Inside a small club in the Lower East Side, a man plays a large, white, electric blues guitar, staring out beyond the audience with an insane look on his face. His eyes are wide open, glazed over, lost. But that expression is a ruse, a trick. His eyes quickly dart back down to meet the packed audience; the muscles in his face flex and relax to paint a portrait of calm and inviting warmth. The quick contrast is immediately enjoyable and frightening. He is dressed in a tight fitting, white, vintage, button down shirt, with black, skinny jeans, and a velvet boa. Pleading and pained, his eyes dart to the right. He sings, screams in a soulful falsetto, "Hipster Girl! why you always lookin past meee! why you always hurt me!!" To the man's right is another smaller man, handsome, possibly Latino and dressed in a grey pinstripe vest exposing his bare arms and much of his chest. He plays a white bass guitar. The two men move simultaneously, in choreographed dance steps while they play their guitars and the man to the right continues to sing. The singing man's face contorts again, flashing that juicy pain, and then serious, staring right past the audience, drilling a hole in the back wall. Soul flows out of his out his mouth and their guitars, while the white-boy, big-bird drummer, with high knees squished in the drum set, continues to keep strict time, tist tist tist on the high hat cymbal, then the powerful snap of the snare. "Hipster Girl! you walked out the pages of a 2006 Cosmo magazine! always hip never ever played out by the trains on 7th Street! Hipster Girl! you make me wanna smaaack you because you make me feel so blue when you make me want you!" The club lights bleed reddish, bluish then white on the three man band. The wooden stage is about four feet off the ground, and the audience numbers around 150. The place is packed and smells of stale beer. Pressed up against the wall, two men in the audience sit on high stools with bottles of Bud Light on the tall, small, round, wooden table. Most of the audience is standing and many are drinking Stella. The front man continues to screetch and get inside the stomachs and heads of the audience. He has light, yellow skin, but possibly African-American or Afro-Caribbean features. This ambiguity mixes with the shifting facial expressions. He is in one moment insane and the next a model of rationality. He is gay but obviously straight. He wails black soul music, while playing white postpunk guitar. The two front men are women, dancing, dressed effeminately, cocksure. This is what the audience paid for, a little finger in the asshole, a little bit of spunk, a little bit of "I'm not sure." The music is two large black women in pink fish net stockings and Sex Pistols t-shirts, busty as hell, coming up and around, making it all feel so good.
with love,
Anthony
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Diego's Umbrella
I am making a conscious effort to blog every Thursday night. (This started two Thursdays ago.) So this blog on a Saturday evening is a transgression, a breaking of the rules. But I saw a band last night, and I can't stop myself from telling you about them. The band is called Diego's Umbrella. They are the worst band I have ever seen.
Abbey and I went to the Independent in San Francisco to see a band called Vagabond Opera, out of Portland. After Vagabond Opera finished their show and pulled down their cloth banner at the back of the stage, Diego's Umbrella hoisted up their banner with the band's logo. The logo looked like a Billabong advertisement or an Abercrombie & Fitch poster. But I didn't think too much of it. Maybe it was ironic.
I had heard good things about Diego's Umbrella. A friend, who I ran into at the show, had an ex-boyfriend who is a friend of the lead singer of Diego's Umbrella. And the band is made up of guys from the East Bay, where I'm from, so that was potentially good. And they have a great name: Diego's Umbrella. I love that name. I had never heard any of their songs, but given their being on the same bill as the burlesque, raucous, melodramatic, klezmer inspired and mostly good Vagabond Opera, I had high hopes for Diego's Umbrella. I was expecting a cool, indie sound, melodic and textured. Something sweet and smart. Diego is the name of my brother's little boy. In the space between sets, I felt positive and warm feelings for Diego's Umbrella.
But the banner with the Abercrombie & Fitch logo was no ironic gesture and foreshadowed what was to come. When Diego's Umbrella did finally come out on stage, they were dressed in completely all-white tuxedos. This is not a bad or good thing, in itself. The right band could do wonderful, happy things with all-white tuxedos. The right band could make sparkling, glorious music a la Frightened Rabbit in all-white tuxedos. Needless to say (which is itself needless to say) Diego's Umbrella, was well, hmmm, the all-white tuxedos could not fix what would be a very unfortunate problem.
When the in-between-set-music stopped and the lights went down, five band members dressed in all-white tuxedos came out on stage. There was an electric fiddle player, stage left, with brown curly hair who stood over some sort of small synthesizer probably capable of creating various electrical, likely bass tones. In the center of the stage a young man stood with a white bandana wrapped around his forehead, holding an electric guitar. In front of him two drums and other percussive possibilities, the kind you play standing up. This would be, I guessed, the salsa influence. On the far right stood another man with an electric guitar. This was an orange man, with orange hair and orange beard. And in the back center of the stage the drummer, who had cut the sleeves off of his all-white tux. To his left was the bass player with a white headband. Cute.
And then Don Juan himself came valiantly on stage thrusting forth with an acoustic guitar wired electric. The lead singer took up the position just to the left of salsa/bandana guy and just to the the right of orange man. He began with a huge 80s metal strum of his guitar from far above his head to the the floor of the stage...and Diego's Umbrella broke into song. The guitar playing man with the bandana and the salsa drums immediately took on an expression that conveyed: "are you not amazed?!" with eyes wide, enamored of his own musical gifts. The lead singer then gesticulated around the stage, brushed back his hair, and acted out the role of the rock star. It seemed that this man also had a healthy sense of self.
And the music. Oh the music. The music was very bad Sublime, it was poor 311, it was left over No Doubt. And the audience loved it. The Independent was packed and the audience actually "sang-along" during a call and response portion that went like this:
Lead singer: "I take off your shirt!" (huge grin!)
Audience: "I put the shirt back on!" (frat boy high fives!)
Lead singer: "I take off your pants!" (jump around and point towards the sky!)
Audience: "I put your pants back on!" (this is great, original music!)
Lead singer: "I take off your underwear!" (face pressed close with orange guy, both leaning back and just enjoying the moment!!!)
Audience: "I put your underwear back on!" (Jesus, these guys fucking rock!)
This was the beginning of the third song, and we did not stay long enough to hear the last verse. Two and 1/3 innings and Diego's Umbrella had already given up 17 runs, the manager comes out and says, "son, you didn't pitch well. We're sending you down to the minors. No, actually, we're just gonna let you go. You can leave your uniform in your locker."
Remember, all of this is happening in all-white tuxedos. The amount of love these guys showed to each other, all while playing ripped off reggae bass lines that Black Uhuru made beautiful in the early 70's, was astonishing. You know when a band thinks it's really jamming, I mean really getting into the groove, but you are thinking, "Jesus, I have heard this before done much, much better." Well it was like that only made infinitely worse by the generated ego nexus propelling their lack of talent and originality to the limits, and making me feel shitty about being in San Francisco on that particular night and from the East Bay generally.
If you want to check out Diego's Umbrella, you can find them on myspace!
http://www.myspace.com/diegosumbrella
I'm sorry. I don't usually like to be so negative, but I have a low tolerance for huge egos coupled with bad music.
with love,
Anthony
Abbey and I went to the Independent in San Francisco to see a band called Vagabond Opera, out of Portland. After Vagabond Opera finished their show and pulled down their cloth banner at the back of the stage, Diego's Umbrella hoisted up their banner with the band's logo. The logo looked like a Billabong advertisement or an Abercrombie & Fitch poster. But I didn't think too much of it. Maybe it was ironic.
I had heard good things about Diego's Umbrella. A friend, who I ran into at the show, had an ex-boyfriend who is a friend of the lead singer of Diego's Umbrella. And the band is made up of guys from the East Bay, where I'm from, so that was potentially good. And they have a great name: Diego's Umbrella. I love that name. I had never heard any of their songs, but given their being on the same bill as the burlesque, raucous, melodramatic, klezmer inspired and mostly good Vagabond Opera, I had high hopes for Diego's Umbrella. I was expecting a cool, indie sound, melodic and textured. Something sweet and smart. Diego is the name of my brother's little boy. In the space between sets, I felt positive and warm feelings for Diego's Umbrella.
But the banner with the Abercrombie & Fitch logo was no ironic gesture and foreshadowed what was to come. When Diego's Umbrella did finally come out on stage, they were dressed in completely all-white tuxedos. This is not a bad or good thing, in itself. The right band could do wonderful, happy things with all-white tuxedos. The right band could make sparkling, glorious music a la Frightened Rabbit in all-white tuxedos. Needless to say (which is itself needless to say) Diego's Umbrella, was well, hmmm, the all-white tuxedos could not fix what would be a very unfortunate problem.
When the in-between-set-music stopped and the lights went down, five band members dressed in all-white tuxedos came out on stage. There was an electric fiddle player, stage left, with brown curly hair who stood over some sort of small synthesizer probably capable of creating various electrical, likely bass tones. In the center of the stage a young man stood with a white bandana wrapped around his forehead, holding an electric guitar. In front of him two drums and other percussive possibilities, the kind you play standing up. This would be, I guessed, the salsa influence. On the far right stood another man with an electric guitar. This was an orange man, with orange hair and orange beard. And in the back center of the stage the drummer, who had cut the sleeves off of his all-white tux. To his left was the bass player with a white headband. Cute.
And then Don Juan himself came valiantly on stage thrusting forth with an acoustic guitar wired electric. The lead singer took up the position just to the left of salsa/bandana guy and just to the the right of orange man. He began with a huge 80s metal strum of his guitar from far above his head to the the floor of the stage...and Diego's Umbrella broke into song. The guitar playing man with the bandana and the salsa drums immediately took on an expression that conveyed: "are you not amazed?!" with eyes wide, enamored of his own musical gifts. The lead singer then gesticulated around the stage, brushed back his hair, and acted out the role of the rock star. It seemed that this man also had a healthy sense of self.
And the music. Oh the music. The music was very bad Sublime, it was poor 311, it was left over No Doubt. And the audience loved it. The Independent was packed and the audience actually "sang-along" during a call and response portion that went like this:
Lead singer: "I take off your shirt!" (huge grin!)
Audience: "I put the shirt back on!" (frat boy high fives!)
Lead singer: "I take off your pants!" (jump around and point towards the sky!)
Audience: "I put your pants back on!" (this is great, original music!)
Lead singer: "I take off your underwear!" (face pressed close with orange guy, both leaning back and just enjoying the moment!!!)
Audience: "I put your underwear back on!" (Jesus, these guys fucking rock!)
This was the beginning of the third song, and we did not stay long enough to hear the last verse. Two and 1/3 innings and Diego's Umbrella had already given up 17 runs, the manager comes out and says, "son, you didn't pitch well. We're sending you down to the minors. No, actually, we're just gonna let you go. You can leave your uniform in your locker."
Remember, all of this is happening in all-white tuxedos. The amount of love these guys showed to each other, all while playing ripped off reggae bass lines that Black Uhuru made beautiful in the early 70's, was astonishing. You know when a band thinks it's really jamming, I mean really getting into the groove, but you are thinking, "Jesus, I have heard this before done much, much better." Well it was like that only made infinitely worse by the generated ego nexus propelling their lack of talent and originality to the limits, and making me feel shitty about being in San Francisco on that particular night and from the East Bay generally.
If you want to check out Diego's Umbrella, you can find them on myspace!
http://www.myspace.com/diegosumbrella
I'm sorry. I don't usually like to be so negative, but I have a low tolerance for huge egos coupled with bad music.
with love,
Anthony
Thursday, April 21, 2011
wholehearted
http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html
In my last post I attempted to connect with you out there struggling mightily with some form of severe emotional distress: depression, anxiety, panic attacks, bi-polar, schizophrenia, addiction, to name a few. I didn't offer any suggestions in my last post. I purposefully did not offer any ideas for what to do because of something very true: I don't presume to know what will help lift you out of the mud. On the other hand, in providing no resource I felt like I did not offer any support. I know when I was in the throws of severe emotional distress, as much I hated anybody or anything that attempted to provide Advice, I desperately needed support. So tonight, with this link, I offer a possibility, just one thing in forty billion. However, if a video about worthiness, shame and vulnerability doesn't sound like your cup of tea, or if a video about worthiness, shame and vulnerability makes you want to vomit, by all means, leave it alone, let someone else walk down that path.
The link above takes you to a talk titled, "The Power of Vulnerability." The gist is that human beings, bottom line, crave connection with other human beings; and allowing yourself to be vulnerable with other people actually allows you to connect more and better. The talk is counter-intuitive and brilliant although it is unlikely to solve your problem. It's just one stone on a path through a Japanese pond. Of course, you may not like Koi.
with love,
Anthony
In my last post I attempted to connect with you out there struggling mightily with some form of severe emotional distress: depression, anxiety, panic attacks, bi-polar, schizophrenia, addiction, to name a few. I didn't offer any suggestions in my last post. I purposefully did not offer any ideas for what to do because of something very true: I don't presume to know what will help lift you out of the mud. On the other hand, in providing no resource I felt like I did not offer any support. I know when I was in the throws of severe emotional distress, as much I hated anybody or anything that attempted to provide Advice, I desperately needed support. So tonight, with this link, I offer a possibility, just one thing in forty billion. However, if a video about worthiness, shame and vulnerability doesn't sound like your cup of tea, or if a video about worthiness, shame and vulnerability makes you want to vomit, by all means, leave it alone, let someone else walk down that path.
The link above takes you to a talk titled, "The Power of Vulnerability." The gist is that human beings, bottom line, crave connection with other human beings; and allowing yourself to be vulnerable with other people actually allows you to connect more and better. The talk is counter-intuitive and brilliant although it is unlikely to solve your problem. It's just one stone on a path through a Japanese pond. Of course, you may not like Koi.
with love,
Anthony
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Paul Simon is not the Topic of Discussion
Paul Simon is not the Topic of Discussion. He just released a new album. April 11, 2011. Beautiful day, so what. I bought the album in Starbucks. (Take me to the stars with your green, wanderlusting, fucklebusting, neverlasting bucks, the bucks that don't pay bills.) But Paul Simon is not the Topic of Discussion. I want to talk about Emotion, or from Middle English, Emotione. Emotion, the very word triggers a response: BE CAREFUL. Don't talk about it too much, don't let those slippery emotions fall out of your stomach. Be watchful, guarded, strong. Flex your bicep and reject. The whole thing needs a pentagon agency devoted to closing the door.
I was having this discussion in a taxi downtown, re-arranging my position on this friend of mine who had a little bit of a breakdown.
But I want to talk about emotion. Emotion engulfs. It ensnares. It occupies, not directly, indirectly operating on your swirling mind. How do we ease the incessant thinking? How do we feel better? There are many who have answers. I guess that's all I want to say tonight. There are many who have answers. It's up to you to pick and choose and sort through the bullshit. And when emotion slams down and pulverizes your brain like an anvil whipped across space and time, meshing with your frontal cortex (compassion), and leaves you near death, dazed, in a stupor, just fucking miserable, repulsed, disgusted with yourself and your life; when emotion powers the sicknesses of depression, anxiety, panic, attacks; when emotion runs out of control and leaves you a long way from wanting any fucking celebrity apprentice to magic-wand his way into your mind and fuck you with Advice. When the sickness is so overpowering, the hospital starts to sound like a good place for an afternoon coffee, there are people who have answers. It is up to you to sift through the bullshit and find the answers. You probably won't want to start here. But start somewhere. Go out into the night of resistance and find something, one star in the night, one thing to hold on to. And from there swing like Tarzan to the next star in the night. Fight the instinct that it is in your DNA, that you are pre-emptively fucked from the beginning, that the sickness is real and everything else is shadow. Go out and find one thing. Just one thing.
with compassion,
and love,
Anthony
I was having this discussion in a taxi downtown, re-arranging my position on this friend of mine who had a little bit of a breakdown.
But I want to talk about emotion. Emotion engulfs. It ensnares. It occupies, not directly, indirectly operating on your swirling mind. How do we ease the incessant thinking? How do we feel better? There are many who have answers. I guess that's all I want to say tonight. There are many who have answers. It's up to you to pick and choose and sort through the bullshit. And when emotion slams down and pulverizes your brain like an anvil whipped across space and time, meshing with your frontal cortex (compassion), and leaves you near death, dazed, in a stupor, just fucking miserable, repulsed, disgusted with yourself and your life; when emotion powers the sicknesses of depression, anxiety, panic, attacks; when emotion runs out of control and leaves you a long way from wanting any fucking celebrity apprentice to magic-wand his way into your mind and fuck you with Advice. When the sickness is so overpowering, the hospital starts to sound like a good place for an afternoon coffee, there are people who have answers. It is up to you to sift through the bullshit and find the answers. You probably won't want to start here. But start somewhere. Go out into the night of resistance and find something, one star in the night, one thing to hold on to. And from there swing like Tarzan to the next star in the night. Fight the instinct that it is in your DNA, that you are pre-emptively fucked from the beginning, that the sickness is real and everything else is shadow. Go out and find one thing. Just one thing.
with compassion,
and love,
Anthony
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