Too Soon to Catch Reds Fever?

The Reds are currently on a tear of unequaled proportions compared to the double-decade long slump I'm accustomed to. Hopefully our friend Mr. Adams (media assassin) over at the excellent Victrola Cola sportsblog, will get start becoming a bit more biased in his coverage, dedicate all his efforts to the Redlegs, and ditch any commentary on these boring NHL/NBA playoffs. Cleveland is about 40 odd days away from finally dropping into the lake. Then we can forget about that city for good.

Please. Let us enjoy this coming summer like we did 20 years ago. I Love Winning.

Woods and the New Jam

By my count, I’ve seen Woods more times in the last two years than any other band currently gigging (local favs notwithstanding) – so my comparisons to the Grateful Dead (members of the band are pure heads) are actually somewhat warranted. It’s not one of those instances where I just happen to catch Woods playing by happenstance. I’m actively pursuing their live show at every opportunity. And though I’m thoroughly impressed with At Echo Lake and utterly baffled by the lack of praise for it, the live show is where it’s at. They are leaps and bounds more attuned to free-form, freak-out, improvisation and creation than any of their contemporaries. In Texas this past March, I took to indulging in what I referred to via spontaneous tweets as the “new jam.” At the time I was yawning in bliss to Real Estate. Realizing that these kids got the jam (which I never got at that age) but not the soul really started to bring a dull pain to my thoughts. This recent camp of dudes soloing in slow motion for minutes on end is refreshing. The recent camp of dudes honkin’ on bobo (I’m looking at you Mt. Carmel) is just as quenching. It’s certainly not reactionary to the lo-fi boom, it’s more complementary. Just wait and hear Beach Fossils for the first time. But in all of this there’s not a stitch of the flag that Woods fly on stage. My interview with G. Lucas Crane on the Agit-Reader attempts to clear up exactly where their genes originate, but ends up wrapped in the enigma that is their performance – he constantly “wants to jam.” And now I feel like tape trading live sets of this band are a must. Anyone out there with French Legation Museum, Austin, TX 3/18/2010? That was a rager.

Finally Got An Acid Tape

As you'll no doubt glean from my recent review of Psychedelic Horseshit's Acid Tape, the better Mr. Whitehurst's material gets, for some reason it becomes harder to obtain. Though, honestly, once you have the cassette player you'll need -- about a year ago I ebay'd for the exact Pioneer dual-deck player I had since 5th grade -- the "elusive" Acid Tape is fairly easy to find. How you get it is truly irrelevant (just saying, there's plenty of pirates on those webs), what's important is this document, perhaps the best representation of what he's been doing on stage in recent months (on their endless bummer tour) and where it's headed going into the endless summer. Word on the street is that el drumo is kaput and he will be replaced with some certain "kids" (at least in the present and near future). If you read this blog, you'll know what I'm talking 'bout. Go see that special show. I'm telling you now. This Saturday.


Exhibit A of PHS's recent foray into uncharted waters, mystical crystals, and Molly:

Whoa...Tame Impala

Austrailia. How come it's on top of the world and when I look at a globe, it's way down there? I'm swearing up and down that Tame Impala is actually Cut Copy, dressed up like mid-'70s heshers/bong bangers -- just like Buffalo used to do back in the day. Of course I'll need to investigate more, but this is retro with a purpose. Re-purposing for increased buzz and increased energies and increased satisfaction. Dungen has done it in recent years, Wolf People are getting there, Mt. Carmel (I know, I know) got the sound, but not the songwriting chops -- Tame Impala? The entire package, if not a bit more lackadaisical, fluid, dream-soaked and lysergic. Like I said, I need to investigate more. For now, you take a look.

I Saw Harlem

Time slots in Columbus are constantly shifty -- there by 10:30 and missing both Andrew Graham's Swarming Branch and the never-heard Blastronauts (whom may or may not have brought in a good crowd for a Monday night). There were an unusual amount of people wearing hats of all types? Think I need to re-bedazzle my Orlando Magic Starter cap. I enjoyed them a ton in Texas, so I wanted to see them in my natural habitat.


Harlem are strong proponents of jean shorts, catchy little barbed-wire melodies, and suck-funny crowd-band banter. I don't mind Hippies -- true neon irony album title -- it's a tad overlong, even when the songs are brief, not enough character but full of characters, a minor hiccup. Fun and engaging, but somewhat disposable.

That must be why the kids were out. I admire the kids being out. Trying to figure out why is the quiz. There were plenty of moments when I thought they even sounded a bit like Kings of Leon, back when they were mining their "Southern Charmed" indie. With Harlem, it's the funky, sweaty bouillabaisse of Austin. Live they are frenetic and poppy, but never menacing to the point that what they were doing mattered all that much. Hey, it's a "monday night" and your club is half full, play till 2 guys, I'll even take your covers. The next day? I remain indifferent.

You Can't Dance to Dubstep Yet?

Weeks ago, I saw Rusko. Or what looked like a pale specter basking in the glow of laptop rays and the red light of digital equipment. Not to mention the rave kids spinning neon in the plush dive, to many people's dismay. Mine included. I imagine with OMG, Rusko might just do the dubstep crossover. "Hold On", which features indie-adored, Dirty Projector, Amber Coffman, could be as big as "Miss You" by EBTG. Believe it. Not that I didn't think the wavelengths of dubstep would eventually make it's way into the American zeigeist -- either as radio hip-hop canvas or rave revival (the former has held true) -- but not in a, quite, traditional club track. It's like Dubstep for Dummies in it's simple brilliance. That's how OMG operates, instead of resting on Burial obsolescence, it pushes thing to Idiocracy-esque extremes. The perfect foil for Diplo's Mad Decent empire.

Now. Learn how to dance to this, please.

Ahem...Fuck Our Blog

The Kids are finally back from their whirlwind tour of Europe -- and they're planning on playing some monsters in this, the ENDLESS COLUMBUS SUMMER, and.....they started a fucking blog. Go read.

Trash Humpers is Coming...

OK. I'm definitely guilty of NOT seeing Trash Humpers when it premiered at SXSW in March. I was off drinking swill in front of an inert set by Real Estate. Sue me, deadly. But I know when I finally see it, I'll be in this small minority of people who think it might change cinema, much like Gummo did for me in high school. As always any interview with Korine is illuminating and grotesquely hilarious. Here on the wonderful Film Slash website chaos insues. And here where siren Zola Jesus picks his brain. He talks about BBQ'ing with the guy who wrote the Choose Your Own Adventure novels.

Pete and Bob -- Now I've Seen Everything

Goodness. Robert Pollard is in a revival of sorts. Of course I'm forever indebted to the prime GBV material, but over the last decade? I was always hoping it wasn't just a here and now, touch and go, career for Uncle Bobby. There are some gems, most definitely, but now I'm anticipating each new release with the same fervor as my youth. We All Got Out of the Army and Moses on a Snail are both required listening. Just as our interview with him, a lucid set of questions by one Rod Wadlinger, is required reading.

And now he's teaming up with one of the all time Ohio greats? Scoring the "positive" documentary on Pete Rose's life, 4,192. Can this be a dream? I think they are like peanut butter and jelly actually, both misunderstood geniuses, both never getting the credit they deserve. Both with questionable social lives at one time or another. Sure he's only really doing the theme song -- please let it be called "Charlie Hustle" (I can already hear it) -- but that's enough to own this as soon as there's physical evidence of this existing.

Full details can be found here.

Diplo's No One Is Safe Series

Always the sociologist when it comes to discovering "what's happening" among the four corners of the world, Diplo's No One Is Safe mini-documentary series was bound to happen. If you haven't been hip to Heaps Decent in the last few years, then you are definitely missing out. This is Mr. Pentz teaching the youth, in disparate/desperate locations, the gift of creation through innovative/primal hip-hop production. The results have been stunning and continue to amaze. But this.....? This is his plundering, packed into eight minutes of insight on what he thinks we need to take notice of...in this pilot episode, it's New Orleans Bounce Music. See, you didn't know you needed this in your life. Beyond crunk and Miami Bass --- 'specially the Sissy Bounce movement -- this stuff is gold when you find it. Perhaps you'll need to peruse the bootleg mixtapes a little more carefully at the swap-meet next time to dig this stuff up. As always, the continually impressive Mad Decent website will keep you afloat. Little did I know I got to see the keystone of Bounce Music, Big Freedia, in the flesh, around four in the morning, in Texas this past March. It was easily the strangest and most incendiary display of my four days at SXSW. Where was this stuff during the week?

R.I.P. Guru

A little belated, but well worth the tribute. He was truly one of the greatest. A huge influence. On Yo MTV Raps! this is how I was introduced/converted:

Record Store Day - The CS & N & Y Debacle

Usually a staunch supporter of Record Store Day. You know it happens most days (or at least once a week). But for some reason I was giddy this year. Jumping from a class that ended at 11 straight to Used Kids -- I found Record Store Day has gone to the early birds. Dudes willing to wait an hour to get that Dum Dum Girls split -- and then buy up everything else. Went to the next store, Lost Weekend, pretty much the same thing. Empty bins. Thanks to Mr. Shannon for holding the Fela 10" for me -- why isn't this all going to vinyl btw? I also snagged one of those Pavement limited editions -- great for a strange encapsulation of a favorite band.

What I did learn is just how amazing CSN&Young, and almost every subsequently solo record or two (or for Young -- countless). I always thought it to be weak protest harmonies to Neil Young's defiantly wild wail. I'm learning. I also want to learn how to harmonize with myself.

Outer Spacist Slugging Through the New Slump

I've always thought that it wasn't the "college campus" that defined and inherently nurtured a constantly healthy Columbus scene, but "the middle." After repeatedly watching Requiem From Detroit and frequently visiting cities like Austin and Amsterdam -- I'm convinced Columbus exists in a sort-o-purgatory. Just enough post-industrial to keep us doped and just enough pre-apocalypse to keep us on our toes. There's really no history, but there is. There's really no future, cause no one cares to attend to it. Perpetually misunderstood and equally innovative.

This will be the second time in 48 hours I've used "curmudgeon." Once to describe the Fall and once, now, to describe myself. I'll wholeheartedly admit to not keeping up on "the latest" or "on the cusp" or "local only" band du week. Release shows are for suckers nowadays. They already got it. I keep up with the 'spaces to hear, sample, diddle, but all the optimistic young-folk trying to claim neighborhoods and distinct demographics is unequivocally dull. Too much Modest Mouse, not enough Pavement. Or just simply not punk, only the Black Swans or Moviola can count violins these days, yo. (Harrisburgh Player and infinite delay pedal notwithstanding). So we're in a slump? Not to say I can't talk all night about what's brilliant in Columbus -- countless bands, but most have been around a (the) lot, in the same circles admittedly, or are composed of sods from other 4D-legendary groups that splintered. They're all still rolling. But a slump nonetheless.

Which brings us to Outer Spacist, the last bastion of hope for this young decade (at least for now.) They've been in the lot for while, and my insular being has yet to really appreciate what they stand for. Seeing them in action vs. Nodzzz (quite the contrast, enjoyably so) was the first shock to my system. Sorry for the delay. I always knew Dave "Sugar Bear" Treneff was top five current clbs. guitarists rank-able, but never realized how hard this band works, even when they are far from working. This "singles-club only" installment from the intergalactic Mormons is hopefully an appetizer to what they can achieve at three times the length. I'll have to resort to cribbing from the label in the perfect description, citing "sci-fi soul" to sell this double a-side. As I'm still confused as to what's up and what's down -- "I Don't Care About Love, Baby" "Pavilion in the Sand, Baby" -- there's an Eric Davidson-nth swagger to every sticky angle. New Bomb Turks would be an adequate roots-dig, especially since these guys have dabbled in many forms of punk scattered long the beach. 'Cept the organ grinder robs the front, popping basement-window pinholes to let through the streaks of fuck-all nihilism. Swagger isn't really needed here, it's all in the attitude, the frenetic balance on the fence-pole of the two backyards of America. There is light at the end of the slump, Columbus Discount will assure it. Sure I can rock an Endless Summer with UH2 and Deathly Fighter.

Enraptured by The Tallest Man on Earth

Please watch the above -- then let me know what you think. Honestly, I don't much frequent the folk scene that much anymore. Less it be the extremely emotive/bottom of the well variety (see Black Swans) or "re-issued" or so far embedded with slime it's hard to distinguish that traditional influence. The Tallest Man Alive has soundtracked a rough winter into a roaring-type spring. I know, it's always about seasons. In Norway I'm sure it's more profound. Maybe that's why I'm so engaged.

Poolside with Bryan Adams

I know what you're saying. What does a pasty Canadian "rebel" know about chilling by the Troy Municipal, in nothing more than OP swimshorts? No running. There has always been something humbling about Bryan Adams -- is there really anything you dislike pre-Prince of Theives? -- "Run to You" ? "Cuts Like a Knife" ? Even "Summer of '69" had a Boss/Petty-lite that appealed to those of us 7 year olds who were into the most sugary of pop music. "This Time," the third single from the Cuts Like a Knife album, must've debuted in late August of 1983, right before school started up, right as the Endless Summer was finding a twilight. Nostalgia plays cruel tricks. Thinking I'll rock this from a cassette copy, on the Troy Levee, 'round dusk, in late August, 2010. I vow to make this a summer full of poolside.

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.