the women and the men

Please look at these!

"Let's Impeach The President" and "We Shall Overcome"

"Let's Impeach the President,"..you can't get more direct than that. It's the name of the already publicized song (the one where he has a choir of 100 people behind him) off of Neil Young's new anti-war record. I am so fucking excited for it to come out. He's rushing it--my dad can't get over how much it feels like when "Ohio" was rushed as a single.

This is a random gem. It's an impromptu interview outside of Capitol records with Neil. I have *never* heard him more lucid, focused and articulate before. I mean, he's a super bright man, but I think he's usually pretty stoned in interviews (then again, that really could be his medication for his epilepsy--I know this from Erica...). Here, he's really impassioned, but calm. He discusses (the interviewer--a stereo typical HotChickTalkingHead surprises you and is a very solid interviewer) how strongly he feels about Bush and the "war we're living with," is how he puts it, I think. It feels really inspiring. Check out the great little dig (with a smile!) from Showbiz what-ever-the-fuck Dude says at the end! It's golden.

My other hero comes out (today!) with his anti-war sentiment. Bruce Springsteen made his first-ever album of covers, "We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions." And dig this great lil' line I caught while pursuing E.W.:

"On his latest album, Bruce Springsteen taps back into what he does best: making music that's as grand and mythopoetic as the country itself."

Good 'un, E-Dub!

The Ramones invented it

Saw Kid Rock last Thursday night at the Xcel (for free, thank gawd). Haven't been to a big rock show in a long-ass-time. It is such a different animal than the small club show. That goes without saying...um, very obvious. It's just that there is so much more disconnect between the concert-goer, in their arena seat and the performers who seem miles away. The same plastic seat that people get wasted and root for the Wild or whatever, and the performer who, for most attendees, is just a blip on the stage. Because *most* people are far away, *most* people experience the show by watching the JumboTron. So, they're just watching TV, I guess, huh?

At Kid Rock, it was beer, TV and strippers, actually. (After the show it was "whiskey and cocaine," apparently. That's what Kid "scratched" out as his answer on the turntables, anyway. Hey--mebee he just chills with a good book and a snifter. Heh. Sniff. Sniff.) Oh, and speaking of scratching out answers...regarding his attendance at Elton John's wedding the question was asked, "how do you explain that?" (!?!) he "replied," "I li-li-li-like-lik-lik-like PUSSY." A collective sigh rushed through the crowd as we all heaved in unison: "whew. he's not gay, now! thank the lord he still likes the pussy."

It's a bit painful to actually write much about the show. Overall, it was entertaining, totally worth going...the price was right...it was also really quite disturbing at times. The level of masturbatory references (actually seemed like propaganda/indoctrination) to himself ("what's my NAME!!?!?!" followed by the flashing of "KID ROCK" on the ol' Tron behind him) or to the city he's from...y'know, the same as Motown, somehow... There were so many (most of, actually) songs I had never heard before. They were all quite awful, too. Staggeringly so, sometimes. The songs I did know were largely covers. "Drift Away," had the JumboTron flash images of "fallen" heroes, musical ones. This was one of the most fascinating aspects of the show. Pictures of John Lennon, Bob Marley, Marvin Gaye, Tupac, Biggie, Johnny Cash loomed over the stage. In a way, it was sick--really exploitative. In another way, it was just silly set-padding. But, the feeling I left with, was that he just came off as this total Fan. He digs music, man. Which, you know Robert Plant does too (he still goes Camden-record hunting), Jeff Buckley was a musicfreak, too (claimed to be a human jukebox, loved crazy eclectic music) and there are plenty more...but, it's always been fascinating to me which musicians, particularly songwriters who are obsessive about listening to others' work. Y'know as opposed to those crazy-genius types who can only handle the music they hear in their heads--Brian Wilson and Bjork are the ones that first come to mind.

It feels like festival season......

Listening to Blink 18-fucking-2 for some reason. Actually, I know the reason. I was friends with this awesome chick in middle school–like, 7th, 8th grade, mainly and then later in high school. She was really fucking funny and smart and loved great music. The three main bands we were into together were: The Beastie Boys, Blink 182 and Goldfinger. I completely lost touch with her after high school, but ran into her a few years ago. She had just gotten *married* and was living within blocks from me, but it felt like we had moved to different planets. Recently, I found her again through MySpace (insert joke or complaint here. Actually, I will: saw a t-shirt for the first time today downtown, "MySpace ruined my life." This one's for you, E), and she "posted a comment" about finding an old mix tape I had made her, and mentioned Goldfinger.

Well, coincidentally, pop punk and punk happen to be some of my very favorite spring musical choices (perfect for when you think the rain just might start, feels right for festivals). So, I pulled out that Goldfinger record and the best Blink record--"Dude Ranch" and plugged 'em into my iPod this morning.

I've listened to a handful of songs from both records *all* day long.

I remember thinking there were some duds, some for-sure-skippers on "Dude Ranch," but now, somehow, at the age of 24, I realize that I dig every fucking song on there. I hate (not really) to repeat this yet again, yet I must: I am more like a 14-year-old boy now than I was when I was actually 14. What. The. Fuck.

Ha. It's kind of great, though. Re-discovering the mediocre music of your youth; realizing that maybe it wasn't as mediocre as you remembered it to be. Now, I have always thought of Blink 182 of one of my ultimate guilty pleasure bands. Always was pretty ashamed to like music that was that poppy and almost-emo. Also, the heightened level of immaturity was pretty disgraceful, too. (Shudder-worthy lyrics include: "She's so important/ I'm so retarded")

But, now, I say fuckit. It's great. They have a little bit of Metallica in 'em: those super-tight, fast, precise riffs; plenty of Ramones: really juvinille lyrics and the songs usually clock in around 2 minutes. Gawd, what was it about B O R E D O M that made kids wanna play their instruments so fucking fast!? I love it! I absolutely *love* that about punk. I love that the faster, the better. I love that disgust and frustration with the BORRRRRING things in life. Like, fuck school. Fuck sitting still. Fuck my suburban bedroom--I'm gonna sniff some fucking glue or pop some speed and play my guitar really fucking fast and loud. It's so honest, full of vigor and angst.

It is a total pleasure to listen to. Pop-filled, harmonies abound! Really makes me wanna be in high school again, hanging out with skateboarder boys and driving around on endless hot summer nights.

Specifically, it makes me remember sitting in the backseat of my friend Emily's car, with her kick-ass-cool-and-sexy-as-hell sister, Roxy sitting in front of me. We had to endure a six-hour epic journey to see Warped Tour in 1998. The coppers were stopping everyone, doling out minors and open bottle citations. So, that was pretty much everyone. So, that took about 5 hours longer than it should have. Well, we listened to to "Dude Ranch" roughly 5 million times. We all sang along to every word.That association will forever be seared in my brain.

Incidentally, that was the big highlight of the summer....We got backstage--thanks to the feminine wiles of Roxy---and got to meet a few of the bands. The magic moment for me was meeting Lars and Tim from Rancid. I still have the picture of me and Tim--me beaming my fucking face off--on my bedroom wall. Ah, youth.

I will leave you with this. Words of wisdom from those rascals in Blink:

"I'll open my eyes/ I've got something inside/ I'll just jack off in my room until then...."

(Can't get enough of this shit, people. I might need help...)

**ALSO: I still firmly believe that listening to "Different Class" by Pulp is like reading a brilliantly written novel. But it rocks.

give it up for The Little Man in the Canoe

From Jessica, by way of McSweeney's.... Thank you.

Too fucking hilarious.

A N O P E N L E T T E R T O M Y F I R S T F I V E G I R L F R I E N D S .

June 16, 2004

Dear Holly, Kathy, Kelly, Nicole, and the other Kelly,

Look, I'll come straight to the point. I'm sorry I didn't know where the clitoris was, or, more to the point, where your clitorises were. I was a horrible wreck of dry humping, fingering teen lust who pinned you to couches and carpets and danced all around your deserving buttons of love without so much as grazing them, without even inquiring as to the location of your hidden high-school treasure, without even thinking that you might not be liking the way I was swizzling my hand around in your nether regions.

You were patient with me. You let me slip you the tongue in the field behind the shopping center. You allowed me to reach second base in the bathroom at Phil's party—you remember, the one where we drank all that peach schnapps and watched The Wall on Phil's mom's big-screen TV. Heck, you sat still in the back of Scott Parsons' sweet-ass Honda Prelude while I rooted around in your shorts like a frat boy working a couch for spare change.

While I'm at it, I'm also sorry for letting Brandon smell my fingers. That was immature and uncool, and even though you never found out, I feel badly about it. Really, I do.

To be honest, you should be pissed at my dad. We never "had the talk." I had no diagrams to work from, no explanation of the intricate workings of the little man who steers the canoe. Everything I knew about sex was gleaned from Cinemax's presentation of Emmanuelle in Bangkok and this old Betamax porno Bobby stole from his dad. I watched the latter one three times. Other than making me uncomfortable to be around my dentist, it didn't help.

I asked my father why he never clarified the finer points of clitoral massage with me way back then, but he just said that wasn't really part of polite conversation and he'd prefer not to discuss it. So I asked him if he knew where Mom's clitoris was and he hung up on me. I took that as a no.

Anyway, sorry about that. I'd have done you right if I'd had any idea what we were both missing.

Warmly,
Emlyn Lewis
Boston, MA

Dig That Moonlight

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 :

Pixies
New Order
Spoon
Bloc Party
Blondie

AND....still can’t stop with the Arctic....just so you know. I still have the habit.