December 12, 2011
From: Darius Pogue
To: ”Office List”
Sent: Monday, December 12, 2011 8:39 AM
Subject: Who here at the Yorktown Pennysaver is up for a little Gwar?
Hey gang,
Sigh in relief. This isn’t another email about security software updates. Trust your humble one-man IT department when I assure you that the Yorktown Pennysaver is now a veritable Fortress of Solitude, and that this email blast is of a decidedly more personal nature. It’s sure to be the talk of the office until the steam whistle blows.
“Out with it!” you say? Fair enough. Guess who’s going to see Gwar this Saturday at Hogan’s Hideaway? That’s right. The very same fella who tells you, “don’t panic!” when you’ve got a kernel panic, who converts your JPEGs to PDFs and is a BMF besides. Me! And I’ve got an extra ticket.
So who wants in?
Now I realize some of you will probably have questions before committing. It’s natural. Seeing Gwar ain’t exactly like popping by the Cineplex for some Pixar. It’s an event, one that will quite possibly define your life. So I’ll try to walk any Gwar-dolescents (as I like to call the newbies) through the basics.
First question is obvious: What time? Well, doors are at 8 PM, but you should probably stop by my place around 11 AM so we can prep.
I can hear our favorite Mary Kay spokesperson/administrative assistant Deidre right now. “Prep? Like makeup and stuff?” Little different than that, D. But it’s all par for the Gwar course. We’ll be pouring latex molds for our festering neck boils. Doing a little mace polishing. The requisite codpiece fitting.
I know. I know. The boys in sales love a good codpiece joke, but I assure you, the codpieces are an absolute necessity. You gotta be prepared should you find yourself on the business end of a flail some goblined-up tweaker is swinging willy-nilly. Learned that the hard way during the Scumdogs of the Universe Tour.
Haley, I know you’re hip to all the new bands (I’m gonna get that Atari Fire album you keep raving about), but do you have “Scumdogs of the Universe” on vinyl? I’m betting you don’t. Let me tell you, “Sexecutioner” sounds so much warmer, and with all the lovely crackles and pops laying some ambiance down on “Slaughterama,” you can practically feel the Nazi decapitation.
But as great as those songs sound from the turntable, they sound infinitely better live, when your ears are soaked with blood. Judging from Mike’s fainting spell at last year’s blood drive, I’m guessing I lost him right there. But hold on, Mike. Weren’t you the one who told me The Blue Man Group was “the best show in Vegas?” Didn’t you forward that Gallagher video around? Gwar’s a lot like Gallagher, but instead of washing watermelon juice out of your hair the next morning, it’ll be blood…possibly pus.
Notice I said possibly pus. I stress the possibly. Gwar makes no guarantees in the pus department. They are very clear about this. My apologies if the inclusion of pus, or lack there-of, is a deal-breaker for some. Not much I can do about that.
Now I don’t doubt that Carmen, the consummate copy editor in our bunch, has printed this email out and has the old red pen poised. She’s probably thinking practicalities. I can just picture her note in the margin:
“With all the blood (and possibly pus) flying around, can we expect an adequate coat check?”
It’s a valid concern. And I’m gonna say, yes. Yes there is a coat check at Hogan’s Hideaway. But I must also provide the following caveat. Adherence to standard bathroom practices is rare when you’re talking Gwar gigs. Hard to tell a stack of coats from a compost pile by second encore.
Yep, there’s no way around it, Carmen. You’re gonna get a few stains on your clothes and codpiece. Let’s still focus on the practical, though. I have two words for you (or one hyphenated word, to be exact, Lil Miss Stunky White). Oxy-Clean. The stuff just works.
Finally, I’m reminded of one of Mitch’s daily quotes he wrote on the whiteboard. It was from Flaubert, who’s a Frenchie from back in the day. He said, “Caught up in life, you see it badly. You suffer from it or enjoy it too much. The artist, in my opinion, is a monstrosity, something outside of nature.”
Flaubert might as well have been named Nostradamus. Cause the man saw the future. He basically predicted Gwar. The monster part, in any case. He certainly wasn’t talking about those poseurs from Green Jelly.
So there it is, folks. An irresistible invitation. Now all that’s left is for you to throw your hats (or, shall I say, helmets!) into the ring. Who here at the Yorktown Pennysaver is up for a little Gwar?
Regards,
Darius Pogue
IT Administrator
Yorktown Pennysaver
dariusp@yorkpenny.com
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Music, Parody, Whaaaa? | Bookmark or Share
May 4, 2011
Hoboken, the humble and fantastically corrupt city in which I live is trumpeted as the birthplace of Frank Sinatra and baseball. The first birth is indisputable, the second is contentiously debated. There’s little doubt that The Cake Boss is filmed here, as evidenced by the hordes of salivating families who stand in line outside of Carlos Bakery for hours on end, just to get their pictures taken with a cannoli. For the most cynical of hipsters, Hoboken represents the type of gentrification they despise: in other words, the type of gentrification that doesn’t incorporate whimsical facial hair, fixed-gear bikes and artisan pickles. So it really gets their goats when they have to schlepp across the Hudson and mingle with us rubes, because Hoboken also happens to be home to Maxwell’s, one of the most intimate and celebrated music venues in the New York City metropolitan era.
The story of Maxwell’s, named after the old Maxwell House coffee factory that once dotted our shores, is well known to fans of the rock and roll music. In the 80s, an impressive slate of indie bands and up-and-comers graced its tiny stage–Nirvana, REM, The Replacements, Sonic Youth, Husker Du, etc. Local pioneers the Feelies and Yo La Tengo made their names here. Bruce Springsteen filmed his Glory Days video at the bar. Rock star investors saved it when it ran into troubles in 90s. And so on.
These days, the hot tickets are the kids on the cusp of breaking big. For instance, Titus Andronicus, everyone’s favorite anthemic Civil War appropriating rockers, played a few nights ago. There’s something to be said for seeing a band with everything to prove playing a tiny room that holds a couple hundred folks at best. I tend to miss these shows because my ear isn’t to the wall anymore. However, I do pop into Maxwell’s for some of the nostalgia acts that swing through regularly. Last week I caught a Lemonheads show, as I’m wont to do.
Most people know the Lemonheads from their early 90s cover of Mrs. Robinson (which they’ve basically disowned) and their alt-rock hit Into Your Arms. The bouncy, neo-hippieish videos for both begot unfair comparisons to bands like the Gin Blossoms and lead singer Evan Dando’s good looks made most think the band was more marketing than substance, an accusation echoed by the kids from Boston who preferred the Lemonheads scuzzy (and, frankly, undistinguished) punk adolescence and hated the addition of Blake Baby Juliana Hatfield. It’s a shame really, because Dando, essentially the only real member of the Lemonheads since the early 90s, is a warm-voiced singer and a born songwriter who crafts hooks and melodies better than 99.99% of his contemporaries.
And he’s also a bit of a prick. I’ve seen him walk out on shows halfway through a set. His stage presence fluctuates between annoyed, detached and bemused. Drugs are partly to blame. He’s a well documented enthusiast. But it’s also part of the mythology he’s built around himself. Underrated and largely forgotten, he exudes a couldn’t-care-less attitude that he’s honed for a decade and a half. The live shows sometimes suffer because of this–the one last week was merely average. But it also serves to add an unexpected punch to the moments when he lets emotion slip through (e.g. on a bittersweet masterpiece like My Drug Buddy).
I implore all you folks under 25 to pick up a copy of 1992′s It’s a Shame About Ray. Sure, it borrows from tons of power pop and jangle pop and folk pop that preceded it, but it’s a concise and near perfect distillation of all that pop goodness, something even the Pitchfork curmudgeons conceded after 15 years. It holds up. And older folks, who remember the Lemonheads heyday but abandoned them with their Doc Martens, should give a listen to their 2006 self titled album. It’s an overlooked rocker that out-classes the recent output by most of Dando’s 40-something peers (save, perhaps, Dinosaur Jr.) who are struggling to invigorate their career while staying true to their strengths and sound. Yes, others people like me have made this argument, but not enough have.
It all brings me back to Hoboken. I’d love to apply the Lemonheads metaphor to Hoboken and its last 30 years: scuzzy beginnings, a 1990s onslaught of prettification, a vocal backlash, a cult following. But that’s reaching a bit. A lot, actually. The main reason I wrote this post was to introduce you all to somewhere I live and something I like, because as much as I fill this blog and my books with silliness and strangeness, I want you to come away with a bit of knowledge about what I’m putting into my brain. Maybe it will add some insight into what’s coming out of it. Or, at least, you might find some links to enjoy.
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Music | Bookmark or Share
March 3, 2011
When I was a tot, my pals and I would gather in my garage, set up some pots and pans as if they were a drum-kit and wield some tennis rackets like stratocasters. We’d pop Def Leppard’s freshly minted Pyromania into the Fisher Price tape deck and crank that puppy up to its fattest arrows. We’d charge the neighborhood gang a nickel a head to watch us lip-synch and strum the nylon to Billy’s Got a Gun. Rock and roll, friends. Rock and roll.
Flash-forward about five or six years. I’d pop some gangsta rap into the yellow Sony walkman and go jogging in the state park bordering my house, raging against the machine of upper middle class suburbia, something to which I’m sure Eazy-E could relate. A couple years later, it was Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin, Bob Dylan and the Beatles, perhaps Nirvana and R.E.M. Played in the dark, of course, so I could get all introspective. And my musical tastes evolved from there, matured in the way these things mature. The teenage girls I knew were into the Lilith Fair fare – the mid-90s-heyday of Amos, DiFranco, McLachlan, etc. I couldn’t blame them, but I shied away from the stuff for fear it might paint me as twee. And the thing that irked me the most was that these girls always referred to the musicians as if they were good friends, and used only they’re first names.
“You going to the Sarah concert tonight?”
“No, but I’m getting Tori’s new CD later today. I heard Ani really likes it.”
I mean, really. You can pull that stuff with Chaka Khan, because there aren’t a lot of Chakas out there in the world. But Sarah? And no, I never refer to Bruce Springsteen as merely Bruce. That honor is reserved for Fraggle-eating Mr. Vilanch. But let’s get back on track. My main point was that in my youth, the fellas listened to music by other fellas and the ladies stuck with the ladies, or for the most part. No surprise there.
Let’s now consider last night. I was watching a PBS documentary on singer-songwriters and the late 60s/early 70s Los Angeles Troubadour scene. This was partly because that’s how I roll and partly because I don’t get cable. No excuses needed though, because it was enjoyable, especially when they were discussing how James Taylor was ready to toss some knuckles up in Lester Bangs’s face. But the biggest thing I got from the film was the realization that I like Carole King. Actually, I really dig me some Carole King. No shame in that. She’s considered one of the greatest songwriters of all time. But just a decade or two ago, in my hair-band/gangsta-rap/rock canon phases, such a proclamation would have caused me great embarrassment. It certainly wouldn’t have gone over well in the lacrosse team locker room when my teammates were soliciting suggestions for our warm-up tape.
“How about some RATT? Let’s get some RATT up on this thing.”
“AC…DC”
“Hey, Starmer, you haven’t said anything. What psychs you up, dude?”
“Hmmm…pretty much anything off Tapestry…”
Yes, my musical tastes have changed a lot since my teenage years. They’re more accommodating. And the ladies, well the ladies are certainly welcome. Every night is ladies’ night on my Itunes playlists. And for the young lads out there who, like me in my youth, aren’t so sure about adding more XX chromosomes to their music collections, I offer you this little mix of a dozen random songs from my collection where female singers take the lead (n.b. some are from bands with male singers as well, cause you got to give the guys an escape route). True, none of it reaches RATT-like levels, but maybe you’ll enjoy one or two, and then join your mom and your aunts for a night out at Judy Collins concert. I, for one, will not tease you about it.
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Childhood, Music | Bookmark or Share
