Blogging on Meds

Since all digital music is free now I’ll steal and check out pretty much anything. Sometimes I’ll have a really guilty curiously like an Unkle song with Ian Astbury contributing vocals, other times I just want to know my enemy and will download the latest blogtastic pile of shit to know what I hate. It’s a great way to waste time at work and all your embarrassment is safely tucked away on a hard drive, no harm no foul. Googling the name of those curious but mostly disappointing reunion records and the word “mediafire” is your best friend. This piracy technique was the reason I actually heard Dinosaur Jr.’s most recent record, Beyond. Barring the weird song with the semi-White Zombie riff it was surprisingly good. Unfortunately when you have seven billion mp3s good = forgettable and ends up just sitting somewhere never to be heard again. Going to see Dinosaur Jr. now expensive and the equivalent of a high school reunion. Everyone is doughy and tragic. Spending hundreds of dollars for a nostalgia trip is tempting at times but not for Gray Mascis 2008. There are better alternatives in this sketchy economy.

A few weeks ago I spotted a 7″ at Academy Records in Williamsburg from Sleepwall. The description read “really awesome new band like Dinosaur Jr. and early Built To Spill check it out!”. I love record store descriptions, they’re operating on some fucked up elementary school lunch room trade psychology like “Hey man I’ll trade you this really awesome apple for your Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups because apples are SO good”. I’m usually not swayed but who the fuck sounds like Dinosaur Jr. these days and $5.00 is an afforadble gamble. Everything I read tells me that people are really trying to be fiscally responsible so the economically concerned part of my brain, which usually fails me, decided that Sleepwall was an undervalued stock and that they were just the type of opportunity you need to jump on in a down market.

Door opens, top comes off the record player, vinyl removed from paper sleeve, glance at the layout for clues, throw on the A-side, wait for the static to turn to guitars and so it begins. Wait a fucking second, there’s a legit Dino-ish riff struggling to get out of the tiny speakers on my portable record player followed by a catchy vocal line and a very driving song. Right after the first spin I give it another spin to make sure I wasn’t hoodwinked, nope this is the real deal. Clips of Neil Blender flash through the space over my beard but I’m not seeing long stringy hair, Fender Jazzmasters and washes of green and purple. Sleepwall has a modern feel despite the similarities in their sound to late 80s/early 90s indie rock. I go back into the caverns in my brain and go “wait if I heard this in the early 90s would I just think it was average, there was a lot of power poppy shit then.” My brain then called me a fucking pussy and said “What the fuck is wrong with you dickhead? Who gives a shit about the early 90s when you wore corduroy and were obsessed with indie rock, you were a freshmen 15 years ago you fucking loser”.

Photograph by : Eric Schwortz - http://www.iamtheeric.com

My brain was totally right as it usually is when it’s critiquing the manifestation of it’s thoughts, it’s weird like that, thanks brain. The beauty of the world today is that a web search can then provide you with all the info you need about a band. I was nervous because Sleep and Wall are really common words and I didn’t want to bring up a bunch of shit about Ambien and Carpentry but I was quickly directed to their Myspace page. My next bit of info was that they were from Long Island and Brooklyn, which instantly made me like them more because they’re local, and they’re young so that makes me like them even more because it sucks to only be surrounded by old dudes as washed up as yourself. Digging through pictures I notice that of the Sleepwallers is wearing a Cro-Mags shirt, and I recognize the other cat….something is familiar about this. Further inspection left me with these details : other people dug Sleepwall and felt that they were Dino Jr.-ish, some of the dudes were in Hardcore bands and everyone that wrote about them on the interweb dug them.

Photograph by : Eric Schwortz - http://www.iamtheeric.com

So I am not going to mention J’s band anymore because they really only have a super Dino vibe on one track, everything else including the Is This Factual Ep is riffy power pop that sounds very much rooted in Indie Rock. Not the iTunes genre Indie Rock, Indie Rock as in I’m Lou Barlow, I have floppy hair, I suck at getting chicks, I used to be into fast hardcore but now I smoke weed and really dig fuzzed out pop songs. The infectiously catchy yet twisted pop of Bobby Pollard, the sound of lo-fi recordings, lo-fi beer and lo-fi cigarettes. That is the best shit. Remember when you first discovered this type of music and you wanted to get anything that remotely sounded like that? Anything that remotely fit the description of power poppy indie rock would be consumed from Archers of Loaf and Polvo to Overwhelming Colorfast and Fluf . Every record, tape and CD out there on SST, CRUZ, Merge or whatever label might contain a song that perfectly summed up how you felt about being a semi-burned out 90s guy and would occupy your brain on a loop making you feel invincible even at your lowest. The hottest chick on earth could spit at you but if Web In Front is blasting in your head who-gives-a-fuck! Thanks Indie Rock.

Sleepwall are young, focused and promising, if you’re a douche you’ve got reservations because of the Cro-Mags shirt. I’ll tell you this, it’s not ironic and who better to be playing music like this than dudes transitioning from music with mosh parts than hardcore dudes with good taste? That’s who the fuck formed Indie Rock in the first place so stop pretending you have any clue what the fuck you’re talking about and enjoy a great new band. Bass player Joe Cristando is probably Italian so I already love him, he bought some shit in a blizzard during my estate sale which is super nice and then he hooked me up with a sampling of their tracks. That’s extreme bro status right there instantly. They’re working on songs for an LP with Jason Lowenstein from Sebadoh which promise to up the ante of their mopey but hopefully infectious guitar pop. All the elements of great power pop are there : guitars are notey and jangly but with enough crunch to avoid sounding flat. The vocals are simple, catchy and delivered with a perfect cadence, the rhythm section is steady and solid and they sound like good friends that have been itching to do this for a hot second. Come In From The Cold is wedged in my head between Hyper Enough and Second Chance. Nice Company! Download it 01-come-in-from-the-cold,

buy their 7″, befriend them virtually and check them live if you are near these spots :

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Playing “rock” music is dangerous. Not like “yeah bro fuckin’ Altamont!” dangerous, dangerous in the sense that more often than not when you see 4-5 people aligned on stage with the standard guitar, drums, bass, vocals set up they are going to be douches. The rock format has become a career choice, a lottery ticket where the right combo of numbers can lead to fame, fortune and an airbrushed photo on the cover of Alternative Press.

Seeing Deerhunter last night at the newly opened Le Poisson Rouge on Bleeker Street in Manhattan reminded me that some bands can execute rock music with precision, dignity and skill. Deerhunter go about their business with little bravado but heaps of enthusiasm and an “awww shucks” innocence that sucks you in. Led by Bradford Cox who resembles a deflated life-sized Thurston Moore balloon (No disrepsect to dude and his condition, it’s just a description) Deerhunter leaks tracks almost daily through their blog sometimes with well documented tragic results. If you haven’t found their music for free yet you suck at the internet. Cox’ internet persona is often difficult, volatile and a bit troubled but live he’s engaging. His banter is playful and honest without pretense, charming when it succeeds “The only french I know are Stereolab lyrics” (in reference to the club’s french name) and cringe worthy when he fails “So you guys here in New York are into pop songs and the avant garde right? That’s a real New York thing right?”. He’s cute even when failing, he’s not a nerd with too much swagger trying to mask that he’s a geek, he’s just having a conversation with a few hundred people.

Beginning with the blog only hit Cavalry Scars, soon to be released on Weird Era Cont., Deerhunter showed why their pulsing brand of shoegaze tinged pop is so infectious. Alternating between the springy psychedelic pop of Cryptograms and the Fluorescent Grey Ep and the stripped down drive of Microcastle, they hit every fan favorite. There was a glowing omission of the track Strange Lights that everyone wished to hear and as psychically requested it appeared in an amped up, washed out haze state that ended the encore.

It’s Bradford’s blogging and appearance that get the most attention but Deerhunter’s rhythm section is what grounds the band and acts as their stealth secret weapon. Moses Archuleta is a steady and precise drummer, the one you wish the dude in your band was. There are two types of drummers : those who worship Dave Grohl and his “sick” fills and those who actually play the drums. With his emphasis on anchoring the songs Moses eschews steroided out self-fellating avalanche fills and keeps the focus on the song. Josh Fauver strums out catchy often Kraut Rock leaning bass lines. His presence on stage is entertaining. His syncopated pogoing and Madchester head lean make you imagine him plucking along to “I Am The Resurrection” in a teenage bedroom, dirty socks and homework discarded on the floor for the love of the beat. The back drop has changed for Josh but the mood hasn’t, even in a zebra striped all-over-print shirt that looks like it hung in a Polish boutique in Greenpoint, Josh looks cool, not cocky cool, fun cool. With Fauver and Archuleta steering the ship the waves of sound can crash, expand, splash and soar in any direction without sounding messy.

Deerhunter continues to surprise and deliver. Microcastle’s tight structures and craft contrast the hiss and experimentation of Weird Era Cont. but they are both Deerhunter. With so many bands afraid to deviate from their formula to ensure the merch money and crowds don’t dwindle it’s nice to know Deerhunter doesn’t give a fuck. They’ve taken down the wall between band and audience through their whole presentation and interaction. The worst they can do is fail your ears for a few minutes only to have a new crop of sounds loaded in their barrel ready to explode.

Full set list below :

Calvary Scars
It Never Stops
Spring Hall Convert
Dr. Glass
Hazel St.
Saved By Old Times
Operation
Fluorescent Grey
Nothing Ever Happened

BREAK

Bradford played drums, some dude did some shitty scat thing that wasn’t funny.
They played some grindcore …it had a mosh part.
Intro (as in Microcastle)
Agoraphobia
Strange Lights

This dude took the pictures I used, thanks man.

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Yup the title is a lie but St.Obama should think about a collabo to boost his campaign. Things have been quiet since everyone became fixated on a doughy, bossy, moose hunting cunt from Idaho. By now everyone on the planet knows what a fabulous speaker Obama is, he easily cast a spell on people that don’t really count on the strength of his voice. We’ve been inundated with new clips of him, sleeves rolled up, top button undone talking with an Obamatic swagger about Change® and Progress®. The converts don’t really care what he’s saying at the end of the day, his simple slogan of Change® is all that’s important. We’re sick of Coke let’s try Pepsi. Young Democrats hate the Bush Administration, they hate war, they hate old white people and they hate that other countries think we’re douche bags. With Shepard Fairy prints and a powerful tongue Barack-The-Vote has delivered the easy message, fuck maybe if he’s elected we can look forward to Shepard redesigning the dollar bill to look like his shitty Obey crap complete with lifted graphics ….I mean clever appropriation.

I’m not going to vote for John McCain and the fake beauty queen but I really don’t give a shit about St.Obama. I hate that I can’t say one critical word about him without someone telling me I am racist or a complete asshole. Right now he’s the political equivalent of TV On The Radio. Close your eyes and TVOTR sound like white dudes playing white dude music. Obama does constantly remind you that he’s black in all his speeches but close your eyes and it’s just a dude saying the same shit as any other politician but with a little more charisma. White college chicks can take the main TVOTR dude home for semester break and dad won’t be that pissed, he might even tap his toe to one of their shitty songs and say “he’s a hard worker, they make great entertainers” and Barack would offer the same thing at the dinner table, just not the same as bringing home Young Jeezy or Jadakiss home.

I’ve been waiting for Obama’s summer jam but he’s yet to deliver a hook. He has all the elements of a great song : verses with great rhythm, clever key changes, a nice transitional bridge, and a dramatic build up but no chorus. Unlike Weezy, Obama can’t hire T-Pain for the hook. He has to come up with an infectious hit to take the election otherwise he’s going to go down as Ma$e and not Jigga.

*Oh and check out dude on the right that photo, what the fuck is he doing…it’s amazing.

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Some day a douchey blogger or even worse Chuck Klosterman will be paid too much to teach a class about “Pre-Internet Dating”. Hopefully said dude/douche will have a full week devoted to Gibby Miller and his contributions to social networking. Thirty-somethings will remember how much resistance there was to the interweb and creating an online persona. Using a credit card, getting an email address, wasting time at work on AIM and getting your first link to shit-porn were all foreign and strange to a generation that still wrote letters and checks. There was no way in hell you’d ever think to skim profiles of lonely losers who could hide behind doctored photos in order to find a date.

In July of 2000 in evil Boston, MA Mr.Miller innocently started an online community: makeoutclub.com. The idea was to create a place to “form bands, start zines, find roommates and to submit user records, photographs and art to the site for everyone to see“. You weren’t sifting through photos of secretaries that enjoy “walks on the beach” and “Dave Matthews Band” instead you could search a database of Pre-Suicide Girls and dark-jeaned-Sauconied Boys by age, location and interest. If you were a 22 year old doughy fan of Belle and Sebastian in Idaho a potential make out or zine co-editor was a click away. The master stroke was turning the focus away from creepy predators and homely Stephen King reading women and creating a place to be a normal human being translated digitally with ones and zeros. We’ll refer to anything pre-2000 to be the internet’s “Dead Ball Era” and post 2000 as it’s “Steroid Era” because starting with Makeoutclub getting laid got a lot easier for everyone, with everyone’s IM name proudly displayed along with their interests an MOCer could throw out 20 instant message icebreakers in a few minutes hoping to get a bite, it’s an advanced version of complimenting every woman’s tits until one is actually flattered, you’re just yelling “Ian Curtis R.I.P.” or “Were you at the Pill last night?” instead.

MOC did all the hard work and like anything the biters came in, scooped the idea and made the real money. The internet wasn’t just for introverted hip youth anymore it was for everyone, Andy Abercrombie and Holly Hollister needed a place to swap photos of pep rallies too so Myspace jumped off and yeah whatever, who gives a shit. Take a minute to thank Gibby for helping you get laid or even find a life partner and then check out his latest endeavor : Dais Records.

Started in August of 2007 with partner and archivist to Genesis P-Orridge, Ryan Martin, Dais has put together an impressive and eclectic string of releases. Staring with Early Worm the “a transfixingly lo-fi recording of the first to tape experiments by Throbbing Gristle and Psychic TV figurehead Genesis P-Orridge“(excerpt taken from Swingset Magazine’s online review here) Dais has set a standard of releasing beautifully packaged releases with the care and passion the recordings deserve. Gibby’s spirit is stitched into every facet of the releases from the sounds on the grooves to the aesthetic and name of the label “A dais (pronounced Day-iss) is a raised platform reserved for something important, dignified, special” explains Miller ” Examples would be a raised podium platform on a stage for a speaker or the raised step where thrones would be in a king’s hall.  The logo is a child’s drawing of a coyote - but it is representative of all animals to us.  It is also a Wolf, a Raccoon, or a Fox.  It is the face of Nature and wild energy and passion.  Where I live in the hills surrounded by Griffith Park in Los Angeles at night all you hear are the howling of the coyotes - hence our well-wishing “greetings and love from the howling hills”.  There is plenty of howling after dark on the streets of Ryan’s town in Brooklyn as well - depending on how late you stay awake… and how well you listen.”

Dais is currently taking pre-orders for the Cold Cave 12″ EP described by Miller as “Dark minimal synth from Philly. The A-side is this odd 4am bouncy summer anthem - hard to describe but highly addictive, and the B-side contains two heartbreaking tracks with pulsing synths, very danceable beats and deep vocals.” Cold Cave’s earlier tracks laced noisy sound manipulations with dance beats and pained vocals, but the Dais EP showcases a new more regal and deliberate sound. The seductively lush soundscapes dancing around the commanding beats ease you into a romantic malaise. Addictive dance beats are balanced by playfully subdued vocals kissed with authority and wisdom. My gripe with most modern dance music is that it’s still guarded by kitsch, humor or technology, created by quirky Pro-toolers schooled by Vice Magazine and blog-culture. Cold Cave gives you something to latch onto without being heavy handed or overly dramatic. What the Chromeos and Crap Copies forget is that when people were busting their asses to make new sounds it was done with blood and sweat not irony, the result is usually as thin sounding as the mp3s their shit is released on. CC gives you the connection and love you want not a walk down bad memory lane sponsored by instant nostalgia and bad vodka.

Grab this immediately as it’s being pressed in a limited run of 500 copies and then since you’re already there add the Whip and The Body 7″ and the Cult of Youth LP A Stick to Bind, A Seed To Grow. The Whip and The Body will greet you with sheets of grinding power electronics until Cult Of Youth commands you to bed with an LP of early Death In June influenced pagan lullabies. For about fifty dollars total you can own some beautiful documents of sound and art and pay back Gibby for the good times you’ve had by way of social networking. Oh and Gibby is sorry for knocking that drink out of your hand in 1999 while you were dancing to “Common People“.

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One Name Header Day continues as does the US Open. White people worship tennis and they live for the US Open. With every Grand Slam Event a new tennis hunk emerges that everyone in your office loves and recites random trivia about, and this year it’s Rafael Nadal. Credit Don King and Nike for coming up with the “Grapple in the Apple” :

Over three decades after promoting the ‘Rumble in the Jungle’, the ‘Thrilla in Manila’, and ‘Ali-Frazier II’ at Madison Square Garden, ‘The Don’ is at it again, this time hired by Nike to trumpet the US Open tennis showdown between Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer, depicting them as boxing rivals to mirror Ali-Frazier. Only in America could we have the ‘Grapple In the Apple’. And Only Don King could give it his unique treatment.

King, speaking exclusively to The Daily Telegraph, revealed his “delight” at being called up to promote one of the greatest sporting rivalries on the planet. “You had the ‘Thrilla in Manila’, you had the ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ now we have the ‘Grapple in the Apple’. We gonna take it to the moon. They try to pretend to be friends. But they’re no kin and they’re gonna bend. They got to be competitive.”

Nadal is a natural pick for housewives, gay dudes and straight dudes with waxed eyebrows and fake tans who talk about their “game” over Muscle Milk and free weights. Rafa is a latin hunk, he’s young and flamboyant, the type of dude that according to Ezra Martin “Hits on your girl while you’re in the bathroom taking a piss and then offers you a drink in exchange for her when you come back”. R-Fed is older, less easy on the eyes and I think most people think he’s French, sucks to be him.

I don’t dig looking at “Rafa“, I actually think he’s a bootleg version of Med Agency Alum Aaron Stuart of Piebald. Here’s a pic to prove it (Stuart is on the far left) :

Stuey is a way cooler dude, was pictured on the cover of the New York Times before Rafa (as blogged by Ray Lemoine on Med Agency, link here ), is a biofuel master and is from the Merrimack Valley so I’m giving him a glowing endorsement. I’d rather see every magazine have a picture of Aaron, maybe we can turn Aaron into a Green Hunk, it would raise awareness for alternative fuel sources and get douchey Nadal out of our faces immediately, sounds like a win/win.

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Earlier this week the Walkmen headlined Bowery Ballroom a few times and Fox News New York realized it was prime opportunity to conduct an awkward interview and have a “local” band perform on a blindingly bright stage. You can check it here because the vid isn’t embeddable, watching Walkmen melancholy collide with newscaster enthusiasm is a treat. It’s moments like this that you realize how amazing the brain of a newscaster really is. If you’re interviewing the Walkmen on television you might take a second to familiarize yourself with the new album they’re promoting and ask a question that would evoke more than a one word answer. That’s probably what you or I would do because we like things other than ourselves but for a blond spazzy news anchor it’s not the case. Instead they opt to ask questions that usually occur on a mismatched blind date delivered with clunky faux-energy from a vapid stare that screams “Fucking kill me, I am completely devoid of any thoughts more complex than ‘does my hair look ok?”‘. It’s kind of awesome

So yes back to the Walkmen’s new album You & I which you can purchase for $5.00 on Amie Street. You can feel good about your purchase because you didn’t steal the record like I did and you’re donating money to a good cause :

“All donations go to Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in honor of Luca Vasallo, a friend to the band and a current patient who is seven months old and doing a great job fighting a very difficult disease,” said Peter Bauer of The Walkmen. “This is a very good organization that certainly deserves the attention.”

After cutting and pasting that I kind of felt like a shit bag so I decided I would legitmately buy the album. It’s a good cause and it’s nice to see a band realize that their music isn’t this precious commodity that can only retail for $17.99 so they can fund extravagant lunches for record executives and never get paid their royalties. But upon going to the site the record was $8.98 and there was no mention of any dontations so I guess I missed the boat. I’ll investigate because the Walkmen kind of made me feel like I stole quarters from a donation jar at Dunkin Donuts or something.

The album is a nice nod back to what the Walkmen do best which is play a unique brand of guitar based music that pulls from a huge canon of influences shaping a sound which is somber, aggressive, atmospheric, new and old all at once. It’s incredibly uncool to praise the Walkmen as they were part of that post 9/11 New York boom where even the Liars (yeah the Liars) inked major label deals and the sound of affordable Williamsburg Lofts was going to be the soundtrack to the new America. I’m fairly sure all this yielded was that super annoying Yeah Yeah Yeah’s song where Karen O’Shit cries in the video and sounds like Gwen Stefani with herpes…oh and the cut out bins were robust with the next-big thing so Marvelous 3 and Dishwalla got some company from their cousins in Brooklyn.

The Walkmen are much different, they got a little too Dylan and a little too ambitious with the horns on their last album A Hundred Miles Off but they’ve always managed to have their own shimmery sound that hits on something real. Live they successfully fuse the control and command of the all-American rock band with the urgency of classic American hardcore. Hamilton isn’t doing flips like HR but the first time I heard The Rat live I knew this wasn’t a bunch of douches up there trying to fellate themselves, they really meant what they were doing and had an energy that said more than “Hey we’re cute guys in cute clothes and we’ll hit on your girlfriend while you’re taking a piss because we’re amazing!”.

Maybe the reason the Walkmen aren’t cool is because they are a very personal band, many of the songs sound like scotch-soaked tales of disappointment swapped between old friends. The vintage equipment and gentle tape hiss that marks all the Walkmen’s recordings conjures up that tragic tone of a depressing Christmas Album with that unnerving skip during the Little Drummer Boy or a trapped housewife drinking alone out of a thick glass on stained couch in 1950-something. The Walkmen revived private school cool, not Vampire WEAK-end, by showing up on stage looking hungover from a wedding, in wrinkled suits with a faint scent of booze on their breath. Unfortunately the Walkmen’s story has already been told and all they now do is make solid records while Vampire Weekend are newer, cuter, and so damn quirky plus they TOTALLY dig world music and Ivy League schools, the perfect soundtrack to a new boring wine and cheese party christening a Brooklyn Condo.

*My apologies for the Roman Catholic analogies my Jewish Brothers and Sisters, Parochial School wormed Christ into my brain and I can’t shake it.

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Fear not white people, though the summer is almost over you now have a soundtrack to all the bad decisions you’ll be making at bars, parties, bedrooms and rooftops. In between sets at a Hair Police show two weeks ago, I heard this infectious song via Swingset Steve as he DJ’ed Wiz Of Oz style behind a curtain at Rehab (huh?) on the L.E.S. Vodka, soda and humidity made my brain forget to ask what it was but the following Thursday its identity was revealed as the needle dropped on another Steve DJ set. Moment of thanks and praise for the gospel according to Lowenthal.

In The City is the property of Orland, California’s Nothing People, an early-Chrome leaning, sometimes post, often times proto punk outfit that like Blank Dogs exists in their own world of “now” despite expanding their waistline with healthy portions of “then”. Though In The City was the lead track of their last of their three 7″s I’m giving it W.P.S.J. (White Person Summer Jam) status because it’s also the lead track on their debut LP Anonymous on S-S Records. That means they love the thing so much that they recorded 10-ish other tunes and realized they’d be blowing it if this song didn’t set off side A, that’s expert planning. 600 platters of vinyl exist so cop this immediately, if you are an mp3 only type, then I can offer you this : 01-in-the-city and also this:02-sickness so you can get psyched.

Remember all the terrible things you did to House Of Jealous Lovers? This jam has more swag and less of a guilty pleasure vibration. There’s something poetic about the Rapture helping every pale, shaggy lover of open bars get laid by making a herky jerky song that whitey’s stiff joints could loosen cartilage to in semi-rhythmic fashion against a backdrop of black-and-white stripes, white fairy dust and exposed brick, how innocent we were. Nothing People made a fantastic record though not a one off Vice Magazine target audience aphrodisiac. Anonymous is a great ride top to bottom, someone buy this and rip it to a sweet compressed digital format for me so I can enjoy it on the train.

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Canvas trunk maker, Sam Championer and visual graphic manipulator Sean Bones Sullivan’s latest output is the Easy Street 45rpm single.  Bones’ description of the project as a “weird and winning study of early reggae styles and recording techniques,” is illuminated from the first upstroked guitar notes of the title track. Sean’s attention to detail and authenticity is apparent in every twang of the analog organs that usher in Caribbean humidity by way of Brooklyn but Easy Street avoids kitsch by not being a nostalgia trip. The breezy song structures have modern touches that show Bones is a songwriter putting his spin on a classic style rather than tracing Kingston’s lines with a new pen for the consumption of Jack Johnson loving half-assed dread having college bros. Easy Street’s success and allure is that it’s an ode to a style, an enthusiast’s homage not a backdrop for hacky sacks, bad acid and those annoying fucking sticks with the streamers and shit coming off them. With song and study at the forefront and Easy Street is the perfect medication for keeping an even keel while grilling on Brooklyn roofs or missions to over crowded public beaches on public transportation.

From S/S Friends:

The Easy Street 7″ / EP is OUT NOW.

The record is done. It’s called Easy Street and it’s a apt soundtrack
for the rest of your long summer. Every order comes with digital
downloads and bonus material (so don’t sweat the format.) Making this
record was a special event and you can hear that in the music.

Records can be bought through the S/S FRIENDS website

Add S/S FRIENDS on myspace and receive our Summer Mix.

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Last week I chose the side of Hipsters in their heavyweight bout vs. the razor sharp minds at Adbusters. Adbusters’ corny article gave me no choice, as someone pointed out, their argument was the equivalent of the neighborhood fogey yelling “Hey you darned kids, get off my lawn!” I’ve been accused of being a Hipster sympathizer, and even an actual Hipster (who gives a shit). But what every Hipster hating mind continues to refuse to acknowledge is how important this type of humanoid is to our economy.

Since 2001 we’ve been in and out of recession and we now prepare for the big one. While the eco-friendly parents were churning out babies and purchasing homes they now can’t afford, Hipsters have steadily been pumping money into the economy at cocaine-tongued rate. Basically if you are against Hipsters, you’re against America. With their tight pants, tank-tops, irony and blow, Hipsters have kept America afloat and all these kids get in return is grief: it’s unfair, not to mention un-American.

Let’s turn the clock back to the confusing days after September the 11th, 2001. While a cloud of human dust was hovering over the center of cool known as New York City, Muhammad Ali was on our televisions screens shadowboxing terrorists to show us that all Muslims don’t want to crash machinery into our financial centers. Washed up rock bands dragged their leathery carcasses around to lift morale. The Yankees lost the World Series but showed us how brave millionaires could be by going and doing their job of playing baseball.

Then, from the ashes came a pied-piper jangle that was so infectious, so hypnotic that the pulsing down-strokes transcended simple guitar chords. This strumming syncopated intro to the Strokes’ Last Night ushered in a new America, the “clang clang clang” sounding more like “buy buy buy buy buy….rise rise rise” and like that American Swagger, and Cool was reborn. The Strokes of course were already big in the UK and were a buzz band in New York City but they weren’t on regular FM America’s radar yet and god bless the Strokes –they were far from fucking cool but it worked. Steve Lowenthal, editor of New York based Swingset Magazine tells of the exact moment in New York City, “Everyone was confused, depressed and looking for an escape, suddenly all of America was exposed to this band that was an instant nostalgia trip, they gave everyone that taste of Old New York they wanted. Shit totally made sense to me.”

In addition to running Swingset Magazine, an independent publication he started from the ground up, Lowenthal’s experience working for New York based company Cornerstone Promotion exposed him to the other side of the coin: “Coming from working at Cornerstone Promotion its funny to see the hipster become literally ‘The Target’. Cool as an idea is a brand, genre is almost irrelevant. And that comes from the sixties itself! All of that complaining comes from the older generation, they sowed the seeds and act like they can’t understand just cause everything is now digital. ‘Hipster, Hippie, Punk,Beatnik’ it’s all the same thing. Except the others pretended to be about some political/social manifesto that could never be true. And they blame the younger people from learning from their mistakes. The hipster represents the platonic ideal of youth. Thats why advertisers buy it all up, because its the ideal“.

Being on a major label, the Strokes were manufactured cool. They were strumming, posturing and waving the flag. And the Inside 9/11 folks should run with this one, everyone wants to say how fake the Strokes were, now you can link them to a government conspiracy to stimulate the economy, maybe they were an amazing swindle. Their uniform of classic American staples like Chuck Taylors, and Levis (above and below the waistline) began to fly off the shelves. Simultaneously, new bands were getting signed, and the clothing line American Apparel launched, despite being run by a creepy-porno Canadian and running perverse ads of fat chicks. And most importantly, the good old American Drug trade was through the roof. Doctor Dre’s masterpiece, The Chronic brought weed culture back onto America’s radar in the early 1990s and it continued to snowball. Pot was perfect for paranoid hermits and college dorm dwelling conspiracy theorists. For the rest of us who needed a little courage to brave the city streets, a knight in shining armor appeared, a white knight (everyone knows only good things come in white). Cocaine was more important to have on your person than Metrocards, a wallet or a condom. Lower Manhattan was shredded by planes for fuck’s sake, who cares where your dick is going, just make sure you’re having the “best fucking time ever” while you’re doing it. Best of all, drugs are usually purchased in fifty dollar increments. Drug dealers don’t really have “change” so you’re either taking out more money, buying a bottle of water or gum to make change since our ATMs only like twenty dollar bills or just buying double the amount of blow. The Bush Administration introduced more new currency than any other administration because they know it’s a way to smoke drug dealers out of their holes. You’re welcome to hold onto your old twenties but good luck paying for anything consistently with a stack of them when everyone else has big heads. So when the new bills came out, drug dealers spend knots to get rid of their old bills. Classic.
Lastly, Adbusters was right about something very important. In the early 2000s this new culture was ripe for marketing and a culture built on cool means that they are always looking for the next thing. They’re a fickle bunch ready to jump ship and make new allegiances. Marketing to these people is half the reason why there are condos lining every inch of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Youth needs to be sold by the youth, by the budding designers, cool companies, hot bands and hotter chicks. My mom can’t make a website or use an iPod, she doesn’t drink Sparks or hang out anywhere cool. With the internet growing and becoming the most common way to get information in the late 90s into the 2000s the old guard got older. The 35 year old graphic designer in 1997 might as well have been 75. They didn’t grow up with personal computers, the internet, and chances are they weren’t savvy in web-design. Everyone wanted a piece of cool and for the first time cool was handed over completely to young people. Skateboardering, Punk Rock, Graffiti, Street Art, Fashion, Sneaker Culture all shared one thread before the Tony Hawk Video Game / Jackass Boom, they survived on their own. The people involved with these cultures knew that keeping them going meant high and low periods and that any booms in the cultures were probably temporary. Sure you’d occasionally see a McNugget riding a skateboard or some commercial with Fred Flintstone rapping but that didn’t spark “cool kids” to go eat at McDonalds or buy Fruity Pebbles. These cultures were no longer “underground” they were just running on a different parallel track to the mainstream and many of the key players were good at it. The designers, shop owners, brand managers, marketers were all under or just barely thirty and they had cred. These people were eager to take checks from anyone from Nike to Red Bull and take the next step. There’s no sentiment of “selling out” it was just time for that money to be channeled to the young because the old guard was helpless. It caused a shift in culture, it made everything sickly fucking cool but don’t be pissed off at Hipsters, they saved your country and your fucking job.

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Adbuster’s Douglas Haddow has spoken! He’s unleashed a “scathing” review of the offensive, apathetic, materialistic, slacker generation dubbed “hipsters”. Cue up the Bob Dylan record because Doug is going to show you all how they used to do it in the underground when it meant something. I tried to send a letter to Doug but apparently the US Postal Service doesn’t deliver mail under rocks so I’ll just blog about it and be true to the “hipster manifesto”.

A brief summary: There is this new culture that sprung up recently that Douglas discovered by being kind of wired into the underground scene. He discovered that America’s bored youth have united and formed a new subculture, the members are called Hipsters. These kids are materialistic, egotistical, shun their wealth (I guess he looked at everyone’s tax returns to see what they were making before writing the article) and are into clothes and sex. Before reading the article I thought that was just the description of a teenager / twenty something American but after digesting this expose I realized the subtle nuances that create the hipster. Tight clothes, fake glasses, ironic gear and a need to party. These things have never come together before in culture, especially on such a powerful level. And check this out, these kids are so out of it on the cocaine that they don’t notice that they are being TOTALLY manipulated by the big evil corporations that just wanna sell stuff and make money.

Folks, this is a must read it’s scary, like how did this happen? Can Adbusters stop this? How do we protect ourselves and most importantly  what is a hipster and how do I know if I am one?

Doug’s no-holds-barred critique of these hipster zombies is punctuated by this battle cry, I can’t help but get a bit misty as I read it, I’m hoping Doug doesn’t just abandon us after blowing the lid off this subculture that is eroding the soil of the USA :

We are a lost generation, desperately clinging to anything that feels real, but too afraid to become it ourselves. We are a defeated generation, resigned to the hypocrisy of those before us, who once sang songs of rebellion and now sell them back to us. We are the last generation, a culmination of all previous things, destroyed by the vapidity that surrounds us. The hipster represents the end of Western civilization – a culture so detached and disconnected that it has stopped giving birth to anything new.

Aside from being several years too late on this Douglas is right that our culture as a whole has stopped giving birth to anything new and that’s not really that big of a deal. At some point doing new shit isn’t really that cool. Remember “funk-metal” , that was something new. Writing isn’t really that new, shunning corporations isn’t new either. Complaining about kids isn’t new either in fact all it really does is show your age or show that you’re totally fucking boring. Even using the word hipster is cringe-worthy. When someone I know says it I get the douche chills as if they were taking out a Barack The Vote or Everyone Loves a Jewish Boy shirt from an Urban Outfitters bag asking for my approval :

Gavin McInnes, one of the founders of Vice, who recently left the magazine, is considered to be one of hipsterdom’s primary architects. But, in contrast to the majority of concerned media-types, McInnes, whose “Dos and Don’ts” commentary defined the rules of hipster fashion for over a decade, is more critical of those doing the criticizing.

“I’ve always found that word [“hipster”] is used with such disdain, like it’s always used by chubby bloggers who aren’t getting laid anymore and are bored, and they’re just so mad at these young kids for going out and getting wasted and having fun and being fashionable,” he says. “I’m dubious of these hypotheses because they always smell of an agenda.”

That pretty much sums it up. Hipsters are good for the economy. It was a big deal when I was a kid to buy Air Jordans, now every kid has several pairs of sneakers, $150.00+ jeans, Mac Laptops, iPhones, what is the big picture really and who gives a shit? American means bigger and better, Hipsters are actually just patriots. Is this article telling me that kids are mindless consumers? No shit. Isn’t that the premise of Adbusters? Letting us know how totally dumb we are for letting Nike exist and how we should have a cobbler make our shoes from locally farmed cows where every inch of their corpse is used for something productive?

Hipsters or whatever the fuck dudes who wear v-necks and drink shitty beer are called are the first new culture to emerge since we all thought our computers would freeze on Y2K because someone forgot it wasn’t going to be the 19something forever. Most kids have now grown up having some type of web-profile their whole lives at this point. A kid into music can find the records you had to scour the earth for on mp3 in 30 seconds, they can digest a million things at once. If you wire a social networking site profile up to a doll Weird Science style a hipster comes out. There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s just the way the world is now. Unfortunately the humans who remember “what it used to be like” are jealous that they missed the boat. They spent their youth Lloyd Dobblering to get the attention of chicks hoping to have them touch their pee-pees , pretending to care about women’s “real feelings” and being sensitive and shit. They could have put up Barry Bonds numbers with the internet helping them get laid, that shit is steroids. Yup, this sounds like the old timer in the broadcast booth who got paid a total of 2 million dollars in his whole career bitching about today’s primadonnas. This is the asshole trying to convince me that Frank Sinatra was the definition of class and that I should take my hat off indoors.

The bigger problem is that we are in love with nostalgia, even Douglas, he’s yearning for that revolutionary spirit that gripped our forefathers and gave us subversive art like soup cans and something to believe in. It’s so tedious reading shit like this. Maybe everyone who isn’t washing organic cotton diapers right now just doesn’t give a fuck and is cool with that. If some people medicate themselves with Sparks and expensive denim who gives a fuck? I don’t listen to the radio to be inspired, I don’t want what I see everyday to resonate with me, I don’t want to live in a culture so motivated that we’re are all forward thinking radicals changing the world. I’m completely happy searching out what I want and tuning out the rest, it’s not that big of a deal really. Sure our homes are heated inefficiently, we waste a lot of shit, pop music suxxxxxx and politics are fucked up. I can’t believe I wasted my time reading a someone’s 10th Grade Social Studies assignment masked as an “article” by and adult about culture.

This article reads like a fucking Mad Lib. Plug in any “youth culture” and you have an article on current metal, hip-hop, skateboarding, graffiti. It’s all the same shit, kids communicate with their clothes. No matter what the “morals” behind the costume, people and kids specifically dress a certain way to project something hoping someone else picks up on their signal, provided it’s the right person. This even true of the anti-fashion person, same shit. Don’t try to tell me that the Punk movement or any movement had a different agenda. Once something rises to the surface it means that enough douches have latched onto it and watered it down to make it on other douche’s radars that’s all.

Puke.

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Not all NPR Bags hang from hipster shoulders lacking muscle tone or definition bearing intellectual ephemera. This week’s bag, property of Owen Black is possibly the Yin to last weeks bag’s Yang (property of Ethan Snell). While Ethan’s virgin bag was a gift, flaunting his girl’s crafty vision and Gocco print handiwork, Owen’s bag was acquired by one of the oldest traditions in history, predating currency; he boosted that shit :

” I got this bag at Nike Town on 57th in Manhattan. I went there to buy one thing, and one thing only: white XL tennis shorts. For me, its a summer staple. But I noticed these racks with dozens of shopping bags ‘For your in-store use’. I took one look at my old NPR bag (not even going to mention the make) and knew it was time to upgrade. Took one off the rack from near the center, because many of them were battered from regular use. I ducked into the fitting room and stashed my new bag inside my old one, and I was good.”

Ray Cappo was wrong, photographs don’t lie amigo because in plain sight we see the following in vivid digital camera color translated from ones and zeros

L to R, in rows (As told by Mr.Black):
-pad of paper
-transparent document wallet (for leases, resumes, contracts, and other “important papers”)
-postcard advertising the peter beste True Norwegian Black Metal book release/kasher gallery opening
-ralph lauren private sale notice
-various work papers
-package containing birthday present for my sister which i finally gave to her this weekend, a little late though (March 1)
-the art of worldly wisdom by Baltasar Gracián that my friend Josh let me borrow. He is teaching english in Indonesia right now, and from time to time, requests a passage by number, which I then scan and email to him. its important to share wisdom.
-business cards paperclipped together. always important to have these on hand.
-pencil
-$50 AMEX gift check
-$5 watch
-my mother’s potato latke recipe as transcribed from a telephone conversation
-sketches from a class I took at NYU
-magazines
-umbrella
-key card
-license plate return receipt (not sure why this is still kicking around my bag, or why it isn’t in my document wallet)
-Tide stain erasing pen. If you carry any kind of bag and one of these isn’t in it, you aren’t batman.

Unlike Ethan’s happy-go-lucky, Obama-Pint-Glass-Half-Full enthusiastic tote, Black’s bag has a Jim Jones swagger, and Billy Idol sneer mixed with wisdom and foresight, much greater than the average man of his years. Amongst some playful decoys we see that Owen is prepared for the pitfalls of a loosely wrapped burrito (stain pen), a new chick dinner date (Mom’s recipe), and the printed credentials to quiet the fastest cocaine tongue (business card and key card), fuck he’s even prepared for an unplanned rainy walk of shame with the umbrella too. A true New Yorker. The only thing lacking is a little sun-block to avoid a cocaine sunburn on an all too bright walk of shame. The bridges to the boroughs can do a number on your nose and forehead without proper protection.

Lastly, Owen silences any whispers that his bag was an impulse steal, as he rattles off a calculated manifesto detailing why this carbon loaded tote accompanies him through his daily motions :

“I love my bag because when i hang it over my shoulder, it feels natural for me to loop my right thumb around the handles, which allows me to show off my rings and knuckle tattoo, but thats just me. The combination of ink and bling really catches a lot of women’s eyes on the subway. Their staring trail goes something like this: Me, elsewhere, me, my right hand, my right hand, my face, my right hand, my shoes, elsewhere, my bag, my jeans. I can tell by the way they look at me that they are liking what they see. I always wear sunglasses on the trains, so that I can stare at them back. I also love how large my bag is. Its so big that sometimes I lose my umbrella inside of it. If you’re a dude, certain things you own you want to be small, and some have to be big. Carrying a tiny bag around is not cool. Too easily construed as a purse. I am pretty sure I could fit like three babies in my bag. And its made out of synthetic woven thread, so even the one on the bottom could breathe right through the side of my bag. The only weakness it has is that it’s not waterproof, but, oh yeah, my bag contains an umbrella, and thats backup for if I forget to wear my rain jacket. My bag, my nuts, my umbrella, I’m covered.”

Owen is a true Duffel Bag Boy like Weezy, or at least a NPR Bag Boy. Look at all those fucking Weezy covers in the background for fuck’s sake. Someone kick Ethan Snell’s ass immediately. Game over.

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“I don’t have any preferences. I could choose a team that offers me the best conditions or one in the chase for the postseason. I don’t care where I play, I can even play in Iraq if need be. My job is to play baseball,” Ramirez added.

As the Major League Baseball trade deadline approaches you can be sure of several things : Buster Olney reporting trades he’s invented in the space below his bad haircut, Peter Gammons hyping Boston’s prospects, talk of the “high price of middle relief” and the yearly Manny Ramirez trade request. It’s become a ritual for Manny to sit out a few games and make some odd comments giving Boston’s hack writers plenty to speculate about. Pepper Manny’s quotes with some fake “insider” info and you get a shitty scribe’s dream. Each year Manny’s conviction is questioned from faking injuries to having drinks and dining with the enemy.

Manny’s most recent request, as per ESPN is the most threatening because his end is actually near in a Red Sox uniform as his guaranteed contract expires at the end of the 2008 season. With the Red Sox holding the options they can essentially have him for 2 years on year to year contracts without any fiscal commitment. If you know this administration you know this is their ultimate dream as it should be. You have one of the greatest hitters in the game under your control as he approaches the most dangerous part of his career for decline without any risk.

20 mil would sound sweet to most players but at 36 Manny knows if he’s not granted free agency he’s potentially under Red Sox control until he’s 38. As a 36 year old he can possibly lock up a 4 year deal totaling around 100 million dollars. As a 38 year old Free Agent he wouldn’t be as attractive to a potential suitor and would be costing himself millions of dollars.

Manny is a unique talent and personality. His swings of the bat and mood have provided me with more joy, entertainment and drama than any other slugger that has played for the Boston Red Sox. Each year his godlike and consistent numbers have provided me with the facts to defend his quirks and his highlight reel proves him to be the anti-Jeter. He’s a player who navigates the field with childlike enthusiasm and approaches hitting with a surgical precision. His combination of savant, scholar and innocence has become endearing to his fans and inflammatory to his critics. He shuns the stoic and bland post-game comments for high fives, “being a legacy” and awkward cut-off throws. His thick mound of dreadlocks resembling tarantula legs swinging out of his doo-rag are the antithesis of Jeter and A-Rod’s tightly wound early 1990s out-of-date In Living Color fades.

Boston fans have a genuine love for Manny being Manny despite how hard the hacks try to paint him as an uncaring lazy fuck who just wants his paycheck. When Manny first came to Boston he was viewed by the media as Dan Duquette’s consolation prize for not catching the “moose” during the free agent hunting season. There were a few fluff pieces about his dynamic ability but nothing about Manny the person. It’s a combination of Manny’s reluctance to deal with writers so quick to critique him and his English and writer’s lack of giving a fuck. Boston writers would drink sweat wrung from Curt Schilling’s bloody sock but it’s inconceivable that Manny Ramirez could ever have a sore hamstring or knee, he’s just a lazy ass fat fucking baby.

Fans were willing to quickly forget the recent tantrum / Mantrum® when Ramirez physically assaulted a Red Sox official over some comp’ed tickets but this latest tirade actually feels like goodbye. It’s your partner asking you to talk to her over a “cup of coffee”, a Dear John note to the fans. He’s laid out an impossible plan for ownership as they cannot trade him for value and if they retain him they’re unsure if he’ll be reliable down the stretch run. This time Manny is gone, there was something special in his relationship with the fans. We were willing to overlook his cracks because at the end of the day he made us each of us feel like like the most handsome / pretty motherfucker in the room with the biggest dick and splashiest swagger (No homo) with his moon shot home runs and legitimately fucking gangster celebrations. Each one was like a Picasso, a brilliant stroke followed up by some burst of emotion punctuated by a gesture that would give you chills. Unfortunately the romance is over, it’s genuinely not us his him this time and like his monster shots, they only blast forward towards the Mass Pike and out of evil Boston.

Cue up You Can’t Always Get What You Want or something and picture those dreadlocks silhouetted as he walks off into the sunset. We can occasionally pull out our 2004 memory chest and reminisce but number 24 is destined to be the one that got away.

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UPDATE!

I should have searched Youtube first, because this cat below created a much nicer video of the same Canyon Country jam I worship and wanted to reference. I’ll be deleting my bootleg one that might cause seizures and  link to the real deal

Every summer needs a summer jam, a song that you make bad choices to, consume frat beer out of a plastic cup to and usually sweat somewhere to. The summer jam normally is the rap song that the industry pays the radio stations and crooked DJs to play more than other songs. The pulsing beat and 1.5 hooks per minute are become your soundtrack whether or not you consent.

I love summer jams but summer records are even better. Records that slip through the cracks most of the year but whe mixed with humidty, fried food scents, and hot pavement they resonate. They remind you of discovering a girl’s tan lines for the first time, smoking dirt weed in the woods with a BMX gang, getting panic attacks and new sneakers before labor day and other sentimental shit.

Mr. Erik Snyder turned me onto There’s a Forest In The Fire by Canyon Country in the Fall of 2005. It was a breezy record that sounded like the Verve if they came from Orange County California and had beachy surfer hair not greasy mops and bad teeth. It sounded like one big blond grin and flip flops, slow steady, deliberate and optimistic and totally fucking bummer at the same time. Unfortunately this mini-masterpiece was hard to track down. It wasn’t on iTunes, I hate mailordering shit and I even flaked on borrowing Snyder’s copy

Fast forward to summer 2006, I have a song in my head from Canyon Country, a song I’ve heard twice. Luckily the world wide web is at my fingertips and I find Canyon Country’s myspace profile and proceed to buy their album now featured on iTunes. If I wasn’t impatient I would have gone to the Darla site and purchased a physical copy but I needed to have instant satisfaction.

My goal was to share an mp3 from Canyon Country but Steve Jobs has ensured that I cannot do this with my DRMed iTunes digital music files and I don’t have the patience to follow some hacker’s step-by-step on freeing music so instead I crafted a crude iMovie using some footage of a beach (how cute) I found on the nerd and spliced it with Safe my favorite tune from Canyon Country.

I know my job as a blogger / culture informed dude is to turn you onto the hottest new Blog Party but I’m not, instead just buy this fucking record, there are a million sites that have it for cheap, it’s got like a million songs and who gives a shit if they aren’t a band anymore you’re not leaving your house anyway to actually see music live this summer unless it’s free or some miserable festival with too many bands and haircuts.

Here’s what the Darla site says :

Canyon Country’s debut album. Written and performed by Nick Huntington (Freescha, The Surf The Sundried). Released on California’s Attacknine Records. Recorded after Freescha’s last album “What’s Come Inside Of You”, this is an entirely different treasure chest of tunes. 19 songs filled with delicate pianos, soft acoustics, organs, mellotrons, violins, cellos, echoing voices, and monolith drones. Music under the vast night sky, humming with the horizon line. Shhh…

So yeah get this and check out Nick’s other projects they’re all excellent and he’s a righteous dude.

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Welcome to the first installment of What’s In Your NPR Bag?, a weekly column where we ask the fashionably green what the fuck they are carrying around in their canvas bag.

Fellow Mediciner Rachel Elder brought it to my attention that the proper name for this phenomena sweeping the nation and specifically Brooklyn was the NPR bag. I’ve noticed a massive spike in men carrying these bags, this can be attributed to several factors :

1. Perfect size for record shopping.

2. Says that you care about the environment but not in a hippie way, unless you have a yoga mat poking out.

3. Less “faggy” than a really corporate Murse® aimed at the metro / Details mag set but still nothing that a jock would carry chewing tobacco or energy drinks in.

4. Another surface to communicate your likes and dislikes, you’re a walking beacon for whatever you choose to promote or disrespect.

I hate even carrying a wallet or keys so I was more interested in what could be in a dude’s NPR bag. Call it coincidence but I ran into long time friend of Meds, Ethan Snell at small party in Brooklyn and picked his brain.

“My NPR bag? Ohhh my tote, yeah man fuck this one is brand new, my girlfriend screenprinted these for an indie craft fair and I just started carrying it a few days ago, it’s so convenient and of course I’m a huge fan of her design work so that’s a perk!”

Though the bag was brand new there was a dusting of Drum tobacco already lining the bottom where some pens, lighters and keys rested next to some freshly signed paperwork for a brand spanking new Condo on the park (co-signed by Dad, I peeked sorry!) Congrats though Ethan, a copy of the New Yorker, a few of those nasty free subway condoms, a Luna bar wrapper and an empty Kombucha bottle.

“Yeah I guess I’m ready for anything with bag” Ethan remarked “though I still need to get a few bare essentials in there, gum, iPod, The Believer and my journal, I’m a designer and I’m constantly inspired by my surroundings, you see so many interesting images and graphics in Brooklyn, in a bodega, a tag on a wall or even just some of the interesting looks you see in Williamsburg, it’s like a constant living breathing reference book so it’s essential to make notes in between brunch and happy hour!”

Thanks to Mr. Snell for letting me snoop around your NPR bag.

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From Heartworm :

We are proud to announce that Jonathan Shaw’s Narcisa is released today and is Heartworm #21. Narcisa is a 360 page beautifully designed memoir and Shaw’s first leap into the world of shock literature.

This book was released in an edition of 1,000 copies. Please visit the Heartworm
STORE to order a copy.

According to Johnny Depp, “If Hubert Selby Jr., Charles Bukowski, Ernest Hemingway, Jack Kerouac, William Burroughs, Neil Cassady, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, the Marquis de Sade, Antonio Carlos Jobim, Joao Gilberto, Edward Teach, Charley Parker, Iggy Pop, Louis-Ferdinand Celine, R. Crumb, Robert Williams, Joe Coleman, Dashiell Hammett, E.M. Cioran and all of the Three Stooges had all been involved in some greasy, shameful, evil whorehouse orgy, Jonathan Shaw would surely be its diabolical, reprobate spawn.” With a fan base that includes Lydia Lunch (who provides an introduction), Depp, Jim Jarmusch and Iggy Pop, it is already a much-anticipated debut.

We also released two photo/collage zines by Dan Murphy- Stuck On The Map and William Boone- Suicidal Tenants (Heartworm #17 and 19) and there are a few copies of each left.

Founded by Wesley Eisold and based in Philadelphia, Heartworm has released an impressive string of projects ranging from books and zines to limited albums and artist prints. Narcisa is the latest must have as all the releases are in limited runs. Quit reading gossip and or jerking off and hit up their site now and buy it along with their other releases before they vanish.

With most releases reaching “out of print” status within days, you’ll have to scour and dig to find some of their gems but it’s worth your time and effort. The recent casualties make up and unholy trinity that you’ll need to avoid purgatory :

The Father :The Cold Cave Demo 12″, a collision of synth, dissonance and melody.

The Son : Max G Morton’s sweat, spit and acid soaked diary set to the Void side of the Faith/Void split Indestructible Wolves of the Apocalypse Junkyard

The Holy Ghost : XO Skeletons‘ Bored By Heaven Lp pressed on vinyl with sketchy layout and your own piece of the gospel to read before your dreams of fetish and licorice.

Digital is convenient, but objects are forever. Someday we’ll have to buy a “convertorator” to turn our mp3s into mp33s and catalog our jpegs into the latest and greatest form of ones and zeros but your Heartworm wares can be stored conveniently in your hope chest at the bottom of your altar for your perusal sans wifi connection or electricity.

Visit the site often as it’s constantly being updated with new saccharine for your cavities.

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Yesterday I mentioned that children should be causing trouble in the woods not rolling around on Heelys and listening to Wilco.  Judging by the graphics from  newly launched New Jersey based comapny Totally Skateboards, they agree.

.

I see muscle cars, fire, butterfly knives and chains. All things of these objects seldom lead to anything productive but they are fun as hell. In fact if you put them all together, marinate them in yellow beer and drop them in New Jersey you have a good fucking time in the making…unless you’re a girl I guess.

Jersey boys Dave Wasnak, Pat Guidotti, and Anthony Anastasio were united in the desire to create a skateboarding first company with quality products using top notch wood and simple, functional shapes.

Peep the promo to see new and old blood rip and get ready to be wiped out TOTALLY! (If you’re a surfboard dude of course….AYE!)

Totally Skateboards

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Aww how cute Ms. Feist was on Sesame Street to share her death chant with all the earth’s annoying little children. The Pixar loving little shits that ruin my brunch by spazzing around and throwing shit while their passive aggro parents have a defeated look on their faces and just sigh. Said parents might even mumble and inaudible “Don’t do that Belle” or “Sebastian please sit down” but the indie-babies / children don’t give a fuck, from the moment they dawned a Motorhead onesie they knew they had the upperhand.

I don’t like children, specifically your children. The ones that crash into me while I’m on a mission to buy alcohol, records or clothes. The ones wizzing by with a cocky smirk spinning the wheels of their fucking Heelys. The one’s who have parents that just pretend you aren’t there rather than reprimanding their children or apologizing for them.

If you have a child and make me interact with it I’ll be polite. I might even enjoy it in small does but if I am trying to go about my adult or semi-adult life and have to be around throngs of children after I’ve tried so hard to hide from them (I can count the minutes I’ve spent in Park Slope BKLYN) I am going to start taking action. The cute stories and pictures you share with me about your child are actually amusing, I like cute things but they have a shelf life. My cell phone is actually a digital tribute to the wacky hi-jinx my cat Raleigh gets into. He sleeps on top of the oven, he poses for pictures, has a piercing meow which is captured on video and he’s cute. The difference is that since he’s a cat it’s all he’ll ever do. When he does something remotely smart it’s always entertaining because he’s a fucking cat, he’s stupid as shit, he’s not going to grow up, learn how to talk and become a politician. I don’t need to see every shitty thing your sucky kid does because at some point you’ll hate that kid and not want to show me shit about them. You aren’t going to show me a picture of the bong in their dorm or the chick they had Bud Light Sex with but I will never tire of my cat, he’s a perpetual kitten. He’ll be talking to me in Siamese when you’re bailing Britt out of jail for possession.

Your children are cute and funny but they don’t need to be little versions of you. They don’t need to wear Ramones shirts, your babies and little adults don’t even like the fucking Ramones. If they are such Ramones fans can they even name the members, hint they are on the fucking shirt…whoops they can’t read. They are reacting to noise, they would do the fucking baby dance (see video then continue) to Skrewdriver, GG Allin or Raffi and they should be doing it to Raffi.

Children shouldn’t be cool. The only tattooed arms pushing strollers should be owned by Bikers not Graphic Designers. They should be breaking shit in the woods not in a hipster park where dudes have hangovers or just shot Ron. They should be named after Michael Jordan not Conor Oberst, they should be wearing Sponge Bob the Builder gear not Baby BAPE and BABY/DC shirts. If you try to make your children cool you have a big surprise coming. These kids are used to not being scolded, not respecting anything and having semi-business hippie post-hipster green parents. Bingo dipshit, picture American Psycho crossed with Alex P Keaton on the best cocaine money can buy and that is who is going to push you around in a carriage, I mean wheelchair long after your Wilco CDRs have stopped spinning.

Lastly, if you’re going to bring your child to a musical event cover his or her fucking ears. There are ear plugs made specifically for your shitty kid. It sucks watching your kid baby mosh to music but at least ensure they won’t have hearing loss before they can tie their shoes. Maybe these kids don’t listen because your dumb ass made them deaf with a steady diet of Arcade Fire while you changed their shitty diapers and loud free outdoor concerts. If you are somewhere that the baby mosh/dance is happening you have to access the situation quickly and react.

Are you in the wrong place or is the baby in the wrong place?

Example  - Baby spotted dancing at My Morning Jacket show while you and your bud pull out a device used for smoking marijuana.

Verdict : What did you expect you fucking indie hippie? Go somewhere away from the baby get high and shame on you for being at the concert in the first place you deserve to be there. Your second option is to leave the venue and leave that life behind, in this case you are getting your head right and I owe you a beer.

Example - Baby doing the baby mosh in a club to High on Fire with Nigel Hipster Parents.

Verdict : You are legally* allowed to put a cigarette out on the father’s forehead and douse the wound out with PBR. You should get security and have the baby taken into child custody. High on Fire are boring and not good anymore but you did nothing wrong other than liking Sleep and trying to pretend HOF are “pretty damn good!”.

*This is only legal by my rules which the United States doesn’t recognize as actual law.

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Last night former first round draft pick Josh Hamilton hit a record 28 home runs in the first round of the MLB All Star Game Home Run Derby breaking Bobby Abreu’s record. Hamilton had a break out season last year with the CIncinnati Reds hitting .292 and swatting 19 home runs before being traded in the off season to the Texas Rangers.

Hamilton’s well documented battle with drug and alcohol addiction lead to eight trips to rehab and a temporary ban from the major leagues. Since being drafted by Tampa Bay right out of high school he’s fought his was back and was rewarded with his first All Star appearance at age 27. Despite actually losing the contest to the Twins’ Justin Morneau he’s become and amazing story about battling addiction but there is an inaccuracy in every article stating that he’s a former heroin addict.

I too thought Hamilton was once addicted to Heroin as I texted back and forth during the contest : “Damn,  a dude who was on Ron Ron is killing it” and “Hamilton has an ill her-ron flow! R U watching this?”. (Yes I text like a 14 year old girl, I watch Gossip Girl too)

Something didn’t make sense to me though. I had a tough time believing that Josh was a heroin junkie. All the former junkies I knew did three things :

1. Talk about how long they’ve been clean before going into some sexy tale of addiction with a 10 carat twinkle in their eye.

2. Make the worst music of their career, usually country or folk influenced with songs about children.

3. The most productive and noble and path least traveled, help other addicts recover. This one is tough because you’re forced to be around what almost destroyed you, help people who probably don’t want help and everyone who kicks heroin smokes like a thousand cigarettes so you’re probably going to die from second hand smoke.

I looked around for pictures of Josh Hamilton with his shirt off to see if he had that leathery Iggy Pop/Anthony Kiedis thing going down but no dice, in fact in all my searching I only found him talking about his former addictions to alcohol and crack cocaine. That’s right  like Tyrone Biggums, Josh smoked rocks but didn’t boot Ronzo.

Now it all makes sense. I could see Josh and his flame tattoos roasting a rock, getting aggro and smashing shit with a bat but I couldn’t picture his goatee junked out on a couch with the lock groove of a record skipping while he stared at the ceiling. So people, get that fucking shit right! My man over came an addition to the white stuff, that cooked crack, not heroin. It’s still and amazing story, I’m still stoked for him, and the performance brought a tear to my eye.

Applaud Josh Hamilton getting his shit together for himself and his family and breaking a record held by a guy who looks like he’s always getting an allergic reaction but don’t call him a junkie.

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Last night Jigga headlined the biggest greenfield music festival in the world and decided that he’d start by responding to the irrelevant and bloated Noel Gallagher for saying that brothers shouldn’t be rapping at this storied fest.

First video footage of Noel’s remarks dissing Jay lit up the greens and then Hova rolled out with a shit eating Joe Camel grin “playing a guitar” (in the same way Weezy plays a guitar) doing his rendition of the Oasis hit Wonderwall. He was off-key and smirking but it was a nice fuck you and tribute. I ended up at a party above the Spotted Pig about 2.5 years ago that was essentially an empty living room with 5 record executives, 20 white chicks, two sistahs and Jigga. I guess it was to celebrate something, we shouldn’t have been there but myself, Karaoke Ryan and Galle® ended up at this private party where Jigga was putting on a clinic, dancing with chubby white chicks, leading the Electric Slide and playing favorites from his iPod including Coldplay, Phil Collins, and Amy Winehouse , complete with waving his finger that looked like a black tree branch for the “No No No” refrain and also rapping over his own songs to the small crowd. He also dropped his own verse over Mims’ This Is Why I’m Hot, my white brain couldn’t believe that I was seeing Jigga spitting in front of me, literally spitting on white dudes as he rambled and flowed.

I did my best to hide the Michael Mann-esque light my cell phone emits mid-text messaging but I had to fire off the details of this encounter to at least have a breakdown of what I was seeing if vodka and piff clouded my recollection the next day. There was one moment of struggle that night; in my head I’m an honorary member of Dipset since I’ve chosen to side with them over 50’s Vitamin Water empire. I felt slightly guilty for being there since Cam’s diss of Jay and his open toed sandals was still buzzing in my speakers. I scanned the room and noticed that there were no body guards among the small crowd, maybe I should text message Killa, maybe I should call the Goons? Jigga was easy prey for my favorite rap conglomerate. The problem with being an honorary member is that you don’t have anyone’s actual number so I convinced myself I was a DIP-SPY keeping tabs on old head and I’d report any suspicious activities to Jim Jones’ myspace if necessary.

Wonderwall was the closer, it was Papelbon irish jigging his way to the mound that night. Jay queued up the iPod and a familiar jangle came out of the speakers, he parted the crowd and motioned towards the only “rock niggas” there which happened to be the three scruffy honks that shouldn’t be there. The nostrils were flared, lungs pushing out strained notes with a grin and a battle cry of “ROCK N ROLL NIGGAZZZZZZZ” was unleashed as I stood there, arms draped on my comrades trying to detune my vocal chords so I was out of tune in unison with Jigga as a show of unity.

We split after that because honestly unless Giselle came in and gave me a foot-rub while Tom Brady told me I had a stronger chin than him there was nothing left to do.

As I’ve said before, Jay is a performer now, his records only have a few good songs now but if it’s a vehicle for him to put on spectacles like this I will continue to pay retail for them. The guitar, the head bobbing to Coldplay with Ricky Gervais are ridiculous, semi-embarrassing but ultimately cool somehow and much more interesting that some recycled grumbling from a guy named Noel who can’t write a good song anymore, he can’t even guest on a tune and make it cool.

Roc Boys in the building. Peep it here.

Jay-Z Kills Wonderwall

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There are several achievements tonight for the Boston Celtics and the city of Boston. Buried beneath the fanfare and confetti is something very real and human to us all, it’s Ray Allen rising above adversity and the devastating news that his son had fallen ill during Game 5 to win the NBA Championship title, it’s Pierce dousing Doc with Gatorade, it’s KG hugging Bill Russell after the victory and our favorite story line, the Cigar that Red lit up somewhere during the 4th when he knew it was a lock. Boston fans are drunk off this victory and hopefully some champagne as well but let’s not forget the passion and drive that brought us here, what these individuals have gone through and most importantly what Ray-Ray has been through, this man didn’t sleep, he played this game with a heavy head and heart and was able to rise above and drain 22 three-point shots in total in the finals, the most in NBA history and lead the Celtics to an emotional victory.

Growing up in the suburbs of Boston, one thing was fact, the Celtics were gospel, they were Winners! They were a tradition much like going to Church and Sunday dinner. My Italian family would gorge after mass and then enjoy the Celtics, often times it was a playoff situation where I quickly learned to hate players named Rambis, Lamibeer, Thomas or Worthy. Ultimately the results were favorable and I wore my “Six Pack” shirt with pride as the Celtics were Champions, they inhaled the fumes of Red Auerbach’s cigars and raised banners. My father pooled together with friend to buy Celtics season tickets for a good portion of the 1980s. He could have taken anyone to some of the most important and pivotal games in NBA history but he chose his son, barely in the double digits. He shared these moments with a young boy who would barely remember the humid Boston Garden where even Greg Kite was a hero. My memories are foggy, the details are aren’t sharp but with every passing year I realize what a sacrifice my dad made, taking a young boy to so many epic games and I him and his unselfish acts for the gift he gave me. I was lucky to witness so many classic games and I realize the importance more and more each day.

One must remember that in the 1980s the Red Sox were the puffy faced hard luck girl that you could convince to date you, she was flawed and cracked but she filled a void and ultimately you knew it would end in some shouting match that stung. In the end she was a quick fix, she left you upset and asking for more even though she wasn’t your first choice but the Celtics, the Larry Bird led Celtics were that hot blond that was way out of your league. They helped you develop a swagger, you wore the color green with pride and you felt like you had the biggest cock in the room even if you hadn’t really used that cock yet. In contrast, the Red Sox, now the copyrighted Red Sox Nation®, were really the Irish bartender chick who looked ok after a few shots, the one from Southie that cursed a lot and smelled like body spray. The edge of the bar conveniently hid her big ass and the whiskey shots blurred her ruddy alcoholic features and borderline see-thru complexion. She was second place, your consolation prize but not your holy grail. She was your Calvin Schiraldi. You didn’t expect jack shit from the Red Sox aside from pain and frustration mixed with a few highs, you weren’t bringing your hard luck girl home to meet the parents but the Celtics were the talk of the town, tthe press darlings, they ruled the 1980s in Boston and were the Boston fans’ trophy girl.

As I reside in Williamsburg, Brooklyn where Red Auerbach grew up I am overwhelmed by the moment, by KG exclaiming “Anything is possible!” and “I’m on top of the world!”. Oh yeah and I forgot he also said “What you gotta say now!” before he hugged Bill Russell and asked Bill he had made him proud. Even in his ultimate moment he was humble and conscious of what was happening, big shout to KG! It’s these moments where a multi-millionaire star player is being candid with a legend where I realize how special these celebrations are. It’s Doc Rivers’ Gatorade tie-tied suit, it’s Rajon Rondo hoisting a championship trophy, it’s Big Baby getting his first minutes in the finals and most importantly it’s the fucking shit bag, soul patch having Zen-Master not getting into the history books, that’s right fuck you Phil you fucking douche. Oh did I mention that was the biggest ass kicking in a deciding game in the NBA finals?

Finally, let’s celebrate Paul Pierce, the first thing he did is thank us for supporting him, despite the emotion, the moment, the history, the energy he chose to immediately to address the regular ass guy, thank you Paul, we love you, you ARE the truth, get that SHIT in to PIERCE!

Congratulations to the Boston Celtics, to a history, a tradition and a moment Boston and its fans are enjoying now.

PS- There was a brother in a rain coat and goggles being incredible during the celebration repping hard with the mic being the master of ceremonies, big shout to that dude.

PPS- KG is on ESPN right now being humble, would Kobe or Shaq ever do that? Nope. KG always considered himself as a champion in his heart, tonight he’s one in the history books. Holler at your fucking BOY!

PPPS - Lakers, did you really lose by that much, GOD DAMN.

PPPPS - If this doesn’t make sense fuck you, it’s 1:33 AM and I am crunked, eat my shit!

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