All Our Little Wishes Have Run Dry

The mighty Matthew Perpetua gives some love and linkage to the Divine Comedy's "To Die a Virgin" on Fluxblog today.

Britt Daniel picks out and discusses twelve of his favorite albums that are currently available for download on eMusic. "Judging by this list, that's what moves me: heartbreak and longing." Loves it.

Please be sure to bop over to Salon's Audiofile to download Justin Roberts's so-called kindie rock song "Meltdown." LK and I heard his band play it on the kids' stage at the Printers Row Book Fair earlier this month, and I almost sheepishly have to admit that it was one of my favorite things about the whole damn fair. Insanely catchy and instantly addictive. If only I could show you the hand motions that go with it. Ahhhh!

In case you haven't read/heard yet, Sleater-Kinney are no more (via, uh, yer ma). I never got as much into them as I know I should have (and still might), but of course I recognize what a hugely huge bummer it is.

Intonation Music Festival 2006

Thanks to the extreme last-minute generosity of two kind and well-connected friends, I was able to attend the Intonation Music Festival at Union Park this weekend.

The weather was perfect, and, though I'm still struggling to connect the dots of what I actually did and heard for most of those two days thanks to the 48-hour haze of beer and motherfucking Sparks I was operating under, I'm fairly certain I enjoyed the hell out of the whole circus.

I'm sure I'll be in turbo must. hear. every. note. mode when the Pitchfork Music Festival rolls around next month, but it was easy for me to be chilled out about not seeing all the acts this weekend since I didn't pay for the passes and had much less invested, personally and emotionally, in the artists collectively appearing on the bill. I'm sad I didn't arrive in time to catch Jose Gonzalez (who by most bloggers' accounts was fantastic), but I kept an ear open for High on Fire, Roky Erickson, and Boredoms from afar, I wiggled into the crowd toward the back to check out the end of Ghostface's set (he was so instantly charismatic that it didn't take long for me to have my fist raised in the air, cheering my lungs out as part of the collective, chanted homage to "Oh! Dee! Bee!"), and I made sure to grab a good patch of grass early in the day for the Stills (I was the one clapping in annoying syncopation to "Oh, Shoplifter").

I swung around to the front stage right area for Lady Sovereign (who I'd spied earlier in the afternoon tooling around in a groundskeeper's golf cart that she'd obviously commandeered with her utter fierceness--awesome), mostly to put myself in a good position for the Streets headlining set.

Kittens, aside from perhaps Spoon, who I'll be seeing next month at the 'Fork fest anyway, I can't think of another group I would currently be as excited to catch live as Mike Skinner and his band of merry geezers. I was able to jockey myself into an exceptional position in front of the stage-right stack of speakers, thanks to the courtesy of the other (taller) members of the audience who, upon seeing me lodged up in their armpits, would invariably observe, "oh, you're really short. Why don't you stand in front of us?" Mad, mad love for good festival manners! I mean, sure, standing in front of the speakers made my esophagus vibrate at near escape velocity in my chest cavity and the fact that I forgot to pack earplugs for the day resulted in ringing ears for a good 18 subsequent hours, but it was a small price to pay to jump around like a maniac and bask in the mass of irresistible contradictions that is Mike Skinner's flow.

I honestly don't even remember much of what they played. I know they definitely took care of the big ones like "Never Went to Church," "Dry Your Eyes," "When You Wasn't Famous," and "Could Well Be In," but beyond a few other educated guesses ("Pranging Out"? "Never Con an Honest John"?), I couldn't tell you in what order or what they supplemented the set with from the album I know least well, Original Pirate Material. Regardless. There was audience participation (a jumping contest with a front row denizen affectionately dubbed The Green Man, a Decemberists-style request for everyone to crouch down and then jump back up on cue) and a general "we're all in this together so let's fucking party" vibe. I mean, it was no Radiohead at Bonnaroo or anything, but still an amazing, rewarding live concert experience.

Sunday started out a bit more subdued, thanks to the early afternoon drizzle and my general unfamiliarity with the nuances of a beer-only hangover (choosy drunks choose bourbon!), but I eased back into things with Annie and Lupe Fiasco (this guy's gonna be huge). I made sure to stop by for Jon Brion's set; though I sometimes have my beefs with his film scores, he's so clearly a musician's musician that I couldn't help but love listening to him rock out on his guitar, even if he ran on a little long. I, lamentably, never got a chance to see a Guided by Voices show before they officially disbanded, so I knew I couldn't miss Uncle Bob's set.

The only song I recognized was "Game of Pricks" (from the sound of the stage banter, I think most of the rest of the stuff they played was from From a Compound Eye) but, at a certain point, it didn't seem to matter; a Pollard tune sounds like a Pollard tune, sure, but there's also that wonderful Pollard voice. I don't think I've ever fully appreciated what a singular instrument it is, but when he ripped into his first song, I was just bowled over by how great he sounded. Love the Bob, and I did get to see one of his legendary high kicks. I missed most of the Dead Prez set, between emptying the bladder and bidding farewell to my exhausted and goosebump'd companions and getting in position for Bloc Party.

I've come a long way in my appreciation of the band since my days of casual meh dismissal. The album is still a bit too long for my attention span these days, and the lyrics can border on off-puttingly sincere ("the price! Of gaa-hass! Keeps on rize-ih-hing!"), but they really do have a knack for taking you on a journey within the world of each song with meaty textures and teasingly taut momentum. Not to mention the fact that their fluid melodies don't get nearly as much credit as they're due. (Aside from Pallett's obvious formal prowess, there's a reason that Final Fantasy cover of "This Modern Love" affected me as deeply as it did.) Their set felt like the perfect closer to the day, and the weekend, between the rapturous excitement of the audience and the band's own enthusiastic willingness to live up to the responsibility of playing their self-proclaimed first-ever festival-headlining gig.

So, yes yes. It was quite a weekend, and I give a top of the lungs shout-out to CL-II for the ticket and NI for suggesting I might want to go and Kateri (and David Geb. and Karen) for being groovy to hang with. ClusterFest '06 has only just begun! (Viddy the rest of my pics here and a hearty hail-fellow-well-met to anyone who might have ended up here from NowPublic.)

My World-Traveling Friends

Grinnellians, I hope you've all been telling each other "see you in India!" at least once a day for the past week. (What's that? Is that the sound of one Giddy laughing...?) As Britney would say, have an awesome time, y'all!

Though she's not down in the dirt quite yet, be sure to keep abreast of S-Money's adventures in excavation this summer at her specially created Paradise LiveJournal.

And, just for fun, the run-on sentence of the week, from Green Pea-ness: "[Lucky Soul's 'Lips Are Unhappy' is] like three solid minutes of tambourine and piano and indie blisscore and GOOD LORD IT'S LIKE HAVING YOUR URETHRA LICKED BY KITTENS JUST FUCKING DOWNLOAD IT ALREADY."

Lazy Friday All Link Edition

Deadwood auteur David Milch (from an old interview on Salon): "Well, I think we all are vessels of God, you know. As Saint Paul says, if the hand doesn't know, that doesn't mean it's not part of the body, that just means it doesn't know. And that's why, when I'm able to be of service to the characters, I experience God's presence more acutely than I do when I'm not working. So I try to work as much as I can."

John Roderick: "My friends and tour mates influence me a lot, so I'm writing songs in part to impress other musicians. I hope that Matthew from Nada Surf, or Charles from The Wrens, or Colin from The Decemberists, or the boys in Centro-Matic or Death Cab hear my songs and dig them, and when they congratulate me I feel gratified. Chris Walla has apparently been playing and singing the song 'Honest' during his soundchecks, which is the best kind of compliment." (via) I am sooo ready for Putting the Days to Bed to come out.

A buncha little French kids sing Laura Veirs songs. Most perfect musical match evah! (via)

From BBC News: "'Fossil' rock rat pictured alive: Images have been obtained of a live Laotian rock rat, the animal science now believes to be the sole survivor of an ancient group of rodents." I knew a fossil rock rat once; his hair was receding in front but greasy and long in the back, and he was really, really into Deep Purple.

OMG, seriously? Five amazing high-hat parts? Five thumbs up! Loves it! Esp. the Steely Dan (and Ted Leo/Rx, too).

Ah yes, I'm a sucker for the unexpected, slightly gimmicky cover song. (Awesome fodder for mix CDs.) That Boy Least Likely To cover of "Faith" sounds like a loose tooth—wiggly and gummy and delicate yet reckless. I hate it. I love it. I hate it. I love it. (She's my sister. My daughter. My daughter, my sister.) It also makes me long for Craig Robinson to pull Pete & Bob out of retirement to shimmy and flap to it.

Music from '06 and Movies from '95

"It's quite possible that if you're not interested in creating cathartic moments for the audience, both you and your audience are fucked, to which I say, 'Oh well.' No one appreciates a professional anymore. Everyone's a mystic."
Pitchfork interviews Dan Bejar.

"He [Mike Skinner] has written about his dad's death on the new album. Skinner spent months trying to get right what he wanted to say about it. 'Months. On one three-minute song. It was very, very, very constipated, very difficult to write because of what I'm talking about.' The song that eventually emerged, Never Went To Church, has been the most highly praised of the album, particularly the last line, which Skinner addresses to his father, 'You left me behind to remind me of you.' He wanted to make it good, he says, because 'I wasn't going to say it again. And I already feel a bit like... it's a bit cheesy.'"
Mike Skinner talks shop with the Guardian (via) and reinforces the point I was trying to make last week. I fuckin' love this geezer.

Thanks to all of you who've been sending me links about Rufus's Judy Garland homage at Carnegie Hall tonight. (Sayeth Trent at PItNB: "Just when you thought that Rufus couldn't get any gayer he goes and attempts to out-gay himself.") It's going to be exquisite. Wish I could be there. I'm really hoping they make a DVD or CD available at some point.

JWard (not Jay Ward) and I caught Elvis Costello on his River in Reverse tour at Ravinia on Sunday night. I was thrilled to get to see him live. (Um, OK, mostly hear him live; we were on the lawn and couldn't see a damn thing except a parade of Crocs, little kids dancing like maniacs, high-school aged ushers swishing their white skirts to the beat, and drunk folks grabbing each other's asses.) The band was fucking amazing. They played straight through for about three hours, including two extremely generous encores. Elvis even intimated that they'd run out of prepared material and simply couldn't play any more. His voice is currently enjoying the best of both worlds; he's still got most of his full range of notes, but they're only getting richer and more resonant with middle age. In addition to all Allen Toussaint's arrangements and material, the set included both "Alison" and "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding," so I'd say we got way more than our money's worth.

At Nikola's incredulous behest, I sat down and watched Clueless for the first time ever with him last weekend. Ah, high-waisted jeans and ska music. Mid-90s culture, we hardly knew ye. It holds up as respectably as it can, considering what a time capsule it is, and, I gotta say, only reconfirms how much I like Brittany Murphy in spite of myself. Call it presence, call it charisma, call it what you will, but she blindingly outshines everyone she's on screen with at any given moment. Though, yeah, you ultimately want to get to a point where you can control that shit and use it to your advantage without making your fellow actors look bad, there's something undeniably appealing about her and her ability to just plow through her scenes balls-out.

Happy birthday to Nora Rocket today!

Put Out the Fire, Boys, Don't Stop, Don't Stop

Through the miracle of the internet, I'm able to bring you my Tapes 'n Tapes/Cold War Kids concert review an astonishing three days after the show!

OK. So, I've been really high on Tapes 'n Tapes for a while now. I'd guess that, on average, I've listened to The Loon at least once a week for the past two and a half months (not that you'd ever know it from looking at my Last.fm/Audioscrobbler page, since I've still not been able to figure out how to get it to tally the playcounts from my Nano even with the supposedly handy free plug-ins--grr). It's a totally great album, I've been recommending it to friends left and right all spring, and I was really psyched to see them play the show at the Abbey on Friday night, especially after all the post-SXSW praise heaped on their performances by Stereogum and tons of other music blogs. Well, I hate to be a hater, but I was a little disappointed by their live set. It was totally competent, sure, but nowhere near transcendent. They sounded very loose, and not loose in the good way, when they first rolled out with "Just Drums." The keyboard was up way too hot in the mix, and the should-have-been-thrilling rhythmic interplay between the drums and guitar just couldn't seem to settle down into the pocket. They played through the entire album basically in running order with only a little variation and one new song. They sounded a little better, a little more confident with each passing song, but I was left resoundingly underwhelmed. The disproportionate amount of cheering, hooting, and applause from the audience certainly didn't help, either. It seemed like the packed house was celebrating their hipster cred via their own recognition of the tunes after the fewest number of introductory notes possible way more than they were celebrating the quality of the performances. I have a big problem with this kind of audience slut factor--giving it up too quickly and too easily--in general, though, so maybe I was just being overly sensitive. But, I don't think any of this changes the fact that they're still a great young band with great promise. On stage, they do have a very earnest, very goofy Minnesotan charm. Lead singer and guitarist Josh Grier seemed genuinely happy to be there, and, as far as diminutive yet powerful drummers go, though my heart will always belong to the Walkmen's Matt Barrick, TnT's Jeremy Hanson more than did his part to keep the set aloft. (Speaking of the Walkmen, why have there been so many mediocre reviews of A Hundred Miles Off? I think it's quite good.)

Openers for the openers, local group Moxie Motive, were way better than I expected them to be, and, if lead singer Matt Duhaime can shake the unfortunate Adam Duritz influence on his vocals, especially on the ballads, they'll be a band to watch. Plus, you just gotta love any indie rock group with the balls to pull out the upright bass and rock some 6/8 time signatures.

The night, however, absolutely belonged to the Cold War Kids. These guys are not fucking around. They put on a stellar set full of noise, jumping, sweating, percussing, and, perhaps most exciting of all, space. They possessed the confidence and the true musicianship to be completely unafraid to leave things a little ramshackle, a little unformed, a little unadorned. They intuitively knew that the notes they weren't playing and the empty corners they weren't filling were every bit as vital as the bluesy riffs and piano vamps hanging thick in the hot, smoky air. Nathan Willett, with his yelping, keening vocal delivery and old bluesman's hunch over the microphone, is a perfectly charismatic, even hypnotic, frontman, the kind who could conceivably convince impressionable young shepherdesses to abandon their flocks and slip off over the hillside to drink blackberry wine and howl at the moon all night. Bassist Matt Maust and guitarist Jonnie Russell wrestle their instruments like men possessed, pacing like caged animals, high-kicking at demons. Drummer Matt Aveiro lays it down nice and smooth, with nothing but impeccable fucking taste. Knowing, as many of you do, my love for Spoon's minimalist strut, which only produces more enticing friction the more elements it takes away, it's really no wonder that I feel myself falling for these Cold War Kids. Look for 'em on my 2006 year-end list.

I'm sure you've already read on Pitchfork that the Decemberists' major label debut and fourth full-length, The Crane Wife, is coming out October 3. Don't let us down, Colin. We're all counting on you to bring it.

New York Doll is an incredibly touching little film. Actually, I should say, Arthur "Killer" Kane's story is incredibly touching, and dumb-fucking-lucky documentarian Greg Whiteley just happened to be around to catch an extremely poignant part of it. There's a slight bit of condescension in his approach, but enough of Kane's heart shines through to redeem the whole project. Recommended.

Teleporting fish in Atlanta. Which eeriness brings me to

6.6.06!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Whether you're heading to Hell, spending the day with Slayer, or taking in the "supremely unnecessary" remake of The Omen, I wish all of you all the eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeevil you can handle!

You Left Me Behind to Remind Me of You

Michelle Collins has been on fizz-ire this week. LK and I accidentally caught a portion of Deal or No Deal the other night, and, as we'd never seen it before, we were alternately stunned and baffled by its insipidity. The You Can't Make It Up episode summary posted the next day, complete with Celine Dion screen-captures, was like so much manna from the comedy heavens, reconfirming my perception of the show as being a vile waste of time and money. But, for all that post's hilarity, her riff on Cute Overload's alpaca footballing star was just crazy-brilliant. Didn't know it was possible to improve on something that was already wiping-away-tears funny. The Guillemots cover the Streets' "Never Went to Church." I've been digging on the Guillemots for a little while, and I'm big-time into The Streets right now, so what could go wrong, right? But, arrrrrrg, I just can't go 100 percent of the way with this cover. As far as the music itself goes, the Guillemots' take is more interesting than it could have been, but I have a real problem with the fade-out repetition of that line at the end. Mike Skinner's slightly treacly version is definitely not one of the sonic stand-outs on his latest album, but it's nevertheless become one of my favorites simply because of that line. The reason it works so well is that it's kind of tossed off in the middle of the song. It totally caught me off guard the first time I heard it, and my heart would have 'sploded right out of my chest from the truth and brilliance of it, that is, if my heart hadn't stopped beating entirely for a few moments. But, Skinner doesn't give you any time to dwell on it. The song just matter of factly chugs along back into the sub-Kanye's "Roses" chorus (which Pitchfork brilliantly referred to at the end of last year as his "please-don't-die-grandma" song), and then on through to the end. And, well, isn't that what it's like to have an epiphany about some irreducible aspect of the human condition? Those realizations come out of nowhere, hit you hard, then drift on by, their force a mere echo, leaving it incumbent upon you to hold the memory of them and adjust your perspective accordingly or just let them disappear into the rushing, receding current of your life. I mean, this is really emotionally sophisticated stuff. But Fyfe Dangerfield totally dilutes it both through repetition and by saving it until the end of the song, like it's some kind of summary or punchline or something. No one's ever had an epiphany gift-wrapped for them at an opportune moment and then gently repeated until they catch it and really have time to process it. Here, it just plays like the most banal pop music or processed romantic comedy cheese. Unforch.

Please Stop with the Ellipses in RomCom Titles

Aieeee! Elizabethtown has to be one of the worst films I've seen since Rumor Has It.... Truly execrable. Paul Schneider's kind of nice in his little supporting role, but, otherwise, it's a total mess. I hate Kirsten Dunst, Orlando Bloom looks sooo much better as a blond, Judy Greer's comic talents are utterly squandered, and Susan Sarandon should be ashamed of herself for the boner joke she consented to deliver on screen (you read that right). The music is great, as always, but if that's the best thing you can say about Crowe's most recent films, he needs to take the hint and just start directing music videos until he can get his groove back. I said to LK at one point, "I can't believe this thing was written by the same person who wrote Say Anything...." It's really embarrassing, but more than that, it's really a shame. Steer clear, unless you're prepared to snark it up for two hours with some pals and some drinks. Because, for reals, you're gonna need those drinks to be numb enough to handle the last little bit of montage and voice over. "A single green vine shoot is able to grow through cement." Gag!

An unexpected shout-out to Northwest Indiana's very own Town Theatre on Salon today! I was absolutely tickled to see it given its due as the Grand Pompadour of the "strangest and unlikeliest art-house theater[s] anywhere in North America." Andrew O'Hehir mentions the free cake and coffee available in the lobby during intermission, which is certainly one of its most unique and charming attributes, but I've always been partial to the rusty old suits of armor propped up near the proscenium. This theater has been a huge part of my moviegoing life, from the second semester of my senior year in high school when I was only attending classes half-day and could stay out late for showings of stuff like Swingers to the extremely uncomfortable evening I spent watching Boys Don't Cry there with my father to bored summers home during college when CTLA and I would do the aural equivalent of squinting through British gangster movies like Sexy Beast whose slangy, heavily accented dialogue was done no favors by the theater's echoey acoustics to the year of aimless desperation I spent living at home between graduating from IU and moving to Chicago when I would go see subtitled piffle like Le Placard just to surround myself with any little bit of worldly glamour I could find to keep me from giving up the hope that I'd eventually do anything of substance with my life. Cheers to Salon for saluting this suburban oasis of respectable film culture and this landmark from my own wayward youth!

Chicagoans, come stalk my sexy ass at the Tapes n' Tapes/Cold War Kids show at the Abbey tomorrow night, where nine out of ten attendees will probably be live blogging the event. Unless, y'know, the music bloggers and other denizens of elbo.ws are, like, so totally over those buzz bands already. LOL, whatevs, OKBYE.