June 28th, 2004. Remember that date. I’ll explain why that date is of incredible importance later today, but for now, keep it in mind while you read/listen to today’s great music guarantors:

As many of you already know, Aaron Wilkinson was the guitarist for The Moldy peaches on their US tour with The Strokes. Tonight at Sin-E, there’s a benefit going down for Aaron, and all the proceeds will be going towards the construction of a playground to be built in his name in Texas (where for years he worked with special needs children). The Line-up is below, doors are at 7pm, and it’s a mere $10. Pay your respects to a great man amidst some awesome music.

Sin-E Line-up:

8:00-8:15 pm Dennis Wilkinson (Aaron's dad)
8:15-8:45 pm Graham Wilkinson (Aaron's brother)
9:00- 9:30 pm Just About to Burn (Paleface,
Breadfoot, and Monica)
9:45-10:15 pm Regina Spektor
10:30-11:00 pm LEVY
11:15-11:45 pm Kimya Dawson
12:00-12:45 am Adam Green

And yes, you read right: ADAM GREEN is making a guest appearance at midnight.

Regina Spektor: Songs Page

Kimya Dawson: Website

Adam Green: Friends Of Mine Video

And then of course, there’s the hottest bill in the City this summer, the importation of THE STREETS and DIZZEE RASCAL. They’re playing a two-day gig at Irving Plaza, and tonight kicks it all off. I can’t say that I really know too much about Dizzee, save the hype. But I am a Mike Skinner fanatic, having become consecutively addicted to “Don’t Mug Yourself”, “Let’s Push Things Forward”, and of course that blazing masterpiece that is “Fit But You Know It”. This is one for the masses, so if you have tickets, rock on with your Cockney-rap-loving selves. For the rest of us, there’ll always be London.

The Streets: Fit But You Know It Video Page

Dizzee Rascal: Website

Rock Photo:

The Clash on the first night of their 1979 American tour. Taken by Roger Ressmeyer on 2/8/79 for CORBIS.




This here music/Mash up the nation-S.

Heads up, as I may not be able to post in-depth today:

THE HONG KONG and THE HARLEM SHAKES are playing a sweet show tonight at Sin-E. Be there or truly run the risk of being square.

The Hong Kong: Truthflies MP3 Page

The Harlem Shakes: White Note

And also, THE GIRAFFES are playing the Coral Room tonight with NERVOUS CABARET. That's what we at LARS like to call a sweet bill.

The Giraffes: Manchester United Video, which was shot by the man of all things great photography, Todd Kancar.

Nervous Cabaret: Page 13

And finally, an addiction:

This is by far one of the weirdest mp3s I've been addicted to. It can also be quite frustrating to listen to, being that once every 45 seconds or so, it'll kick up into this incredible guitar/drums/keyboard rhythm accompanied by this killer melody, only to fade away again in obtuse experimentation. But for those 45 seconds, it's pure Holy Night heaven. And that is why DEERHOOF are at the head of the art-rock genre that's coming out of the cities (in this case, San Francisco). If I were a booker, this band would've opened up for Franz Ferdinand in a heartbeat. For now, just rock out to this crazy song:

Holy Night Fever

Just play with me/And you won't get burned-S.

“Ponce de Leon/constantly on”…..

First time I heard it, I was cruising in my friend’s beat down Honda, getting ready to party at a West Point wedding. And I was annoyed. I wasn’t really a fan of The Beastie Boys, but I had learned to respect what I had heard. And I was used to the standard Beasties we’ve all heard on the radio, the onslaught of frat-boy, fast-paced raps. But the Boys were minding their time on this one, whining over a tinkling keyboard and sliding guitar note. And it was goddamned annoying, that constant “Soundzzz of science”…

But then they broke the rhythm and proclaimed it: “THE NEWEST IN NEW!!” And it hit me, socked it to me like Ali pounding Frasier. We revved the motor up to fifth gear, and the entire car started screaming the first lines. That beat was so hot, we all started pounding the seats and dashboards. I couldn’t even understand what was going on until I heard it. Wait…..is that…..dude…..THAT’S THE FUCKING BEATLES!!! These boys practically fresh outta NYC high schools had the balls to steal ‘Carry That Weight’ and fucking rig it to that sick beat. And it worked. It worked really well. By the end of the song, I didn’t even realize we were listening to The Beatles anymore; I was completely absorbed by the drive which was coming out of the stereo. It was the perfect marriage of old and new, and it was done underneath some of the smartest and sassiest lyrics I’d ever heard. Everything about it was perfect.

As we cruised along that cold and clear winter day, I forged what is to this day one of my largest obsessions. And almost two decades later, the Boys still have it. I’ve had my doubts, to be sure. But what it comes down to really is that they’ve continued to expand their craft, while at the same time not really messing with such a great thing they have going. Look around and realize that where we are today is partly due to three wise-assed lyricists from NYC. And thank the Lord for that.

Three portraits by Lynn Goldsmith in 1987 for CORBIS:

Ad-Rock.





MCA.





Mike D.





She woke up in the morning/And her face was coated-S.

Quite the week, my friends, and quite the note to end it on; I came to the Socratic awakening today that I really know nothing about current music. And it scared the bejesus out of me. I mean, sure, I know some things about the New York scene, or so I’d like to think. But I really don’t know anything about the national scene. Who’s Xiu Xiu? Well, I wouldn’t have known before today. The Gossip? Jesse Malin? Camera Obscura? The list goes on and on. Thankfully though, it’s the weekend, and besides the CD reviews I’m doing right now, I’ve decided that today is going to be catch-up day. Today, I’m going to plunge into the national scene full-force and stock my iTunes full of information. Expect the links pages to take on an entire new shape within the next couple of days.

Instead of Events postings today, I’m simply going to leave you with a note on previous events, or rather one in particular. I attended the Bloomingdales in-store with The French Kicks before swinging over to the Tribeca to see another +1 band this week, Evening. The in-store had such an impact on me that I decided it bore mention on the cyber pages of LARS. So then:

“It’s Loud And It’s Tasteless/I’ve Not Heard It Before/Shout It While You’re Dancing/On The Dance Floor”

Surely bands play department stores. Or such was my rationale behind RSVP’ing for the French Kicks in-store performance at Bloomingdales. But as the date drew nearer and more friends exlcaimed to me, “Wait, what?!”, I began to realize that this was not going to be as kosher a music performance as I had originally thought. However, I did not expect it to become a living metaphor for everything that’s wrong with the music industry.

I arrived at the Soho Bloomies as the sun was beginning to set, ready for some great sounds from one of my favorite bands. But I was immediately a little offput when I realized that Bloomingdales wasn’t closed for the occasion. In retrospect, I wasn’t really thinking clearly (if Bloomingdales doesn’t close on national holidays, I doubt the French Kicks could shut their doors), but it definitely added an uncomfortable element for me as I picked my way through Dior-scented women inspecting the latest cosmetics on the main level. By the time I got to the Men’s Department, I was already soured to the event.

It just didn’t make sense to me. Why have a band perform on a stage that was literally in between the shelves of designer jeans and mannequins? The band might as well have made it easy for everyone involved and simply tacked price tags and bar codes to their wrists, ready for checkout. The setting turned the entire concert into nothing more than a poorly sold commodity, and, though the band bravely sauntered their way through the set, it didn’t help when they jokingly pointed out the obvious (i.e. commenting on the confused shoppers navigating their way towards the overpriced “thrift” shirts). Call me a music purist, but it didn’t sit well with me that a band of the French Kicks’ caliber was relegated to the position of elevator music as money exchanged hands amongst them. At least events like Virgin Megastore in-stores take place in a music arena (albeit one of the worst corporate music arenas in the land). This was simply incongruous and incredibly distasteful, and an experience which not only left me bitter and dazed, but more than a bit depressed at this seemingly endless marriage of commercialism and music.

One of the main points which caused this barrage of emotion was the fact that the French Kicks were amazing. Just simply phenomenal. Their material was beautifully layered, at times heavy on the synths and at other points driven by three-part harmonies. Their “stage” presence almost transcended the fact that they were standing amidst the hangers and mannequins of Bloomindales; they went at it like true pros and never failed to enjoy themselves. A healthily tan Nick serenaded the crowd, wooing each member with his high-pitched sighs and sonorous beltings. Being without a drum kit, he instead banged on the keys a bit in between vocals, always managing to wink and grin at his bandmates. The rest of the Kicks were equally on; Matt was entranced in his guitar/keyboard workings, only opening his eyes on a high note or a light joke. Josh participated heavily in what turned into a spirited game of musical chairs, at times playing the guitar, beatbox, keyboards, and even venturing into lead vocals (all of which he excelled at). And Lawrence held it up with narry a smile, but plenty of rolling bass. It was just simply a great, charismatic and incredibly enjoyable performance, one which was bookended by my two favorite songs, “One More Time” and the crowd-pleaser, “Close To Modern”.

So, in turn, I felt quite upset at the cruel irony of the performance. The Kicks were fantastic. But they were really nothing more than noise in the basement of Bloomingdales. The minute the last chord was struck and the applause dimmed, the magic abruptly ended. I spoke a few kind words to Nick and then simply rode the escalator back to the main floor, thrusting myself back into the throng of Mastercard-clutching teenagers. The only physical reminder of what I had attended was the empty stage, which was littered with empty wine glasses. The rest was swept up in the heat of transactions and bartering.





Oh, oh oh oh/You’re a rock n’ roll suicide-S.

My, my, my. Having spent the night out, I decided, at 2am, to watch my copy of 'Don't Look Back' for the umpteenth time. And, following the showing in 908, I turned (as I habitually do) to The New York Times Film Archives. And the irony of this was too great to pass up, even if it is 3:30 in the morning:

Donal J. Henahan wrote in September 1967:

"It will be a good joke on us all if, in fifty years or so, Dylan is regarded as a significant figure in English poetry."

Now, turn to last Sunday's Times:

'Dylan's Visions of Sin'

"Christopher Ricks...the great British literary critic, newly elected Oxford Professor of Poetry...[has brought Dylan] to a place among the greatest poets in the English language."

For the times, my dear friends, they are a-changin'.

When you're feeling kind of lonesome in your mind/With a heartache followin' you so close behind/Call out to me as I ramble by/I'll sing a song for you/That's what I'm here to do/To sing for you-S.