It's been a tough decade thus far. One flake of snow becomes a small mound, then becomes a massive snowball, and before you know it, you have a mutating monstrosity hurling down a hill picking up more and more steam with each subsequent yard covered. That's kind of how January was for me. The month limped in the door with the heart-wrenching Bengals season flopping in the playoffs (check out my bitter analysis for more) and progressively had larger and larger dumps taken on it in the form of a towed car, blown muffler, general sickliness, ever-present relationship problems, and heaps of money lost, among other delights. With the NFC and AFC championship weekend, though, the world finally seemed to be righting itself and leveling off into a euphoric wonderland of congruity. Why did this happen? What possible explanation could there be for such a sudden turn of events? It's surprisingly simple. Brett Favre fucked up again.
Now, this is going to seem insignificant to the casual Brett Favre voyeur. I mean, how could the well-being of an entire month and even a fledgling decade be contingent on whether or not a 40-year old, Wrangler-slinging quarterback fucks up or not? Again, I have an easy answer. Brett Favre is a fuckup. He's not the 33 touchdown and seven interception quarterback you saw all season. He's not the 107.2 quarterback rating. He's not the fiery yet lovable leader of a multi-talented Minnesota Vikings team. Favre is a walking mistake, and he proved it again in the NFC championship game last weekend.
Throughout much of the second half of the Minnesota Vikings vs. New Orleans Saints championship game, I was Internet-ing with the one-and-only Justin Bragg (you may remember him from such hilarity as our Karate Kid text-a-thon). Justin and I both carry a heavy disdain for Brett Favre, which I'll get to in a bit. Anyway, with the score tied at 28 and time winding down, Favre seemed to be driving the Vikings down the field for a shot at a winning field goal (they got as close as the Saints 33-yard-line). As the suspense mounted and Justin and I fetched razors from our medicine cabinets to slit our wrists with, we began toying with the idea of Favre throwing an interception and the Saints running it back for a touchdown. We figured that such a wondrous moment would result in both of our heads exploding from sheer elation and each member of the collective Vikings fan base vomiting simultaneously.
You see, Favre had a good season. As much as it pains me to say that, he did. He was placed in the perfect situation, supported by a well-oiled offensive juggernaut. This is no secret. Favre was a definitive cog in the operation but not the ignition key. It appeared as if he recognized this. For the most part, he shut his mouth and wielded his tools (Peterson, Rice, Berrian, Taylor, Harvin), while reaping the benefits in wins, stats, and media adoration. However, when the game was on the line, Favre felt like he was the one to make the play. He was the reason they were going to win. He was the team. And that's why the Vikings lost.
The interception was vintage Favre. Justin and I were being about as prophetic as we could be, calling a fumble or interception with each approaching play. But on third-and-15 from the 38-yard-line, the stars aligned. Under pressure, Favre rolled right and threw across his body into the middle of the field where he was picked off by the Saints' Tracy Porter. A sweeter and more predictable moment in sports, these eyes have never seen. I could listen to the KFAN play-by-play of the interception until my ears fell off. Paul Allen's reaction is absolutely priceless. For Justin and me, the entire season of badmouthing Favre had been salvaged because he did what he does best. Favre fucked up.
I'm often asked why I harbor such hostility for Brett Favre. Since starting this blog in late 2007, I've devoted several posts to him (check the archive), each revolving around his supposed retirement announcement and subsequent abduction of the football world's attention. Favre has loitered around the league in order to collect all of the quarterbacking records, including interceptions (done), give a middle finger to the Packers by succeeding with the Vikings (done), and win another Super Bowl (fail). He's been to the Super Bowl twice (1996-97), with the only title coming against Drew Bledsoe's New England Patriots over 13 years ago in '96. It's time for the old man to realize that when the playoffs roll around, he's much more the problem than he is the answer.
Favre is a notorious choker, which becomes more and more apparent each year as he chokes on following through with his retirement. The "gunslinger" mentality that has garnered so much lovable press just doesn't translate to championships. The media's enamored with the mindset because it can admiringly call him the "definition of a football player" and point out how much he seems to love the game, but it will always work against him, as this past NFC championship game illustrated so beautifully. Favre can put on the mask of a team player and supposedly respect the fact that he's part of the circus rather than the ringleader, but when the moment counts, he will feel the need to take over, and he will fuck up.
So, I guess I owe Brett Favre a huge thank you. When I levitated from my couch in some sort of loony ecstasy following the interception, I knew that all was right in the world again. The shitstorm that had enveloped the month of January had subsided, and I was able to sleep peacefully again knowing that Brett Favre fucked up. I can hardly wait to see the disaster again next season.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Text-a-Thon: The Karate Kid (Part II)
Yesterday morning, I woke up poorly rested and a bit hungover. Instead of retreating back to my bed, I did a quick channel surf and landed upon VH1, generally a channel with garbage programming. However, the think tank over at MTV's shitty little brother recently decided to show classic 80s movies from time to time. Today's choice: The Karate Kid. Now, I've blogged about The Karate Kid before. It's one of the most re-watchable movies ever (in a pretty close foot race with Hoosiers), and let's be honest, it probably has the best 80s movie montages (Rocky IV runs a close second).
Anyway, my first inclination was to immediately text my good friend Justin Bragg. No doubt he'd be awake channel surfing as well, basically killing time until the day's slate of NFL playoffs started. Much to my surprise (or not really at all), Justin had already texted to notify me about VH1's showing of The Karate Kid. Feeling a bit down in the dumps as it was, I made no real attempt to get my day going. Instead, Justin and I took part in a biting commentary on the nuances of The Karate Kid, one that no doubt made each of us laugh out loud repeatedly and one that may not be found humorous by anyone else. We're fine with that, though. Trust me.
Justin went to painstaking and tedious measures to transcribe the conversation in its entirety (with pieces of his own commentary added in), and I'd feel dirtier and cheaper than usual if I ripped off his text to post on my own blog. Therefore, I'm going to have to ask everyone to take a trip to Justin Bragg's blog, This Is Jeopardy, and read a juvenile conversation between two morons about a movie made 25 years ago.
I also feel like it's worth mentioning that neither Justin or I own magic space phones that do everything but cook you dinner and wipe your ass. The transcription of this conversation involved probably way more time than it was worth, and the often hurried texting process involved several misspellings and more than a fair share of punctuation and grammar mistakes (Justin probably doesn't care about noting this, but I certainly do).
THE ENTIRE CONVERSATION.
Anyway, my first inclination was to immediately text my good friend Justin Bragg. No doubt he'd be awake channel surfing as well, basically killing time until the day's slate of NFL playoffs started. Much to my surprise (or not really at all), Justin had already texted to notify me about VH1's showing of The Karate Kid. Feeling a bit down in the dumps as it was, I made no real attempt to get my day going. Instead, Justin and I took part in a biting commentary on the nuances of The Karate Kid, one that no doubt made each of us laugh out loud repeatedly and one that may not be found humorous by anyone else. We're fine with that, though. Trust me.
Justin went to painstaking and tedious measures to transcribe the conversation in its entirety (with pieces of his own commentary added in), and I'd feel dirtier and cheaper than usual if I ripped off his text to post on my own blog. Therefore, I'm going to have to ask everyone to take a trip to Justin Bragg's blog, This Is Jeopardy, and read a juvenile conversation between two morons about a movie made 25 years ago.
I also feel like it's worth mentioning that neither Justin or I own magic space phones that do everything but cook you dinner and wipe your ass. The transcription of this conversation involved probably way more time than it was worth, and the often hurried texting process involved several misspellings and more than a fair share of punctuation and grammar mistakes (Justin probably doesn't care about noting this, but I certainly do).
THE ENTIRE CONVERSATION.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The Worst Bengals Season of My Life.
Back in 2005, a streaking 4-1 Bengals team met an overmatched 2-3 Texans team. The Texans were a team mired in mediocrity, never having found their way since entering the league in 2002. The Bengals were a team on the rise with a dynamic offense headed up by soon-to-be Pro Bowler Carson Palmer and surrounded by an outspoken and talented receiving core. Things were meshing for the Bengals, aside from their defense of course. Still trying to find its way under "defensive mastermind" Marvin Lewis, the defense basically relied on the offense to outscore opponents. As we all know, that didn't quite work out, albeit a solid effort. The season ended with the Bengals limping into the playoffs, and Carson eventually boarding the infamous shame-mobile and being carted off the field with a shredded ACL. Only two plays into the playoffs, and the offensive juggernaut and season were shut down.
So, why am I bringing up that Texans game, anyway? Well, I vividly remembering watching that Texans game and being hopelessly frustrated the entire time. Sure, the defense was playing well enough, but the offense was sputtering and not putting an inferior team away. Final score: Bengals 16 Texans 10. Yes, we won. That's all fine and dandy, but there's no reason a punchline like the Texans should've hung around like that. I've watched what seems like 43 trillion games in which the Bengals were the punchline, and the opponent impolitely put its cleat on our team's collective throat. However, this game was an exception to what proved to be a season of potent scoring and lackluster defense. Which would you prefer?
So, who was really confident going into the playoffs this season? I suppose several of us, myself included, were foolishly confident. Big mistake. The team scored over 20 points in only six games during the regular season. They didn't score a second half touchdown in six consecutive games (unreal). Carson threw for over 300 yards once all season (a loss to the Chargers in which our offense looked semi-competent and the game was actually entertaining). Awful teams like Kansas City, Detroit, Cleveland, and Oakland stuck around in games and in Oakland's case, actually won. Wins are wins, and I understand that, but the frustration and anxiety expended by the possibility of having to watch shit teams attempt onside kicks at the ends of games is unforgivable. Finally, the fact that the Bengals had to wait until the end of overtime to beat the worst team in the NFL at the moment (Browns) is straight disgusting. That game made me want to dropkick the TV.
Everything came to a head in the Jets game last Saturday. The Bengals had been sliding along the floor on their asses for the majority of the season and barely eeking out games. They deserved to lose and we, the Bengals supporting public, were appropriately left unsatisfied by the game, the season, and the team as a whole. I don't know about you, but I'd much rather watch a viscous offensive stallion rampage teams and leave it up to an okay defense to hold its ground. If it doesn't happen, that sucks, but at least I got to watch a goddamn entertaining football game. Those were few and far between this season. Just fucking entertain me. That should be your business. Being content can be a dangerous thing. AFC North champs? Big whoop. Hosting a playoff game? Pffffft. Yeah, you best believe I'm still bitter.
Suck it, Bengals.
Rant over.
So, why am I bringing up that Texans game, anyway? Well, I vividly remembering watching that Texans game and being hopelessly frustrated the entire time. Sure, the defense was playing well enough, but the offense was sputtering and not putting an inferior team away. Final score: Bengals 16 Texans 10. Yes, we won. That's all fine and dandy, but there's no reason a punchline like the Texans should've hung around like that. I've watched what seems like 43 trillion games in which the Bengals were the punchline, and the opponent impolitely put its cleat on our team's collective throat. However, this game was an exception to what proved to be a season of potent scoring and lackluster defense. Which would you prefer?
So, who was really confident going into the playoffs this season? I suppose several of us, myself included, were foolishly confident. Big mistake. The team scored over 20 points in only six games during the regular season. They didn't score a second half touchdown in six consecutive games (unreal). Carson threw for over 300 yards once all season (a loss to the Chargers in which our offense looked semi-competent and the game was actually entertaining). Awful teams like Kansas City, Detroit, Cleveland, and Oakland stuck around in games and in Oakland's case, actually won. Wins are wins, and I understand that, but the frustration and anxiety expended by the possibility of having to watch shit teams attempt onside kicks at the ends of games is unforgivable. Finally, the fact that the Bengals had to wait until the end of overtime to beat the worst team in the NFL at the moment (Browns) is straight disgusting. That game made me want to dropkick the TV.
Everything came to a head in the Jets game last Saturday. The Bengals had been sliding along the floor on their asses for the majority of the season and barely eeking out games. They deserved to lose and we, the Bengals supporting public, were appropriately left unsatisfied by the game, the season, and the team as a whole. I don't know about you, but I'd much rather watch a viscous offensive stallion rampage teams and leave it up to an okay defense to hold its ground. If it doesn't happen, that sucks, but at least I got to watch a goddamn entertaining football game. Those were few and far between this season. Just fucking entertain me. That should be your business. Being content can be a dangerous thing. AFC North champs? Big whoop. Hosting a playoff game? Pffffft. Yeah, you best believe I'm still bitter.
Suck it, Bengals.
Rant over.
Friday, December 25, 2009
A Few Quick Christmas Thoughts.
I'm currently sitting in front of my mom's fancy brand new computer with an oversized screen and fast-as-all-hell Internet and reminiscing about the glories of Christmas in Cincinnati. First off, staying at my mom's house is the equivalent to a luxurious vacation. I have an unlimited amount of treats awaiting me each and every time I come into town. For instance, I arrived around 5 PM on Wednesday with a hankering for LaRosa's. I walked in, suggested it, and was stuffing my face an hour later. Her appreciation for seeing both me and my brothers has ratcheted up significantly in the past few years, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to take advantage. Maybe "take advantage" is the wrong way to say it. Um, let's instead say enjoy the countless amenities my mother provides. There, that's better.
Sitting in the Northside Tavern on Christmas Eve with some close friends, we came to the obvious conclusion that Christmas has lost all its luster. Who knew this could ever happen? I have no real interest in getting presents and basking in the glory of the holidays. Instead, I'm most excited to sit at a bar (like the Northside Tavern) with close friends and discuss how Christmas has become more of a reason instead of a result. I'm cool with this development of a semi anti-Christmas sentiment. Number one, I knew it would happen eventually. No big shock. Number two, it still gives everyone a reason to truck into town, get drunk at old haunts, reflect on the past year with rarely seen friends, make plans to visit one another (knowing you never actually will), and eventually continue on your own merry way. I love this about the holidays (for real). Number three, the trite and cheeseball frills of the holidays aren't as prevalent as they once were because you've diligently worked the past few years at surrounding yourself with equally jaded and sarcastic friends and family members. Definitely the best part.
My stomach anticipates the coming of Christmas and New Year's Eve and rallies to house as much shit food and alcohol it can possibly handle. It then refuses to tolerate any such action throughout the rest of the year (just ask the last couple of camping trips I've been on). I can only assume it's some type of camel-like quality that provides me with supernatural strength and intelligence throughout the following year. Seems like the most obvious answer.
Okay, I'm heading back to watch snippets of A Christmas Story (without ever actually seeing it in its entirety) and eat homemade chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. Happy holidays and all that.
Sitting in the Northside Tavern on Christmas Eve with some close friends, we came to the obvious conclusion that Christmas has lost all its luster. Who knew this could ever happen? I have no real interest in getting presents and basking in the glory of the holidays. Instead, I'm most excited to sit at a bar (like the Northside Tavern) with close friends and discuss how Christmas has become more of a reason instead of a result. I'm cool with this development of a semi anti-Christmas sentiment. Number one, I knew it would happen eventually. No big shock. Number two, it still gives everyone a reason to truck into town, get drunk at old haunts, reflect on the past year with rarely seen friends, make plans to visit one another (knowing you never actually will), and eventually continue on your own merry way. I love this about the holidays (for real). Number three, the trite and cheeseball frills of the holidays aren't as prevalent as they once were because you've diligently worked the past few years at surrounding yourself with equally jaded and sarcastic friends and family members. Definitely the best part.
My stomach anticipates the coming of Christmas and New Year's Eve and rallies to house as much shit food and alcohol it can possibly handle. It then refuses to tolerate any such action throughout the rest of the year (just ask the last couple of camping trips I've been on). I can only assume it's some type of camel-like quality that provides me with supernatural strength and intelligence throughout the following year. Seems like the most obvious answer.
Okay, I'm heading back to watch snippets of A Christmas Story (without ever actually seeing it in its entirety) and eat homemade chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. Happy holidays and all that.
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Albums of 2009.
It's that time of the year again. Time for my annual "Best Albums" feature where I act like I'm knowledgeable and insightful when it comes to discussing current music trends. Sounds like a fun game, right? It's inevitable that I will leave off several notable albums this year, but if I can't remember them off the top of my head, then they're not really worth noting (for the most part). I glanced back at last year's list and realized that I was completely right on all counts. So, why would this year be any different? I'm both a year older and a year wiser. This was a spectacular year of releases, so I'm bumping it up a notch from last year and giving you my 15 top albums of 2009, in no particular order (I think).
1. Converge - Axe to Fall - This gets my vote for album of the year for three reasons. First, Converge is one of my all-time favorites, and they can do no wrong. Second, this album runs step for step with the quartet's masterpiece, Jane Doe, which is a lofty statement to say the least. Third, Converge went on an inspired face-melting mission and guitarist Kurt Ballou hitched a ride on a dream cloud to the Xanadu of brutal riffage and bought a townhouse there. The first five songs are reason enough to worship this onslaught of sonic dynamite. Fucking brilliant.
2. Pissed Jeans - King of Jeans - Surlier, dirtier, and louder than Hope for Men, complete with an endearing basement show ambiance of sweat, blood, and booze. You can practically feel the spit from the slurs and growls of frontman Matt Korvette. It's the kind of performance that reminds me of an overly exerted, red-faced singer puking in the corner after practically killing himself while attempting to entertain 18 kids at a shitty bowling alley basement show. All out, all the time.
3. St. Vincent - Actor - I'm in love with Annie Clark, and she's in love with me, or so I repeatedly tell myself (over and over and over). Regardless of our passionate love for one another, her shining album as St. Vincent is a meandering trail of sugary yet astute indie rock that isn't afraid to get messy and noisy from time to time. Clark is the quintessential bandleader, with a talent for beautiful quirk and a charismatic charm that could persuade me to eat a heaping bowl of dirt.
4. Fuck Buttons - Tarot Sport - This Bristol duo ditched much of the abrasiveness from its debut, Street Horrrsing, and produced a haunting soundtrack of noise that builds ominous beat upon ominous beat as snippets of sound ricochet from one quadrant of a song to another. The album's personality is the equivalent to the perfect sci-fi horror movie scene, littered with blood thirsty aliens probing petrified victims with eight-foot long needles beneath blinding spotlights. The climactic closing track, "Flight of the Feathered Serpent," is goddamn chilling.
5. Sleepy Sun - Embrace - A hearty slice of stoner rock pie. This sextet doesn't attempt to disguise their certain Sabbath allegiances, which is actually kind of refreshing. I saw these guys in an intimate theatre with seating. Although they were slightly off-put by playing to 35 seated concertgoers, it didn't temper their charming enthusiasm. Fuzzed-out, weed-scented guitar licks galore, with Rachel Williams (who can straight fucking bellow) and Bret Constantino's vocals casually strolling alongside. A good trip.
6. Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavilion - I loved the audacity Stereogum exhibited when it named this the album of the year directly after it's release way back in January. Seems brash, presumptuous, and just a little fucking ridiculous, doesn't it? Well, the readers elected it album of the year in Stereogum's recently published Best of 2009 Extravaganza. Of course they did. Either Stereogum dangled a mutant-sized carrot in front of its impressionable readers' faces for 11 months, or I'm calling a goddamn conspiracy. I mean, who wants to turn around and see his own foot in his ass? All that being said, the album does in fact dominate.
7. Box Elders - Alice and Friends - Poppy low-fi garage goodness with a Dead Milkmen-like charm. This album is by no means mind-blowingly spectacular, but it's so damn fun that I can't deny it from this list. I feel like I've missed seeing these guys something like eight times (they're always coming through Chicago), and I'm reminded of my brazen stupidity each time I spin this album. Mindless, head-bobbing good times.
8. Baroness - Blue Record - While Red Album proved to be Baroness's coming out party, it lacked cohesion. This album, though, is an equal-part batter of metal doom riffs, transcendent melodic guitar, guttural and fiery vocals, and intricate, shitstorm drumming. It has eerie valleys and triumphant peaks abound, and there are unusual moments where it sounds like I'm being chased by gaggles of demonic trolls. Currently the best prog-ish metal band calling the state of Georgia home (in case you didn't know, Mastodon's from Atlanta).
9. Double Dagger - More - These guys pair perfectly with a sweaty and sticky art space show that has a fridge full of dollar PBRs, a 20-minute bathroom wait, and thin clouds of smoke hanging just overhead (I experienced this dream setting over the summer). Bass, drums, vocals, and enough frenetic energy to make a five-year old shit right through his pants. Is it just me, or does Baltimore have an outstanding music scene?
10. Bat for Lashes - Two Suns - I cheat on St. Vincent's Annie Clark with Natasha Khan of Bat for Lashes. That's just how shit rolls, ya know? They both understand. Plus, Khan's albums are spells. They literally sound like a benevolent sorcerer concocted them, sprinkling sprite dust and unicorn ashes over each tune. Two Suns is enchanting and daze-inducing. Check out the video for "What's A Girl to Do" off of her debut Fur & Gold and convince me you're not mesmerized. Sounds like magic.
11. Magik Markers - Balf Quarry - The apparent u-turn that was 2007's Boss proved to be the fantastic realization of a newly mapped route as duo Elisa Ambrogio and Pete Nolan moved toward more structured ways of songwritng. Balf Quarry continues in that direction with drone noises and blips loosely held together by Ambrogio's ominous, echoed vocals and Nolan's rudimentary drumming. Once you think you're contently dazing off (see "State Number"), the album inflicts multiple blows to the solar plexus (see "The Lighter Side of...Hippies"), leaving you disoriented by the album's polarity, but still quite content.
12. Dan Deacon - Bromst - Heard this story before? A classically trained electronic musician (whatever that means) who wears garish neon clothing, seems to barf arty bullshit, and looks like he'd molest your children? That's Dan Deacon, alright. I respect ambition, and Deacon's got so much it makes him seem like a pretentious, holier than thou fartbag. The simple fact is that the man is a talented whatchamacallit, and this album is a swirling grab bag of electro-excellence. Critics have called it "darker" than Spiderman of the Rings. Whatever. It's still a fun romp and makes me feel like I'm forever jumping on a moonbounce inside an abandoned Chuck E. Cheese.
13. Lightning Bolt - Earthly Delights - I shouldn't really have to go into much detail here. Uhhh . . . there was a new Lightning Bolt album this year--the first since 2005's Hypermagic Mountain. It's fucking Lightning Bolt. No drastic shift musically. They still sound like the apocalypse. Lightning Bolt, fuck.
14. Future of the Left - Travels With Myself and Another - With enough piss and vinegar to drown a little league baseball team, the Welsh trio's sophomore album expands on the ferocity and simplistic crunch of 2007's Curses with a scorcher of middle-finger-right-up-in-your-asshole-face punk rock. No longer stuck in the "ex-Mclusky" pigeonhole, Future of the Left has rightfully secured its own identity and the splendidly volatile mixture of anthemic jaunts coupled with pissed-off, snarly poundings prove that the Welsh boys are worth looking up.
15. Wye Oak - The Knot - This is the third Baltimore band/artist on my list. What the fuck is up, Charm City? Anyway, there's just something adorable and endearing about this indie rock duo. Since their debut If Children, Jenn Wasner's vocals matured with a heartfelt soulfulness and the cultivated songwriting now peeks into rooms of complexity, working with cascading melodies and almost tangible emotion. Wye Oak reminds me of eating a giant banana split sundae at an ice cream parlor on a dreary spring day and watching an unaffected dude break up with his sobbing girlfriend in the booth across from me.
Honorable Mention: Health - Get Color, Deer Tick - Born on Flag Day, Passion Pit - Manners, Phoenix - Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, Drug Rug - Paint the Fence Invisible, Obits - I Blame You, Anni Rossi - Rockwell
1. Converge - Axe to Fall - This gets my vote for album of the year for three reasons. First, Converge is one of my all-time favorites, and they can do no wrong. Second, this album runs step for step with the quartet's masterpiece, Jane Doe, which is a lofty statement to say the least. Third, Converge went on an inspired face-melting mission and guitarist Kurt Ballou hitched a ride on a dream cloud to the Xanadu of brutal riffage and bought a townhouse there. The first five songs are reason enough to worship this onslaught of sonic dynamite. Fucking brilliant.
2. Pissed Jeans - King of Jeans - Surlier, dirtier, and louder than Hope for Men, complete with an endearing basement show ambiance of sweat, blood, and booze. You can practically feel the spit from the slurs and growls of frontman Matt Korvette. It's the kind of performance that reminds me of an overly exerted, red-faced singer puking in the corner after practically killing himself while attempting to entertain 18 kids at a shitty bowling alley basement show. All out, all the time.
3. St. Vincent - Actor - I'm in love with Annie Clark, and she's in love with me, or so I repeatedly tell myself (over and over and over). Regardless of our passionate love for one another, her shining album as St. Vincent is a meandering trail of sugary yet astute indie rock that isn't afraid to get messy and noisy from time to time. Clark is the quintessential bandleader, with a talent for beautiful quirk and a charismatic charm that could persuade me to eat a heaping bowl of dirt.
4. Fuck Buttons - Tarot Sport - This Bristol duo ditched much of the abrasiveness from its debut, Street Horrrsing, and produced a haunting soundtrack of noise that builds ominous beat upon ominous beat as snippets of sound ricochet from one quadrant of a song to another. The album's personality is the equivalent to the perfect sci-fi horror movie scene, littered with blood thirsty aliens probing petrified victims with eight-foot long needles beneath blinding spotlights. The climactic closing track, "Flight of the Feathered Serpent," is goddamn chilling.
5. Sleepy Sun - Embrace - A hearty slice of stoner rock pie. This sextet doesn't attempt to disguise their certain Sabbath allegiances, which is actually kind of refreshing. I saw these guys in an intimate theatre with seating. Although they were slightly off-put by playing to 35 seated concertgoers, it didn't temper their charming enthusiasm. Fuzzed-out, weed-scented guitar licks galore, with Rachel Williams (who can straight fucking bellow) and Bret Constantino's vocals casually strolling alongside. A good trip.
6. Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavilion - I loved the audacity Stereogum exhibited when it named this the album of the year directly after it's release way back in January. Seems brash, presumptuous, and just a little fucking ridiculous, doesn't it? Well, the readers elected it album of the year in Stereogum's recently published Best of 2009 Extravaganza. Of course they did. Either Stereogum dangled a mutant-sized carrot in front of its impressionable readers' faces for 11 months, or I'm calling a goddamn conspiracy. I mean, who wants to turn around and see his own foot in his ass? All that being said, the album does in fact dominate.
7. Box Elders - Alice and Friends - Poppy low-fi garage goodness with a Dead Milkmen-like charm. This album is by no means mind-blowingly spectacular, but it's so damn fun that I can't deny it from this list. I feel like I've missed seeing these guys something like eight times (they're always coming through Chicago), and I'm reminded of my brazen stupidity each time I spin this album. Mindless, head-bobbing good times.
8. Baroness - Blue Record - While Red Album proved to be Baroness's coming out party, it lacked cohesion. This album, though, is an equal-part batter of metal doom riffs, transcendent melodic guitar, guttural and fiery vocals, and intricate, shitstorm drumming. It has eerie valleys and triumphant peaks abound, and there are unusual moments where it sounds like I'm being chased by gaggles of demonic trolls. Currently the best prog-ish metal band calling the state of Georgia home (in case you didn't know, Mastodon's from Atlanta).
9. Double Dagger - More - These guys pair perfectly with a sweaty and sticky art space show that has a fridge full of dollar PBRs, a 20-minute bathroom wait, and thin clouds of smoke hanging just overhead (I experienced this dream setting over the summer). Bass, drums, vocals, and enough frenetic energy to make a five-year old shit right through his pants. Is it just me, or does Baltimore have an outstanding music scene?
10. Bat for Lashes - Two Suns - I cheat on St. Vincent's Annie Clark with Natasha Khan of Bat for Lashes. That's just how shit rolls, ya know? They both understand. Plus, Khan's albums are spells. They literally sound like a benevolent sorcerer concocted them, sprinkling sprite dust and unicorn ashes over each tune. Two Suns is enchanting and daze-inducing. Check out the video for "What's A Girl to Do" off of her debut Fur & Gold and convince me you're not mesmerized. Sounds like magic.
11. Magik Markers - Balf Quarry - The apparent u-turn that was 2007's Boss proved to be the fantastic realization of a newly mapped route as duo Elisa Ambrogio and Pete Nolan moved toward more structured ways of songwritng. Balf Quarry continues in that direction with drone noises and blips loosely held together by Ambrogio's ominous, echoed vocals and Nolan's rudimentary drumming. Once you think you're contently dazing off (see "State Number"), the album inflicts multiple blows to the solar plexus (see "The Lighter Side of...Hippies"), leaving you disoriented by the album's polarity, but still quite content.
12. Dan Deacon - Bromst - Heard this story before? A classically trained electronic musician (whatever that means) who wears garish neon clothing, seems to barf arty bullshit, and looks like he'd molest your children? That's Dan Deacon, alright. I respect ambition, and Deacon's got so much it makes him seem like a pretentious, holier than thou fartbag. The simple fact is that the man is a talented whatchamacallit, and this album is a swirling grab bag of electro-excellence. Critics have called it "darker" than Spiderman of the Rings. Whatever. It's still a fun romp and makes me feel like I'm forever jumping on a moonbounce inside an abandoned Chuck E. Cheese.
13. Lightning Bolt - Earthly Delights - I shouldn't really have to go into much detail here. Uhhh . . . there was a new Lightning Bolt album this year--the first since 2005's Hypermagic Mountain. It's fucking Lightning Bolt. No drastic shift musically. They still sound like the apocalypse. Lightning Bolt, fuck.
14. Future of the Left - Travels With Myself and Another - With enough piss and vinegar to drown a little league baseball team, the Welsh trio's sophomore album expands on the ferocity and simplistic crunch of 2007's Curses with a scorcher of middle-finger-right-up-in-your-asshole-face punk rock. No longer stuck in the "ex-Mclusky" pigeonhole, Future of the Left has rightfully secured its own identity and the splendidly volatile mixture of anthemic jaunts coupled with pissed-off, snarly poundings prove that the Welsh boys are worth looking up.
15. Wye Oak - The Knot - This is the third Baltimore band/artist on my list. What the fuck is up, Charm City? Anyway, there's just something adorable and endearing about this indie rock duo. Since their debut If Children, Jenn Wasner's vocals matured with a heartfelt soulfulness and the cultivated songwriting now peeks into rooms of complexity, working with cascading melodies and almost tangible emotion. Wye Oak reminds me of eating a giant banana split sundae at an ice cream parlor on a dreary spring day and watching an unaffected dude break up with his sobbing girlfriend in the booth across from me.
Honorable Mention: Health - Get Color, Deer Tick - Born on Flag Day, Passion Pit - Manners, Phoenix - Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, Drug Rug - Paint the Fence Invisible, Obits - I Blame You, Anni Rossi - Rockwell
Thursday, November 26, 2009
A Thankful Thanksgiving (Pretty Much)
I'm sitting at my computer at 12:43 PM on Thanksgiving in Chicago. For the first year ever, I'm not celebrating Thanksgiving with my family. There are various reasons for this, and they're all understandable. With that being said, I'm pretty cool with it and looking forward to this Thanksgiving more than any other in recent memory. Loren (also not making the trip back to New Jersey) and I are going to prepare a feast consisting of Lasagna, Tofurkey, cornbread, mashed taters, and broccoli. We're going to cook, devour, drink beer, watch football, and go to the movies. Pretty stellar day if you ask me. Plus, I saw Baroness last night and will once again behold the glory of the Jesus Lizard this Saturday.
Anyway, I feel like it's important to compile a rundown of things I'm thankful for (a rarity). While many may see me as a sarcastic, dry, paranoid, rigid, and pessimistic person, I am actually thankful for various people, influences, and relationships in my life. All that being said, I refuse to make this list a sappy lovefest of bullshit.
First off (and because they're both loyal readers), I'm thankful that this man and his wife are moving to Chicago. Justin got a job with Teach for America, and I supported him through the painstaking phases he had to endure. It was not an easily accomplished task and we're all very proud of him. What makes this so amazing is that things like this don't happen. Justin and I tend to share a brain from time to time, and yes I know I hold an overall advantage because I beat him in a push-up contest, but the point is that while this moved seemed imminent, neither of us felt truly confident it would come to fruition. We're just not lucky like that. Well, now it's time to keep our fingers crossed that the July 2010 doesn't get jinxed. Regardless, I'm pumped.
I'm thankful for my job. Given, work is work, and it can straight fucking blow balls, but I kind of lucked out (aside from compensation). The advantages of my job at the Reader are as follows: No rules on clothing (see these four year old jeans with the whole in the crotch? Yeah, I'm wearing those to work), everyone I work with pretty much rules, cursing is well-accepted and often encouraged, perks upon perks (mostly music related), and the Reader's a goddamn respected institution in this city with brilliant writers and editors. I often want to complain about my job, but I really just can't.
I'm thankful for sports and all sports-related programming, podcasts, magazines, and discussion. We can just leave it at that.
Not really. I'm also thankful for commercials that air during football games. Not because they're good or intentionally funny, but because I love how blatantly they target what is deemed the typical football watching crowd (married men ages 35-60). My personal favorite is a Viagra commercial where a middle-aged man is confronted by his "other self" during a trip to the doctor. The man seems flabbergasted and embarrassed by the "other self's" suggestion that it's time to discuss his erectile dysfunction with the doctor. Although initially shocked by the proposal, the old fart is easily convinced. Leaving the doctor after talking about his wiener problem, he high fives his "other self" gives it a content nod of the head and meets his wife in a pleasant-looking park for an early evening stroll and dinner. I can only assume that they later go home, and he bangs the shit out of her. Viagra and cornball Kay Jewelry commercials have more unintentional comedic moments than most commercials on television, and they each revolve around some doofus showing his wife or significant other either his boner or a big fat fucking diamond--they usually seem more excited about the diamond.
I'm thankful for my two mopeds, two bikes, motorcycle, and car because it's obvious that I need each one of them. I'm not even going to lie--I love to look at all of my two-wheeled modes of transportation. I fucking love it, and I want more.
I'm thankful that I've maintained long term (and basically lifelong) friendships. I've know one Michael Short since I was eight and have been super tight with Russell "The Love Muscle" Vance, Michael "Juggernaut" Coates, Zach "Spazz" Thomas, Kenny Roa, and Billy Hartmann for over a decade. I greatly appreciate this, not because they are good people, but because the amount of joke material I have on each one is recyclable for eternity. They'll never go away and neither will I. And although I've only known him since 2007, I'll also include Justin Bragg in my list. Mainly because he's so damn exhausting to be around, it feels like I've know him for practically twenty years.
Finally, here's a quick list of things I'm thankful for that don't warrant their own paragraphs: My ability to find amazing parking spots, my chiseled jawline, Heidi's butterscotch cookies, my superior amount of Seinfeld knowledge, Logan Square, my mom's never ending tolerance of me and my brothers, adrenaline, never having gotten pulled over on the highway, Peyton Manning, my TV series DVD collection, my awesome apartment, Chicago brunch, and recliners, among many other treats that are escaping me at the moment.
P.S. I am not thankful for the way that Brett Favre and Vince Young are currently playing quarterback. Justin and I have been talking shit on them for years, and they're currently taking a crap on us. Stop it! Stop playing well and making us look like we don't know what we're talking about. We've always seen ourselves as trailblazing thinkers and great sports hypothesizers.
Favre: I'm going to need you to go to your Mississippi farm and run over your right arm with a tractor.
Young: I need you to go flunk another test so we can continue to make fun of how dumb you are, dummy.
You guys suck.
Anyway, I feel like it's important to compile a rundown of things I'm thankful for (a rarity). While many may see me as a sarcastic, dry, paranoid, rigid, and pessimistic person, I am actually thankful for various people, influences, and relationships in my life. All that being said, I refuse to make this list a sappy lovefest of bullshit.
First off (and because they're both loyal readers), I'm thankful that this man and his wife are moving to Chicago. Justin got a job with Teach for America, and I supported him through the painstaking phases he had to endure. It was not an easily accomplished task and we're all very proud of him. What makes this so amazing is that things like this don't happen. Justin and I tend to share a brain from time to time, and yes I know I hold an overall advantage because I beat him in a push-up contest, but the point is that while this moved seemed imminent, neither of us felt truly confident it would come to fruition. We're just not lucky like that. Well, now it's time to keep our fingers crossed that the July 2010 doesn't get jinxed. Regardless, I'm pumped.
I'm thankful for my job. Given, work is work, and it can straight fucking blow balls, but I kind of lucked out (aside from compensation). The advantages of my job at the Reader are as follows: No rules on clothing (see these four year old jeans with the whole in the crotch? Yeah, I'm wearing those to work), everyone I work with pretty much rules, cursing is well-accepted and often encouraged, perks upon perks (mostly music related), and the Reader's a goddamn respected institution in this city with brilliant writers and editors. I often want to complain about my job, but I really just can't.
I'm thankful for sports and all sports-related programming, podcasts, magazines, and discussion. We can just leave it at that.
Not really. I'm also thankful for commercials that air during football games. Not because they're good or intentionally funny, but because I love how blatantly they target what is deemed the typical football watching crowd (married men ages 35-60). My personal favorite is a Viagra commercial where a middle-aged man is confronted by his "other self" during a trip to the doctor. The man seems flabbergasted and embarrassed by the "other self's" suggestion that it's time to discuss his erectile dysfunction with the doctor. Although initially shocked by the proposal, the old fart is easily convinced. Leaving the doctor after talking about his wiener problem, he high fives his "other self" gives it a content nod of the head and meets his wife in a pleasant-looking park for an early evening stroll and dinner. I can only assume that they later go home, and he bangs the shit out of her. Viagra and cornball Kay Jewelry commercials have more unintentional comedic moments than most commercials on television, and they each revolve around some doofus showing his wife or significant other either his boner or a big fat fucking diamond--they usually seem more excited about the diamond.
I'm thankful for my two mopeds, two bikes, motorcycle, and car because it's obvious that I need each one of them. I'm not even going to lie--I love to look at all of my two-wheeled modes of transportation. I fucking love it, and I want more.
I'm thankful that I've maintained long term (and basically lifelong) friendships. I've know one Michael Short since I was eight and have been super tight with Russell "The Love Muscle" Vance, Michael "Juggernaut" Coates, Zach "Spazz" Thomas, Kenny Roa, and Billy Hartmann for over a decade. I greatly appreciate this, not because they are good people, but because the amount of joke material I have on each one is recyclable for eternity. They'll never go away and neither will I. And although I've only known him since 2007, I'll also include Justin Bragg in my list. Mainly because he's so damn exhausting to be around, it feels like I've know him for practically twenty years.
Finally, here's a quick list of things I'm thankful for that don't warrant their own paragraphs: My ability to find amazing parking spots, my chiseled jawline, Heidi's butterscotch cookies, my superior amount of Seinfeld knowledge, Logan Square, my mom's never ending tolerance of me and my brothers, adrenaline, never having gotten pulled over on the highway, Peyton Manning, my TV series DVD collection, my awesome apartment, Chicago brunch, and recliners, among many other treats that are escaping me at the moment.
P.S. I am not thankful for the way that Brett Favre and Vince Young are currently playing quarterback. Justin and I have been talking shit on them for years, and they're currently taking a crap on us. Stop it! Stop playing well and making us look like we don't know what we're talking about. We've always seen ourselves as trailblazing thinkers and great sports hypothesizers.
Favre: I'm going to need you to go to your Mississippi farm and run over your right arm with a tractor.
Young: I need you to go flunk another test so we can continue to make fun of how dumb you are, dummy.
You guys suck.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Indiana Cabin Weekend and Halloween: A Polaroid Story.
So, I've recently become a big fan of Polaroid photos, and I decided to lightly document my last two major weekends using Polaroid film. A couple of weekends ago, a top-notch group of us went "camping" in Who the Hell Knows Where, Indiana. Actually, as I was driving through the local sticks listening to the radio, the area was being referred to as Kentuckiana, a more objectionable, awful description I cannot recall. Anyway, we spent the weekend playing cornhole, drinking beer, hiking, playing cornhole, listening to Kenny make crude comments, basking in a campfire, watching Justin grill things, and slurring curse words together. It was a goddamn delight.
Note: I mistakenly left Zach Thomas's name off the "posse" Polaroid. It should read "Posse minus Russ, Zach, and Brian." My fault, Robert Zachary Thomas.
Click on the photos for larger versions.
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This past weekend contained the best day of the year. The one day where it's socially acceptable to walk around in a cheetah leotard or flaunt an obscene amount of cleavage. Does it really matter what you even do on Halloween? As long as you're at some party, bar, or random gathering where people are dressed up and maybe slightly intoxicated, everyone's fantastically happy. I know, I know, I went as zombie. Cliche as hell, right? Well, fuck off. It was my and Carley's idea because she's been plowing through her fear of zombies and we had a good "makeup artist" to take care of us (Ricki). Regardless, it was a blast of a night. I ran out of film much too early to document much of the debauchery that ensued. Bummer.
.jpg)
Note: I mistakenly left Zach Thomas's name off the "posse" Polaroid. It should read "Posse minus Russ, Zach, and Brian." My fault, Robert Zachary Thomas.
Click on the photos for larger versions.
.jpg)
This past weekend contained the best day of the year. The one day where it's socially acceptable to walk around in a cheetah leotard or flaunt an obscene amount of cleavage. Does it really matter what you even do on Halloween? As long as you're at some party, bar, or random gathering where people are dressed up and maybe slightly intoxicated, everyone's fantastically happy. I know, I know, I went as zombie. Cliche as hell, right? Well, fuck off. It was my and Carley's idea because she's been plowing through her fear of zombies and we had a good "makeup artist" to take care of us (Ricki). Regardless, it was a blast of a night. I ran out of film much too early to document much of the debauchery that ensued. Bummer.
.jpg)
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