PORTISHEAD live review, SCOTLAND

Live review from the Edinburgh Corn Exchange, LA WEEKLY

Portishead at the Edinburgh Corn Exchange, 4.12.08


Photos by Rena Kosnett

Claiming that I just happened to catch a Portishead concert during my recent visit to the UK would fashion me a liar. The trip was pretty much planned AROUND the Portishead show in Edinburgh. I probably wouldn't have gone up to Scotland at all if not for the concert; so for that reason, I thank Geoff and Beth and their booking agent. Scotland was gorgeous and friendly and aside from one little incident involving a chemical plant and my camera, which, through no fault of my own, almost got me branded a terrorist, everything there is glorious. Even the policemen are foxy and nice.



Portishead’s album Dummy was very significant for me 10 years ago (typical for many girls). Every single track is a fantastic duality of the glasslike, pristine vocals of Beth Gibbons and the ultra-styled programming, sampling, and string arrangements of Geoff Barrow and Adrian Utley; therefore, I was somewhat fanatical in the days leading up to the show—I refused to listen to any of their new material online (as my laptop wouldn’t be able to effectively present the songs), or watch any grainy digicam videos. I wanted to see them in a pure state, overzealous as that seems.



The New York Times calls the new material “propulsive” and “harsher.” Those are good words. I would also include "melodramatic."

I almost hesitate to write anything along the lines of a critique for this band because they are getting truckloads of skyscraper press. The buzz is deafening. We all remember loving them so much and now they’ve finally come out with new material and we’re all so excited and Coachella Coachella Coachella.

This attention is not undeserved, as Third reaches the outer limits of creative admittance and has a far more diverse make-up than either of their two previous studio albums. As I walked outside the Corn Exchange, though, there was a young man smoking a cigarette who approached me with the following words: “Did you just come from the concert? I’ve never been more depressed in my life.”



I wouldn’t go that far, but my main critique is that the band takes itself too seriously, which manifested in their performance (as well as the title and certainly the very delayed release of Third). It doesn’t seem like they’re having fun. I know that life can’t be all teacups and moonbeams and Apples In Stereo, but there were reels of what looked like old home movies of the band members as frolicking children projected on the back wall during quieter, serious numbers, without irony.

Beth performed “Wandering Star,” which is actually a lighter, moderately bouncy track off of Dummy, without accompaniment, seated, in a white spotlight, with the rest of the stage black, totally bereft of the stellar musical breaks that Geoff arranged for that song originally. Funnily enough, the audience started clapping at a faster pace during this song, seemingly to encourage the band to pick it up a little.

In early April, Pitchfork compared Beth Gibbons to Ian Curtis, and basically asked Geoff and Adrian if they had to be on suicide watch during the making of Third (“Third is sometimes incredibly bleak, lyrically. Did you ever feel the need to check if Beth was all right?"). It’s easy to understand why.

But Beth’s voice is otherworldly, and her powerful delivery during “Machine Gun” and “Glory Box” pushed my heart rate into greyhound pace and started the pounding in my chest. The “Numb" vocal solo was effortlessly monumental, as Beth stretched out the closing phrase “A lady of war” to its crystalline shattering point. Being able to hear that song alone made the entire trip decidedly worthwhile.

THE DODOS record review

Review of The Dodos new full length, Visiter, LA WEEKLY

The Dodos |Visiter | French Kiss

The magic and the intelligence behind the Dodos’ newest release lies in the clear faith Meric Long and Logan Kroeber have in their audience. Several tracks off Visiter follow a pattern: They begin with a deceptively simple guitar strum and graceful lyric, then build in momentum and percussive elaboration to end up overwhelmingly, powerfully, mind-fuck gorgeous, administered in the realm of S.F. Sorrow’s storytelling operatics and effected with the trademark grace of Liege and Lief. I wasn’t sure that the Dodos’ studio recordings could come close to matching the power of their live performance, the way 2006’s Beware of the Maniacs has a few great tunes but tended to lose steam from time to time. But Visiter tracks “Joe’s Waltz” and “Jodi” are relentless epics, as is “Paint the Rust,” a work that solidifies Long’s compositional genius. The one loose link comes with “Park Song.” Stuck between more intricate tunes, seemingly for filler, it’s definitely unnecessary. But the one track aside, Visiter has already been cleared, stamped and filed in the “Why I’m so damn proud of my generation’s musical accomplishments” archive — a truly special work that demands analysis and attention. (Rena Kosnett)

BILLY CHILDISH live review from LONDON

Billy Childish and The Musicians of the British Empire, live review from London's Dirty Water Club, LA Weekly


Billy Childish at London's Dirty Water Club, 4.11.2008
by Rena Kosnett
April 11, 2008 8:08 PM


Photos by Rena Kosnett

Taking 4 late night buses from Camden down to Brockley, yelling at one stranger who sneezed into my hair, standing for 45 minutes in the rain with a sore throat, and staring helplessly at one of the worst public (drunken) fights I’ve ever seen, are all the unpleasantries I had to endure in order to get home after seeing Billy Childish play tonight. And I'd do it again..... well, I would pay £40 for a cab if I had to do it again, but I would definitely want to see Childish play a second time if given the opportunity.



I’ve been loving my trip to London, but the emphasis on pixilated music here has been drying my eardrums out; so bouncing around at this rough and tumble 60s garage rock palace in North Camden, the Boston Music Room’s Dirty Water Club, made me feel a little homesick. And when Childish and his new band, the Musicians of the British Empire, played the opening chords for The Who’s “A Quick One While He's Away,” I really teared up. Never mind that Childish was in the wrong key and had to start again. I actually enjoyed hearing the beginning exclamations “Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang” more than once.



Childish led his bass player Nurse Julie and his drummer Wolf Howard through garage rock classics (“Lie Detector”), as well as newer material (Nurse Julie sang a tune off their upcoming album that concerns her boyfriend’s adulterous mix tape making, aptly titled “He’s Making A Tape”), but what amazed me the most was Childish’s not one, but TWO a capella performances: Leadbetter’s version of “In The Pines” and Son House’s arrangement of “John the Revelator.” I was told, before making the trek up to Camden, that Childish’s live show has the tendency to disappoint—but I can’t imagine this to be true. After his 100 albums and perhaps as many artistic manifestos, Childish seems to be clearly at home while performing, heckling drunker members of the audience, muttering self-deprecating references to his guitar tuning, and offering a dose of dirty Thee Headcoats brand grit to offset the rest of London’s drum and bass campaign.




Los Angeles' Lily Marlene diggin Billy Childish at the Dirty Water Club
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There are 3 comments posted for this article.

Nurse Julie is actually Billy's wife, seems like the person who wrote this may not have known that. Whoever said that Billy's live shows are disappointing was talking out of their arse.

Posted on April 13, 2008 1:30 PM by Jesse

You're absolutely right, as it clearly states on the Damaged Goods band bio. They keep up a convincing act. The person who made that comment is a Brit, so perhaps he's accustomed to seeing Billy play... I, on the other hand, was ecstatic...and relieved. Cheers.

Posted on April 13, 2008 2:39 PM by Rena

Well, there's no accounting for taste. I'm a brit too, and have seen Billy about a billion times now, I'm always at Dirty Water every month for my fix of Mr Childish and his band. I never get tired of seeing him though. The only reason I wasn't there on Friday was because I had no money. Good to see him still getting good reviews from different parts of the world.

Posted on April 13, 2008 2:48 PM by Jesse

thoughts: Hello from London..

This is what I've been dealing with in England.. Snowy flu weather, lovely warm sunniness on the Brighton shore...







I'll upload photos and have stories as soon as I get a moment. xo.

thought for the day: You know you're fucked when even the Dalai Lama has given up hope.

Gurinder Osan/Associated Press

I mean, I'm for non-violence as well, and I don't think that Tibetans should throw themselves on the fire when there's no hope of winning, but you're the Dalai Lama, and you say publicly that independence is "out of the question"?
Man, there goes another petal from the flower of life.

Press Trust of India
DHARAMSHALA, March 18: Facing increasing criticism for his "Middle way" policy, the Dalai Lama today threatened to quit as the head of the Tibetan exile movement if the unrest in Tibet got out of control and rejected Chinese charges that he was inciting violence there.
Asserting he did not want Independence for Tibet by wresting control from China, the 73-year-old spiritual leader also appealed to his fellow men to remain calm and not not to resort to violence. The Dalai Lama said he wanted “good relations” with China and that he is opposed to all forms of violence.
“If Tibetans choose violence in their agitation and if things become out of control (in Tibet) then my only option is to completely resign,” he told reporters at his home in Dharamshala, the headquarters of the Tibetan government-in-exile.
The Dalai Lama's comments came hours after Chinese Premier Mr Wen Jiabao blamed him for the violence in Tibet and said Beijing would only hold talks with the spiritual leader if he gave up Independence ambitions for his homeland. The Dalai Lama, however, made it clear “Independence is out of the question”. “Even if 1,000 Tibetans sacrifice their lives, it will not help.” Tibet's spiritual leader consistently insisted that he only wanted a high degree of autonomy for Tibet under Chinese rule. But his “Middle Way” policy ~ espousing non-violence and autonomy ~ has made him under attack from younger, more radical exiled Tibetans.

LESLIE & THE LYS, DEVON WILLIAMS live review

Leslie and the Lys, Devon Williams at the Echoplex, 3/7/08, LA WEEKLY


The Church of Glitter. Photos by Rena Kosnett.

For the rest of this review, body glitter = sweat. Iowa’s mainframe zaftig-white-female hip hop star, Leslie Hall, cleaned house at the Echoplex Friday night with her traveling circus act Leslie and the Lys. It looked like a neon fringe and gold lamè factory exploded all over Echo Park.

More than a musician, Leslie Hall is a movement, because Leslie could not do what she does (and she does it so well) at any other time than the present. She exists now as the result of a culture in whiplash from several pop commodity crashes: Suzanne Somers, Jazzercise, heroine-chic, daytime talk shows, the celebutante, Tony Robbins, and, of course, the Bedazzler.



Leslie rapped about being a Midwest Diva (she insists guys like to please those corn-fed girls in their WalMart jeans), killing zombies, and her ass, which she introduced with: “I’d like to sing a song about my butt cheeks. So round, so ripe.” I got the feeling that she wanted to be more sexually explicit than she was, as her hands kept creeping down from rubbing her gold covered belly to rubbing her gold covered groin; but, the good Midwestern girl she is, Leslie restrained herself, as there were several very young kids decked out in glitter and purple leggings at the show, holding up “We Love You Leslie” cardboard signs.

Hall was hilarious. She even made changing her costume an event by enveloping herself in a sheer sparkly fabric tube, which was held up by her lovely deadpan assistants, and then lingering inside it a little longer than necessary to build up anticipation for the new wondrous spandex concoction her mother had whipped up back in Ames (Momma makes all the costumes). Leslie showed her fan appreciation by talking and cooing to the audience (“I’ve had the chance to fall in love with a few of you”) and then calling individual internet superfans onto the stage—one young man walked up wearing a button T and khakis, but then ripped off his square outfit to reveal a glittery black and gold ensemble underneath. Three gem sweater-clad pre-teen girls were put on display for the Gem Sweater Initiation Process, reminiscent of the de-virginization ceremony new audience members have to undergo at the midnight screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. To officially ordain their gem sweaters, the girls had to defend their diva status, kneel in front of Leslie, and then get knocked on their asses as Leslie plowed into them while screaming the newly anointed name of their particular gem sweater, something along the lines of “clover kitten supreme taco truck” (I couldn’t really catch all the words, it was too insane). They were then lightly sprinkled with glitter and given an official sweater certificate.

Honestly, and I mean this without the slightest bit of sarcasm or irony, I cannot think of a single better role model for young girls. She preaches self-confidence, pride in body type, and being completely unashamed of having interests other people might consider lame. (That’s lame, not lamè.)



But, regardless of all that, she gave an amazing performance. She ended her encore with a freakin’ Coin Drop Windmill! As we all know, that’s one of the hardest breakdancing moves out there. When her lovely assistants ran up to her with a sparkling gold robe a là James Brown, which she kept tossing off before she finally acquiesced, I didn’t think it was at all a stretch, aside from it being made out of lycra spandex.




Devon Williams opened for Leslie and the Lys.

Los Angeles’ own Devon Williams opened the night with his backup band, the Allen Bleyle 3. I was elated when Williams played a cover of “Alex Chilton” towards the end of his set, not just because it's a killer song, but specifically because one of the notes I scribbled down in the first few minutes of Williams' playing was “Waiting for Somebody.” The same feeling of whimsical mischief felt when listening to Westerberg’s love song from the 1992 Singles soundtrack is aroused when hearing Williams’ innocent pop guitar and string arrangements. Just as The Replacements sound like the lighthearted black sheep of the early 90s (compositionally, not lyrically) when occasionally/awkwardly lumped into the same category as grunge superpowers Nirvana and Alice in Chains, Williams’ work stands out as effervescent defiance in the face of the indulgent psychadelia that is getting much of the local attention. Spindrift, Entrance, and Devendra Banhart are all acts that I have written about and very much appreciate, but Williams is unique in that he refuses to be another psych-folk-blues musician in Los Angeles. He’s just not having it. Instead, Williams writes refreshingly light tunes tinged with Westerberg-like self deprecation that could have been fitting on the soundtrack of any My So Called Life episode: songs for being distraught, but laughing about it.



I didn’t get to hear my favorite Devon Williams song, “Elevator,” which is played in house music rotation these days at Spaceland, and I’m not sure if that’s because I walked in a bit late or because he has decided he’s had enough of it and won’t play it anymore. I hope it’s not the latter, Mr. Williams, because that is a damn beautiful, nearly perfect song, clearly crafted with precision and dedication.
Devon Williams will be releasing a new record on Ba Da Bing! this April.

thoughts: It's Always About Pussy (Two Great Videos)

These are the two greatest music-related videos I've seen so far this year.

The first one, about a giant vagina, brought to you by the creative wonders at Encyclopedia Pictura

GRIZZLY BEAR "KNIFE"


The second one, guaranteed to get this man some ass, brought to you directly from HEAVEN.

SPIRIT ARMY live review

Spirit Army at Spaceland, 2.29.08, LA WEEKLY


Spirit Army like bubbles. Photos by Rena Kosnett

If you were concerned about local dynamic duo Dante Adrian and Jeff Ehrenberg vanishing from the music circuit because Starlite Desperation decided to call it quits, feel free to un-furrow your brow. Their first L.A. show since garnering new bassist Laena Myers-Ionita, as well a new band name, Spirit Army, the tag team ripped through tracks off their upcoming full length, Take It Personally, Friday night at Spaceland with the talent that sustained Starlite Desperation’s reputation as stellar performers through numerous years, numerous releases, and numerous record labels: Adrian’s vocals and Ehrenberg’s drumming.



Constant as the Northern star, shaggy brunette Adrian will always strain his surprisingly strong and fluid vocal chords to their breaking point, and curly redhead Ehrenberg will always keep a beat while hamming it up—standing, swirling, throwing his sticks in the air, flashing hysterical facial expressions.

The new Spirit Army material is solid garage pop that balances Adrian’s graceful, almost feminine voice with Ehrenberg’s power percussion. There are already a few standout tracks just as stellar as SD songs “What I Want” and “Let It Burn”—particularly, their opener “Spirit Army” as well as “My Favorite Place” are insta-parties, jam-packed full of power chord fire and brimstone.





Myers-Ionita is definitely a member of the “Los Angeles Bass Vixen” club, but it took her a while to warm up—it didn’t seem like she started out the set with the same amount of confidence as her counterparts. That may be due to Adrian and Ehrenberg having so much previous experience as a creative force, or because it was only Spirit Army's second show together; but after ten minutes she was belting backup vocals and facing the audience with more enthusiasm.
Oh, and Ehrenberg has a new stage trick: bubbles.

Take It Personally will be released this summer on Ehrenberg’s label, Infrasonic.

THE LAMPS live review

The Lamps at the Scene bar, live review, LA RECORD

Full disclosure requires me to state that the Lamps played at my birthday party a few years ago. And that they totally left the room throbbing with pleasure. Montgomery Buckles’ loud gruff voice and Tim Ford’s bouncy bass playing couldn’t have been more appropriate for a packed-to-the-brim room of inebriated young adults. Last Monday night at the Scene, Buckles, Ford, and drummer Josh Erkman took the stage after their future European tour partner Haunted George served up a big ol’ “Pile O’Meat,” but the atmosphere left me nostalgic for my birthday fun. The Lamps thrive in small sweaty basements that don’t have enough clearance for deep inhalations, and the Scene was a Glendale bar on a Monday evening—no more, no less. I was having a blast, though, despite Ford’s opening disclaimer that he doesn’t usually play in “shit mode,” a statement inspired by the unremedied muddy amp feedback apparently left by George’s accomplice Jimmy Hole. Roth took the mic for “Bob the Cat,” a track off their In The Red full length, and Buckles commanded the Lamps’ spasmodic thigh-slapping noise for the remainder. In The Red describes the Lamps as “mongoloid frenzy music,” and when Buckles is straining every vein in this throat to screech out the lyrics to “Eliseo,” the primitive implications are definitely perceptible. Word of advice: book this band for your next party. If you’re lucky they’ll say yes. I’m almost thinking about pushing my birthday up in the rotation just to get the Lamps back where they belong: drunk and smothered by a large mass of happy sticky people.

thoughts: Bye Bye Baby

Baby Bye Bye! (BBC news)

It's been swell, Fidel!

Thanks for the memories...








Photos from BBC.

BLACK LIPS live review

Black Lips at the El Rey live review, LA RECORD

The Valentine’s Day Black Lips show was all about LOVE. Teenage sweeties in the audience pushed their way forward to shove homemade valentines into the hands of guitarist Ian St Pe, and there were a surprising number of brave young things who climbed onto the stage explicitly to throw their arms around singer Cole Alexander. Drummer Joe Bradley played with a glowing heart, fastened out of rope lights, inside his bass drum, and Jared Swilley was courteous enough to use his forehead multiple times to bounce back a communal beach ball when it floated his way—until, of course, he smashed it with his foot and threw the deflated carcass back into the crowd. The most endearing part of the evening was Alexander’s chivalrous rescue of a young pink-haired girl —he rushed in to pull the offending arm of a large security guard off of her so she could continue to crowd surf in peace. Actually, throughout the night Alexander—not a large man but certainly a brave and loyal one—had to run to the rescue of so many manhandled kids that his face started to harbor wrinkles of sincere frustration, almost as though he wanted to apologize for subjecting his people to this kind of lame treatment. It did seem like an incredible waste of manpower on the side of the El Rey. When I first heard that the Black Lips were scheduled to play this venue, I was worried. I thought that the space was a) too big and b) not really their style—those who have seen the Black Lips previously would know that hanging chandeliers and candlelit dinner tables aren’t exactly the optimum setting for their cyclonic live show. But the venue ended up being completely and almost uncomfortably packed—due, most likely, to the constant radio play of their 2007 single “Cold Hands.” And as far as the El Rey not being their style, well, I should’ve known from last October’s wild performance at the Troubadour (and the video footage of their gig in Tijuana) that the Black Lips have the power to turn proper community social halls into dens of public masturbation and pleasurable group aggression. Nothing short of shackling each of their eight feet to the floor would prevent the Lips from hijacking control of their performance space, and that power lies in both the strength of their material and their collective adorable charisma. They played a rotating waltz of garage, doo-wop, and southern-punk songs off their last three albums and didn’t lose steam until perhaps their encore performance of “Veni Vidi Vici,” when Alexander’s voice was audibly strained. Exempting the occasions the Black Lips are thrown out of their own shows for lewd behavior, there is nary a band that can guarantee such an enjoyable night out.

BLACK LIPS feature

Black Lips music feature, LA WEEKLY



There's a good chance that none of these cuties is wearing pants.
Photo by Daniel Arnold.



In a just world, the Black Lips would be as popular now as the Beatles were in their 1967 pre–White Album era. There are four of them, median age 25, and all are known for being cute (one-upping the Beatles). Each member has a unique, identifying personality: Joe Bradley is the quietly handsome, steadfast drummer. Cole Alexander is the pretty-faced, potty-mouthed front man with the vomiting problem. Ian Saint Pe is the smiling guitarist with the full gold grill and the numerous visible tattoos. And Jared Swilley is the bass-playing preacher's son, eternally decked out in short shorts, and occasionally a Freddie Mercury-thick mustache. Like the other quartet, the Black Lips released a massive amount of work early on in their career; the current tally is four studio albums, two live albums, 14 singles and four split 7-inches. And they have an upcoming movie project with Springboard Films, titled Let It Be.

Apparently, the film title is an allusion to the 1984 Replacements album rather than the Beatles' final opus, but the trailer alone provides bountiful comparisons to Richard Lester's 1964 classic A Hard Day's Night, from the mockumentary style to the self-referential script to the inane journalistic questions. Their onscreen band is called the Renegades, which was the name of Alexander, Swilley and Saint Pe's pre–Black Lips band. During a recent phone conversation, Bradley explained that they suggested this moniker to the filmmakers because the script's original band name, the Buck Privates, was less than thrilling, but it's clear that the movie's major theme — making it in the 1980s DIY-era post-punk world responsible for spawning bands like Sonic Youth and Husker Du — finds a kinship with the Black Lips' arduous self-made career, just as A Hard Day's Night depicted the Beatles' frustration with their frantic lifestyle.

A career trajectory such as the Black Lips' seems to bear the imprint of a seasoned record-company impresario, but when I asked Bradley about the existence of a puppet master, he wanted to be clear that their Vice Records G.M., Adam Shore, is no Brian Epstein or Colonel Parker: "Vice provides a lot of opportunities for us, but we know that the hard work won't be done by anyone but ourselves," says Bradley. "We won't ever be forced to do something we don't believe in." There's evidence to support this assertion: Even though much of their time seems spent tumbling, spitting, cursing half-naked, the young men in the Black Lips seem completely self-aware, evident in their sly, upturned grins and sideways glances during interviews (check the hysterical off-the-cuff interview the band did with iFilm at the 2007 SXSW festival).

But their damn good musicianship seems to be eclipsed by all the press they're getting about all the press they're doing. Documentary videos are available of the Black Lips making interview videos after posing for Rolling Stone photo shoots. Perhaps it's a dose of lingering survivor's guilt from the loss of an original band member, Ben Eberbaugh, who was killed by an asshole drunk driver in 2002, that drives them to nonstop heroic displays of rock & roll stamina. Or maybe it's just a desire to succeed: As Bradley told The New York Times in March of 2007, "I ain't makin' no tortilla sandwiches no more for no yuppies."

As collaborative songwriters, the Black Lips have grown tenfold since their self-titled 2003 Bomp! release. Their newest album, Good Bad Not Evil, is a stylistically wondrous record that begins with experimental garage rock, thrives on Southern roots influences and ends on bare choral harmonies. The catchy, bouncy way with which the Lips perform songs on topics of colossal weight — death in "How Do You Tell a Child That Someone Has Died," religious warfare in "Veni Vidi Vici," natural disasters in "O Katrina!" — is incredibly intelligent. It requires an innate understanding of human emotion to successfully reflect on pain so cutting and transform it into party music without losing a shred of integrity. Sure, it's fantastic to be named the hardest-working band at SXSW, but most press coverage regarding the Black Lips gives their tired feet and blistered fingers more acclaim than the increasingly impressive content those sore appendages have been producing.

Unfortunately (and not surprisingly), the Black Lips' October appearance on Late Night With Conan O'Brien didn't create the same effect as the Beatles' performance on the Ed Sullivan show in 1964, and there's very little to be done about that. America will probably never unite around a single band that way again; the market's too fragmented. But the lack of unity does make it significantly harder for bands like the Black Lips, and can lead to more focus on the work schedule than on the actual work. "I'd like to think the Beatles had it a lot easier than we did, because the market wasn't so saturated then," says Bradley. "Those types of media outlets were freshly opened for bands. The Beatles were some of the first people to get up and do that circuit. We have a lot more to work against. Plus, the Beatles didn't have to worry about journalists constantly asking questions about them pissing on each other." True, but they did have to answer a shitload of questions about their hair.


For readers picking up the L.A. Weekly on Thurs., Feb. 14, the Black Lips play tonight at the El Rey with Pierced Arrows. Doors open at 8 p.m.

ANAIS NIN short feature

Hammer Event: Anais Nin Reading pick in LA Weekly

Turns out, Nin was an Angelina. There's a good article on her L.A. days by
Lucinda Michele on Metroblogging here:
http://blogging.la/archives/2007/10/greatest_dead_angelenos_18_ana.phtml

Pick:
Anais Nin would have been 105 this year, and if all the hype is anywhere near accurate, she probably would still be fucking. Every time I overhear or participate in discussions involving Nin, the conversation inevitably turns smutty. Granted, she did submit herself as a cultural galvanizer of female sexual liberation at a time in Europe when there was very little female-authored erotica available; but I've always believed that those diary entries concerning coital relations between her and her father were at best a metaphor inspired by her studies of Freudian psychology, and at most a pretty lucrative insurance policy for keeping her legacy eternally sensationalized. Rumors gold or pyrite, Nin was a powerful and courageous literary figure who happened to make many younger friends during her aging years in Silver Lake. Electronic-music pioneer Bebe Barron, writer and educator Deena Metzger, architect and environmentalist Eric Lloyd Wright, and writer and founder of Center of Autobiographic Studies Tristine Raine are four of these younger friends, now grown-up, who will honor the underdeveloped persona of Nin by reading passages from her work and telling their personal stories about, but not limited to, Nin the publisher; Nin the printing-press operator; Nin the college lecturer; Nin the mentor; Nin the friend. Don't worry, though — sex will surely come up in conversation. Hammer Museum, 10899 Wilshire Blvd., Westwood; Tues., Feb. 12, 7 p.m. (310) 443-7000.

CRYSTAL ANTLERS record review

Crystal Antlers Until the Sun Dies/Swamp Song 7-inch review, LA Weekly


Crystal Antlers | "Until the Sun Dies"/"Swamp Song" | BackFlip Records 7-inch

The A-side of Crystal Antlers' newest release, "Until the Sun Dies," is the safer of these two songs — it sticks more to a dirty-guitar-dominant form with front man-bassist Jonny Bell's vocals switching between the larkish and the belted; it is the B-side's "Swamp Song" that really tears up and showcases exactly what Bell and his bandmates have to offer: unashamed, unafraid, gritty hot-mess melodies that take cues from the Stooges, Joe Cocker, Screamin' Jay Hawkins (rest his soul) and Ozzy Osbourne. "Swamp Song" begins in the midst of a high-intensity power-chord argument taking place "under moldy green, downstream, and under willow trees" between Bell and an unknown second party over the apparent state of his soul; after two minutes, the song builds to a deceptive cadence and dumps out after the break with an Aleister Crowley organ and bass line that hones Geezer Butler and Tony Iommi's work on Sabbath's "Electric Funeral" (and many other Black Sabbath songs from 1970 or '71). But the Antlers aren't really a heavy metal band. Our generation browsed in haberdasheries of vintage and contemporary influences, and Crystal Antlers are no exception to this stylistic conglomeration. A young band based out of Long Beach with only two 7-inch releases under their belt, Crystal Antlers have displayed prowess that has propagated support from erudite local media (District Weekly, L.A. Record) and will be graciously blowing their hot mess all over the northern stretches of the Southland to ring in 2008.

JESSIE EVANS & TOBY DAMMIT review

Jessie Evans at Bordello, LA Weekly live review

thoughts: Anyone need Portishead tickets?

I know this is somewhat of a long shot, but I have an extra pair of Portishead tickets for an April show in Wolverhampton, UK.

I'll be seeing them in Edinburgh, UK, so the Wolverhampton tiks are not necessary anymore. They're going online now for over 75 pounds ($150) each, and they're only going to go up, but I'll sell the ones I've got for what I paid, which was a little under 40 pounds ($80) each after fees.
Seating charts are available online, but it's basically the standing area in front of the stage. I would liken it to the structure of the now-defunct Hollywood Palladium.
If you're interested contact me. Details below.

PORTISHEAD at The Civic Hall, Wolverhampton on SUNDAY 04/013/2008 at 19.30
2 STALLS STANDING at £ 34.25, Plus a Transaction fee of £ 4.80

On an editorial note, I'm really glad everyone's making such a fuss over them after so many years.

CRYSTAL ANTLERS review

link:Crystal Antlers at Safari Sam's, live review, LA Weekly



The sparkling reputation of Long Beach’s Crystal Antlers drew me out to the High Voltage Magazine party at Safari Sam’s last night, and despite the clear lameness of the event (see below for unfortunate High Voltage missteps), Crystal Antlers delivered an outstanding performance of weighty organ and bass flamboyance. They went on as the last of four bands, despite the magazine flyer billing them as second, and they only got to play for twenty three minutes. But in those twenty three minutes, their new percussionist Sexual Chocolate (aka Damian Edwards), formerly of Geisha Girls, had three costume changes, each more scant than the last, and performed pelvic thrusts that gave justice to his stage name and sustained his rep as pure showman. Jonny Bell led the five piece with his scratchy vocals and heavy bass, which he strums like a six string, a stylistic choice that lays the foundation for their overall sound to be on the side of other local heavies Entrance and Tweak Bird, who also take substantial cues from classic rock dramatics Page,Winter, Skynyrd, but whom thankfully have left the underage groupies and hotel room trashing for the boomer generation.

In addition to “Swamp Song,” my favorite (and the B-side) off their new BackFlip 7”, Crystal Antlers performed a surprisingly delicate cover of Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” a song that is eternally lending itself to great covers (Them’s 1966 version has been, and continues to be, in my top 10 all-time favorite songs). They have several other shows in L.A. lined up for the next month—apparently, they need to expand beyond their OC reputation as stellar performers, which has left their audience’s expectations quite high (straight from the Orphan Records blog, December 2007: “Crystal Antlers went on at 10:45 and yada yada, brought down the house, as usual…”), but has yet to be overstated.

The event last night was supposedly a party for the newish music magazine High Voltage, but when my friend and I arrived, there were only about twenty people in attendance; at a large venue like Safari Sam’s, that’s as effective but less humorous then there being two. I could get more people to go to my little cousin Jacob’s Bar Mitzvah in Marina Del Rey. There was no sign of the magazine, no partying (aside from the Antlers), and nothing near the elevation of “high” in terms of voltage. It was really sad. I thought for sure it had to be a launch party and that their green status was the reason behind their paltry turn out, but their site informs me that the magazine has been around since 2003. Five years, and that's all the guster you can muster? I understand that L.A. is a big city and it was a Monday night, but if each of their eight founders invited four people, that would already be a higher count than the crowd last night. Whoever planned that party must’ve begged their friends not to go. Lame-o. Poor vibes for their mag. The least they could’ve done was advertise the party so that their bands wouldn’t have to play to a mostly empty house and would be entertained enough to stick around for each other’s performances. Supposedly the same people also run a marketing firm, High Voltage Marketing. Wow. Not for nothing, but as a band, or any creative enterprise, I would seriously consider cutting and pasting flyers at Kinko’s for 5 hours, before signing on to that gravy train.

Thank goodness for Sexual Chocolate.

LAWEEKLY BIENNIAL OPENING photos

Photos from LA Weekly's third annual biennial opening at Track 16 gallery.

LA Weekly slideshow

more photos on flickr

thoughts: Frozen Tidal Wave

The most beautiful slideshow ever.


nature is a wondrous mystery.

WILL ALEXANDER short feature

There's a benefit reading for L.A. poet Will Alexander this Sunday at Skylight Books (click link below for more information or scroll down).

Will Alexander Benefit Reading, Pick in LA Weekly

He has cancer, but no health insurance. He's good enough to receive a PEN award, a Whiting Fellowship, and a California Arts Council Fellowship, as well as teach at UCSD, Hofstra University, and Mills College, but not good enough to be covered by subsidised health insurance from anyone- LA City, State of California, US of A.

I'm 24 years old, and if I had to apply for health insurance via Blue Cross, etc., I would be turned down, says the family's insurance rep. Why? Because I've been treated for depression. Too risky to insure. Amazing! Lovelies, please vote for someone who is at least making statements about health care. Our system is so broken, broken, broken.

This is an excerpt from one of his poems,The Heliotropic Mandarin. I know I mention Sun Ra frequently in this blog, but this poem is sooooo Sun Ra that it makes me think Will Alexander digs Saturn's servant too:

The black fact, the Heliotropic Mandarin, expressed in spheres between the 7 flames of gold and uranium and oil, between aesthetic speech, and its sudden trunk of revolt. By taking a blade, and sculpting amorphic Asian mountains, he creates in his reign smoke, Saturnian pulsations of darkness, looking throughout the temperature of colour, for a whirling niveous sun, for rubescent nasturtium waves, like a runi exotica inside the horizon, like bleating charcoal harems, like glottally impure emphatic on fire. This is the Mandarin, with his surreptitious stinging crabs, with his haze of grafted wolverine enticements, breaking into the expansion of a singular and rotted aphid, as a moth across the grain of excessive fluidics, like a carved and expressive panther, bickering, like each weightless figment as a source of momentus solitary ire.

Reading pick text:

On Sunday, January 13, Skylight Books will host the third in a series of nationwide benefit readings for Los Angeles poet Will Alexander, who is undergoing cancer treatment without the aid of medical insurance. Originally from South L.A., Alexander, 59, received a PEN Oakland award this year for his fiction/nonfiction work Sunrise in Armageddon (Spuyten Duyvil Publishing, 2006). His prose and poetry, as well as his visual art, revolve around the themes of universal surrealism and human alienation. Even if you’re unfamiliar with his work, the realization that a citizen of his cultural import in our vastly affluent nation could be left to his own defenses to fight off a serious illness surely provides ample fodder for comparisons to the surreal. “L.A. Blueswoman” Wanda Coleman and Sulfur magazine founder Clayton Eshleman are among readers who will perform Sunday. There is a $10 suggested donation, and Skylight Books will also donate 25 percent of all book sales made in the store between 4 and 8 p.m. to the benefit. Sun., Jan. 13, 5 p.m., Skylight Books, 1818 Vermont Ave., L.A., (323) 660-1175.

thoughts: A Stalker is Sending Me Creepy Text Messages

If you're a fella and you meet a girl and you don't want her to think you're a creepy stalker, don't a) tell her you're her neighbor, but then b) ask her where she lives, c) ask her where she works, d) tell her you would want to go inside if her father wasn't home, and then e) send her a series of ultra-creepy text messages (see below).

This guy pulled in front of my house today when I was getting out of my car, and I, thinking he was my neighbor, stupidly proceeded to answer his questions about where I live and work and agreed to give him my phone number, for emergencies, of course. After I went inside and he started sending me serial-killer text messages, I realised that it was possible I was totally mistaken and he wasn't my neighbor at all. GOOD GOING RENA. Really stupid. So if I disappear within the next few days, he said his name was Matt, he drives a light blue/silver SUV, he's white with short hair, and his cell number shows up as 310.890.2127.

For entertainment value, here are his text messages, in order. They start out not so creepy, but then get creepier, especially because the only time I responded to him was after #4, to tell him I don't date neighbors:

1. Nice meeting you today.
2. U r very cute
3. Why do u[sic] have a gut feeling ur one amazing kisser?
4. Ur passion oozes
5. Ok we will only make out then...:)
6. Done but flirt with me until then...u must be a leo
7. Ok, play with me another time though
8. Ur naughty [ed. note- at 10:18am!]
9. I moved
10. Did we break up?

*Update Sat 1/12: I think it's okay- I haven't received a text message in 24 hours. Maybe that was honestly his way of showing interest. I'm not walking Frankie alone after 11pm again just yet, though.