test 2

test

Classixx Cut Copy @ The Echoplex

Tonight Cut Copy made me feel like I’ve finally inherited the music that I was born in to. Tonight’s show at the Echoplex was like the Depeche Mode show I never went to, but 10 times better. Dan Whitford’s voice, both haunting and heartbreakingly beautiful, layered over polished new wave beats, seduced us all into a trance of sunny disco dance, arms thrust into the air as he beseeched, “Come on LA, its time to Dance.” And dance we did.

Classixx was hot, toe curling foreplay. Michael David and Tyler Blake (yes, they both have two first names) seamlessly infused feel good pop songs, like The Ting Ting’s “Shut Up and Let Me Go” with dirty beats that really warmed up the crowd.

I waited two hours in line to get tickets to this show. I was one of the few lucky peeps who actually got in without buying tickets beforehand, and I was not disappointed. Tonight was epic.

Oh, AND, I had a nice conversation with Will.I.Am, and bought Taboo a Red Bull. For some reason, I found it incredibly easy to approach celebrities, but terribly difficult to talk to the totally hot and shy Chicano version of Pharrell Williams that was rockin’ some sweet Creative Recreations. Go figure.

Take me to Zynth. And step on it.

The Troubadour 3/24. Saul Williams & Dragons of Zynth

The Return of the GLAM. A little glitter goes a long way. With the exception of a few notable artists, the performer has been stripped down to bedhead, and plain white tees, shoegazing in yesterday’s jeans. I’ve heard many different, good sounds, but on stage, its been that same old indie shtick time and time again. I’m bored. I pay good money. Excite me. Make me want to throw my bra on stage. Now.

Enter Dragons of Zynth. Feathers. A velvet paisley jacket. Tiro is wearing his “invisible hat” — I think its a Gilligan hat covered in cheap dollar store feathers–looks like something out of a high-school drama department closet, but it works. Damn does it work. He always liked being invisible. He used to walk around campus with the most opaque/reflective aviator shades I had ever seen. When you looked at him, your image would always be glaring right back at you. Watching myself speak to this uber artsy intellect made me insecure, turned me off. It worked like magic. Invisible he was.

To be continued. To be addressed: All the reviews say that DOZ’s strength is in their lack of cohesion. True. The vomit of sound is what excited, shocked, & turned my ear on and off. Who is to say what a song should be? Problem is, there’s a formula, a format, a little thing called a melody and chorus and bridge that makes a song “listenable,” easy on the ears –> easy to get stuck in your head –> easy to buy the record, etc. With the exception of Anna Mae, (and that includes War Lover and Rock Sar which I would call themes on Anna Mae)…does it work? Live? yes.

Saul Williams. Blue glitter. Heavy beats hit me in the chest like a shot of whiskey. Warm, throbbing. Yes. Didn’t like him much until I saw him live. That’s what performance art is all about.

Fishbone. Key Club 3/14.

Angelo Moore, aka, Dr. Madd Vibe swaggered up to the mic in his signature three piece Zoot suit. His black bald head glistening under the stage lights, Madd Vibe looked more Jiminy Cricket than punk rock. He’s been around awhile–since 1979 to be exact. And as he approached the mic, I felt that tiny bit of nervousness I feel for every artist performing past their heyday. Does he still have it? Can he still move a crowd–an LA crowd filled with more plastered college kids fresh off the party bus than loyal Fishbone fans? Madd Vibe started running his mouth as usual, “What is this daylight savings bullshit? The only real time is the sun going up, and the sun going down. So happy mother fucking new year every day. Every damn day. That’s what I say!” And with the sound of his nearly 5 foot bass sax, so began the Fishbone show.

Like clockwork, that hectic funk metal drew a mosh pit like a maelstrom in the sea of club goers. This was no game of push and shove. This was a full force category 4 mosh pit. Not even four Andre the Giant sized body guards could calm the audience. Needless to say, I was thrilled to be sitting pretty in my VIP booth. Having tested the waters, just one song in, Dr. Madd Vibe took like Moses, and walked off the stage and onto the hands of his fans. I cringed as he dropped slowly. Then, nearly waist down in the sea of fans, he shot up into the air and ricocheted around the room, mic in hand, smoothly spitting off lyrics despite the bumpy ride. Once safe on stage, he plunged again, and again, and again, until his roadie got a clue and handed him a cordless microphone. Two and a half hours into the set, the mosh pit had died, but Dr. Madd Vibe was still running around shirtless like a mad man with his pants hanging off his ass. Yes, I saw his saggy old man ass. It was not pretty.

This was the first show I’ve ever been to where the performer outlasted the crowd. I don’t know how he did it. Must’ve eaten his spinach or something… All I know is that the stage antics that Dr. Madd Vibe pulled off at the Key Club require a certain level of trust from an audience. I only saw two Fishbone tattoos that night — a sign of their dwindling older fans. But there were lots and lots of younger kids. Girls that didn’t look a day over 16, hippies, punks, surfers, frat boys, rastas, and even a couple of thunder-goths in all different colors and sizes. No joke, it was a pretty fugly crowd. The audience definitely represented Fishbone’s cross cultural sound. And at the risk of sounding trite, it was pretty cool to see how that sound can cross generations and hook new fans.

Music I Want

And I have to write this down:

Hot Chip, Made in the Dark

Duffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

The Art of the Mixed Tape

I started making mixed tapes in the 6th grade. One a month for my best friend. I covered the cassette cases in stickers or magazine clippings of Kurt Cobain, Johnny Depp, and Leo, and carefully wrote in the song names with multi-colored Crayola markers, the expensive ones with the fine tip. There was never enough room for the artist name and song title on that tiny one inch long line. Thank God for technology.  But still, even if iTunes has streamlined the process, crafting that playlist remains a painstaking labor of love. I’ve been at it for two hours, and they’re finally done. I send one to Buenos Aires, and one to New York City – with hand written letters at that. Music is always better when shared.

Santogold does MIA

I like Santogold. She’s one of the more impressive genre-bending artists to recently come of out of Brooklyn. I repped her for a bit–even had the “Shove It Switch” remix up on my Myspace profile for a minute. I love the dub infused sound of that track. Anyway, “Creator Vs. FreQNasty” got its first major radio play during Jonesy’s Jukebox Jury the other day, and it just rubbed me the wrong way. I’ve heard the song a few times online, but it came across national airwaves sounding like an MIA carbon copy. The sound was headache and ass shaking inducing just like an MIA song, and it was sung just like an MIA song is sung. I know Santogold and MIA are friends and both produced by Johnny Rodeo, but for the sake of artistic integrity, I wouldn’t allow someone to cop my sound even if it was my mother. And sadly, since MIA got her big break first, Santogold looks like the biter. I’d rather hear MIA do MIA than Santogold do MIA. Can’t wait to see them both at Coachella.

I miss my Cat

I never buy tickets on time. I prefer to scalp on craigslist because the tickets usually belong to some A-type music nerd who bought tickets as soon as tour dates were announced and now he has to sell them quick because he forgot his sister roberta’s birthday is the same night of the show. I negotiate. I win. I lost this time. Missed out on the Cat Power show at the Wiltern yesterday. And I’m still brooding. brooding.

Ruffling Some Feathers at The Echo

Went to The Echo last night primarily to see the Mezzanine Owls, but ended up coming home smitten by Eagle & Talon. Let’s get one thing straight, The Echo’s sound guy was either totally incompetent or had one two many PBRs because the sound was plain shit-tay for both bands. You could barely hear the bass–which particularly sucked for the Mezzanine Owls considering their bassist was the band’s sole personality (think Trip Hurudie from Detroit Rock City– but with Napoleon Dynamite glasses and a perma-Crusty the Clown grin) who’d impetuously switch off from playing to acrobasstics–balancing the bass’s headstock on the tips of his fingers during the band’s many heavy shoegazy guitar lines. You couldn’t hear him, so I kinda enjoyed the acrobasstics, but he was plucking those strings with such a permagrin and frevor, it would’ve been nice to hear him. Same goes for Eagle and Talon who were thrilled to “finally be playing with a bassist.” Sucks for them we couldn’t hear him either… to be continued. Time to make a night of this Friday.