t find my Disco Biscuits dissertation attractive--dam). Before I could utter the words “carrying is creepy,” she moved across the room, leaving Elizabethtown the lone cinematic depiction of my Garden State dream.

After finishing my vodka, I cut my losses and walked home to find my narcoleptic/or alcoholic roommate passed out on the sofa and my IM flickering for attention. As if walking into a bonus track on the Garden State DVD, my computer displayed cryptic message from a female friend which once accused Zack Braff of plagiarizing her personality (and I don’t disagree), beginning a weekend chase which also culminated with a GS-quote (alas, “We're not gonna make out or anything, okay?/Oh, I'm sorry. I just totally ruined that moment, didn't I?”)

I don’t need to recreate Garden State, I’m living it. Except for the whole paraplegic mom plot, my parent’s only disease is Jewish guilt.

On a somewhat related tangent how, have you enter noticed that things tend to sound just a touch deeper when set against the Shins’ “New Slang.” Turn it on and chew on this: I’m not sure what the meaning of life is, but I’m pretty sure the Shins scored its soundtrack.

Dreams

Above: I know, i have great morning hair (a cyber-hippie checking his e-mail at Gathering of the Vibes)
I’ve been having very vivid dreams recently. In fact, if my handwriting were anywhere near legible, I’d place a pen and paper near my pillow since I’ve been at my most productive between 6 and 8:17 AM (the two hours and seventeen minutes before my alarm emerges from hibernation). I’m not sure if its festival jet-leg or the result of too much ice coffee, but my internal alarm clock has been all jumbled recently, waking me up when I want to sleep and soothing me to sleep when I want to work (or at least procrastinate). But, the other day, when I was sleeping I had an odd, sober stoner thought. During one of my final morning REM dream sequences, my alarm popped off, sending a signal into my brain. Instead of waking me, however, my alarm morphed into a smoke detector buzzing through my mind. In my dream, I spent hours trying to turn off the smoke detector (perhaps the truest sign yet that I am indeed addicted to second hand smoke), before I eventually gave up and continued on with my thoughts. At about 8:35, I finally woke up meaning that my dream actually lasted around eighteen minutes instead of three-hours (just like Ms. Rothman’s math class). And, while I won’t get all Waking Life on you, I thought it was pretty cool that I somehow managed to actually time my dream (even if it caused me to arrive at work a bit late). Now if only I could figure out a way to wake up quick enough to see what I look like when I’m sleeping.

Hurricane Emily

Much like GRAB (the occasional union of Trey Anastasio, Mike Gordon and the Benevento/Russo Duo) there was much anticipation leading up to Emily Tour (the Garden State-like 5’2 neurotic Jewish girl I met at All Good) before Camp Bisco. And, much like Mr. Anastasio’s performance with GRAB, Emily Tour ultimately failed before I ended up falling into the same old habits (i.e. not making a move quick enough, therefore setting off a chain reaction of neuroses resulting in clinic approved crazy girl activity). In the end, the only person I can blame is myself (and Hurricane I for cursing me into a life of craziness back in ‘04), so I ended up just forgetting about Emily and enjoying Camp Bisco for its music (now that’s a novel concept).

But, for some unexplainable reason, I decided to visit Emily’s My Space page after returning home from Camp yesterday only to find my image replaced with some other dude who, apparently, accented into her top eight quicker than I could say Hurricane Emily. If I had a My Space account I’d swap her out for some equally endearing Garden State-like 5’2 neurotic Jewish girl (cause g-d knows my none-existant My Space wall would be full of them). Yet, now, I am forced to redirect my frustration towards Tom and his social networking service for rubbing my face (or at least my mouse) into my misfortune. Alas, Hurricane season is upon us once again. Who would of thought we’d make it to S this early in the year…..

Earplug Alert!

2006-08-21-Gov't Mule @ Virgin Mega Store

2006-08-22-CSNY @ Jones Beach, Wantagh, NY

2006-08-23-The Shins @ MccCarren Park Pool

2006-08-24-26: CAMP BISCO, Hunter Mountain, New York, Ny

Earplug Alter!

Wednesday: John Scofield @ Katonah Museum, Katonah, NY

Thursday: Gnars Barkley @ Central Park SummerStage, New York, NY

Friday-Sunday: Gathering of the Vibes: RatDog, Hot Tuna, Yonder, NMA et all

Return of the Earplug Alert!

Today: Dirty Dozen Brass Band @ Lincoln Center (Free!)

Wednesday: Jonah Smith @ Rockwood Music Hall

Thursday: Mission of Burma Film @ Lincoln Center

Thursday: Toubab Krewe @ SOBS

Friday: Steel Train @ Knitting Factory

Saturday: MMW @ Oyster Bay Arboretum

Sunday: Apollo Sunshine et all @ McCarren Pool

Sunday: CSNY @ Woodstock

Back to Blogging

It’s been a while since I’ve updated this here blog. I guess it has something to do with the summer season, which finds Relix going monthly, music festivals going daily and my post-suburban hormones going through the roof. And, while one might argue that those are ideal blogging conditions, I decided to let time mentally filter my public(ish) persona. Anyways, my summer has been eventful to say the least. Since June, when the Greenhaus Effect slipped from a daily, typo-plagued recap of all things Mikey (call it the Jambands.com of my blogging world if you will) into a state of semi-hiatus inactivity (call it the Disco Biscuits of the blogging world if you will), I’ve covered a ton of ground---mostly festivals (Jam on the River, Mountain Jam, Wakarusa, Bonnaroo, High Sierra, G.R.A.B. Tour, All Good, 10,000 Lakes, Randall’s Island…) and weddings (Seth and Jenny/Evan and Evan/Eve, Alexis/some random dude she met last Wednesday)

It’s been good, albeit busy, and most of my best adventures are available in audio form at www.relix.com/radio. That’s it for now, though I swear on my favorite Phish show that the Greenhaus Effect will return to its daily, self-depreciative glory. Until then, enjoy this picture of Benjy and I Dave Vann sent over last week. I think I’ll make it the inside cover of my second album, Same Day, Different Typo

Back Briefly

I know I've been a bit out of touch recently. In case we haven't met face to face here is a brief recap: I spent the early part of June in Philly and Hunter, NY podcasting, the middle part of the month in Kansas and Tennessee podcast and the later part of the month in California---yup you guessed it---podcasting. I will have more updates later as I try to get this thing going daily again, until then, go Cold Turkey (www.relix.com/radio)