When I type in "angels" in my iTunes, these three songs come up:
*Robbie Williams’ "Angles"
*Ike Reilly "Angles and Whores"
*Ted Leo and the Pharmacists "Angel’s Share"
All are fucking great songs, yeah. Which one do I chose to listen to first? Robbie. That scamp.
[Oooh, but Ike has that bit, "Money undress me and money molest me; as the suburbs suck the punk off of my lap" makes me all goosepimply all over, like.]
Andy Nicholson (bass) from the Arctic Monkeys said it best, when answering a question about "how it is now, playing shows [now that you’re this phenomenon in England–at the time they blew up]," in that Sheffield burr, he replied, "Well, once when we did Mardy Bum, some bird was on this bloke’s shoulders, singing along. It was a very Robbie Williams’ moment," and then his normally stoic face broke into a grin.
I think the moon is full or some shit tonight, because it’s fooking huge. I spied it when I was walking back from the Y tonight. I had a good sweat and then a good soak. I hoped it would be storming tonight, so I could traipse through it all. Although I was wishing for rain, the weather is far too amazing to complain about. Whew. It’s mood-alteringly wonderful. I dig, I dig.
I stopped, and kinda stared at the moon for a whille. It made me wanna just keep walking, enjoy the night. Then a cop cruiser drover by. And then I felt that tinge of War Zone Minneapolis that I felt Friday night, walking to the Dirtbombs’ show on Saturday night. And I kept on walking.
Oh, my. The Dirtbombs. At the Entry. Was sublime. Perfect rock show: We got right up on the left side, up against the stage and near that random case/box/platform thing that always resides there, at the 7th Street Entry. We staked our claim, and it was good. And then, the Black Lips come out (they opened for the band in Chi, too) and these drunken buffoons (maybe not drunk, actually. but, very buffoon-y) are shoving and falling all over us. And then they’re throwing bottles on the stage. And then it’s take a swig of MGD and spit it all over the stage. Oh, how very, very Sid of you. Thanks, I think I got some of your swill on my fucking face.
Ha. See? A perfect rock show, so far. (Just to prove to you the perfection: I got to meet most of the band and I walked out with a righteously damaged drum stick).
When The Dirtbombs came out, I knew right away it was gonna be better, gonna be different. First of all, the lovely, tough, precious, bass player, Ko Shih (who has the word "F U Z Z" on her strap, perfect cuz she slaps out those super-rock, fuzzy bass lines) situated herself right in me–like, her bass coulda swung a little more and fit me the face. In a rhyming way, just like that. And at the Entry, that’s really where you should be. Because you can.
But, it’s Mick Collins (wottta great, mick name for a black rocker, huh?)who is the muthafucking heart of this rock band. (Jesus, I’m seeing a lot of bands from Detroit, lately...hmmm). He transforms himself into Mr. Soul, with those black sunglasses (where is he looking? Is he looking at me!? I think he’s looking at me! Ha!) And then he does this totally crowd-manipulating little shake of his hips and ass. He was also extremely pleased (he said so) at all of our shaking it up at the front, too. He likes it when you dance and get sweaty like he does (he soaks right through that same "SINGLE COILS" tee, changing into a different color). You get the vibe that they are having fun from those joyous smiles they exchange. That is what rock shows should always be about.
When Mick read my mind and launched into the primal-sexy-spasm of "Can’t Stop Thinking About It" and I freaked like I was 15. Or, more accurately: I felt like I did when Beck played a song I yelled out the first time I saw him at First Ave. (It was "I Get Lonesome," off of "One Foot in the Grave," and it was glorious.)
On Sunday night I was one of the judges for this battle of the bands thing for JACK FM–a totally surreal, fun, worthwhile experience. And one of the things we scored (besides free booze and food) was Kid Rock tix for this Thursday. I can’t hardy wait to see that trashy, scraggly man who wishes it was 1976 and his last name was VanZant.. Oh, and the strippers. One can only assume that there will be lots of t & a bouncing around. Can’t wait to see what the crowd is like...I will report back to you on this. But of course.
Maybe it’s the weather...but, I’ve been listening to a lot of :
AND....still can’t stop with the Arctic....just so you know. I still have the habit.