Yes, I'm a shmuck who doesn't check her own Events Calendar. How could I forget to tell you that one of my favorite bands, INOUK, is playing Maxwells tonight? Please try and see them, they are phenomenal live and No Danger is beyond comparison. More on No Danger later, for now, go see Damon, Jesse, Ian, Glen, and that fluffy-haired darling Alexander rock it Springsteen-style in Jersey.

Ian, taken by myself at Inouk's summer gig at the Mercury.





Listen to the entire album here

PS: Deerhoof released Bibidi Babidi Boo, a free album which you can download here. How much do I love Deerhoof? Clearly a rhetorical question which needs no answer.

For the sun was bright the day you died-S.

"Total Result of A Holiday"

School is rough, no doubt about it. But all things must pass, and though I know people are already griping that CMJ's going to turn into this fall's Siren Festival (i.e. great bands but awful crowds), it's still pumping me full of anticipatory adrenaline.

There's going to be a large post on CMJ soon, and that long-awaited list is still in the works. In the meantime, the music release pages are getting updated, and slowly but surely, the Events Calendar is coming alive. But this isn't really the reason for posting.

The true reason is the following: I retract my dislike for The Futureheads. I'd just like to make that public. I retract my dismissal that they were a cheap Franz knockoff, and I apologize for my snobby refusal to post any of their gigs. I was completely and utterly wrong on this one.

The turn-around? The Futureheads' cover of The Streets' "Fit But You Know It", one of the best songs to come out this year. You all have probably heard it a million times already, but I, in my infinite wisdom, only discovered it today after finally relenting against my Futureheads prejudice.

I am a huge Streets fan, and therefore if you cover one of Skinner's classics badly, you're dirt in my music snob book. The Futureheads were batting 0-1 when I clicked the link from Vice Records. But holy shit. Talk about fit and knowing it. This is the most gunning, slam-blastingly amazing cover I've heard in a long time. Simply fucking amazing. Just listen to it, because at this point in time, I don't have the words to do the piece justice. But know that The Futureheads aren't cheap Franz knockoffs. They may not be, say, These Bones or Runner & The Thermodynamics, or even Franz themselves. But they aren't half bad in my book.

The original pirate material, taken by David Atlas for Rolling Stone in May 2004.









The Futureheads cover 'Fit But You Know It

I'm a loser/And I'm not what I appear to be-S.

It might be the Ancient Indian Literature course I’m taking right now to fulfill prerequisites. It might be that I’ve had the “Joy Division: BBC Sessions” disc on repeat for the past three days (I’ve been of the persuasion lately, despite my recent post, of who needs to drop $17.99 for Antics when you’ve got the real shit right at home? Hypocrisy is such a hard addiction to kick). Whatever the reason for this mood of deep introspection, I’ve come to the belief that life is completely cyclical. Case in point? Revolution Records.

Revolution Records was my favorite record joint in the City. Period. People would try to convince me that Generation Records was the shit, but I would scoff every time and head back down to the cozy second-floor, water-damaged womb of 8th Street and 6th Avenue. Norman’s Sound And Vision would suffice sometimes when I wasn’t in the mood to head west (NSAV’s basement of records scored high on the water-damage, rat-infestation factor). There was simply something about Revolution that fit with my personality and, of course, music taste. I can’t even remember the first record I bought there, but one of my favorite memories was scoring The Yardbird’s double LP “Shapes of Things” on a brilliantly sunny day while several fire trucks tended to a false fire at the FYE across the way.

The staff was never particularly chatty when I was there, but the quiet “Nice choice” acknowledgements at checkout were always nice. They did manage to crack smiles at my repeated requests to come work there (the excuse always being that it was a family-run business). I never faulted them on chattiness mainly because their selection was so absurdly good. But the staff also fostered a great library-like environment where one could concentrate. I don’t know about yourselves, but I’m the type that doesn’t go into record stores to buy. The whole point for me is to absorb, to gently thumb through covers and marvel. Because I never go in looking, the find is all the more exciting, as if it were waiting for you to want it all along. And Revolution definitely kept it cool in that regard. Though, looking back on it, it might’ve been because there was never anyone there save a few old men who looked like they worked for Rolling Stone back in the day.

I suppose the real point is that it was a piece of home, a stability factor and an exemplar of good things in a bad business. So it shook me hard when I came out of TLA Video the other night to find that it had shut down. The only remnant to even prove it had existed was a half-hung window-length poster of The Beatles’ “Revolver”. The rest was heartbreakingly barren.

I honestly didn’t really know where to turn. Rocks In Your Head had been a favorite of mine way back in the day when I first moved here, and I figured that since I was now quite close to it geographically, it would probably make for a sensible choice. Lord knows I wasn’t going to cave to Generation. But somehow (call it fate), I found myself meandering to Norman’s after a solid session in the darkroom yesterday. I was just in the mood for browsing, to recharge after a tiring day in which I had some highs (some fantastic prints and party plans at Alumni Hall) and some dreadful lows (the death of one of my heroes, Richard Avedon, whom I shall discuss in a minute).

Norman’s was surprisingly crowded, though probably because of their ½ off deal. I half-heartedly picked up “Between The Buttons” on CD and then headed downstairs to the dungeon of vinyl. And that was when the wheel kicked up and a new cycle was born.

The minute I descended, as in a movie entrance sequence, a needle dropped and this triumphant burst of Brazilian music came through the speakers. Immediately shocked out of my element, I drank in the basement in a daze. Gone were the beat-up milk cartons of records and floors scattered with broken ‘45s. In replacement were bright ‘60s pop art posters and clean rows of CD baskets and a wall full of record shelves. Behind the desk were two guys dancing to the beats and excitedly cutting off the records mid-song to place on new ones and dance some more. Encouraged, I walked over to the vinyl wall, and spent only 30 seconds browsing before I picked up Eric Clapton’s “Rainbow Concert” LP. As the needle dropped on Jorge Ben, I leaped through the stacks to subsequently find Van Morrison’s “Blowin’ Your Mind”, The Who’s “Live At Leeds, and The Rolling Stones’ “Big Hits: High Tide And Green Grass”. Total price? $24. Twenty-four dollars. But that, my friends, is the least of it.

The more important issue is this: Joel, the young charismatic proprietor of the renovated and now privately-owned basement of NSAV, was simply amazing. His hair beautifully coifed in an afro and his eyes alive with laughter, he spent the next two hours taking me through his closets of records behind the desk, which included the original press of “Electric Ladyland” in mint condition (yes, the original cover was not the famous image of an iridescent Jimi, but a tri-spread of many girls of many origins sprawled across a black background completely nude. Ever the Puritan nation, the United States promptly banned the cover. Here you are boys:). We talked about his home of San Paolo, Brazil; the forced exodus of Caetano Veloso to England and the ensuing tragic album in English, danced to the jubilant recording of Jorge Ben’s “Africa Brasil”, and even shared glimpses of photographs. I came to find that Joel and a friend DJ once a month as the duo Babyfresh and Flashblack at Baraza (133 Ave. C btwn. 8th and 9th), which I shall keep you all posted about. Most importantly, I came to find that the basement of Norman’s had been bought out by Joel and turned into the current fantasyland of Tropicalia In Furs Record Store where, as the flyer advertises, selling/buying/barter and chit chat occur.

After a solid two hours of all four, I traipsed outside in the brisk autumn night and felt much more than recharged. Once again, the City proved to me how cyclical life truly is, how one death can create another rebirth and such. Not to get philosophical on you all. But it made quite the impact. Joel and company will be spinning the finest of Brazilian dance on the 28th of October at Baraza. Until then, head downstairs to TIF for some good old fashioned record shopping. I guarantee you’ll never go back to Virgin Megastore again.



One more story before we enter into tonight’s festivities, and this time, it’s another theme of death and rebirth, though I’ve yet to experience the upswing of the cycle. The death of Richard Avedon hit me quite hard yesterday. One moment I was loading my paper into the Colex, the next I was reading the Times online and finding out that one of my favorite photographers and a true inspiration towards what I do had passed from this earth. Frantically, I left a message of condolence on my supervisor’s phone and sat down to drink it all in. I have only been at The New Yorker as an intern for a month now, but I had always secretly maintained a glimmer of hope that perhaps I’d get to meet the man whose photographs I’ve pinned on my wall, studied at the Metropolitan, and bought in many a hard-covered book. Now that hope had been erased, and with it the excitement I got each week I opened the magazine to find a new showcase of his work.

I can’t truly articulate what it was about his work that made it meaningful to me, and I suppose that’s part of the reason why I’m not an art critic. But he had a way of naturalizing his subjects, whether they were world leaders or farmhands. The neutral backgrounds always emphasized what normal settings would have hidden, exposing each person in a raw and intimate way. Avedon’s work in fashion was something I equally enjoyed, and I’ll always remember walking by his portrait of Dovima on the walls of Harper’s Bazaar and smiling to myself at the tongue-in-cheek mixture of the elegant with the primitive.

He was too young in my mind. His work was reaching an epic length, with weekly photos in The New Yorker and constant publications of his anthologies on the market. But none of us are immortal I suppose, and in the end, whether it’s photographers or musicians or writers, we’re all trying to leave something behind when we go. Suffice it to say that Avedon accomplished that.

Richard Avedon: 1923-2004.

Dovima, 1955. Harper's Bazaar. Courtesy of Richard Avedon, The New York Times.






Contralto Marian Anderson. Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, The New York Times.






Ronald Rischer, Beekeeper. Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, The New York Times,






Robert Lopez, oil-field worker. Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, The New York Times.






Marilyn Monroe. Richard Avedon; 2002 Marilyn Monroe LLC by CMG Worldwide Inc, The New York Times.



Sunny Harnett at the Casino La Touquet in 8/54. Courtesy Avedon Foundation, The New York Times.






The Chicago Seven, 1969. Richard Avedon, courtesy Avedon Foundation, The New York Times.






Igor Stravinsky, NYC, 11/69. Richard Avedon, courtesy Avedon Foundation, The New York Times.






Now then, for happier times and occasions.

A band who has been garnering most of my iTunes airtime (besides Joy Divison) is JOAN OF ARC, a group whose melodic and sparse recordings cause wells of emotion. Songs like “White Out” rely on off-beats and crying vocals to create a spasm of sound, one which certainly has me hooked. See them tonight with a longstanding favorite of mine, HAIL SOCIAL, at Northsix (66 North 6th, Bklyn, $10, 21+, 9pm). Brian Bonz also appears.

Joan of Arc – White Out

Joan of Arc – What If We Are Not After All Destined For Greatness

Hail Social – Another Face

Brian Bonz – Sex Parage

For madcap thrills and plenty of beehives, you need not look any further than the Mercury Lounge, where THE 5.6.7.8’s shall be playing tonight at 10:30pm. Such groovy surf-rock/butchered English songs cannot be resisted, so don’t even try. Bring your own samurai swords for true Quentin Tarantino vibes. (217 E. Houston at Ave. A, 7:30pm, $12, 21+).

5678s- Motor cycle Go Go Go!

5678s – Bomb The Twist

Not to be forgotten are two of the fundamentals in punk rock, PATTI SMITH and TELEVISION, who are both performing at the Roseland tonight.









And, last but not least (Events Calendar for more), ASOBI SEKSU are playing CBGBs tonight, which is an odd pairing indeed. However, it’ll give you an excuse to head down to Tropicalia in Furs Record Store beforehand. AS need no introduction on this blog, but let us review that they are by far one of the most original and talented groups out there, full of atmospheric and richly melodic music. $10 gets you there.

Asobi Seksu – Sooner

Asobi Seksu – Let Them Wait


Rock Photo:

Brian Jones in Amsterdam, 1967. Taken by Shepard Sherbell for CORBIS.




The pursuit of happiness just seems a bore-S.