Friday, April 12, 2002

...the thinking man's drinking band

Well, Easter-eve (is that even a real term? Probably not...okay, then March 30) found Marc, Michelle and me down at The Roxy for a concert by the guys who put the "rock" in geek rock, They Might Be Giants, with opening act Spiraling.

Now, no surprise, but I was really looking forward to this concert. As I've grown older, I've subjected just about all my tastes to brutal and constant re-evaluation: "Is this really worth my time? My money? Attachments, emotional or otherwise? Does it entertain, challenge and excite me, or does it merely not suck?" They Might Be Giants have always come up in the affirmative column with regards to these questions, and ever since they introduced me to OK Go last year, I've even come to trust them with regard to their choices in opening acts.

This time, however....

Okay, look...I tried really hard to like Spiraling. To their credit, they're good musicians who don't seem like poseurs at all. But...jeez, they sound a whole lot like Styx!

Well...all right: they've got a crunchier guitar sound, so think "Heavy Metal Poisoning." And they know a bit more about jazz, so throw in a few flatted-fifth and diminished-seventh chords. Oh, and Tom Brislin, the keyboardist, loves his pitch-bender, so add some unnecessary glissandos in there, too. Plus, Brislin frequently hits notes on his keyboard, whips his hand away as if the key were intensely hot, then holds that hand at eye-level while shaking it limp-wristedly. For some reason, I found this intensely annoying.

So, simply put: I didn't like Spiraling. However, if you think that Styx doing "Heavy Metal Poisoning" in a jazz fusion style with effete affectations is your thing, by all means give 'em a listen.

So, after Spiraling left the stage, we were treated to about 45 minutes of old school rap (including Kurtis Blow's "Basketball," during which I surprised myself by remembering all the words). Then TMBG hit the stage in a low-key fashion; they strolled on, said "Hi" and went straight into "Dead," from Flood.

I always find myself at a loss for words when it comes to describing a TMBG show. If you've ever been to one, you'll probably know what I mean. The music is definitely rock and roll, but it's so smart and informed by so many eclectic musical traditions that it's hard to encapsulate. If you've never actually been to a show but are familiar with the music, you'd be surprised by how edgy the live versions come across. With an entire studio at their fingertips, John Linnell and John Flansburgh (the group's founding members and principle songwriters) spend an awful lot of time tweaking their sound until it's just right. This perfectionism, plus the music's quirkiness and lyrical oddness, makes TMBG the poster-band for geek rock, emphasis on geek.

Live, however, all possible accusations of pretension are quickly eroded by the flood of energy and spontaneity rushing off the stage. As a pretty standard, 5-piece line-up (2 guitars, bass, drums and keyboard) TMBG fill the sonic space taken up by production skills and studio tricks by playing upbeat, gritty, loud (-ish...you know, loud but not "damn-my-ears-hurt" loud) rock music; emphasis on rock and to hell with the geek. On top of all that, you've got a laid back group of guys who look like they really enjoy what they're doing. None of the between song banter seems forced; the set list moves along fluidly and enjoyably, never seeming too rehearsed or mechanical; and the light and sound production is top notch.

In a show this good, pulling out highlights is pretty difficult. However, I'm of a critical bent, so I can point out a few.

"Cyclops Rock," from Mink Car, brings with it the crowd pleasing bright lights and confetti, reminding you that this is a party, not some morbid-teen-angstfest.

"She's Actual Size," from Apollo 18, is drummer Dan Hickey's occasion to shine. While he's taking his solo, Flansburgh narrates, giving the audience "Dial-A-Drum-Solo" options: "To hear this drum solo in Spanish, press or say '2,'" says John. "Two!" screams the audence. Hickey breaks into a Latin rhythm. "To hear this drum solo in the style of Buddy Rich, press or say '3.'" "Three!" shouts the audience. Hickey riffs off of Rich's intro to "Bloomdido." At this show, we got 13 options, all of which were flawless. After Flansburgh's done with his voice-over, Hickey wails away for a bit before, in one of the best examples of echo use in a concert setting I've ever heard, Flansburgh comes back in on the vocals and the song resumes as if it had never been interrupted.

Perhaps owing to the lameness of Atlanta's country and R&B heavy radio selection, the "Spin the Dial" portion of the show, in which the band plays along with random songs they find by scanning the FM dial, didn't really take off. However, the guys did manage to latch on to Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby," which the audience greeted with much laughter, and even brought it back during "Older," which the audience greeted with groans that led to laughter.

"Man, It's So Loud in Here," TMBG's ironic take on the appropriation of techno subculture by the mainstream, was particularly fitting, featuring a spinning disco ball and a lighting treatment that was startlingly reminiscent of a dance club. Also neat about this song is that it featured only Flansburgh and Linnell onstage. This revisitation of the original TMBG line-up continued through "Robot Parade," from the forthcoming album No, and lasting until that song's end when Flansburgh called lead guitar player Dan Miller out to begin his virtuoso, chord-based acoustic guitar solo. This solo, which lasted only a couple of minutes, blended seamlessly into "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)," heralding the return of the full band and, during the extended jam session at the end, "Ice Ice Baby."

Miller again showed off his chops during "Twistin'," when, apparently at some sign from Flansburgh, he incongruously broke into the two-handed, finger tapping style of Eddie Van Halen during his guitar solo. Having grown up in awe of EVH, this served to up my respect for Dan Miller a couple of dozen notches.

In a moment that, surprisingly, brought tears to my eyes, TMBG closed their regular set with Factory Showroom's "New York City." I thought that this was a classy move. Considering the fact that overbearing patriotism has become the norm, with shredded flags fluttering from car antennae everywhere I look, I found it moving that a bunch of guys from Brooklyn could reserve the last song of their set for an unabashedly pro-New York song without calling any further, undue attention to it. It showed that they know precisely where their hearts are, and that personal knowledge is enough for them.

They Might Be Giants set list
1. Dead
2. Minimum Wage
3. James K. Polk
4. Cyclops Rock
5. Birdhouse in Your Soul
6. Why Does the Sun Shine?
7. She's Actual Size (with Dan Hickey's drum solo)
8. I Palindrome I
9. Spin the Dial
10. Older
11. Boss of Me
12. Man, It's So Loud In Here
13. Robot Parade
14. Dan Miller's acoustic guitar solo
15. Istanbul (Not Constantinople)
16. 4 of 2
17. John Lee Supertaster
18. Particle Man
19. She's An Angel
20. Meet James Ensor
21. Twistin'
22. Ana Ng
23. New York City

First Encore
24. Drink!
25. The Famous Polka
26. Dr. Worm

Second Encore
27. Ultra-Hidden Track from Apollo 18
28. Fingertips

Friday, March 29, 2002

...wasted youth

Last Friday was really odd, in the sense that the past came whispering back to me, seemingly hell bent on reminding me that no matter how much the world changes, no matter how much I change, what I've done, where I've been and decisions I've made remain immutable facts, dragging behind me like an embarrassingly long, not-quite-vestigial tail.

This whole shanghai down memory lane happened early in the morning. Having pulled four 10-hour shifts on the preceding work days, I had the entire, glorious day off. In celebration, Michelle and I slept late (well...8-o'clock or so—as I grow older, my definition of late encroachs on my previous definitions of early) and snuggled in bed for a bit, listening to the radio, before we got up and started our respective days. I was a 31-year-old man lounging in bed with a good job, a three-day weekend and an armful of beautiful woman. In short, I was ridiculously happy.

Then the radio station, 99x, did their regularly scheduled "Big Hair Moment," paying homage to '80s metal. And the song they picked was Iron Maiden's "Run to the Hills."

Suddenly, I was 14 years old, rummaging through my second dresser drawer among my 10 black, Iron Maiden T-shirts. "Hm," I was thinking, "sleeves? Or sleeve-less?" Soon, I would lay down on my bed to wriggle into a pair of jeans so tight my mother worried that I'd never give her grand-children. Then I'd finish the entire ensemble off with a massive pair of Nike Air high-tops and head off to my freshman year of high-school. I'd get there kind of early, so I could sneak a few cigarettes with my friends.

Suddenly, I was 15 again, roaming the narrow streets of Gibraltar with Live After Death cycling endlessly on my cheesy, too-poor-to-afford-a-real-Walkman portable tape player and drowning out the polyglot sounds of Gibraltar's unique, Spain meets Morrocco meets England at the crossroads culture. I was on a single-minded quest for the "2 Minutes To Midnight" 12", picture-disc single. Maiden's cover of "Rainbow's Gold," I thought, would be a perfect addition to the background music tape I had in mind for my Twilight: 2000 campaign. If I could get a good deal on the disc, I might even be able to pick up a carton of John Player Specials, to boot.

Suddenly, I was 16, poring over Derek Riggs' album art for Somewhere in Time, 288 square inches of cleverly conceived visual references to a lot of my favorite science-fiction stories and movies. Derek Riggs was certainly very cool, I thought, to be able to get all things neat into one futuristically baroque work. I wondered if I'd ever get laid, and determined that when I finally got around to slashing my wrists, I'd have Pink Floyd—no! Billy Joel, better still—wobbling around at 35 rpm on my cheap-ass King's Point stereo, just so no-one would think Iron Maiden had anything to do with my death.

"Run to the Hills" ended, and I was lying in bed, stunned by suddenly being four people all at once.

"Damn," I said lamely. "That takes me back."

Michelle laughed.

"I really have a hard time connecting you," here she patted my chest, "with that song!"

Of course, I have the same problem. Yet, the wince-inducing truth of the matter is that, all through high-school, I was a metal-head. Not the glue-sniffing, drop-out, criminal record metal-head, but the pot-smoking, AP English, AD&D-Elven-thief/acrobat playing metal-head. Think Weezer or Wheatus, not Beavis & Butt-Head, and you'll have a pretty good fix on what I was like.

You know, I'd love to say that I enjoyed the entire metal-head persona, but I didn't. I mean, I went out of my way to make that music important. I extolled the lyrics as poetry, explained the aggressive, repetitive music as being representative of the working-class, industrial background of the musicians and emphasized the historical and mythical subject matter as being, vis-a-vis this blue collar origin, a harmless, escapist attempt to better oneself by wrapping a creative though under-educated mind around classic themes. And I still believe that, but it has nothing to do with why I was a metal-head and chose to listen to soulless, operatic dreck.

See, it all boils down to not wanting to get my ass kicked.

When you're ceaselessly picked on, made fun of and occasionally whomped on after school, you begin to notice differences between yourself and your antagonists. "Hmmmm," you think. "A bunch of long-haired guys in black T-shirts seem pretty determined to make my life a living hell. Why is that?" If you're smart and strong, you realize they're doing it because they're assholes. Then you stand your ground and go on with your life, because you've got important things to do. If you're neither particularly smart nor terribly strong, you also realize they're doing it because they're assholes. However, you've got nothing terribly important to do, no solid ground to stand on and you really just want them to stop. How do you handle this dilemma?

Well, if you're me, you buy a bunch of black T-shirts with a dead guy silkscreened on them and cut the sleeves off, grow your hair long, get contact lenses (very important, that), spend most of your money on a secondhand guitar and pretend you've never even heard of the Beatles. Then you keep a low profile and set your sights on college, just four years down the road.

Of course, years later, you may be reminded of that decision when you least expect it. And it may spook you to think that you ever could have been that stupid. It may spook you so much that you prefer to think of that past decision maker as an entirely different person. That apparently is the price you have to pay.

Oh well, luckily all that is behind me and I've returned to my true, geeky roots. Saturday Marc, Michelle and I are going to see They Might Be Giants. For Marc and I, this seems like a burgeoning annual tradition, as we went down and saw them at the exact same place last April. Unfortunately, opening act OK Go have cancelled out. That's a shame, because we saw them opening for TMBG last year, and they were truly awesome.

Anyway, we'll try to get some photos and a review sometime on Sunday. Until then....

Saturday, March 09, 2002

...three-day weekend!

As you know from a previous post, I've been schlepping my carcass through four days of 10-hour shifts in order to acheive that paragon of plebian pleasures: a three-day weekend. Obviously, since it is currently 11 a.m. and I am at home, I have survived my four very long days and am reaping the glorious bounty of free-time. And, let me tell you, both the reaping and the time are sweet.

My plans for the day are, in no particular order:

1. DRINK some delicious Earl Grey Tea

2. SET UP my webcam (as of 1:11 p.m., this is done! Hooray!)

3. INSTALL the content management system Movable Type on my server

5. GO TO the store for some beer.

5. DRINK aforementioned beer

6. HAVE LUNCH with Michelle at the park near her work. Outside! Believe it or not...

I have the utmost confidence in my ability to perform all these tasks, considering the fact that I woke up this morning—unbidden by any alarm clock, mind you—at 7:30. I rolled over, looked at Michelle and said, in a dumbfounded voice, "I just can't sleep anymore." Already this morning I've: caught up on the news, taken Michelle to work, tuned up my red and blue Magic deck and...well, updated this site. I feel awesome and dripping with accomplishment!

Anyway, changes are afoot. Check back through the day to see how things are coming along.