Major Lazer = Major Chaos

I'll just post what I typed into my IPhone "notes" as I was sitting there, smoking a cigarette, watching numerous "scene" kids enjoy their lives regardless of the music that was right in front of them. Sleigh Bells feature/interview, which I thoroughly enjoyed is forthcoming on Agit-Reader.

"From my observation, lots of kids drove from many far points to experience this 21st Century experience. I am impressed with BOMA as a venue, but the majority that populate this place are "just getting into dubstep." Let's see if they can dance to it? I need to blog about this properly. I feel like I should yell out to the people here that Major Lazer is not Girl Talk, no matter how much they emulate a crowd at Girl Talk. He's destroyed live electronic music, or has it never been legitimate as something other than a gathering of drug-users. The rave experience has never ended. There are kids here with LED lights on their fingertips, girls with glow-in-the-dark hula hoops, and the worst of the bunch, doods with glow-stick nunchucks who think they have mastered a skill by twirling them around in the same cadence as the Major lasers coming off the stage. It was Major Lazer, more a light show than a "show." I've seen this many times before and I feel like a combination of Skerrit Boy's Flavor-Flav party-starter, clownish, persona and the way-too-bassy for it's own good soundsystem of BOMA has turned this into a - "Hey I was there" moment, instead of a piece of art that I'm normally used to getting from Diplo. At this point I feel guilty to accuse Diplo of sabotaging this event and taking full advantage of the low IQ audience he's attracted.

There's always been an art to what Wes Pentz does, that goes beyond a simple mash-up mentality or even reinvention or celebration for reggae dub electronic-ness. The conversations heard about the music is mind-numbing. Half of me is glad for their exposure, but my other half despises this rise, like I'm the only one who really gets it. It's a sad sheltered perspective, I know. Maybe I'm jaded, crusty, and just trying hard to be indifferent. All that doesn't deter from my individual connection to this music and my inability to describe the genius of Pentz's beat politico and world views. For him I've always had rush after goosebump-inducing rush. Big highs and few lows. So are these the new hippies?"

So that's what I wrote. And after it was all said and done, I was impressed with what Major Lazer has accomplished in twelve short months, but disappointed at what it has become. I enjoy the music enough, but on this night thought the setting was all wrong, the feeling was all wrong, and for that, this spectacle was a failure. I have prescience though to think that Diplo will realize this, and scant down his stage-show to focus on what's important -- yes, a good time is important - and that's the beat.

Chili Quest Vol. 1 - Camp Washington

I suppose it was my bro and his gurl that made Skyline a staple in my life. I had become infatuated with Cincinnati Style chili. I'm in no way a advocate of modern Cincy -- I think it's one of that last places on Earth I would inhabit (besides Cleveland) as there's little to do other than see Reds games (and a top-notch modern art museum). Full disclosure, the south beigns at State Route 104 on the south side of Columbus. But in terms of history (see King Records, their magnificently historic zoo, Hudepohl/Burger beer) it's ripe for visitations. I'm always reminded of the ol' Beastie Boys sample -- "It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there." All you need to see Cincinnati is day trips, amirite? I mean, my favorite president, Ulysses S. Grant is buried miles off Pete Rose Way. Connection?

Back to the chili. I always thought "chili" was something invented in the south-west. After some research I was amazed to discover that "chili," in the purest sense of the word was invented by a Macedonian immigrant upon opening a Greek restaurant in Cincinnati, Ohio. Haters can hate, but "chili" with beans and outrageous spices came second to the gravy-esque sweetness of Cincinnati chili -- a recipe that incorporated chocolate, cloves, and cinnamon to the stew-like mixture. This is the real "chili" -- the "chili" we all know and love, and presumptuously base on spiciness and texture, and the quality of "powder" used is post-Cincy "chili." So with my latest obsession, I'm on the quest for the best.

On my recent visit to Red's Opening Day, I only saw it fitting that I visit what most say is the most original and the oldest. Yes, there's still Empress Chili (the absolute original) in three locations (but none are the original location), but by all reports Camp Washington is the best and the most traditional in the city. There are mom-and-pops all over, but this is supposedly not to be missed. Located in the decrepit Colraine (or Camp Washington) district, right near Vine, right off I-75, it has been updated from the first Camp. Washington store across the street. All the renovations and cleanliness of this store might subtract from the overall feeling of a real Cincy parlor. There's something to be said for homeliness and quaintness. But that said, the oyster crackers were thrown in front of us before the coneys even arrived, the owner was rubbing his sweating forehead regarding a Red's Opening Day beat-down, and the servers knew their stuff. The chili had a bite that I didn't normally register with my Skyline experiences, perhaps slightly more fresh amounts of clove and cinnamon (CMP WSHGTN is know for making it fresh everyday) and the buns were slightly crisp, maybe oven crisped. As I have nothing to judge these against, other than live Skyline and the store-bought "Cincinnati Style Recipe Chili" cans I buy from Kroger -- I can't honestly give this a rating in my Chili Quest. So stay tuned. My further adventures will include Empress, Dixie, and as many mom-and-pop parlors as I can visit in this endless summer of 2010. So far though, Camp Washington is king.

Opening Day Revisited in Pictures

Spent wonderful Opening Day with Mr. Michael Rep Hummel of Harrisburg, Ohio. We got there early and saw the parade, had some beers at my favorite haunt -- O'Malley's in the Alley -- and by the sixth inning couldn't take anymore of a miserable opening day offense.


Mike wanted a free Red's crown. He got one.


Always my favorite part of Great American Ball Park.



Nothing better than finding yourself in a sea of Red's Fans.



Though we spent most of our car ride talking about the history of Harrisburg (it was my first time in his village), our favorite former Reds (it was not Ron Gant, it was Greg Vaughn), and the endless merits of the Ladbroke compilation I was packing (Cries From the Midnight Circus), the one thing we agreed on is that Johnny Bench is a complete fucking asshole. Go Reds.

Nodzzz on an Easterrr

Easter was a glorious day in Central Ohio this year. I spent it eating sushi, watching the excellent How to Train Your Dragon (in 3-D), and spending some quality time with the misses. By the time this "early" show came around, I was hard-pressed to head out. But I owed my attendance to the Washington Beach Bums (the Beach's new signature party band), the hyper-kinetic Outer Spacist, and Nodzz - the dudes who came all the way from Oakland. When it started there was barely a soul at the Summit. You could've put a confessional in the back room and taught Sunday school by the Alan Jackson booth. It was baseball's opening night, which is really just Yankees-Red Sox cash-cow/jerk-off cause we all know the Cincinnati Reds play the first official game of the season (you knew that right?), and the Nodzz guys are just as geeky about baseball starting as myself -- so it was a bonus to talk to the trio about the upcoming MLB season.

Midway through their set, you could tell Nodzzz would'a been happy playing all night. They claimed it was the most fun they'd had in some time -- being on the road for weeks can be bleak I'm sure. Even if there were only 35 paid on a Sunday night, Nodzzz showed how they've perfected their brand of nerd-pop heroics. It's not as dunderheaded as you might think upon first listen, these are expertly crafted, and quite complex songs they do. It's worth your while to check them out if you haven't already. Not exactly sure why they haven't blown up as much as they should. They could drink those Vampire Weekend kids under the table. Let's not even get me started with Surfer Blood. Ugh.

Thirsty Ear Maiden Voyage with White Rabbit

Ashamed I've never been here before, even back in the I lived a mere three blocks away. This is the place where great musicians who never tasted greatness, sans maybe Brian Auger and ? and the Mysterions, go to enjoy the weekend and the company of other "great" musicians. "Great" because this bar is exactly how I've suspected it through the years -- Half Toronto airport lounge/Half Time Warp (think of the bar sequences in Magnolia and you're close). People here still think "blooz" is a viable art-form and anxiously await what Boz Scaggs does next. "Great" because when I arrived, Toto was on the jukebox and seemed like a frequent player on Saturday nights.

"Great" because I got a chance to see Dayton's White Rabbit -- no, not the Walkmen cover band, they're called White Rabbits. And in a perfect world this band, composed of the former keyboardist of the Cyrkle ('member "Red Rubber Ball" -- he didn't play on it), your high school chemistry teacher, a guitarist that constantly slays (in his basement)and a classy lady that looked liked she'd been on a new-age health-food dream-catcher bender since Stevie Nicks released Bella Donna. Don't get me wrong, these dudes are likely a wedding band for rich white men in the Miami Valley, but boy could they play (and check out their amazing fucking website).

You want soft rock? Try some Ambrosia, the aforementioned Scaggs (oh they rocked "Lowdown"), or Steely Dan. Want the classics? Well, if you are like me you consider Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" the quintessential song of the '70s, and they do a rousing version of it. Want a Micheal Losekamp original (he's the guy from Cyrkle)? Well, you'll get one or two -- and they were "great," expertly performed smooth jazz workouts. Thristy Ear has Troeg's Nugget Nectar (liquid kind bud) on tap, so throughout the night they became the band of my wildest fever dreams -- so much in fact that you don't mind some Eagles or even "Minute By Minute." Lord knows, with my frequent trips back to Troy and the like, I'll be scoping out more performances by this "great" outfit.

Bone Thugs and Phil Collins Simply Amazing

Forgot to mention how amazing it was to see Bone Thugs and Harmony reborn in Texas. I would say it was the best thing I saw that week -- but we'll have to save that for the book.

Official SXSW Pick: Twin Sister

Pay attention to this space. I was so enthralled with Brooklyn's Twin Sister that I'm still talking about them. Their mid-afternoon set had me stunned in my footsteps that I couldn't even choke down the free Magic Hat. I had to wait. Had to see this sober.

SXSW 2010 in Pictures and Tweets

If you're an avid reader here, you'll notice the lack of attention given to the W.O.W. Apologies -- I've been consumed with school and school and work and work. Come May I'll be out of this storm and regular updates will return.

I did get a few days of vacation to head back down to Austin -- for the Agit we kept a daily, almost minute-by-minute blog and all by my lonesome I amused myself with Iphone photos and tweets. I consider these little comments my most comedic and spontaneous, so I highly advise sifting through some of them. SXSW is after all a constant comedy of errors, but it's also the most euphoric four days of the year for me.

Two New TNV Tour Only Releases

I'll have to admit, that while I had an excellent, fulfilling time in Austin this year, SXSW sans the kids in TNV, was somewhat a drag. Europe (for the next two months and some change -- GO ATP Pavement), you are the lucky ones right now. You're getting to see one of the most incendiary live bands in the land. Where Times New Viking excel is from the stage. I just sat through a bushel full of start-up bands stealing the kid's flow. Believe it or not, TNV started all this -- or better yet -- Tom Lax re-started all this. TNV just became the mold.

Well, remaining as obscure-by-design as ever, the kids printed up some extremely rare and beautiful CD-Rs of unreleased mayhem, the beginning of their "really high DIY" series. The first, New Times Viking, culls demos and tracks from the Stay Awake sessions, including everything they recorded with Home's Andrew Deutsch in NYC, and elements of "The Fall and Dvorak." But "everything they do is a demo," you say? Not so, hearing their hits in the germ stage is somewhat euphoric. Matador would be right to bootleg this one. Little gems like the bopping, Clean-converse "Influence" and the eternal summer bummer of closer "Sing High!" are priceless really. The sign of a band with too many ideas and not enough understanding. The second collectible is Hello...We Are Times New Viking From Columbus, OH, a live show from where else, but their hometown. This is TNV in their element, and as a bonus it's said that guitarist Jared Phillips added a drunken extra track of shreds in the mix-down. What a wonderful concept. I'll take two Jared's on stage over the normal pap I'm subject to any day of the year. I'm sure if you hound them on their internet spaces, they'll budge and send over some of these. Have fun, Europe.

R.I.P. Chilly B of Newcleus

Newcleus' "Jam On It" is the origin of my Poolside series. That's because this song was literally wherein I became obsessed with rap. I'm old school if you don't know it. Remembering cousins Sean and Michelle bumping this from a mini-boombox by their backyard pool, and me, dancin' and wonderin' how I could inject more of this into my life. This is sad, especially since I think this is one of those bands that never got their due -- mixing Clinton's fantastical sci-fi Mothership with the burgeoning electro-funk/rap scene.

More via Boing Boing

Gold Circle - Now LIVE!!

Unknown/Thriller

Yeah. Honestly I have no idea exactly what or who Unknown/Thriller is -- I'm guessing the UK. I'm guessing they have an extensive "quiet storm" collection. I'm always searching for that elusive Dayton sound to regenerate itself into DJ/Laptop/UCreate culture. Slowly but surely. This is like those scant scratched up records that I've found so far, emitted from a basement battle, through the air ducts, suffocated in opium smoke from the den upstairs. Find me more.

Winterpocalypse or Snowmageddon?

Not sure which of those two descriptors fits, but I honestly don't remember a winter like this since I was two years old (that was the Great Blizzard of 1978). What you see here was only the first drop. It got much much worse.

Jim Shepard Will Get You Signed

I, like many people on the Beach, have plenty of anecdotal nonsense about experiences in the presence of the late Jim Shepard. For a barely legal quartet from South Western Miami County, playing their first show, to have the man in your scant audience, stopping you in motion to whisper in your ear that he "would get you signed," was the pinnacle of our existence and giving plasma at the same time. Fast forward many years later and I'm sitting in Walt's Lounge, and Shepard's last record is stinking up the place in a box under his booth. Spray Paint. He delivered me a copy and a beer and a brief monologue about how I'm in the consensus that really does consider Photograph Burns as one of the five best "pieces of art" ever created. I still am in the consensus. But admittedly, I was too young to hear the Vertical Slit the Pre-Slit, the hours of tape the man recorded through his years. I'm constantly digging. Someone's gonna let it all out -- this bountiful enigma that needs unearthing. For now, you need to get over to Forever Lowman and catch up. Slowly but surely.

Hue Blanc's Farewell to Favre

So little brother's always saying the best reality show on earth is SPORTS. I tend to agree, especially after my roller-coaster ride with the Minnesota Vikings this past season. For most of my life, Brett Favre has been the arch-enemy - the bane of my existence. When he chose the Vikings as his final bow (?) I had to eat the fact that Lex Luther was joining my team. Purple kryptonite now was my captain. It think perhaps it was a honeymoon of sorts, we came so close -- and by the end of that fateful game with the Saints, I knew that by embracing my (new) inner Favre, I had learned my lesson. He got me from the inside. Live by the Favre, Die by the Favre. And I even rooted for the Bengals week in and week out for penance. Still, knowing his legend, and what he is capable of -- he owes the fans of Minnesota another try at that championship season.

Imagine what the past few years have been like for a band from Wisconsin? The dregs, mang. For many a boy in WS, Favre is a turncoat, comparable to Jesus becoming Judas with a change of uniform. It was such a tragedy, some, namely one, Hue Blanc's Joyless Ones, make a whole 7" inch affair (their first for Columbus Discount) dedicated to Favre's eulogy. This is likely one of the most hilarious and deadly serious sports/rock tie-ins in the history of underground music. Not that the tunes here have anything to do with our Wrangler-clad hero/antichrist -- the Joyless Ones are a hard nut to crack, in terms of terms. Terms to describe them. It's not that's it's difficult or impenetrable, quite the contrary, this is bare bones, sometimes "Smuggler's Choice" gets so smoke-filled though, that those earnest melodies and scrappy knuckles get obscured. This is a record, that like a quarterback that's won you game after game of hall of fame play, is reliable and comfortable, stripped of any aesthetic other than the aesthetic to work for the listener. That said, the guy is known to throw an interception now and then, but like the rough touch of Hue Blanc's crew, he rarely apologizes for those. R.I.P. Brant.

R.I.P. OMC

Not much is known about Pauly Fuemana AKA OMC, the Polynesian born, New Zealand-based musician/producer, other than his one moment of glory -- "How Bizarre." The song is the definition of one-hit (number one hit) wonder, going to radio in 1997 with a simple pop hook flowered with Polynesian rhythms and his mimic-able sing-speak cadence. The top-selling single in N.Z. history -- quite a feat given the wealth that country produces. Odd fact: "How Bizarre" is also rumored to be Mike Rep Hummel's favorite song. How Bizarre. Please take some time today to remember Fuemana once again -- and realize we wouldn't stop to consider Louis Bega upon his passing. OMC's Top 40 contribution is permanent. I listen to this weekly.

Speedwalking through the Jerusalem Mall

Nice that a band can, in the span of three minutes, carve out, in the lapse/lull between albums, a song that asserts that they kind of rule right about now. You know you're itching to hear everything Eat Skull is cooking up for their next act. "Jerusalem Mall" might not give prescience to what's coming, but it's also not 7" fodder. The biker gang guitar line that drunkenly sears through the song is mighty heavy, metal even, reveling in a carnal scrap-heap of Royal Trux and Chrome records -- still there's a melody encased that proves a narcotic clarity. Eat Skull live by the code of grotesque nihilism and here, the Woodsist debut, is a perfect example. The b-sides, once heard on the excellent Eusta Kill compilation, are leftovers from the Wild and Inside sessions, though not to be deemed b-sides. "Don't Leave Me on the Speaker," in particular, raises the stakes of the band's Guided By Voices fixation. Which I happen to love amongst the muck. More Same Place the Fly Got Smashed.

Poolside with Raw Thrills

We should'a made the kid in Raw Thrills a Rated-Rookie. Fact. Please enjoy NOW what you'll be bumping come SPRINGTIME. This guy's also responsible for the equally nostalgic Greatest Hits.

Romance is Boring

Romance is Boring will do little to change your opinion of Los Campesinos. That's not a slight, just the way it is. I do miss Alexandra, now replaced by the less breathy sister of Gareth, but I'm thinking it's the road across America that gives this version of LC! the heft. They are infectious to their core -- and their aggressive antics have been lassoed in a bit. I'd love to see them replace the Fall-Out Boys in the USA teen angst/melody sweepstakes. That's not a slight, just a hole in the fabric they could fill were they less literate. British punk/pop read books.

Post-Sweatheart Regret

Work and more work, coupled with a depressingly Viking's playoff loss (Hue Blanc is right, Farve did die earlier last year), prevented me from seeing two Columbus shows put on by Sweatheart. But let's not point finger at cross-body passes into coverage. The point is, I've yet to see Thom Lessner's duder charm and nostalgic wit come to life on the stage. I encourage all of you to pick up Tell Your Sister, it's pop with a fluorescent pink creaminess in a Vision Street Wear hoodie.

Luckily Lessner is back in town February 5th with an art show entitled Mall Curb, showing at the Mahan Gallery. Excited for this.