Spin Editors' Blog

Lollapalooza '08 Editors' Blog: Four (Final) Observations

Matt Kiser — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 13:28:33 -0400

1. No one was shouting “Eli, my man!” or “It’s Eli, he LOVES us!” (don’t get it? rent Animal House), but it sure sounded like Otis Day and the Knights coming from the BMI stage, where Eli “Paperboy” Reed and the True Loves indulged in a little retro-R&B shama lama ding dong. Full disclosure: Even though a friend produced Reed’s debut album, I still say there’s no denying Reed’s extraordinarily powerful voice. That he resembles the kid who just fixed your computer makes the package even more remarkable.

2. For artists, one of the upsides to playing a festival is that unless the stage abuts the porta-potties anyone can draw a crowd. Which must explain how Saul Williams managed to have a captive audience. Now, I really wanted to like Williams; I’ve long admired his spoken-word work. But his cacophonous live “band” experience (replete with what looked like a foil-covered guitarist and dancer in a tutu) made my ears retract. I escaped after three “songs.”

3. Backstage during Mark Ronson, Pete Wentz, and Ashlee Simpson mingled with Kanye West. I’m told Mark's sis Samantha and Lindsay Lohan were spotted back there too. For his part Ronson led a very entertaining revue featuring guest vocalists like Rhymefest, Candie Payne, and Kenna. With a crack, smartly dressed orchestra, the deejay-turned-guitarist-producer brought a slick, well-oiled and -paced production at a festival that hosted its share of scrappiness.

4. By 6 P.M., the buzz that Barack Obama would be introducing fellow Chi-towner Kanye West was more deafening than Saul Williams’ set. Turned out Obama was a no-show. (C’mon, did people really think he would have brought out a performer whose biggest hit has the n-word in its chorus?) Finally living down the “Kanye West doesn’t care about dirty hippies” debacle of Bonnaroo, the hometown hero appeared onstage at the appointed hour (8:30) and proceed to show how a huge ego can make for a hugely entertaining show. You can’t say he doesn’t try—constantly running, dancing, and high-stepping across the stage, imbuing every triumphal song with a sense a palpable longing for immortality. The clincher came during a monologue in an extended “Touch the Sky,” when he admitted how he wants to be seen in the pantheon of the greats but also admitted he might not be there yet. Then he said he was going into the studio after this gig, so you never know. Funny guy.

Read Doug Brod's Lollapalooza coverage from day one and two.

Lollapalooza '08 Editors' Blog: Five (Maybe More) Observations from Day Two

Eric Nowels — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 16:14:47 -0400

1. I once read a news story about a biker-dude lottery winner who lived at home with his mom on Long Island and admitted to enjoying a "sponge shot"—after wiping down the bar at the end of the night, his favorite bartender would squeeze the funky liquid into a glass for our hero to down. That's what the Gutter Twins (led by grizzled and gristly alt-rock vets Mark Lanegan and Greg Dulli, who also played SPIN's Friday night Lolla afterparty) sound like. And look like. They might not be the first thing you'd want to hear at 2:30 on a sunny afternoon, but their dive-bar goth went down much easier than you'd expect.

2. One of the thrills of festivals is the unannounced special guest. When word came that Slash would be appearing with Lollapalooza major domo Perry Farrell in the itsy-bitsy dance tent, I changed plans and raced over to where hundreds of wet, stinky bodies pressed tight to get a glimpse. I made it through two Satellite Party songs (I think) performed by Farrell, his wife, and a guitarist-not-named-Slash before my sweating knees (who knew knees could sweat?) begged for relief.

More after the jump

3. One of the other thrills of festivals is seeing a band that would otherwise fill a 1,500-capacity club in a major metro area play before tens of thousands. I walked near the MySpace stage where MGMT had amassed a huge crowd, but I missed their gig (thanks, guitarist-not-named-Slash). But I didn't miss Austin, Texas-based instrumentalists Explosions in the Sky. From a perch high above the stage I watched as their effects-heavy, melodramatic guitar rock transfixed the swarming mass. It was music you could do household chores to, sure, but calling it Hipster Windham Hill would be unfair. By the end of their star-making set, the guitarists were literally pummeling their axes into submission. The audience, too.

4. Must be something in the Shiner Bock down in Texas because next up on the facing stage were fellow Austinites Okkervil River, who played the set of the weekend (so far). Will Sheff and crew's hyperverbose Americana, which sounds to these ears like the Decemberists jamming with the Arcade Fire at a particularly rowdy wake, transformed the crowd into what can only be labeled a "happy party."

5. Back-to-back sets by '90s stalwarts the Toadies and Rage Against the Machine capped my evening. Dallas' Toadies, who recently reunited for a new album due in a couple of weeks, were essentially one-hit wonders (but what a hit) who became a classic cult act. In fact, frontman Todd Lewis alluded to this in his introduction to the band's only hit, the grungy stalker anthem "Possum Kingdom"(you know, the "Give it up to me / Do you want to be my angel?" song). From what I could see from my vantage point on the side of the stage, Lewis seemed genuinely touched to see such an enormous turnout. Mixing favorites from their two albums with some new songs, like the rifftastic (or is that rifferrific?) "Man of Stone," they played with a renewed vigor that hinted they probably wouldn't be going away anytime soon. As for Rage, the frantic foursome battled muddled sound and a dangerously aggressive crowd, to put on a show that pleased fans but likely didn't win them any new converts.

Lollapalooza '08 Editors' Blog: Five Observations from Day One

Eric Nowels — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 15:12:39 -0400

1. "Wow, what's with all those people onstage?" my companion asked as we stopped by the MySpace stage where a dirtbag choir was working hard (and in unison) to keep the butt-rock flame alive. With five musicians and 22 singers -- many of them pickups from local Chicago bands -- Boston's Bang Camaro come on like Kiss meets the Polyphonic Spree, proffering punchy anthems with memorable choruses about leather and lightning that might as well be the soundtrack to your next 7 Eleven parking-lot hang. A perfectly pleasant way to start a very hot day of music.

2. Introducing "Warwick Avenue" as a song that hasn't yet made it over here (meaning the U.S. or downtown Chicago?), current SPIN cover girl Duffy offered the afternoon's first head-scratcher. That it's on the domestic release of her debut album Rockferry (more than a half-million sold) didn't seem to matter. Her vocals were typically gorgeous, and in her high heels and cute sailor-inspired dress, she was playful and chatty between songs. Yet there's something perverse about hearing such stirring, intimate stuff in the sunshiney swelter of nearly oppressive 90-degree heat. When she offered to lighten the mood by performing the loping, barely midtempo "Serious," this audience member was begging for "Mercy," which, when it arrived at the end of the set, was sweet relief indeed.

More after the jump.

3. If you ask me (and no, you didn't), the Black Keys could use a bass player. They've got killer, pounding, inventive songs, and Dan Auerbach's weary and soulful vocals are brutally effective. But it's not just that their dirty blues could benefit from some fleshed-out bottom, they just look incomplete on stage. I also think the Jam would have been that much better with another guitarist, so, no, I'm never satisfied.

4. More bizarre (and subversive) than even their King Diamond cover done in full demon-clown makeup was the half-pint-size longhair from Paul Green's School of Rock All-Stars screaming (and I mean really screaming) Suicidal Tendencies' tantrum anthem "Institutionalized" on the Kidzapalooza stage as infants colored in Paul Frank monkeys 50 feet away.

5. Ah, Radiohead. By now, it's easy to make a "how to disappear up your navel completely" joke so I won't (even though I just did). But has there ever been a more popular less scrutable rock band…ever? For the first In Rainbows- and Hail to the Thief-heavy 45 minutes or so of their generous 24-song, two-hour set, the Brit art-rockers came across as a studied jazz-rock combo with a nearly pathological aversion to choruses. But the sleepiness (that others might call "emotional intensity") was replaced by delicate space-age lullabyes right around the time "No Surprises" got a gorgeous airing. No flying pigs for the new Pink Floyd, but the percussive fireworks display that threatened to explode some of the softer tracks (of a set full of soft tracks) was an elegant capper to a cool (in at least two senses of the word) headline gig.

Dan Auerbach of the Black Keys / Photo by Karen Chan

Radiohead / Photo by Karen Chan

Bonnaroo's Best BBQ: Prater's

Peter Gaston — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 14:46:45 -0400

I am a self-proclaimed foodie. Love watching Bourdain, Top Chef, Jamie Oliver, and Alton Brown, and I savor great dining experiences much like I do gigs and festivals. One reason I keep coming back to Bonnaroo year after year is the BBQ at Prater's in nearby Morrison, Tenn., just a stone's throw from the festival site. Every pre-Bonnaroo Tuesday, I venture to Prater's with a hungry bunch for some delectable ribs, buckets of roasted peanuts, and a few cold beers.

Last night, we dined with the crew from Big Hassle, who do Bonnaroo's media relations, and festival co-founder Ashley Capps. We brought our Flip video camera along to document the culinary marvels; check it out:

New Stream: Beck, "Chemtrails"

Eric Nowels — Thu, 22 May 2008 18:16:11 -0400

You won't recognize him at first, especially if, like me, your best Beck memories involve him on his knees, belting out Midnite Vultures' "Debra" like it's hipster karaoke night and he's drawn a James Brown tune. But as is the case with almost every Beck album, this first track from his still-untitled collaboration with Danger Mouse (set to emerge sometime this summer) "Chemtrails" is absolutely different than any Beck era you've come to know and love. Let's call it the Beta Beck for now. It's murky, dissonant, eerie, and wintry, in a my-British-town-is-gross-and-post-industrial sort of way. The crossfaded, Jonny Greenwood-style riffage at the end only adds to the Anglophile angle.

Listen for yourself:
Stream no longer available.

Booze Lobby Targets Green Day's Billie Joe Armstrong

Eric Nowels — Tue, 20 May 2008 12:28:04 -0400

We're usually stoked to see Billie Joe Armstrong, a perennial Spin fave, gracing the pages of the New York Times. After all, his Green Day side project, Foxboro Hot Tubs, is tearing up the Southwest right now. But a mug shot of Billie Joe is utilized by a full-page ad in today's Times sponsored by a Capitol Hill lobbyist group for the alcohol industry. The message: Tougher laws for "hard-core drunk drivers" like Billie Joe, less restrictions for those partaking in "moderate and responsible drinking prior to driving." Billie Joe's DUI arrest in 2003 is certainly indefensible, but to juxtapose his mistakes with the legitimization of casual drunk driving is just, well, irresponsible.

First, a bit more detail about the ad (click here to view it). The headline reads, "Ignition Interlocks, A good idea for them," referring to mug shots of Armstrong, actor Kiefer Sutherland, and now-retired NFL quarterback Steve McNair, all of whom have DUI arrests on their records. Below the three mug shots, the ad reads, "A bad idea for us," and then displays photos of a bride and groom toasting at their wedding, some co-workers drinking after work, and some fellas having beers and burgers at a pub.

The ad copy goes on to say that the efforts of "activists" to put ignition interlocks (i.e. in-car breathalyzers) into every car in America "means the end of moderate and responsible drinking prior to driving: no more champagne toasts at weddings, no more wine with dinner, no more beer at ballgames."

Let's get one thing out of the way: Billie Joe driving around five years ago with a 0.18 blood alcohol content level isn't excusable. In fact, it's pretty awful, and he should (and probably does) thank some entity daily that he didn't slaughter anyone that night. But the line being drawn in this ad is ridiculous, particularly because the most abusive drinking I usually see occurs at, um, weddings and ballgames. When is the champagne toast the sole drinking opportunity at a wedding, and how frequently is the word "beer" used in its singular form at the stadium?

To be as succinct as possible, which scares you least: a one-time offender rock star like Billie Joe, herds of drunk college buddies driving home from weddings every weekend across the country, or a pissed off (and piss drunk) fan leaving the ballpark after a loss? They're all guilty, for sure, but in this argument, I'd take the craftsman of American Idiot before any other American idiots.

'This American Life' Host Ira Glass, Mates of State Pay Homage to Phantom Planet, 'The O.C.'

Eric Nowels — Mon, 12 May 2008 10:12:04 -0400

On a long subway ride home last night from JFK Airport, I cued up one of my perennial faves for mass transit listening: the podcast of This American Life, the long-running NPR program hosted by Ira Glass (now in its second season as a television series on Showtime). The episode's theme was television -- apropos given the show's season premiere on Showtime last weekend -- and between segments from Sarah Vowell and Dan Savage, host Ira Glass began an earnest confession about his love for canceled Fox drama (and indie rock springboard) The O.C..

After recounting a scene where the show's Summer (Rachel Bilson) and Seth (Adam Brody) name-drop This American Life -- "Is that the show where those hipster know-it-alls talk about how fascinating ordinary people are? Ugh, God!" says Summer -- Glass talks about how his favorite television shows, like The O.C., connect with him in a deeply personal way, just like good radio shows. And as he continues his earnest ode to The O.C., which was taped before a live studio audience earlier this year, the piano twinkles of the show's Phantom Planet-penned theme, "California," begin to waft through the air, courtesy of Mates of State, who were serving as house band during these live tapings.

Finally, in a gleeful, bursting confession, Glass admits that when the show's opening credits roll, and "California" plays loudly, he and his wife would sing along at full volume. And then he proceeds to sing along as Mates of State perform a full-blown "California" cover for the live audience.

You can stream the episode on This American Life's website, or get it as a podcast via iTunes.

The TV version of This American Life airs Sundays at 10 P.M. on Showtime. Here's a clip from a recent episode:

Caring (Too Much) Is Creepy

Eric Nowels — Thu, 08 May 2008 12:35:55 -0400

Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie, the clever New Zealanders known as Flight of the Conchords, were owning a rambunctious crowd at NYC's Town Hall, running through a cheeky version of their song "Robots," in which the duo sing from the perspective of two robots who've recently eliminated the human race by using "poisonous gases" to "poison their asses." As the song concluded and the audience (which included Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon, and members of My Morning Jacket) roared in approval, Clement noticed a bit of movement to his right: A few fans in the front row placed four or five wind-up robot toys on the edge of the stage which were duly marching around in all of their wind-up glory. Clement seemed pleased and said as much, collecting the toys and placing them alongside his stool onstage.

But then it got a bit ridiculous. Granted, this is a band that sings about racist dragons, rapping hippos, and David Bowie in Labyrinth (and whose album debuted last week at No. 3 on the Billboard charts). But a cavalcade of gifts continued to appear onstage: jellybeans (a reference to "Albi the Racist Dragon," whose tears turn into jellybeans), an eyepatch (culled from the lyrics of their ode to David Bowie), forks and knives (for the man in "Think About It" who is stabbed with forks and knives), and a curry-stained T-shirt (from "Business Time," Jemaine's ode to boring couples sex). The band's reaction went from chuffed ("It's a bit Rocky Horror [Picture] Show," quipped Jemaine at one point) to really freaked out.

And that prompts the question: Is there a point when this stuff goes a bit too far? Off the top of my head, I'm remembering Barenaked Ladies fans in the '90s who showered the band with Kraft Dinner (that's macaroni and cheese, for non-Canadians) during their song "If I Had a Million Dollars." Some other examples from our staff: Fans of the Alarm tossing cards into the air during one of their songs, Insane Clown Posse's obsession with Faygo soda, Morrissey's fans throwing flowers.

But where does the line get drawn? And what are some of the worst transgressions in the band-to-fan relationship? Post your comments.

Now Watch This: Flight of the Conchords, "Business Time"

Coachella Blog, Day 3: The Only Good Pig Is a Dead Pig

Eric Nowels — Thu, 01 May 2008 10:36:01 -0400

There may be people who only attended the third session of the 2008 Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival, but as a wise man once observed about his questionably unclothed behavior on a famed bathroom floor, "It Wasn't Me." So the remains of Days 1 and 2 -- The French Fry Diet, crap sleep, SPF 45 caked on like Steven Tyler's mascara, temperatures reportedly reaching a singeing 112 degrees, feeble showering, lost glasses/cell phone/dignity -- inevitably mar any memory of what occurred on Day 3. This is no grievance, since I was giddy at the flurry of activity all weekend, but eventally your physical shell slows to a crawl, turns on you with a tense glint, and shuts the whole charade down.

"Forget it, [your name here]. It's Coachella."

That moment happened for me when I hopped on a golf cart headed to the Sahara Tent with a couple of other stragglers -- one of whom was straggling a bit less because she'd just gulped a mysterious green capsule and was commenting on how the muddy road looked like a glowing, beautifully textured tapestry, or some shit. As we dodged what looked like members of Gogol Bordello (scarfs, mustaches, heavily accented cries of "Fuuuck!"), I glanced to my right and saw an enormous creature parked backstage, with "Fear Builds Walls" crudely scrawled on its side. It looked like an oversize piggy bank (is that where they're keeping Prince's $4 million?), but peering through the haze, I realized it was, of course, Roger Waters' infamous inflated porker.

Now I could've experienced a sense of wonder, like a child watching the Macy's parade balloons get blown up for the first time on Manhattan's Upper West Side the night before Thanksgiving. But for some reason -- a mix of fatigue, hunger, and a general loathing for Pink Floyd's never-ending bombastic trough-feeding -- the pig came to represent everything that Coachella shouldn't be, yet could easily become. The bloat. The greed. The baby-boomer rehash. The "anti-capitalist" rhetoric and imagery via monied hacks. The pointlessly boorish political theater (Waters hired a plane to drop thousands of flyers urging locals to vote for Barack Obama; and Coachella had to hire a crew to remove the litter from the yards and gardens of the lavish vacation homes that ring the site).

Charles Aaron's Coachella Blogs

Day One
Day Two
Day Three

Our Coachella Reviews

Full Coachella coverage

In a desire to always top themselves and never ever sell any fewer tickets than the year before, the organizers have to keep upping the ante. Seek out a buffoonish, wannabe-activist movie star like Sean Penn and indulge his crackpot, pseudo-Merry Prankster, bio-diesel, cross-country caravan of 300 "young people" to New Orleans "to do whatever they feel inspired to do." And give him a main-stage platform to pat himself on the back. And set the festival adrift on Waters' massive quadraphonic, surround-sound, greatest-hits video barge, with the politicized pig supposedly tearing away from its tethers by mistake (and ultimately landing in nearby La Quinta's Hideaway Golf Club, in "crumpled heaps of shredded, spray-painted plastic," according to report by The Desert Sun). Of course, it's difficult to believe that the whole wayward-swine incident wasn't just a planned publicity stunt, since the pig has a suspicious history of evading its moorings, even back in 1976 during a photo shoot for Pink Floyd's Animals album, when it caused flights at London's Heathrow Airport to be delayed and police helicopters were sent up to retrieve it.

But as the golf car puttered on down the service road, past the endless rows of palm trees, I decided to put all that tsoris behind, relax, and try to get lost in the sparkly fantasia of lights that my 'shroomy sidekick was rapturing on about. "It's like Christmas and New Year's and Mardi Gras all at once, like colors exploding..."

Eyes. Closed. Breathe.

OK, let's proceed.

"Baby, you set my soul on fire / I got two little arms to hold on tight / And I want to take you higher / Baby, you never should say never / I got a hurricane inside my veins / And I wanna stay forever"

Jason Pierce's new Spiritualized album Songs in A&E is for the battered but shakily defiant, the wounded but still willing, the self-destructive suckers who keep haunting both dens of iniquity and pews of sanctity vainly searching for answers to questions that they don't even know how to ask properly. In other words, all of us, and particularly those of us who were sweating like drunk stepdads watching Pierce sit on a chair and manfully strum his acoustic guitar in the Mojave tent on Sunday.

Spiritualized / Photo by Mark C. Austin

Backed by three violins, a cello, and three back-up singers -- all women, all dressed in black, all seated -- Pierce, sunglasses firmly in place, barely moved at all, facing toward keyboardist Doggen Foster (not the crowd), who was seated and dressed in black, also wearing shades. Whether Pierce was whispering or working up to a full-throated moan, the ballads from the new album (which was the majority of the set) cast a quiet pall over the crowd, which was part-transfixed, part-impatient, part-bewildered, and gradually thinned out over the course of the set. And to be honest, it's not surprising that this music, in the harsh daylight, is not going to work for everybody, and I can't tell you exactly why I was so moved, or which particular songs did the moving, partly since my notebook was a sweat-soaked blur of blue-ish scribble. Here are some words I could make out: "withering," "fucking self-assured," "don't mind dying," "dehydration deathmarch blues," "midget burnout bogarting a joint," "Amen."

Over on the main stage, My Morning Jacket were casting more of a spell than a pall, and though it's still hard to pin down what that spell is (which is probably to their credit), it's only growing deeper and more nuanced and dynamic. Bandleader Jim James' vocals, though still somewhat indecipherable, tap into a timeless wail that seems to float across fields and mountains and hollers and deserts and still be capable of nudging up to you while you're locked in your bedroom or imprisoned in traffic. The songs are intimate but expansive, and he and Carl Broemel's Gibson-guitar interplay -- Flying V vs. Les Paul -- effortlessly slides from warm to savage to silly-ass to grandiose to a flat-out roar. The stiff funk falsetto of "Highly Suspicious" left some baffled, but not for long.

My Morning Jacket / Photo by Mark C. Austin

At this stage in their career, MMJ have become the kind of artistically evolved band that I can imagine playing at any number of milestone events in your adult life and legitimately (almost) evoking the emotions involved -- from the terrifying loss of your innocence to the realization that you're glad it's finally fucking gone, from the first real shattering of your heart to the first real surrendering of your soul, from the first time you take yourself seriously to when you mercifully stop and actually laugh at all the pathetic bullshit you put your friends through, from the death of your parents to the birth of your first child, et al.

My Morning Jacket / Photo by Mark C. Austin

And there's not a pretentious bone in their bodies -- or at least they're skilled enough to keep it hidden. James just seems immersed in the immensity of music, which was apparent when he stopped the show to express his Portishead geekdom, and try to explain the impact of their Day 2 performance: "It's like a horrific funhouse and Beth [Gibbons] is like a spirit angel guiding you through it." I could insert a smart-ass, rockcrit punch line here, but sorry, I know exactly what the guy means.

Unfortunately, the oncoming, faux-Floyd fuckwittery seemed to distract the rapidly enlarging crowd, so I bailed to the aforementioned Sahara (a.k.a. "Dance") Tent, where the general idea was to bang one's body into an extended delirium to a series of mindlessly crowd-pleasing, frequency-tweaked electro-jams and blot out whatever enervating thoughts might be intruding on the closure of your weekend's pleasure. But strangely, for whatever reason (fear that too many bad little kiddies were putting too many bad little things into their systems?), the police presence had been ramped up markedly, and even the artists were having a difficult time accessing the backstage area. Credentials that had been honored all week were suddenly denied, and a series of new authorizations were supposedly needed (at one point, I had five different wristbands on my arm) and members of Chromeo (set to perform shortly) were locked outside and Justice (who were set to headline) couldn't even load in their equipment. Considering the retarded chaos of the situation, and the arrogant mook behavior of security, people didn't really freak out. They just milled around wondering why the usually best-run festival in the world had suddenly turned into an asshole-controlled, velvet-rope superclub on Washington Street in Miami Beach. For Simian Mobile Disco, Chromeo, and Justice! Not exactly the Monsters of Rock.

After a time, the stress level lessened backstage, though the numbers of security seemed to increase, and the crowd outside appeared to get more and more anxious to go off. Simian Mobile Disco's James Ford and James Shaw huddled around a futuristic DJ kiosk and cranked out a well-paced and occasionally spine-tingling barrage of Big Beat blast-offs. Chromeo's tongue-in-cheek, Zapp-derived nursery rhymes faired less well, despite the mob's appetite for anything remotely funky or freaky. They're a hoot in a dive, but the enormity of the scene overwhelmed them.

There's not much more that can be -- or should be -- said about Justice these days. They're French, they're bankrolled by Daft Punk's manager, they're marketing a line of leather jackets, their records are funny and catchy and sleazy. And oh yeah, their fans like to get massively fucked up. And if the blindingly goofy nature of the entire operation wasn't obvious enough, before the duo of Gaspard and Xavier took the stage, the PA blared Supertramp's "Logical Song," Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train," and most revealingly, Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline," which is synonymous with the Boston Red Sox and Fenway Park (it's played every game before the bottom of the 8th inning).

Let me be clear, the most significant difference between the Justice crowd (which enthusiastically belted out the songs's chorus) and the Fenway faithful was that you were much more likely to get groped by a creep on drugs in the Justice crowd, which was pretty ironic considering that Coachella started in response to the 1999 Woodstock festival, which was a sunburned grope-athon that quickly turned disastrous and tragic. Luckily, most riots aren't started to the strains of "Do the D.A.N.C.E. / Just as easy as A.B.C." I'm not necessarily blaming Justice for any of this -- the Coachella staff needs to do some reassessing before next year -- but having experienced, say, Daft Punk in a similar setting, and having watched the childlike smiles they inspire, as opposed to this array of leering desperation...

Maybe robots really do know what's best for us.

Coachella Blog, Day Two: Mommy, Why Does Everybody Have a Bomb?

Eric Nowels — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 18:28:03 -0400

In a better universe, Prince would've been the original alternative rocker. Able to play virtually any instrument in virtually any style -- funk, soul, R&B, gospel, pop, rock, folk, psych, new-wave -- he was a multiracial, pansexual, politically minded, sacredly profane fashion freakazoid who posed in the shower wearing a trench coat and a "Rude Boy" button. Comparatively speaking, the most influential alt-rock icons -- R.E.M., the Pixies, and Nirvana, et al. -- were flat conventional by comparison. Which is why they're so influential. It's a hoot to start a band by imitating those folks; start a band trying to be Prince at your mortal peril.

Putting aside all the "Artist Formerly Known As" and "Slave" and "Symbol" and anti-rap and jazz-fusion pissiness that has marred the last 15 years of his career, he did make a certain undeniable sense as the choice to headline a festival that started nine years ago as a rock'n'rave refuge from knuckleheads (inspired by 1996's Organic Festival and the 1999 Woodstock fires) and evolved into an efficient, far-ranging franchise of whatever acts across genre that the Goldenvoice braintrust of Paul Tollett, Phil Blaine, Skip Paige (and Sid Z) have been able to corral and program somewhat coherently every year since (except 2000).

So when his Royal Tininess cooed, "You float like a feather / In a beautiful world / I wish I was special / You're so very special," and hit that alterna-clarion, chunka-chunka riff of Radiohead's "Creep," Coachella 2008 had its definitive group-hug, where-were-you-when? moment, as the 50,000-plus seamonster of flesh looked around at each other, eyes bugged in disbelief, convulsing in grins. No, he didn't. Yes, he Yorke-in' did. And in that instant, Prince also gave me the most purely electrifying Radiohead experience I've had since they played New Jersey's Liberty State Park in August 2001 (with the still-standing Twin Towers in the distance). Then he tore off about the 25th mind-scraping, finger-flaying guitar solo of the night. Prince may have gotten $4 million-plus to play here, and he may (or may not) have just had hip-replacement surgery, but the 49-year-old legend came fully strapped with something to prove and gifts to give. He embraced everything about being the weekend's honorary ruler, and his show was a spectacularly arranged overview of his career, as well as a full-blown axe-wagging, rock'n'roll ass-whuppin'.

Charles Aaron's Coachella Blogs

Our Coachella Reviews

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To open, the Time's Morris Day and Jerome did their "oh-wee-oh" Wicked Witch palace-guard routine (which Black Kids bit yesterday) from "Jungle Love" (which Prince originally played on); a stunning Sheila E. floored the place with "The Glamorous Life" (which Prince wrote) complete with conga solo; and Prince coolly covered Chaka Khan's "I Feel for You" (which he also wrote). He ripped through the anti-nuclear party jam "1999," and you sensed that he was implying its relevance to today's wartime-election situation, and that sense got stronger when he busted out the synth-bomb "Controversy," with its still-outrageous chant: "People call me rude / I wish we were all nude / I wish there were no black and white / I wish there were no rules." When Prince said shit like that at the time -- 1981 -- I never understood why people goofed on him so hard for it. Sure, it's silly, but it's also a helluva lot more inspiring, and no less loopy, than Hillary Clinton's rictus-grin, 3A.M.-phone call fearmongering and Barack Obama's increasingly transparent faculty-lounge hopemongering and John McCain's hair-trigger, I'll-take-a-bullet-for-you blowhard warmongering. (OK, I know that's a stupidly reductive, bullshit pop-music-writer thing to say, but on the other hand, Prince has done more to get me out of the bed in the morning and try to "make a difference" than any of those three yoyos, though by all means, please vote! And Obama does have his own "Sign O' the Times" magic!).

Not to belabor how fucking profound Prince was, but the show, which lasted an hour-and-half, peaked about four separate times, with searing versions of "7," "Cream," "Anotherloverholenyohead," "U Got the Look," an almost spoken-word cruise through "Little Red Corvette," a weird guitar-solo excursion where the band seemed to be jamming on the B-52's "Rock Lobster"; even "Musicology" was a blast, with Prince rapping gleefully. Finally, he stopped for a breath and made his political bent overt, exclaiming, "I am so tired of debates, I don't know what to do!" Then led the crowd in a call-and-response of "War / No more," before kicking into an extended gospel-Hendrix take on the Beatles' "Come Together." And he wasn't finished yet: A costume change into an orange ensemble and a final gallop through "Purple Rain" and "Let's Go Crazy." As the man said, "From now on, this is Prince's house!" You'd be a fool to argue.

It was kinda hard to remember what happened earlier in the day after such a spectacle, but just beforehand on the main stage, Portishead unloaded a devastating, headliner-worthy display of nihilistic lounge-band atmospherics that confirmed their reunion/comeback as the year's most creatively relevant and timely. They've moved away from the soulful, sample-based, torchy swoon of their first two records into an unrepentantly bleak landscape of percussive artillery bursts and creepy static humming, driven by Adrian Utley's versatile guitar-pedal wizardry.

Portishead / Photo by Mark C. Austin

Live, with a six-piece band, it's an overwhelmingly haunting assault. Singer Beth Gibbons has honed that haggard, junkie-era Billie Holiday rasp down to a coil of anger rather than despair, and sonic auteur Geoff Barrow now backs her with a relentless, drumming rumble instead of his usual sensual turntable drama (though they did unveil flawless, slightly tweaked versions of standards "Sour Times," "Roads" and "Glory Box"). The highlight might've been "Wandering Star," when Gibbons, backed by just Utley on guitar (employing needle-nose pliers at one point to scare the shit out of us with some quavering squeal) and Barrow on bass and turntables, wailed "Blackness, darkness, forever," again and again, as her pained face was projected at towering size on the grainy, black-and-white screen. Chilling, to say the least, but despite the seemingly boundless void that Portishead inhabits, their music isn't depressing at all, at least not in the usual, oh-that's-kind-of-a-bummer formulation. They work so hard to capture the vast, alienating expanse of life, and nail it so directly, that you just gape in awe at how their music can jolt you into a deeper emotional state.

Kraftwerk have a marginally more obvious approach, though no less ambitious. Preceding Portishead, the four German engineers, dressed in black uniforms and standing motionless behind laptops, almost looked like they were addressing a stockholder's meeting at the end of the world. They deliberately rolled out the classics -- "Trans-Europe Express," "Autobahn," "The Man-Machine" -- accompanied by an elaborate video package that probably should be playing at the Venice Biennale next year instead of a music festival. During "Vitamin," 12 enormous glasses of water appeared as Alka-Seltzer tablets slowly dropped into them, fizzing eerily. "Autobahn" rendered automobiles cars as the most suffocating agents of mass delusion ever created. Though it's obvious, of course, there's nothing like seeing Ralf Hutter and crew in person to drive home how the group's entire point is to simultaneously dazzle you and plunge you into a state of utter desperation, even petulant anger, about technology's unstoppable power to facilitate your every whim and suck the life right out of you. Job well done, gentlemen. Where's my secret cache of Vicodin?

Oh yeah, David Hasselhoff was backstage. Cue rimshot.

There were acts on Day Two that didn't attempt to rock the entirety of your world, and despite the ungodly heat, pleasures were abundant.

St. Vincent's Annie Clark walked onto the Gobi stage in the late afternoon, dressed in a papery gray dress over maroon tights, wearing white shades, looking pale and pixie-ish and a bit out of place. But backed by a tight band -- violin/clarinet, bass, drums -- she got loose and sweaty, knocking her sunglasses away, tossing water on herself, and attacking her guitar with a focused frenzy, at times building up a raga-like Dirty Three-style wall of droning noise. Then she sang "Ring My Bell."

What to make of Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks at this point? The man is still brimming with quirky ideas, more on guitar than lyrically, but he also seems incapable of not meandering into every random cul-de-sac he spies. And Saturday, the sun-baked version of Malkmus was a languorous, directionless creature in a big floppy hat with drummer Janet Weiss trying to restore some rhythmic order to the not-particularly-jamtastic piffle. In some ways, seeing Malkmus drift around, spooling out woolly, detached riffs in the midst of the California desert's proverbial land-development sprawl was totally appropriate, but it was also fairly enervating.

Erol Alkan made his reputation as a guy who helped bridged indie rock and dance music via his London-based Trash party and an MP3 barrage of mash-ups and remixes, but on the Sahara stage he took the big-tent approach, bludgeoning us with bin-rattling techno. Dopey fun, though he seemed almost woozy himself by the last pitch-shift.

Hot Chip may be the most ecstatically geeked-out live group currently working, with singer-guitarist Alexis Taylor, sporting a pastel blue jacket and pink pants, leading a massive post-Alkan crowd that seemed to know every word to dance-pop gems like "Shake a Fist," "And I Was a Boy from School," "Out at the Pictures," and "Over and Over." Fusion keyboard flurries, digital horn blasts, a strangled guitar solo, it was all greeted by a roar. And when they dropped a bit of New Order's "Temptation" into "Don't Dance," the place was up for grabs. By the time they closed out with "Ready for the Floor" -- a Brill Building classic recast for pilled-up frequencies -- it was amazing to see these mild-mannered mates who just as easily could've turned into Belle and Sebastian way back when, raise the roof like Sasha & Digweed, circa 1997.

Islands' Nick Thorburn wore white facepaint, light blue wrist bands, a straw hat, white shoes, and an intensely distracted expression, but still wasn't the most unhinged character onstage during the Canadian indie eccentrics' set. That would be underground, motormouth MC Busdriver, who hit the deck to rip his twisted verse from "Where There's a Will There's a Whalebone," while two violinists sawed away.

Finally, Yo Majesty, who in a better universe would be trading ideas with Prince, since even in his "Head" days, he had nothing on this scowling, hooting, barking lesbian MC duo that's clawed its way out of Tampa, Florida to introduce us all to their "Kryptonite Pussy." With a crew of two dancers, one "referee," and a DJ pumping out a steady bounce of electro-crunk delirium, a small, early-evening crowd got nasty, or at least watched Shunda K and Jwl B get nastier than we'll ever imagine. 2 Live Crew? Forget it, these ladies would throw their dicks in the dirt.

Coachella Blog, Day One: Summer Is Ready When You Are

Peter Gaston — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 23:50:42 -0400

Here are two skewed views of the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival, which opened its three-session 2008 cavalcade at Empire Polo Field in Indio, California Friday (just minutes away from where the late Merv Griffin once held court as the cardiganed billionaire pasha of this desert resort-village refuge, as the sultan of streets named after legendary golfers -- Nicklaus, Palmer, even Weiskopf!). Both vantage points are equally "authentic" and "representative" and both are completely willful and distorted, serving wholly different cultural agendas.

1) So who's that that grim, weird old drag queen with the streaky make-up and pulled-and-yanked facelift and black cowboy hat who sorta looks like Jane Fonda in Georgia Rule, parked at a picnic table in the VIP area? And why is he/she surrounded by two HGH-casualty bodyguards? Oh, shit, it's Steven Tyler! Wonder who he's here to see (besides himself)? Maybe the Raconteurs, especially after Keith Richards officially knighted Jack White as a new-school classic-rock icon on the cover of Rolling Stone ("It's heartening to see these kids today who genuinely respect the blues, ya know?")? Wonder if he'll actually move from that table or will he just peer at the jumbo screens in the distance while his hardened party-hoss courtesans try to act like they're better than Ambre and Daisy on Rock of Love. Is this what Coachella's become? Can this oasis of semi-alternative greenery no longer even draw A-list nubile celebs who can feign a decent level of debauched "rock'n'roll" haughtiness? Truly sad.

2) "We cannot do anything without something making it more awesome than ever," says Black Kids singer-guitarist Reggie Youngblood with a wry smile, as he frustratedly futzed with a glitchy amp in the middle of the Jacksonville, Florida band's afternoon set in the Mojave tent. As perhaps the most prematurely hyped underground rock band of the past year (Pitchfork's Marc Hogan gave them the biggest boost, but NME and others, SPIN included, joined in). Their most high-profile show -- at CMJ in October of last year -- was basically a brick, with folks walking out not just unconvinced, but openly hostile that this promising bunch of preternaturally hip, but musically flimsy, Cure fans were catching such an industry buzz.

Black Kids / Photo by Lucy Hamblin

But in the Coachella steam-heat, before a half-rabid, half-skeptical throng, Black Kids almost became the heroic little-band-that-could that a smattering of tastemakers have professed them to be. With influences ranging from '60s girl group to '80s new wave and synth pop, '90s indie rock and riot grrrl, a tinge of clubby hip-hop panache, plus that good ol' universal alternative-rock yearning to testify about your geeky outsider journey to people who beat you up in high school, the It Kid quintet, led by Youngblood and his sister Ali on keyboards/vocals (the group's two actual "black kids"), literally put a lump in our collective throats several times during their 40-minute set.

Black Kids / Photo by Lucy Hamblin

In a sleeveless pink shirt, with his distinctive tangle of hair, Reggie passionately yelped his alternately hilarious and poignant lyrics ("Abracadabra! / Every summer you disappear / Cos it's so sticky in the Dirty South / It's hot as balls / Hey now, watch your mouth!" from "Hit the Heartbrakes"), while Ali and keyboard partner Dawn Watley chimed in with an irresistible mix of deadpan cool attitude, goofy rah-rah chants, and coy come-ons. Virtually every Black Kids song has a potentially heart-rending and/or punch-line chorus: "Love love love me already!" "I wanna be your limousine" and, of course, the pick hit, "I'm not Gonna Teach Him How to Dance with You" (which riotously tells the story of a cool nerd's unrequited crush on a girl who's blinded by the second-hand moves of a jerk with "two left feet").

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Now it's undeniable that the occasional synth-funk breakdowns (which sounds lifted straight off a Human League 12-inch remix) are more endearing than successful, but the thing is, they're so masterfully situated, just at the exact moment when the audience is dying to reach full giddiness, that you don't mind so much when the band (often) stumbles, or the song unravels. You just know they're onto something you really wanna hear, you're just not sure what it is. In just six months of practicing and touring Europe since CMJ, they've gotten miles more stylish and proficient and, at times, I was thinking, "They could be on the cover of SPIN in a year and a half." Or, "They could still be thrashing their way through yet another endless, tragically inconsequential Vice clusterfuck on a nameless rooftop in Bushwick." Regardless, watching them at this moment when talent is in the process of eroding hype's suspicions is a treat, and a hundred times more thrilling than watching, say, Death Cab for Cutie efficiently essay their tidily rendered modern-rock vignettes of romantic woe.

So, which scenario would you rather choose as your true Coachella experience? Obviously, I'll take the latter. And when, a few hours later, a buoyant, supremely confident Santogold dazzled the Gobi tent with her anthemic new-wave hip-hop pep rally, wearing a light-blue patterned pant suit, shaking a pink tambourine, and eagerly commanding, "I wanna see some asses shakin'!" it was possible to imagine that there really is some sort of multi-culti, mixed-gender, indie-rock/hip-hop/club-music new-guard movement just now cresting that began back sometime around the time that M.I.A. (who's playing the Sahara tent Saturday) dropped that first mixtape with Diplo (who played the Sahara tent Friday) and Danger Mouse concocted The Grey Album and hooked up with Cee-Lo through TV on the Radio and Bloc Party and Spank Rock (who played the Gobi tent Friday) and Battles (who also rocked the Gobi tent Friday), etc. It may not sell many records, but maybe it could actually project and signify beyond the Fader/Pitchfork/Brooklyn media nexus. Maybe.

Santogold / Photo by Mark C. Austin

The other major highlight of the first day was the Breeders main-stage set in the late afternoon, as Kim Deal proved again why she is truly the godmother of anything about alternative-rock that possesses genuine creative integrity, natural eccentricity, and ballsy honesty. In her full truck-driver gear -- black t-shirt, lumpy jeans, and baseball cap -- she opened with the stunning "Overglazed" from Mountain Battles, her voice reverbed crazily, as she wailed "Can you feel it?" before the song barreled off-course and out of sync, and Kim waved everything off, smiling and quipping, "We just couldn't feel it." Starting over, they revved back up and went on to wrestle the rest of their set to the ground with surges of noise and beauty and humor and clunky bumbling.

Breeders' Kim Deal / Photo by Mark C. Austin

On "Bang On," Kim and sister Kelley sang the cutting childlike mantra, "I love no one, and no one loves me," and played the nifty little guitar figure in unison, a charming sibling moment. Of course, later, Kelley exclaimed: "Everybody's always yelling at me all the time!" And when Kim delivered a sideways critique of something Kelley just played, she then immediately blurted, "I like you, though!" There was Kelley's sweetly demented coo on "Happiness Is a Warm Gun" and the sisters' duet on "Here No More" (from Mountain Battles), which is so eerily timeless that it could be a early-20th Century hillbilly murder ballad, and recalls Kim's tales of her early years playing Hank Williams covers for drunk dudes at the Ground Round in Dayton.

Other assorted first-day moments:

West Coast DJ lifer Sandra Collins banging the Cube Guys' epic techno riff on the Who's "Baba O'Riley," pumping up the whiplash bass line, scattering synth flutters and squiggles galore, letting the "teenage wasteland" chorus soar out into the desert haze. And yes, there was a ridiculously overblown piano breakdown that you might've thought was cheesy if you weren't too busy trying to dance and move and stay out of the way of that beat that was punching a hole in your chest.

The National's Matt Berninger, with pink lights aglow at sunset and a backdrop of palm trees, proclaiming: "Raise our heavenly glasses to the heavens! Squalor Victoria! Squalor Victoria!" as the horn section blared and the violin wailed and a smoke machine (!) spewed. Majestic.

The National / Photo by Mark C. Austin

Aphex Twin exploring every nuance and texture and beat niche of Strafe's "Set It Off" during his rare DJ set, until the crowd began looking around and openly wondering if this was really Richard James and whether he was going to play any of his own music. About 15 minutes later, when the acid techno gnarl was corkscrewing into our skulls, followed by daybreak ambient dewdrops, and god knows what else, thousands of eyes were rolled back in the heads of kids who'd likely only heard rumors of this beardie '90s oracle. Now they knew.

Sentimental Irish Oscar fave Glen Hansard, a.k.a. Swell Season, covering the Pixies' "Cactus" both acoustic and electric (after he bashed his acoustic guitar's strings into submission), and dedicating it to Kim Deal. He followed by a remarkably spooky, dark Americana goof on Kraftwerk's "The Model."

Redd Kross's ageless McDonald Bros. bashing through their early-80s punk classic "I Hate My School" with Jemina Pearl of Be Your Own Pet -- dressed like Lil' Abner's Daisy Mae in short-shorts and tied-off top and tennis shoes -- go-going herself into a frenzy.

Battles' setting off massive, rumbling bass-frequency loops that shifted into synth squalls and chicken-scratch guitar and stuttering feedback, as the three guitarist-keyboardist-gizmo twiddlers gathered around drummer John Stanier's brute robo-funk beat-ballet. The most amazing thing was that no matter how micro-complex the groove got it never felt "experimental" or "electronic" or "math-rock" or like some sort of MIT soundlab. It basically sounded like Gang of Four if they'd formed in 2003, a rigorous punk-funk throwdown cranked with Marxist precision.

The Verve, reuniting after a 10-year absence, erecting a blank-faced edifice of Self-Important Rock Transcendence on the enormous main stage, digging into their atmospheric post-shoegaze anthems with a rock-historical seriousness that literally seemed to turn the black sky sepia. "Drugs Don't Work"; "Lucky Man"; "Weeping Willow." Richard Ashcroft and mates parsed out the melodies soberly -- like Oasis with all their bloke-ish humor and hooks and, well, fun surgically removed. But the Verve aren't about fun and Ashcroft isn't about personality. The Verve are here to provide you with an immaculately calibrated rock experience that will change your life forever, even though it may be hard to remember much about it afterwards.

The Verve / Photo by Mark C. Austin

Ashcroft, your Barefoot Vessel, lurks about with an odd blur of self-satisfaction and reticence. He sorta wants to be a shaman, but he knows he can't really summon Jim Morrison's perverted extroversion (as he probably once dreamed of doing), so he pulls back and grimly serves the song. Whenever he tries to open his mouth outside the context of a "performance" -- chatting about backed-up toilets and road-tripping to Las Vegas -- his charisma evaporates and the entire mood crumbles and you almost feel sorry for him. His idea of a stage move is to unbutton his shirt too far and upturn his palms. Needless to say, "Bittersweet Symphony" (dedicated to Hunter S. Thompson?) was the climax that brought the rather sedate crowd rushing forward. It may be the band's only real "hit," but it's also just another in a long line of Verve songs that celebrate the well-meaning individual's struggle against the forces of a brutalizing world. Ashcroft as pro forma burden-bearer.

God bless his presumptuous ass. Steven Tyler probably could relate. Black Kids probably couldn't. Kim Deal probably would tell him to shut the fuck up. And others of us just took what we needed and moved it along. As Deal sings in "Saints": Summer is ready when you are.

SXSW '08: SPIN's Best and Worst

Eric Nowels — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 20:03:21 -0400

DOUG BROD, EDITOR, SPIN
Best Set: My Morning Jacket at Austin Music Hall
Best Discovery: (Tie) Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong, the Heavy, and the Last Vegas (not officially part of SXSW, though)
Biggest Disappointment: Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong walked off after two songs.
Bummed I Didn't Catch...: The Ting Tings
People Were Really Talking About...: How No Age were great and yes, they have tunes, really, swear to God!

STEVE KANDELL, DEPUTY EDITOR, SPIN
Best Set: Jay Reatard at the French Legation Museum: Rocked harder in 15 minutes than some bands will their entire silly careers.
Best Discovery: Sam's BBQ in East Austin
Biggest Disappointment: Michael Stipe rallying against our depraved tabloid-damaged, celeb-obsessed culture...and then dedicating a song to Heath Ledger.
Bummed I Didn't Catch...: Monotonix. if you're gonna be crammed into a small space seeing something bizarre and unfamiliar, that sounded like the way to do it.
People Were Really Talking About...: How much better South by Southwest was five years ago, you know, before it got so corporate.

PETER GASTON, INTERACTIVE DIRECTOR, SPIN
Best Set: White Rabbits at Club de Ville
Best Discovery: Anthony Green of Circa Survive, performing a stripped down, surprisingly docile, solo set of all-new material on Friday.
Biggest Disappointment: Los Campesinos! Their spazzy singer needs to be turned down. A lot.
Bummed I Didn't Catch...: Lord T and Eloise, whose aristocrunk was rocking my world pre-SXSW.
People Were Really Talking About...: The Cool Kids. Seemed like everywhere they played became the hot ticket for that hour.

MELISSA GOLDSTEIN, ARTS+CULTURE EDITOR, 7x7
Best Set: Tilly and the Wall at Habana Calle 6
Best Discovery: Hymns
Biggest Disappointment: R.E.M. It's not that they were bad, but they also weren't amazing.
Bummed I Didn't Catch...: FM Belfast: mouth-wateringly described by a pal as "an Icelandic Hot Chip who decorate everything with Christmas lights."
People Were Really Talking About...: The Helio Sequence

WILLIAM GOODMAN, EDITORIAL ASSISTANT, SPIN.COM
Best Set: Helio Sequence at the Sub Pop showcase Friday night
Best Discovery: Flowers Forever. Derek Pressnall has catchy art-rock tunes for days and wacky showmanship to boot.
Biggest Disappointment: Sadly, the Breeders. Saturday's Mess with Texas set was no match for co-headliner NOFX.
Bummed I Didn't Catch...: My Morning Jacket. I've STILL yet to catch the band's legendary live show.
People Were Really Talking About...: No Age and Fucked Up's wild 2 A.M. show on the bridge.

Texas Toast

Peter Gaston — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 13:47:51 -0400

There's nothing quite like the sheer hell of the Austin airport on the Sunday morning after South by Southwest. Tousle-headed, sunburned-but-still-oddly-pale cred cops who, three short hours ago, worried only about how to see the Ting Tings play the Dell Computers and Vitamin Water Presents Corporatemusicsucks.com after-afterparty in some creatively converted warehouse, now slowly re-enter a world in which Garnier Fructis gifting-suite sculpting gel is not allowed in one's carry-on. A place where the competitive pastime of choice is no longer Who Will Be This Year's Breakout Adorable Swedish Band? but Which Strung-Out Drummer Should I Not Be Standing Behind on the Security Line? This is reality's waiting room, a way station between the nirvana of indie-rock sensory-and-barbecue-overload to remembering that we have to go to work tomorrow morning. The dull panic of wondering whether we actually saw enough replaced by the dull panic of wondering where our apartment keys are, all while trying not to throw up. We are mostly made of beer at this point.

This is where information gets processed and synthesized and starts to actively disappear, where we try and make sense of an experience that, when broken down into real-world terms, makes none. Did I like Neon Neon? Did I see Neon Neon? Does walking past a band and pausing for three-quarters of a song at 3:30 in the morning count? What is the bare minimum amount of time music can be experienced and still be judged? How many Most Awesome New Things Ever am I missing in the time it takes me to order this coffee?

Memories blur, individual mini-sets become one long, hazy fugue state -- I saw No Age three times, but none of those were the guerilla show on the bridge at 2 A.M. Friday, but I can kinda picture it, so maybe I was there? I know I spent the better part of yesterday apologizing for being underwhelmed by Fleet Foxes. And I know that I'll probably be waiting an hour on line to see them next year. And that we'll all be bored of them the year after that.

After being asked 67 times and fumbling for an answer, I can now say with some certainty that the best thing I saw was My Morning Jacket on Thursday night, although it seems like that answer shouldn't count. They were a known quantity, not oddball underdogs in town to get their names on important lips. My best-of list is full of boldface names and old people: X at the Spin party, the first half of R.E.M., Motorhead. Standing next to Lou Reed watching the Lou Reed tribute. I wish I had a more satisfying answer, I feel weirdly guilty for not gulping down any buzz band's Kool-Aid, although word on the street is that no one really did this year. Other lasting impressions are really just flashes of epiphanies: Don't watch Pissed Jeans while violently hungover, Black Tide are the Muppet Baby version of Metallica and might wind up better than Actual Metallica before they're old enough to legally binge drink.

I seriously don't know where my keys are.

Reviews: Motorhead, My Morning Jacket, More

Peter Gaston — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 23:20:00 -0400

Motorhead, Stubb's
Nothing cures hipster fatigue like watching a couple thousand people, many badge-free civilians, throw devil horns in the general direction of Lemmy Kilmister, who looks exactly like he did 30 years ago: awesome and terrifying and haggard. Seemed odd to leave out "Eat the Rich" during an industry show, though. Overheard afterwards: "Doesn't look like anyone in Austin is gonna be able to get their car fixed today."

Jay Reatard, French Legation Museum
The volatile 27-year-old Memphis punk-savant and recent Matador signee tossed his guitar down and stormed from the stage after only 15 minutes, while his drummer and bassist (looks like the Melvins' King Buzzo) let the feedback linger another minute before mercifully turning the amps off. Thing is, he still managed to tear through maybe eight songs. Take the time to seek him out -- you won't need much of it.

Times New Viking, French Legation Museum
On their third album Rip It Off, this Columbus, Ohio trio's songs sound like the Guided By Voices tracks people generally skip through -- hissy, hiccuppy, occasionally impenetrable. Live, that's not the case. Adam Elliott plays drums and sings at the same time (just like Don Henley!), sharing vocals with keyboardist Beth Murphy, while guitarist Jared Phillips makes a racket, and the full-bodied sound is a revelation to anyone skeptical about their songcraft.

Wussy, Bourbon Rocks
"That actually was a song about having sex in a car at South by Southwest," says guitarist and singer Lisa Walker after finishing the mid-tempo "Jonah," from last year's underrated sophomore album Left For Dead. "I don't usually explain that part, but..." Though this Cincinnati quartet debuted a couple years ago, best known as the new band from the beloved Ass Ponys' Chuck Cleaver, it's now Walker's show, leavening the songs' darkly romantic dysfunction with a little good old-fashioned sex appeal. This is no one's idea of a buzz-band showcase, yet the other 4,376 bands in Austin right now would have a tough time topping Cleaver's set-closing couplet: "That yellow cotton dress is beautiful, no doubt / But it becomes a motherfucker when you fill it out."

My Morning Jacket, Austin Music Hall
Much like R.E.M. a night earlier, the (Jim) James gang used their South by Southwest show to try out material from a soon-to-be-released album. Opening with the title track to Evil Urges, due in June, the new material's weirder flourishes (the modulated vocals on "Highly Suspicious," for starters) actually blended in seamlessly with the Kentucky quintet's (slightly) older stuff like "Off the Record" and "Gideon." "I'm Amazed" and "Aluminum Park" were also standouts among the new songs, but the capacity crowd thinned a bit once the set went past the hour mark. (Maybe people can't stay up past midnight anymore? Maybe they're just so accustomed to 35-minute run-and-gun sets that a full show feels like a marathon?) My Morning Jacket stand to take back the term "jam band" from the noodle-limbed likes of Widespread Panic and their spawn, proving, as Wilco have, that a rootsy American band can unload and spread out without sounding wanky, or worse, boring.

South-by-Shuffle: Let's Dance

Peter Gaston — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 19:03:52 -0500

Give them credit: When Justice plotted an NYC stop on their current MySpace Music tour, they initially booked at Madison Square Garden. The arena. Where the Knicks play, or, we should say, where a few players wearing orange and blue occasionally conduct a lazy pick-up game. It was a bold move, and while the plan ultimately didn't fly -- the show was moved to the smaller (but still relatively cavernous), 3,500-capacity WaMu Theater at MSG -- it did prove that dance music has a resurgent presence in this country not felt since the supposed-but-never-realized electronica takeover of 1997. Will SXSW 2008 serve as the launch pad for the next slew of dancefloor dominators? Let's examine a few contenders.

Sure, the heavy hitters are coming to town: Diplo, Simian Mobile Disco, Moby, Cut Copy, MSTRKRFT, even Dan Deacon. Dirty, late-night dance parties are staples of the SXSW nightlife, and all of those acts are solid picks for drunken buffoonery. But who's a little further off the radar?

One of the most rapped about acts so far is British quartet Does It Offend You, Yeah, whose single "Let's Make Out" comes off like a pre-pubescent James Murphy fronting Klaxons. I mean that very, very affectionately, as I like both LCD Soundsystem and Klaxons quite a lot -- and if you haven't seen the Klaxons/Rihanna mash-up from the Brit Awards, do so now.

Also from the U.K., the Whip have been press darlings in the past year, particularly on the strength of "Trash" (MP3), a killer single that's almost a bit too Soulwax-sounding for its own good, but can still wreck a room. Haven't heard that these guys have much beyond that one track, but it's worth a gander, as is their video for "Trash":

More off the beaten bloggy path would be the Commodore-styled electro New Wave of Boston's Fantasy Mirrors (MP3 at rcrdlbl.com), whose "Human Beings" sounds older than some of your parents. Even further off, from Germany, comes Shir Khan, whose track "Office Boy" (MP3) busts out like a South American retread of M.I.A., replete with bratty Portuguese lyrics.

And from somewhere tight and leathery comes Captain Ahab -- the Californians sharing milk in the photo above -- whose skittish gay disco tune "I Can't Wait for Summer" (MP3) pines for the days when one can spread suntan lotion on their man and when a snatch needs shaving for one to get any action.

I am certain, mind you, that SXSW fun can be had either with or without, umm, any, umm, "maintenance." More picks coming this week, and definitely read our Artist of the Day section for even more SXSW artist profiles and suggestions.

South-by-Shuffle: Twee as F*%$

Peter Gaston — Sun, 02 Mar 2008 14:23:52 -0500

Sorry that the South-by-Shuffle hasn't exactly been a daily endeavor. As you can see, we've just launched a brand new SPIN.com over the weekend, so that took quite a bit of our time and energy. But now it's back-to-work, and back to the SXSW iTunes shuffle project.

Now, we've loved Los Campesinos! for a long time -- as an Artist of the Day in June and backstage at Lollapalooza -- and we are really loving their about-to-be-released full-length, Hold On Now, Youngster..., which arrives in the U.S. April 1 (but you can buy it as a download now via Amazon).

What's not to adore about a multi-gender, literary-club-on-AIM conversation, spastic rhythms that permit the geekiest of kids to look good on the dancefloor, and a generous application of yard sale synthesizers? Exactly -- not much at all, and you can get a taste of the new record's "Don't Tell Me to Do the Math(s)" via their official website.

But there's more twee-rific fodder from across the pond at SXSW. So far, we've made two exciting finds:

Bearsuit, "Steven Fucking Spielberg" SXSW INFO PAGE | DOWNLOAD MP3
Violins! Cymbals! No, it's not the new Indiana Jones theme, but a track from these Norwich-based boys and girls. Their 2005 effort, Cat Spectacular, did see a U.S. release, but a John Peel endorsement and loads of U.K. press never really moved the meter for them over here. Fans of Ra Ra Riot will love the string-y swells and surging choruses. Their latest, oh:io, is also available to Yankees in MP3 format via Amazon.

Look See Proof, "Casualty" SXSW INFO PAGE | DOWNLOAD MP3
If we were writing SAT analogies, we'd peg these London lads like this:

GREEN DAY is to BLINK-182 as BLOC PARTY is to LOOK SEE PROOF

Or, if there was a U.K. version of Warped Tour where all the bands sounded like the Futureheads, Look See Proof might be the hot new band of '08. Now that I think about it, writing that last line actually soured me to these guys a little bit. We'll just have to check 'em out in person in Texas.

Tomorrow: Bands that'll make you dance -- in very different ways.

South-by-Shuffle: 600 SXSW MP3s, Shuffled and Sorted

Tue, 26 Feb 2008 14:39:39 -0500

From now through March 11, SPIN.com's Peter Gaston is chained to his desk, listening to almost 600 MP3s of SXSW 2008 performers on shuffle mode in iTunes, separating the wheat from the chaff. His findings will be posted daily.

First of all, special thanks are in order to Greg Hewgill, who took the time to create a special SXSW 2008 torrent file with as many MP3s as the SXSW website had to offer. Since the conference isn't making their own torrent this year, Greg's efforts are very much appreciated by all of us here at Spin and, undoubtedly, loads of SXSW attendees. You can check out Greg's site here.

Now this whole SXSW-on-shuffle thing has become an annual tradition of mine, as diligent an attempt as I can make to check out as many SXSW bands as possible before boarding that flight to Austin. Over the past three years, the South-by-Shuffle has helped me discover some phenomenal new bands -- and also led me to some of the worst sets I've ever seen. I'm always keeping my fingers crossed for all killer, no filler, but it's the crapshoot itself that makes the annual Texas excess so compelling.

And whether you're going or not, don't let our picks or the picks from any other music site predetermine the best of the fest. Get those MP3s and decide for yourself. I guarantee you'll discover something brand new and completely awesome.

Here are my first two gems from South-by-Shuffle 2008:

Iglu & Hartly, "In This City" SXSW INFO PAGE | DOWNLOAD MP3
This could only have been crafted by kids who grew up in the '90s. The opening vocal line -- "You came into my li-ay-fe" -- is delivered with all of the subtlety of A.J. from the Backstreet Boys, and then it unfolds into two verses of hip-hop (think Len's "Steal My Sunshine") and a sing-song chorus that wouldn't sound out of place on a Mates of State record. Not a far stretch from MGMT, but with happier pills.
SXSW showcase: Sat., March 15, 9 P.M. at Cedar Door

Lord T & Eloise, "Coup D'Etat" SXSW INFO PAGE | DOWNLOAD MP3
And they called it "aristocrunk." More than a bit of a joke act, this Memphis duo imagines Southern hip-hop performed by a colonial-era British noble and a gold-plated man with curly locks. But there's something immensely clever about a melange of chamber music, thick Dirty South beats, and a faux British accent. Someone's been watching "Lazy Sunday" -- a lot.
SXSW showcase: Sat., March 15, 11 P.M. at Ninety Proof Lounge

More from Lord T & Eloise (including an explanation of their origin):

Whether you're going to SXSW or hanging back, SPIN.com is your destination for all things Austin, from now until the conference begins on March 12. During SXSW, stay tuned for video interviews and live performances streaming straight from the Spin/MySpace tent right on 6th Street, Austin's main drag.

'Once' Stars Take Home Oscar Gold

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 13:23:18 -0500

While Spin certainly didn't love the last record by the Frames, Glen Hansard's long-time band of Irish rockers, his 2007 film, Once, found a soft spot in my heart on a recent cross-continental flight. Maybe it was the altitude -- I once bawled watching In Her Shoes on a flight back from the U.K., for no apparent reason -- but I found myself welling up as characters played by Hansard and Marketa Irglova find salvation in the recording studio during an otherwise bleak period in both their lives.

And though I preferred another song from the film, "When Your Mind's Made Up," to "Falling Slowly," their Oscar-nominated track, and though I was quite disappointed that Eddie Vedder's stirring recordings from Into the Wild were shunned in the Academy's nominations, I was generally chuffed to see the duo wipe the floor with Disney's Enchanted, particularly after our Oscar party's female contingent erupted in drool-laden cooing when Enchanted's Patrick "McDreamy" Dempsey appeared as a presenter.

The Once duo's performance -- featuring a cameo from Hansard's busted up guitar, a star of the film all by itself -- could have been memorable enough, but it was their truncated acceptance speech that will endure in the pantheon of Oscar night memories. As Irglova stepped to the mic, the "sorry, you're finished" music played and the microphone retracted rudely into the floor before she could utter a single word. After a commercial break, Oscar host Jon Stewart brought the singer back onstage, giving her a chance to "have her moment." Cue the cooing.

Now Watch This:
Hansard and Irglova's acceptance speeches

Now Watch This:
Hansard and Irglova's performance

Also on SPIN.com
It Happened Last Night: The Swell Season in Chicago

13 Things I Realized While Attending the Grammys

Mon, 11 Feb 2008 12:02:00 -0500

1. The only people who could've possibly been psyched by a reunion of the Time are Kevin Smith and the Time.

2. I'm staying at the Mirage in Vegas and Cirque du Soleil's Love is in the hotel's theater and I'm getting comped first-row-center seats. Guess where I'm going that night? To see Carrot Top.

3. I've seen Frank Sinatra, and, Alicia Keys, you're no Frank Sinatra. Nancy...maybe.

4. Carrie Underwood needs to record the next James Bond theme. And she should've opened the show.

5. In spite of Kanye West's enough-already stated goal to become the world's "No. 1 artist" (what ever that is), his tribute to his late mother was genuinely moving.

6. Brad Paisley is the Weird Al of contemporary country. Only funnier.

7. Kid Rock on septuagenarian Keely Smith: "Still great. Still sexy." Kid Rock: Still creepy.

8. Vince Gill admits that 100 musicians were involved in the recording of his last album. And every single one was totally necessary.

9. The category Best Rap/Sung Collaboration makes no grammatical sense at all.

10. Need someone to introduce the most troubled and talented singer of the moment from a remote in London. Who you gonna call? The star of Daddy Day Camp. Naturally.

11. Word of the evening: "incarcerated." Phrase of the evening; "My Blake." Performance of the evening: Amy's:

12. The dead-musician montage ain't over till the fat man sings.

13. Herbie Hancock? Who said the Grammys were a popularity contest?

More Grammy Clips: Whether it's official or not, we don't know, but this YouTube profile has tons of footage from last night's show.

An Open Letter to Michael Anthony Who Isn't In Van Halen Anymore (Which Bums Me Out)

Spin Team — Wed, 14 Nov 2007 03:00:00 -0500

Deputy editor Steve Kandell's open letter to Michael Anthony, which, to our knowledge, has not yet been postmarked.

Dear Mike,

While there's no question that anyone should be punished for hanging out with Sammy Hagar by choice, the price you've been forced to pay is far too steep. Not only did your misplaced allegiance cost you, after 30+ years of dutiful service, the unfathomable payday that is the current Van Halen reunion tour, but you were replaced by a 16-year-old. A 16-year-old. He was born the year For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge came out. Remember that album? Yeah, me fucking neither. And while it was great to stand in Madison Square Garden last night seeing the show of my 7th-grade dreams, I'd be lying if I said I didn't spend the entire time thinking about you.

Did Eddie and Alex think we wouldn't mind because you're just the bassist? Did they think so little of those gloriously anti-virtuoso solos in which you doused your Jack Daniels bass with Jack Daniels that they felt comfortable handing the gig to some punk kid just because he had the right last name? (Dave gets a free pass here -- dude was doing drive-time radio a year ago, he's keeping his mouth shut and toeing the line on this one.) But we've waited so long to see this happen, and now that it has, there's still an asterisk. We deserve better. You, good sir, deserve better.

Maybe you'll take some satisfaction in knowing that the show got off to a rocky start. Yes, "You Really Got Me" was a hit, but it's also a Kinks song. Some of us have been waiting our entire lives to see this particular band play, is leading with a cover -- and a clumsily rendered one at that -- really the strongest message to send? Furthermore, Dave...oh, Dave...what exactly is this look he's trying to cultivate right now? Is the idea that wearing a steady progression of Siegfried's spangled coats might distract us from his plugs? Mission not totally accomplished. Eddie, though, is a marvel -- quitting drinking and quitting having cancer agree with him, and he clearly knows it. He may have not even packed a shirt for this tour.

But there was a moment, maybe a half an hour into the set where things took a turn for the awesome and stayed there. You know how Flanders looks all schlumpy, then he tears off his sweater and he's jacked? That's Dave, now bare-chested, doing a high roundhouse kick towards the end of "Atomic Punk" -- Atomicfuckingpunk! -- rendering 20,000 people disoriented as to what decade they were in. No, there were no mid-air splits off drum risers because hips break, and yes, some high notes were pointedly avoided, but once the early rust was shaken off, this was a band testing themselves beyond the easy hits, playing like they had something to prove. It was mostly a greatest-hits set, but with more than a fair share of "I can't believe they just played that" moments: "Little Guitars?" "Ice Cream Man?" "Cathedral?" The only blight was looking to the left side of the stage and seeing...

Sigh.

Van Halen at New York's Madison Square Garden / Photo courtesy Eliot Shepard

Look, there's something undeniably poignant about watching a chubby-cheeked teenager get to share the stage with his pops and his uncle and that weird guy everyone's bitched about at the dinner table his whole life, but how is it that a 16-year-old novice is the most ambivalent -- and sure, I'll say it, most out-of-shape -- guy on a stage full of fiftysomething jillionaires? This kid just won the rock 'n' roll lottery, shouldn't he be doing...something? Mike, you would have been all over that catwalk, stomping, mugging, punishing that Jack Daniels bass. Wolfgang mostly just stood there in his hoodie, nodding his head, barely even deigning to smile. During "Romeo Delight" from Women and Children First -- I'm not afraid to say I had to look it up, it's been a while -- the enormotron showed Wolfgang finger-tapping the fretboard of his bass. Where do you think he learned that? (Hint: Not from you.) And come to think of it, shouldn't he be in school or something? Did he just hand a note to his principal?

To Whom It May Concern,
My son Wolfgang won't be attending school this year because he's in fucking Van Halen now.
Suck it,
Eddie Van Halen

I'd love to tell you that you were there in spirit, but there's a chance you were actually there in more than spirit. One rumor dogging this tour is that the background vocals -- namely, your background vocals, which provided Van Halen's identity every bit as much as Eddie's guitar playing or Dave's preening -- proved so inimitable that Wolfie and Eddie aren't even bothering to imitate, forced instead to sing along with piped-in prerecorded harmonies. I wasn't sure I believed it until "Jamie's Crying" and "Unchained" -- those sounded maybe a little too right. The mere thought that Wolfie, still stuck somewhere on puberty's offramp, could own these songs the way you owned them was an insult to everyone in the room. Even if everyone in the room was too enraptured to notice. Anyway, don't think we don't all appreciate how classy you've been about this whole getting-fucked-over-by-your-lifelong-mates thing. You seem perfectly content to abstain from trash-talking and just throw back Cabo Wabo shots with Sammy until the end of days. And really, shouldn't that be punishment enough?

Best,
Steve