Stephen Malkmus

I saw Stephen Malkmus at Bowery Monday. My initial reaction was "good show, but sloppy," but if one artist its allowed to be sloppy it's Malkmus. The clear highlights for me were the bouncy "Gardenia," which could have been a later day Phish song, and the 15-minute "Real Emotion Trash," which I'm pretty sure was a later day Phish song. In the more traditional Pavement-style, we got a set closing "Church on White" and some serious drum drum work from Janet Weiss (who made her name in bands like Quasi and Sleater-Kinney). But the real reason I love Malkmus this morning is this quote from the A.V. Club:

How is making an indie-rock record now different from what it was, say, 10 years ago?

STEPHEN MALKMUS: Well, 10, it's probably not so different. But 15 years ago, or when we started, obviously [the scene] was smaller. I just got back from England, and with the advent of these groups like Arctic Monkeys, and, I don't know, there are other ones--I can't remember who was on the cover [of NME] this week. But the major youth music is "indie." So I don't know. We just do what we do. I would quantify our sound as more underground than indie, in that it's not catering to a fashion, so much as indie happens to be a fashion now. But the underground lives on regardless. It always does. Because there are so many people making music, and there are enough people just making it to their own taste. In-your-face type music. The indie moniker has obviously grown with movies like Juno and The Arcade Fire or whatever. U2 wants to hang around with Arcade Fire. U2 didn't want to hang around with Pavement. It's too different, you know? Maybe they're better or something. Or maybe we were, you know, not a threat. The difference between U2 and Pavement was quite vast. It's grown narrower--closer, I guess. Radiohead being the biggest band in the world.

Two Sentence Thoughts

I’m extremely lucky that I get to see a lot of live music, but all too often I get tangled in my typos and end up reviewing only a quarter of the shows I see. So I figured I’d start a new weekly column, recapping my recent musical adventures in two sentences or less. Sometimes I’ll focus on the music, other times I’ll talk about the experience. Every time, I’ll probably include some run-on sentences…

Drive By Truckers, Terminal 5, New York, NY-3/26

The Drive-By Truckers turned in an energetic, 2 ½ hour set that fell somewhere between Bruce Springsteen and Widespread Panic, both in terms of the crowd's energy and whisky consumption. The clear highlight of the night was a surprise cover of one of my favorite songs, Jim Carroll Band’s post-punk, Basketball Diaries classic “People Who Died,” that featured Whigs guitarist Parker Gispert playing Patterson Hood’s guitar while being fed shots of whiskey!

Dave Brubeck, Jazz Lincoln Center, New York, NY-3/27

My friend and Skidmorian protégé Matt gave me a free ticket to see Dave Brubeck at Jazz Lincoln Center and, though I unfortunately missed most of the show because of work, I still managed to catch a glorious version of his signature “Take 5.” At 83, Brubeck’s band is full of “young cats” in their 50s and 60s, which somehow managed to put the whole rock and roll-era in perspective for me.

Ghostland Observatory, Webster Hall, New York, NY-3/28

Silver cape aside, Ghostland Observatory are an awesome dance-band that my hetty intern eloquently described as “kind of like Rage mixed with the New Deal or Lotus.” The only thing better than the actual show, which I rode the rail for, was the Japanese food I ate afterwards (though I’m still not exactly sure what I ate).

Fleet Foxes, Bowery Ballroom, New York, NY-3/29

Thanks to some positive blug buzz and a some standout shows at SXSW, Fleet Foxes managed to sell out their first New York play---at Bowery Ballroom no less---four months before their first album even hits stores. Like their recent EP, the evening’s highlight was the haunting “English Houses,” which meshes the best elements of CSNY, The Shins and My Morning Jacket with harmonious bliss.

Strawberry Fields, Brandeis High School, New York, NY-3/30

Along with some of my friends, I went to see the popular Beatles cover band Strawberry Fields play an afternoon benefit at an uptown high school. The band delivered, the event helped a great cause and the family-approved crowd scared me enough to include a “no smock” clause in my pre-nup.

Nathan Moore, Pete’s Candy Stores, Brooklyn, NY-3/30

Seeing pacifist singer/songwriter/Slip-mate Nathan Moore in New York is always a treat. Seeing a free show is even more exciting, especially when Moore is loose enough to balance his songs with his equally enjoyable/bizarre stories.

Bittersweet Me

I’m not entirely sure when or where I first heard R.E.M., but in retrospect it probably had something to do with MTV. What I do remember is that alt-rock was red hot, even hotter than indie is now or jambands were eight years ago, and that R.E.M. was definitely my favorite band of the era. At a time when the radio was ruled by the big, loud guitar riffs of Pearl Jam, Nirvana and Soundgarden, R.E.M. stood out as softer, more intellectual and, most importantly, more emotional. After school, I’d scan the local pop-rock radio stations hoping to hear “Losing My Religion,” “Everybody Hurts” or, if I was really lucky, “The One I Love,” and each Hanukah I’d creep one step closer to completing my R.E.M. collection. I started with the blockbusters: the baroque Out of Time, the grungy Monster and the “modern classic” Automatic for the People, which at the time, at least, was hailed as R.E.M.’s defining moment. Then I worked backwards, exploring the I.R.S. collection and the Minus 5 before settling on “Driver 8” as my favorite song. The first time I ever heard the phrase “B-Sides Collection” was in reference to R.E.M.’s grossly underappreciated Dead Letter Office, and I distinctly remember looking up the meaning of the word “eponymous” after reading it on the cover of R.E.M.’s first greatest hits album. I liked Nirvana, still love Pearl Jam, but felt I could only truly relate to R.E.M., four dorky college friends who seemed to over think life just as much as I did.

But, as I grew up and alt-rock splintered beyond repair, R.E.M. and I slowly began to drift. Bill Berry left the band, I discovered the Grateful Dead ‘n Phish, and Michael Stipe started acting more like a celebrity than a rock-and-roll frontman. In high school, Jerry Garcia taught me that silence between songs is often golden, Trey Anastasio reminded me of the old David Byrne saying that “singing is a trick to get people to listen to music longer than they would” and the jam-scene in general shifted my musical interests from emotion to improvisation. 1996’s New Adventures in Hi-Fi featured one of my five favorite R.E.M. moments, the moody, rough “Bittersweet Me,” but I don’t think I even bothered to buy its sequel, Up. Now and then I’d check in on the guys, usually via VH1 or an event like the Vote for Change Tour, but by and large, my interests drifted elsewhere. I think the last time that little band from Athens, GA crossed my mind was when I pulled out an old concert shirt I bought at SPAC my first day of college to attend my final show at CBGBs. I’m not sure if R.E.M. ever played there, but they still seemed to fade with that era.

But, like so many things in life, the musical current has changed once again and now, a decade later, the jangle-rock sound R.E.M. helped pioneer is back style and the trio is ready to reclaim their indie-rock crown. Last month alone they headlined Langerado, played a SXSW showcase at Sutbb’s and scored the cover of Spin for the first in 13 years. Even my most jaded music-loving friends think Accelerate is R.E.M.’s best, and certainly most rocking, album since Monster, but something still feels wrong. Perhaps its because the interweb has rendered MTV irrelevant or that the group’s “lost” celebrity years revealed the sad truth that, at heart, most musicians would rather hang at a trendy night club than CBGBs…or that those grungy Monster riffs I loved so much in ’95 feel as dated as the Rolling Stones’ stab at psychadelia, Her Majesty's Satanic Request.

In a way, its nice to know that R.E.M. is still around, trying their hardest to produce good music, like an old friend from middle school you rarely see, but still keep tabs on. But, as much as R.E.M.’s return to fame is a sign that, as I’ve said time and time again, styles come and go in cycles, something about R.E.M.’s sudden comeback still feels forced. And, its safe to say, R.E.M. has aged into one of my generation’s first real nostalgia acts. It’s a sad fate and one that’s not entirely their fault: If he had sold thousands, not millions, of records, Michel Stipe would be Morrissey and if R.E.M. had broken up after Green and reformed in 2004 they’d be the Pixies. But, instead, R.E.M soldiered on, combating alt-rock’s lean years face to face, and now Stipe is forced to use his emotions, or at least his sexual ambiguity, as equity to bait the media into paying attention. Like so many oldies acts before him.

At Langerado, I’d guestimate about 2,000 kids left R.E.M.’s set early to pre-game in their tents before the Disco Biscuits’ late night set and I can’t really blame them. It must be hard to watch a band tour behind its Behind the Music story if you weren’t around when those stories took place. But, for me, hearing those songs still feels bittersweet.

I move across, innocence lost
All flashing pulsar
I move across the earth in my new pattern shirt
I pass satellites

"You're so bitter," your complaint
I can't give you anything
I don't know who you're livin' for
I don't know who you are anymore

I'd sooner chew my leg off,
Than be trapped in this
How easy you think of all of this as bittersweet me

I couldn't taste it
I'm tired and naked
I don't know what I'm hungry for
I don't know what I want anymore

I move across, candy floss
I move like a tank
I move across the room
With a heart full of gloom,
Stronger than you think

Oh my peer,
Your veneer is wearing thin and cracking
The surface informs that underneath,
Underneath is lacking

You move across, innocence lost,
All static and desire,
You're blue in the face from navel gaze,
You set yourself on fire

You strip down and lay yourself out,
I know you can't fake it,
But are you tired and naked?
Are you tired and naked?

I couldn't taste it
I'm tired and naked
I don't know what I'm hungry for
I don't know what I want anymore

I move across, candy floss
I move like a tank
I move across the room
With a heart full of gloom,
Stronger than you think

-R.E.M., “Bittersweet Me”

A Moment with My Morning Jacket

Above: Bouncing with MMJ...find me as if I was Waldo

I heard the new My Morning Jacket album from start to finish yesterday, before it was turned off, packed up and returned to the vault where it will remain until each-and-every writer/critic/blogger/scribe with an @ symbol attached to their name dissects it from start to finish, claiming every kernel of noise as their own (read: no, I don't have a copy handy, so I can't burn it for you, even if it would help you score with your girlfriend, boyfriend and/or that guy who used to sell you goo balls in the lot).

I honestly can't remember the last time I was so excited to hear a new album and definitely can’t remember the last time I tried to review a new disc in just one sitting. Yet, there is something refreshing about hearing a CD as a complete work and then letting it sit for a while, before its tracks begin to take on all sorts of other extraneous meanings.

I also find it somewhat fitting that at a time when every singer/songwriter sporting more than a 5 o’clock shadow has seemingly tailored their style to replicate the classic Jim James sound, My Morning Jacket has moved in the opposite direction, creating a dense, funky, psychedelic album that would fit more comfortably next to Flaming Lips or Prince than either At Dawn or It Still Moves. Like 2005’s Z, Evil Urges finds the Kentucky-bred quintet masking its raw muscle with glitchy studio wizardry rather than acoustic guitars and reverb drenched vocals; in fact, James has tweaked his voice to such an extent that he now employs two microphones onstage. But, from start to finish, those classic MMJ touches are still there, buried beneath a thick layer of conscious fuzz, where one gets the sense James always felt they belonged. “For thoughtless folks like me and J, who'd pay, but can't afford, the finer things in life,” he once mused, “So we heist them all...”

In many ways, Evil Urges is actually two very different albums, conceptually spit down the middle by, appropriately enough, the song “Two Haves.” For lack of a better term, the disc’s A-Side is the more experimental half, driven by studio gimmicks and longtime drummer Patrick Hallahan’s big, funky beats. The album’s B-Side is more traditional MMJ, filled with modern classic-rock moments and a few more gentle interludes. And while the album’s A-Side was clearly sequenced upfront for a reason, it’s the record’s B-Side that echoes through my head, especially the soft, haunting “Librarian,” a vintage MMJ moment that could fit on Harvest were it not for a somewhat obtuse reference to “the interweb.”

But as much as I want to call Evil Urges the post-jam-era’s answer to Pet Sounds or Revolver, initially under appreciated experimental concepts that blossomed into cornerstones of the classic-rock canon, more likely it will either be the album that propels MMJ out of their comfortable critic’s corner or alienates their original fans…or both. For even though Evil Urges is both a product of the studio and the group’s least accessible work since signing with ATO, it’s also tailored for the big, arena stages My Morning Jacket are finally ready to frequent, especially the album's 7-minute climax, "Touch Me I'm Gonna Scream (Part 2)."

I guess that’s all until I give Evil Urges a proper listen and, I’m sure, a proper review. Until then I’ll leave you all with my favorite line from my first sitting. Go ahead and add it to your yearbook page before all your friends:

“Do you live your life on the road, losing out on love, asking for nothing, running for something that isn't there…”

Indeed Jim, I sure do…

Langerado Leftovers

Benjy and I spent a few days down in sunny Florida in March at the 6th annual Langerado Music & Arts Festival, recording a variety of backstage interviews. As in years past, we also recruited a mix of performers to deliver exclusive acoustic performances for Cold Turkey. Beloware the first batch of performances and interviews in five different links. Press "play" above to stream each individual episode or click "save target as" to download an mp3.

Matt Pond PA

New Mastersounds

Dr. Dog

Matisyahu and 311

Bassnectar

Also, please check www.relix.com/radio in the coming days for another batch of Langerado-centric podcasts.

Homecoming Kings

In January, Aaron and Deanna crashed at my apartment for a few days during a two week setbreak from their current "world tour." Aaron and I worked together at Relix from 2003-2007, sharing a thin cubicle wall for a good chuck of that time, and, while living in such close corners occasionally led to the obligatory co-worker eye roll, the place hasn't felt the same since he left last summer to travel the world with his equally awesome girlfriend/now fiancé Deanna.

The happy couple, who are the subject of both a blog and a mock-blog of their own, came home shortly before New Year's and spent about a week in the city, catching up with friends, family and former co-workers before heading off to southeast Asia in mid-January. Since both Aaron and Deanna left their jobs on good terms, they also stopped by their old offices for quick victory lap, which brought me back to one of my favorite Rye Country Day School memories: My first trip back to high school after starting college.

As much as I hated my high school with the passion of a thousand suns (a phrase I never really understand, but seems to mean "a lot"), there was something strangely heroic about that first trip back, when those awkward adolescent scars hadn't quite healed, but the main hall still felt like home. In retrospect, I'd only been gone for about 4 months, yet it felt like I'd come home from a year at sea: older, wiser and suddenly able to grow facial hair. My younger friends looked up at me with wide eyes and, for the first and only time, my teachers treated me more like a peer than a peasant. By my next trip back a for my brother's graduation , all the underclassmen I knew had long since graduated and I'd become just another name in the alumni directory to most of my former teachers.

In a way, I guess fitting that my favorite high school memory took place after a graduated, not just because as Zach Morris liked to say, "I love high school, too bad classes get in the way," but because it's impossible to really see something when it’s right in front of you, even if what you happen to be looking at bares an uncanny resemblance to Lord of the Flies.

Hopefully Aaron and Deanna felt the same way about their short stay on my sofa, Lord of the Flies reference not withstanding. Safe travels guys and we'll continue to look at you with wide eyes until we're forced to share a cubicle wall once again!

Jammys Season is Here Again

After a short hiatus, the Jammys will return to the Theater at Madison Square Garden on May 7. The Jammy Awards was of the first projects I got involved with at Relix, back before I started spending more time in my cubicle then my bedroom, and is always one of my favorite days of the year (expect that time I lost my cell phone in the snow while setting up, but once again I digress). I’m pretty confident this year is going to be the best Jammy Awards yet, not just because four-time Jammy Award Winner and seven-time Grammy Nominee Warren Haynes and our most recent New Groove Winner Grace Potter are going to co-host, but because Phish is taking home the Lifetime Achievement Award. And even though I look a lot better in button downs than bajas, I still like Phish. A lot. And, apparently, so do MGMT, The National, Earl Greyhound, 311, Vampire Weekend, Incubus, Maroon 5 and pretty much every other great rock band with a good ear that came of age in the era of flying hotdogs and “Harry Hood” chants. So I hope you all stop by the Theater at MSG on May 7 for what is sure to be a most blogable evening of live improvisational music. And if I happen to lose my cell phone again, let’s just meet Page side, OK?

and for fun, here is a shot of me and Magner stuffing programs at the 2005 Jammys. I look young, he looks younger….

Winter Hat Hair

After being spoiled with unseasonably warm weather for the past four months, winter finally arrived in New York in late February. Though I'm pretty sure every jacketless January day is just another sign that the end of the world in already in pre-production, I’ve certainly enjoyed bouncing round the city without my winter clothes. But, as I’m reminded each morning, every dream must eventually come to an end and, for the first time in months, last week I dug out my winter hat and gloves for my daily walk across the Red Sea divide that is 14^th St.

And after trudging to work in the snow and taking off my beloved knit wool hat, I was also reminded of one of life’s simpler problems: hat hair. Not just baseball cap-style hat hair, mind you, but knit wool cap hair which, if you have thin, silky hair like me, is impossible to tame without a shower. Now, over the past quarter century, I’ve invested a lot of time trying to figure out a way to prevent winter hat: I’ve tried drying my hair before putting on my cap, wetting it before work and, even, dunking my head in my office sink in-between sips of my morning coffee. But, in the end, I’ve come to the realization that the only way to avoid winter hat hair is to brave the cold without any sort of above-ear protection.

In all honesty, I’ve never minded the cold enough to wear a hat, even when I lived in frigid upstate New York or after my college girlfriend insisted on keeping our thermometer at 98 degrees all winter, thus raising my body temperature just enough to demote winter to my least favorite season (right behind summer, spring and the beauty that is fall). But, occasionally, I find myself succumbing to peer pressure and wearing a hat to work. And, yes, you did read that right: peer pressure. You see, for some reason, people, especially adults, love asking me if I’m “cold.” In certain ways, it’s a rhetorical question (of course I know if I’m cold or not) and in other ways it’s a strange sort of under the breath insult, much like calling a friend “big guy” or “boss” or telling someone their shoes are untied when they are obviously already aware (as if to say, my day may suck, but at leas my shoes are tied). Yet, every winter, I can usually only take people asking me if “I am cold or not” or “why I’m not wearing a hat” for so long, so inevitably I eventually cave and accept my winter hat hair until its warm enough for people to start commenting on my bad bowl cut again.

So, if you happen to work in the winter sports wear industry, a plea on behalf of all of us with thin, silky hair: please try to invent a knit cap with a little less static. I can’t promise that you’ll make as big s splash as Ned Flanders’s Left Handed store in The Simpsons, but I swear I’ll never tell you if your shoes are untied.

The Third Wives Club

As some of you may have noticed, and my dear friend Jon Peck recently pointed out, this space has been relatively quiet recently. It’s not that I haven’t had plenty of things to blog about (SXSW, Langerado, mini-Steel Train tour, the occasional cock block et. all) it just happens that all of those assignments have pulled me a bit farther from my desk than my average Relix work week usual allows (yes, even the cock block). But, after a short hiatus from all things 9-5, I’m back in New York and ready to make sense of my increased tinnitus.

I’m also sad to report that since we last spoke I’ve had to lay my beloved iPod to rest. About two weeks ago a black mark appeared on her otherwise colorful screen and, over the past 14 days, that darkness has slowly consumed her facade to the point where she is no longer usable. It’s a sad day, though one I should have seen coming given her rough-and-tough lifestyle and occasional run-ins with my hardwood floor.

She wasn’t my first sonic love: I was with my first ipod from 2003-2005, but, just two days before her warranty expired, I traded her in for a newer model. And, like many second wives, her replacement was a bit slimmer, a bit more exotic and a bit all around sexier. Of course, like any first wife, my original iPod got everything in the divorce, including all my mp3s. But, over the past three years, I’ve started a new life with my second ipod and, I’m not embarrassed to say, have become rather attached to her (though I never really gave her a name). So it is with bittersweet joy that I introduce my third iPod to the world this evening (check out that ass!):

Learning from my past mistakes, I’m thinking of giving her a name, perhaps “Number 3” or Trey for short, but then again we’re still in the courting phase. For now, I’m still figuring out how to press her buttons and why she keeps speaking to me in Spanish. But I’m sure in time I’ll come to love her as much as her predecessors…though this time I’m proud to say I was smart enough to sign up for Tekserve’s prenuptial Apple Cares program before I signed any papers.

I hope you missed me more than my spell check did,

Mikey Greenhaus

The Last Sober Picture Taken of Me Was at My Bar Mitzvah

Middle School, oddly enough right before a first kiss during spin the bottle

My best friends in the world and the worst shirt I ever owned

Sometime around New Year’s Eve, I realized that I own no pictures. I mean, besides a few random photos lying around, mostly from formal events or graduations, I can count the photos I own on two hands: a collage of college/high schools friends circa 1996-2003, an odd photo series Jenny and Rebecca made of “the three sides of Mikey G” (innocently happy, happily intoxicated and, um, hungover) and this random picture Rebecca and I took in a movie theater photo booth in high school (probably the best picture ever taken of me, oddly enough). But, if someone were to ask me “what do your friends look like,” I’d probably have to use the internet to show them. Which made me realize two things: First, that the last time someone took a sober picture of me was at my Bar Mitzvah and, second, that pictures have taken on a different meaning in the increasingly accessible, internet/social networking–era. While people will always use pictures for decoration, and to document significant moments in their life, it is no longer necessary to collect pictures of your friends as if they were trading cards. If I want to say, “this is what my friends Rebecca or Jenny” look like, I can just go online and show them a picture. Which leads me to my second point: with the exception of formal portraits, I’ve come release that 90% of all people think that they “look bad” in any given photo, while everyone else who will see the same photo will tell them that “they look fine.” I guess that’s because, in some strange way, we’re never used to seeing ourselves.

In any event, after coming to this realization, I stole some photos off my friend’s various pages, and compiled a little photo album I’ve affectionately dubbed “Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Be More Meaningful Than They Appear.” Much to my surprise, it’s been pretty cool to look back at the 30 or so nights I now have documented, to remember what life felt like in bad turtlenecks (before they were ironic) and when my world revolved around certain people or places I’ve long since forgotten (or at least consciously avoided thinking about). And, of course, to remember that the last time someone took a sober picture of me, I really was 13.

The 2007 Mikey Award

For a list style look at my thoughts on 2007, please check out my Village Voice Pazz and Jop ballot. The following entry appeared on Jambands.com last night:

Since I’m about as good at creating decisive ‘best of’ lists as I am at proofreading my articles, I started hosting my own little typo-plagued award ceremony a few years ago when I should have been learning the oh so tricky difference between ‘than’ and ‘then.” I hope you all enjoy this as much as I did procrastinating from those pesky grammar lessons.

Best Non-Jamband Album by a Former Jambands.com New Groove: American Babies, Self-titled
I never thought I’d say there’s a fine line between untz and Americana, but American Babies has proven once and for all that beneath every great jam lies an even greater song. With any luck, one day “Brooklyn Bridge” will be an anthem, but, for now, it’s just the soundtrack to my 2007.

Best Multi-Band Festival Disguised as a Civilian Vacation: Jam Cruise
Jam Cruise’s equation is simple: take the best musicians from the jam-world’s three most vibrant scenes (San Francisco, New York and New Orleans), add an all-you-can-eat buffet, subtract bad weather and divide by an infinite number of sit-ins and you get the only festival that makes even non-music lovers jealous. Just don’t tell them you’ve renamed the Shuffle Board court Shakedown.

Best Reason to Agree with Every Other Top Ten List Published Between Radiohead Releases: Arcade Fire, Neon Bible.
The inner-lot kid in me wants to hate the hype and the very principles that first ignited the Arcade Fire: the self-righteously dark lyrics, the baroque excess and especially the religious overtones, but, for some reason, I still listen to Arcade Fire every day. Perhaps I’m attracted to the grandeur or maybe I think I can see Anakin beneath Win Butler’s Dark Vader shell. Or maybe it’s just because Arcade Fire is the new Phish, only with less hemp and more hairgel!

Most Poignant Collection of Emo-Lyrics Published Anywhere Outside a High- School Yearbook Page: The Nation, Boxer
Besides having college to look forward to (probably paying better attention in English class), the only reason I still wish I was back in high school is so I could steal these lyrics from 2007’s best album for my yearbook page:

“Falling out of touch with all my/friends are somewhere getting wasted, hope they’re staying glued together/I have arms for them”

“You know I dreamed about you/for twenty-nine years before I saw you/
You know I dreamed about you/I missed you for/for twenty-nine years”

“They’re gonna send us to prison for jerks/ for having vague ideas of the way to turn each other on again/

“Your mind is racing like a pro, now/Oh my god it doesn’t mean a lot to you/
One time you were a glowing young ruffian/Oh my god it was a million years ago

I could go on and on, but my thesaurus is tired.

Also see for the above two: Best Reason to venture above (1)14th Street: Arcade Fire/the National at United Palace Theater, New York, 5/8

Best Reason to Ponder the Meaning of Life with a Member of the Opposite Sex You Last Saw Around the Release of Garden State: The Shins, Wincing the Night Away
I resisted embracing the indie-pop revolution until I saw Garden State and then the Shins changed my life. And, while no single moment can recapture that moment in time, Wincing the Night Away comes pretty close, offering a seamless mix of dark themes, light sounds and easily bouncible beats.

Best Reason to Turn on, Tune in and, Even, Chill Out: High Sierra
Being a neurotic, Northeast suburbanite I didn’t get High Sierra the first time I went and wanted to go home. But sometime between the Slip’s sunset show, the Disco Biscuits’ old-school meadow throw-down, ALO’s late-night sit-in fest and Page’s workshop (which somehow healed that “Velvet Sea” wound), this time I didn’t want to go home. And, in many ways, my Cold Turkey co-host never did (he’s currently writing a novel in San Fran).

Also see: ALO, Roses & Clover

Most Obvious Proof that the Grateful Dead are the Original Hipsters, Yo La Tengo, Port Washington, NY, 10/19
If Yo La Tengo covering “Ripple,” in Long Island, on a Friday during CMJ isn’t proof that the Grateful Dead were the original indie-rockers, then look no further than Jerry Garcia’s tight, black t-shirts or Bob Weir’s short-shorts.

Best Performance by a Group of Robots not Involving a Single Transformer: Daft Punk, Lollapalooza
Ever since my parents placed me in a Jolly Jumper when I was 2, people have judged how excited I am by how high I bounce. And let’s just say no robots make me jump higher than Daft Punk (except maybe Optimus Prime).

Best Reason to Trade in Your VW Bus for, Well, a Volkswagen: Wilco, Sky Blue Sky
Since the demise of Uncle Tupelo, Jeff Tweedy has used Wilco to define alt-country, defy indie-rock, revive avant-gardism in the mainstream and, now, even sell Volkswagens. But, then again, there is something to be said for aging with your fanbase.

Best Non-Musical Performance by My Favorite Living Musician: Trey Anastasio, 92nd St. Y, 2/7
Since high school, I’ve spent well over 100 nights watching Trey Anastasio perform onstage and far more time talking about that band he played in between Space Antelope and 70 Volt Parade. But, besides his set at the Tsunami Relief Benefit, this open conversation with Anthony DeCurtis was his most genuine performance since Coventry.

The First-Person Award: AGP, Mercury Lounge, 3/1
I’ve been lucky enough to have a number of amazing, but self-indulgent, musical memories from 2007 and even luckier to have a place (www.greenhauseffect.com) to reveal enough personal information about those moments to ensure that my family never sleeps a full night again:

The show Barber and Brownie played “Little Betty Boop” for me when the Biscuits surpassed Phish as the band I’ve seen the most, the night I spent seguing between electronic shows throughout the city, seeing a band that played my college radio show headline MSG (Dispatch), having American Babies play my birthday party (or what I remember of it), the afternoon I spent outside during Green Apple (breadsticks), cake at Camp Bisco, the Sopranos photo shoot at the School of Rock Festival and pretty much every musical performance we managed to score on Cold Turkey (especially Apollo Sunshine with Brad Barr at Langerado!), but my most meaningful musical moment from the past year has to be my final AGP show at the Mercury Lounge. AGP was the soundtrack to my college years, first band I ever wrote about for Jambands.com and one of the reasons I scored my editor post at Relix. Their final show should have been an incredibly sad moment, but, at the end of the night, things didn’t really feel like they ended. They sort of just faded into the night, like so many things in life.

Beauty School Dropout

On Saturday the time came for my bi-monthly haircut. Since I’ve pretty much had the same haircut for as long as I’ve been able to grow hair---and will likely keep the same ‘due’ until I ultimately lose that precious ability---I’ve always felt that getting my hair cut is kind of like going into a fancy restaurant and ordering a Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwich (which I’ve also done on occasion). But since the mop top went out of fashion a few years before even my parents met in high school (henceforth known as the beginning of time), I’ve been forced to get my hair cut at least once every two months for the past 26 years, if only to remind myself that I do in fact have ears. Luckily for me, long ago salons and nail parlors replaced firehouses and Rotary Clubs as my quaint, Nuevo-rich hometown’s focal points, so I learned how to deal with high-stress scissor artists at a very young age.

From what I can remember of those blurry pre-Propecia years, every time I’d try a new barber shop, or “salon” as they are called in scenic Westchester, NY, the guy or girl operating on my hair would give me some sort of “slight makeover” and the next morning I’d wake up with the exact same bowl haircut. I tried using gel, growing out my latent Jew-fro, shaving off my sideburns and, even, during one particularly heady summer, cultivating a neo-bohemian beard (which my bartender said ”gave me age,” my girlfriend said “scratched her face” and my Grandma said “made me look like a terrorist”). In fact, I think a major reason I decided to pursue a career in music journalism is because the kid in Almost Famous had my haircut and managed to score a job at Rolling Stone (as well as Kate Hudson).

Yet, even without factoring in the obvious trauma of watching my last remaining hair cells float slowly to the ground like Edward Scissorhands operating on the American Beauty bag, I’ve always found getting my haircut an utterly awkward experience. First off, I’m never sure how to say “just a trim” without somehow insulting the artist working my scalp and, no matter how old I get, I still find it impossible to look in the mirror for 30 minutes without making some sort of 2^nd grade silly face Worst off all, though I have absolutely no problem emotionally undressing myself online, I’m really, really bad at making small talk in person and, let’s face it, they don’t teach you about hippie chic in beauty school. Also, I’ve always feared that one day I’d find out that I shared a barber with one of my co-workers, which I feel is the only thing more awkward than bumping into your high school teacher at the mall.

But, since moving to the New York, I’ve found a decidedly not-hip, back ally hair cut place which falls somewhere between a turn of the century Barber Shop and the type of establishment Tony Soprano would probably hang around at before heading over the Bada Bing Club. In fact, as if they were pitching an HBO pilot, each employee seems to represent a different facet of the hair cutting community: the Italian guy who still speaks more Sicilian than English, the Russian guy whose answer to every question is usually “buzz cut,” the fair skinned guy who is either a homosexual or metro-sexual (or both if that’s possible) and the Jewish guy who, according to stereotype, only seems to handle the money. Interestingly enough, they are all named Sal.

Like entering any mafia organization, it took them a while to truly let me into the family, but, once I figured out how to tip without using my cell phone calculator, my shaves got softer, my waits got shorter and my reading material went from People to Playboy.
We’ve also managed to bond over some good old fashioned rock-and-roll, particularly, Elvis Presley, whose mug is plastered across the room like Phish posters in my college dorm (I like his music, they like his sideburns). Since I have a good six weeks before my own sideburns start to double as ear plus, I’m also toying with the idea of either compiling some highlights from www.greenhauseffect.com to bring in as a loose script or creating some sort of completely fabricated story about myself that I can develop a visit at a time until I really start losing my hair. Or until the mop top is cool again.

Not So Famous

Ha, randomly found myself and Erica on someone else's blog (Nicky Digital)! Fun night in New York

Them Changes

Sometime around my junior year of college, someone told me about the “rock theory of twelve.” This theory hypothesized that, like the U.S.’s political climate, music trends swing on a pendulum, mostly between rock and pop, and that approximately every 12 years rock music hits its stride in the mainstream. Even in 2002 the theory made sense: the first wave of rock-and-roll music hit mainstream radio in 1955 thanks to Buddy Holly, Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis and Bill Halley, the second wave of true “rock music” arguably peaked in 1967 during the psychedelic moment with Jimi Hendrix, the Grateful Dead, Cream, Sgt. Pepper and the Summer of Love, and the third wave of raw rock music---punk---hit its artistic stride in 1979 thanks to The Clash’s London Calling and the Talking Heads’ Fear of Music. More recently, in 1991 alternative nation truly materialized when Nirvana cracked into the mainstream, Pearl Jam released Ten and Perry Farrell organized a number of alt-nation’s biggest names under the traveling Lollapalooza banner.

And while one can argue that the “theory of twelve” should actually be “the theory of ten or eleven” (with Pet Sounds and Revolver hitting stores in 1966 or the Ramones truly ushering in the punk-era in 1976/77), there is no denying that rock-and-roll trends are inheritably cyclical and that, as I’ve said before, what was once cool will one day be cool again---or at least ironic.

Oddly enough, when I first heard about “the theory of twelve” and wrote about it for Greenhaus Effect’s Skidmore News precursor in 2002, I joked that the next big rock trend was probably being created “right now, down the hall in some smoke filled dorm room” (perhaps inspired by that age-old avant-garde desire to bang a coat hanger against a desk and call it art). Six years later that hypothesis has proven itself somewhat true. If you add 12 to 1991 you get 2003, the year indie-rock began to crack the mainstream, with Radiohead headlining its first U.S. arena tour, Spin dedicating 5 collectors covers to the Strokes, Interpol reestablishing postpunk as a current (one word) trend and, perhaps most importantly, Friendster popularizing online social networks as a viable way to spread music (which one can claim, along with the blog, is responsible for the rapid rise of indie-rock).

I also find it interesting that each and every one of those rock trends has unraveled because of the same three primary factors: the tragic/unexpected death of a major artist (Buddy Holly, Hendrix, Sid Vicious and Cobain, et all.), the deactivation of a major band or performer, and the assumption that a number of the scene’s major figures have “sold out” in some capacity. Slowly, each style losses momentum in the mainstream, the scene’s smaller bands begin to fade away and, inevitably, the super fans get older and begin to shed their youthful skin and focus on, say, investment banking or childbearing. Certain bands soldier-on and become institutions (let us here tip our hats to Chuck Berry, the Rolling Stones, David Byrne and Pearl Jam, who have all matured into cultural institutions, branded together on classic-rock radio stations across the country) and others aren’t truly appreciated until after the gold rush (we also tip our hats to you Richie Valens, Velvet Underground, Mission of Burma and Mudhoney).

Like the U.S. political pendulum that swings from liberal to conservative in decade-long intervals, each-and-every era of raw rock music has been followed by a period of bubblegum pop: Elvis gave way to the original 1960s Teen Idols, the psychedelic movement faded into a mash of polished soft-rock and disco, the punk movement laid the groundwork for ‘80s dance pop and the rise of stars like Madonna and Michael Jackson, and Cobain’s suicide opened the door for the boy band invasion and a wave of sensitive singer/songwriters (Where Art Thou? Sarah McLachlan)--along with a horde of rap-metal bands, which I am sure my friends on the other side of the office at Metal Edge will tell you are the Backstreet Boys of the metal scene.

I firmly believe that each era of rock-and-roll is inherently tied into a number of other political, cultural and communicational trends (from 1950s Baby Boomers to the 1970s gas crisis to the 1990s rise of file sharing networks) and those factors have all contributed to both the rise and demise rock-music. With all due respect to the Brooklyn Vegan, the editors of Pitchfork and the east side of my brain that likes to see hipster shows on the weekends, one day indie-rock will eventually crack and open the door to another teen pop revival, leaving the White Strikes, Arcade Fire and a few select other bands to wonder the arena-circuit for classic-rock eternity. And while the end is still many Coachella’s away, you can already see the red flags: Meg White and Amy Winehouses’ nervous breakdowns, the Strokes extended hiatus and the blog backlash against Modest Mouse and the Shins’ new brand of mall-ster indie-rock (as well as the fact that, like fallen pop king Michael Jackson, the only country that still seems to appreciate Friendster is Indonesia.).

Indie-rock will always be around in some form, whether it is called garage-rock, punk, postpunk, New Wave, grunge, post-grunge, pop-punk, third wave ska revival or alt-rock, just like jambands, will always be around…simply because every year some kid turns 14, learns to skateboard and wears a Ramones t-shirt, just like every year another kid turns 18, smokes spot for the first time and hears Dark Side of the Moon.

Speaking of the jam scene or the psychedelic-rock scene or the baby Dead scene or the neo-retro scene or, hey, the post-jam scene, I’ve consciously avoided bringing it up in this argument, because, like my investment banker father (whose distressed debt management company does better in times of recession than national prosperity), jambands generally thrive when mainstream America shifts its focus away from rock-and-roll. By and large, jambands have reached their largest audiences when pop-music rules the radio, most notably in the 1970s during the Keith-era, 1987 with the Dead and Gregg Allman’s MTV hits, 1994 with the success of Dave Matthews and 2002 when Bonnaroo cemented the world “jamband” as a Wikipedia-worthy entry. It is during these broad “rock-radio droughts” that young kids looking for new music begin to both look below the surface and figure-out new ways to spread their own grassroots music (whether it is through tape trading, file sharing or MySpace). In 2008, a 16 year old student in a small rural town doesn’t have to go to a Phish or Widespread Panic show to experience guitar-rock for the first time. He can turn on the radio and hear Feist or Death Cab for Cutie or read about Radiohead in the New York Times. All great bands, rooted in equally great music.

2006 and 2007 were not healthy years for jam-nation by any means: Michael Houser, Mark Vann, Bobby Sheehan and Allen Woody have all passed on, Phish, The Dead and String Cheese are inactive, and Dave Matthews, Jack Johnson and Matisyahu are branded mainstream institutions. But, at the same time, STS9, Yonder Mountain String Band, the Disco Biscuits and Umphrey’s McGee are bigger (or just as big) as ever, pulling in new fans, some of whom needed a night off from Wilco and Radiohead tour “to remember,” but many of whom just turned 18. Oddly enough, moe., the original jam-band underdog, has cemented its role as torch barrier and will begin 2008 by releasing their finest studio album to date, Sticks and Stones. And of the 9,000 fans who went to see STS9 or Yonder at Red Rocks last summer, one will most likely start a band and, one day, that band might be the next Grateful Dead or Phish or maybe, in 2015, the next Nirvana or Radiohead.

Until then, I’m still discovering great new music every day. And, for the first time since the 1990s, I’m also hearing it on the radio.

Roommate Advice

I tend to talk about myself a good deal here at www.greenhauseffect.com and I sincerely hope that my commentary has helped at least one of you discover some new music and that my spelling mistakes have inspired many more of you to pay better attention in school. But, this week, I am going to shift my attention from my own advice on music and neurotic girls to that of my long-time roommate and good friend, Juan. For about seven years, Juan and I lived down the hall from each other, first as South Quad neighbors at Skidmore and later as roommates in southern Manhattan. Juan is a great guy and one of the best roommates I’ve ever had; he doesn’t pee in the closest when he’s wasted (unlike my freshman jock roommate), spends a good deal of his spare time at his mom’s in Queens or his Uncle’s in Brooklyn and has a habit of falling asleep on the sofa instead of in his bed (thereby allowing me to subsidize my income by renting out his room 1-3 nights a week!). He also has a good head on his shoulders and balances out my scatterbrained neuroses quite well. Juan recently moved to Albany to begin work at the State Senate, but came back to New York shortly before New Year’s Eve to help celebrate our friend Caitey’s birthday.

And while at dinner, Juan made a comment, which actually inspired me to think a bit more seriously about what, in retrospect, can be one of the most traumatic experiences in any swinging, young bachelor’s life: attending the birthday party of a girl you are causally courting. On the surface, attending the birthday party of a girl you are interested in seems like a choice opportunity; a chance buy drinks for your intended, simultaneously win the admiration of each-and-every one of her friends and be the all around “man- of- the- night.” But, what most guys don’t realize is that, unlike guys, girls have a tendency to invite every guy they are currently flirting with to the same birthday party, all of whom are vying for the elusive “man- of- the -night position.” In fact, invariably what happens is that the birthday girl ends up hooking up with the bar tender or some Irish guy who happens to be in town for “just one night,” while the 8-10 guys who put on their best dress shirts for the evening end up having slow, forced conversation with each other.

Of course, as Juan reminds me, it’s a Catch 22 because if you miss the birthday party, you automatically take yourself out of the running and/or preemptively brand yourself as the type of guy who will leave at six in the morning for an “early meeting,” or “last minute racquetball lesson.” I think the last time I had to make the difficult choice of whether or not to attend such a birthday party was my freshman year of “real life.” Luckily for me, one of my favorite bands decided to schedule a run of shows at Tonic and I was able to use the “my true love is music semi-excuse,” which somehow managed to give me some sort of hand in our relationship and was able to bring her back a concert souvenir, which also solves the second biggest relationship birthday problem---the present.

Like most guys, I like to keep the various girls I am interested in at any particularly time separated like Tori and Kelly in the final season of Saved By the Bell…especially at a birthday party or similar social function, which has a good chance of being tagged on my friend’s Facebook. But, then again, I know more about spelling than birthdays. That’s why I listen to my roommate Juan (who’d like you to vote for him in the 2012 State Senate Election.)

The Sixth Borough

Like any Jewish child born in the post-WWII era, I have an uncle named Arthur who is a doctor. Besides being a great guy and good uncle, he’s also handy to have around just in case anyone needs late night medical advice, a last minute flu shot or an update on how the U.S. insurance companies are slowly squeezing every last ounce of joy out of the medial profession. But, when we were younger, being a doctor also meant that he needed to be on call and couldn’t take his family on vacation during holiday break. So, instead of going to Disney World or some other family-approved tourist destination, he used to take my cousins to a local hotel for an “imaginary vacation” every winter.

In certain ways, I feel the same way about taking a trip to Philadelphia: the City of Brotherly Love, the home of the cheesesteak and, most recently, New York’s “Sixth Borough.” I used to think Philadelphia was far away, but when I started seeing Phish there and in nearby scenic Camden, I realized that not only was it close, it was possible to do the entire drive in less time that it takes to listen to the full version of the 70 minute “Reba.” In fact, one of my good friends from college even commutes from Philadelphia to New York every day, so he can balance his girlfriend and job as well as his apparent need for both fresh bagels and cheese steaks.

But since Philadelphia is a full two states away, I always feel like I am going on vacation whenever I take a trip down I-95, more often than not to see the Disco Biscuits. And there is something fun and strangely liberating about taking an imaginary vacation: sleeping in a hotel, eating unhealthy food in the name of trying something new and staying up late to do things I’d never dream of blogging about at home. All and All, depending on the Disco Biscuits’ tour schedule, I’d say I average about 2-4 imaginary Philadelphia vacations a year, which is usually enough to assure me that I still live in New York’s best borough.

My latest Philadelphia adventure took place this Sunday when I what haphazardly ended up “jumping on tour” with my friends for an overnight adventure to Philadelphia. It kind of makes sense that Philadelphia’s two most prominent styles of music are hip-hop (Will Smith, The Roots) and electronic-rock (The Disco Biscuits et all) because kidz in Philadelphia definitively have “that” look, from the sideways baseball caps to the baggy clothes. And while that may see obvious to some of you, I still find it funny that two distinct, different cultural subsets can emerge within a nights drive from one another, even in the global age of the internet.

Not that I had too, too much time to think about all that since being in Philadelphia meant I was ON VACATION and could do things that I rarely do back home, like hosting an all night party in my hotel room or letting someone else figure out how we were getting to New Jersey or, even, including a piece of melted cheese on my trademark tuna fish sandwich. For the first time in a short wile, I also drove down and stayed with an entirely new group of friends, each of whom I picked up outside my usual college/high school/Relix comfort box (in fact, I even met one at an indie-rock show). But while on vacation the rules of space and time are suspended in that summer camp kind of way and, by 4 hours in, we knew each other well enough to harp on each other’s insecure quirks.

Usually, when I leave town, even when it is only to Philadelphia, or say, New York’s Upper East Side, I try to taste a bit of local culture, be it a restaurant, museum or local landmark, in order to try to convince my parents that I’m not one of those lot kidz for whom seeing Phish in 72 cities really meant little man than seeing 72 Best Westerns and Waffle Houses. But, with a new group of friends comes new rules and regulations, and this time I used our hotel as a Lost in Translation-­like springboard for all my adventures, rarely leaving, mingling with my fellow guests and interacting with the local hotel staff as if they were speaking another language (which in many ways they were since, apparently, you can only order sushi at 2 AM in New York and L.A.).

You also learn a lot about new friends by staying with them in a hotel room and, even If they are just plutonic pals, I kind of feel like your relationship changes in a small way after you’ve seen them in their pajama. It’s kind of like jumping from casually dating someone to sleeping with them or, more accurately, going from having a playdate to a sleepover party. Slowly, you begin to figure out which of your friends gets all deep when the lights go out, which one of your friends builds a little pillow fort around herself and which one of your friends gets up way too early in the morning and feels compelled to wake everyone else up “by accident,” like a dog licking his master’s face in the morning.

All in all, it was great fun and I even discovered that they make Philly Cheesesteaks without the bread for people on Atkins. Now that’s progress people…

Red State Mama

So, over the past eighteen months a good chunk of my friends have either gotten married or pregnant (sometimes in that order). For a while, my stock response was something to the effect of “sometimes I think I want to get married, but really, all I want is to throw a big, formal party.” But, as my mid-20s have gently segued into my, um, late-mid-20s, I’ve started to consider not only what would make me happy three beers deep, but, also, what would make me happy in the seemingly undefined “long term” and what would make my family happy in our seemingly defined Meet the Parents-like future. Growing up, my parents were pretty liberal when it came to most things (T.V., junk food, sex, drugs, rock-and-roll), but the one thing my dad promised, “would break my mother’s heart” was marrying a non-Jewish girl. And luckily for him, no gentile woman could ever spend more than one night with my nervous system OR understand my unconditional love of white fish and bagels.

But, just when I thought it would be another 8-10 years before I found the woman who would drive me slightly insane for all of eternity, I met someone who seemed to have all the proper qualifications: a 5’3, neurotic, New York-bred, Jewish girl with both a college degree and a pair of patchwork pants (in her closet). She even understand that the phrase "I love you like a 'Ghost' from '97" was a compliment, not some failed attempt at post-adolescent trick-or-treating or a secret reference to an ex-girlfriend from 11 years ago.

We met earlier this month at a party and made plans to go out for drinks, which quickly segued into a full on dinner (always a good sign of things to come). Over the course of the night, we touched upon all the appropriate subjects and one-by-one she passed the small Seinfeldian quizzes I subconsciously pop whenever I meet someone of interest:

Do you live within the social L that extends from the Beacon Theater on the Upper West Side, across/below 14^th St and into Brooklyn (but not past The Hook)?

Have you seen Garden State enough times to know when I am plagiarizing Zach Braff?

Would you be OK with dancing to “If I Could” at our wedding?

Are you so neurotic that you actually make me seem calm, cool and collected (or at least confident)?

In retrospect, it was one of those rare nights when the conversation flowed like wine, the wine flowed like water and the water flowed like, well, like fish (come on, you saw that one coming for a half a sentence). I've always said that you can tell a date is going well when the waiter hands you the check instead of placing it in the middle of the table and let’s just say he asked me if I wanted to open up a tab before we received our appetizers. The night got a bit fuzzy from there, but I'm pretty sure that sometime before dessert, I took a metal note of her favorite flowers and ring size. But, then, a few hours into our conversation, she touched on a topic more taboo than aligning with Red board over the Green board on PT and revealed a rather interesting tidbit:

She's a Republican.

And, let me clarify: not a financially conservative, intellectual for Israel, post-Steven Colbert, pro-Bloomberg neo-con or whatever the kids are calling everyone who lives in Murray Hill these days, but a real, Bush-loving, Cheney supporting conservative (who hates MoveOn.org, even though they had the foresight to introduce Neil Young to My Morning Jacket way back in 2004).

After I pulled my jaw from the ground, I began to think what dating a Republican would mean for me: we’d probably have to balance our car with both red and blue bumper stickers, split custody of the T.V. between Fox News and the Daily Show at 11 PM every night and avoid the first week of November for any impending weddings, anniversaries or potential birthdays (unless, of course, the Democrats manage to retake the White House next year)

Now, I have friends who are so liberal they sometimes make me want to change parties altogether (and four years after we broke up, I'm still not sure how my ex-girlfriend managed to convince me that turning on my air conditioning was equal to voting for Bush, but driving from Saratoga to Boston in a SUV for a Nader rally was kosher), but I’ve always felt that dating out of party is kind of like sleeping with someone from a different religious background: It’s fun for a night or two, but our chances of tying the knot are about as good as Edwards scoring the Democratic Nomination.

But, it did get me thinking where exactly politics holds up on my list of Facebook vital statistics, especially since---my Mom and Dad aside---I grew up in red-county, poisoning the minds of young intellectuals in an otherwise blue state. In fact, of my four best guy friends from high school, one actually clocked in time working for Bush post-college, a second switched parties to appease his conservative investment banking boss, a third switched parties to appease my friend who switched parties to appease his conservative investment banking boss and a fourth is so idealistic that he actually thinks Bush is trying to spread Democracy. Since I also rely on at least a few of these friends for regular advice on life, love and loose commas, I’ve also justified to myself: namely, a job’s a job, money’s money, your friend’s money is money and that anyone that idealistic probably still thinks Phish’s hiatus was about spending time at home with the kids.

Luckily, before I paid the check and she managed to help repeal the first amendment, she also told me she liked the last two seasons of Seinfeld, so I obviously immediately chopped the check, but the night did get me thinking about if I could end up with someone who longed for the day when Gamehendge would be a red state. I even asked my Democratic Party-card holding Dad if he thought marrying a Republican would break my mother’s heart. He smiled and said, “No, she probably wouldn’t mind, but you better not ask me to help pay for the wedding.”

It’s the End of the Year and I Know it (and I Feel Fine!)

It’s December, the weather is finally cold and the heat in my apartment building is on so high that I’m thinking of turning on my air conditioner so I can sleep. Which can only mean one thing…Holiday Party Tour! The holidays are the best: everyone is in a great mood, there are parties every night and, for three wonderful weeks, drinking eggnog is socially acceptable. Just this week alone I attended four holiday parties, some associated with work, others with friends, and one that was actually just a dinner disguised as a Chanukah celebration, but I digress. Holiday parties are also a time to take stock of the past year and say all those emotionally awkward things you’ve stored up all year, with the hope that when the clock strikes 12 on December 31 everything you say will be erased like a scene from Groundhog Day.

I also like holiday parties because they kind of connect the dotes between the various people I know and allow me to accidentally reintroduce my friends to, say, their roommate, next door cubicle neighbor or ex-girlfriend (damn small world). Plus, it’s always nice to see that all it takes is a few drinks and some sushi for the most uptight guy in your office to start streaking naked across the floor or, or more accurately, hugging you a lot and awkwardly apologizing to you in the bathroom the following morning.

I also have special “tour” friends that I only seem to run into during holiday party season each year. But since I also tend to appear in a disproportionate number of pictures while on holiday party tour, according to, say, my Facebook photo gallery, these people are my best friends who I see every week. My favorite holiday tour friend is probably Jess a.k.a. “JFS,” who I’ve seen more in the past seven days than the past 7 months. Jess and I actually met at a holiday party in December of 2005 and spent a whirlwind three weeks on hoiday tour together, before she accidentally/drunkenly walked into a mirror after an Ivan Neville show and was forced to go to the emergency room (which was kind of like the Altamont of our friendship). We seem to reunite each December for a few sold out nights of holiday party shenanigans---if only so she can rub it into me that she thinks of me whenever she looks at the scar on her foot---but ‘tis the season for forgiveness, right?

In fact, I love holiday party tour so much I wish it had a summer counterpart timed around July 4^th or something. Luckily, my annual Hungover for the Holiday party has slowly been delayed to the point that if might actually take place around the time of my summer birthday, so maybe that will convince some other offices to delay their Christmas cheer until the summer months. At least my air conditioner will already be on…

Auld Lang Syne Set 3:

And now for...

Mike Gordon, Yonder Mountain String Band, Luther Dickinson, Akron/Family, Antibalas, ALO, Christian McBride and Other Friends

Auld Lang Syne Set 2

This time with Marc Brownstein, Les Claypool, Reed Mathis, Railroad Earth and Umphrey's McGee, among other friends