The Apt. - Times New Viking - Rip It Off - 2008

As an avid drinker and a nine year resident of the city of New York, I have complicated relationships with many bars in this city. There are the now defunct bars that I hated at the time, but romaticize in the past (The corny MC Exchange that was the bar of my Dotcom, the truly awful Village Idiot that used to sell cheap pitchers when i lived in Manhattan). There are the bars that I used to haunt but am now too old and cranky to tolerate the young clientele (Blue and Gold, Soda). The bars from my old neighborhood (Enid's, Matchless) that I don't visit so much anymore. The places I went with co-workers, the places I went to meet up before concerts, and the places I just found myself all have complex histories, but none is more convoluted than my relationship to Nevada Smith's.

I'm sure I must have talked about Smith's at some point, but for a quick recap: Smith's is a bar in the nether zone that is niether the East Village nor quite Union Square. It is uniformly dark, not especially cheap, generally smells like an arm pit, and it's owner is a cranky old asshole of the highest order. It remains the only bar I've ever been thrown out of in my entire life...but I've probably at this point clocked more hours in this bar than any other in the world.

You see, Nevada Smith's is the bar to go to, to watch English Premeire League Soccer. If my team's game isn't being shown on cable, it's basically my only option, and I am a devoted enough fan that I am willing to go to a bar at 730 AM if need be (for a 1230 kick off in London). This means that no matter how much I may hate this place, no matter how many times I've sworn that I'll never step foot in that place again...as long as EPL games aren't all on TV, I'll be forced to go (Well, "Forced").

But as I was there on Saturday to watch Arsenal beat Portsmouth, I stopped to realize how much the place had changed in the five years I had been there. When I first started attending, a heart broken young man looking for an excuse to drink in the mornings and finding it in soccer, the place was almost exclusively attended by Brits. We Americans were the intruders, the interlopers who would never really understand the sport. There were many colorful charcaters and even more colorful language. The Arsenal corner was ruled by a Frenchman named Andre who was always there and knew more profanity than the devil himself. Andre once broke his hand pounding on the bar during a frustrating match.

Gradually through the years a new type of patron began attending who was niether us nor them: NYU students looking for a place to keep an all night bender going or to kick start the day with beer. They knew the place was open at 7AM, and if the abuse of a few brits was the price to be paid then so be it...but gradually these obnoxious kids picked up the sport, and in a step me and my friends didn't even take, the culture.

I was struck by this moment on Saturday, when I realized that there was just as much singing as always in Smith's but not a single one of the singers was british. These kids had learned the songs and taken up the mantle, but had also driven their British teachers away. It was an odd moment, on one hand seeing American's embracing soccer and "football culture" was a source of pride, on the other it's sad to see the old replaced by the obnoxious new. I certainly left with my complicated relationship with Smith's even more complicated than ever.

Anyway, I get the deal with Times New Viking, they play catchy garage rock, but recorded at earbusting levels so that it seems that their engineer has no clue what they are doing. This is the same trick that has gone on since The Beatles first learned to use feedback, i.e. cover something sugary in so much noise that the listener has to dig to find the sweetness. Usually I'm a fan of this strategy, but frankly, to further put on my old man hat, I just think the sonic mess is too great...it just sounds badly recorded...and not even a "recorded in a dumpster" way that The Thermals sometimes pull, but in a "I can't hear the actual song" way that I just don't care for.

Kids these days!

April Showers - Secret Agent Gel - No Floor - 2006

Well, I'm back from my Christmas hiatus in the land of sweatpants and melted cheese and I managed to come back relatively unscathed. However...

For various reasons, I decided to rent a car and drive to visit my parents this winter. By and large this was a good decision that I do not regret, with one exception.

The drive from NYC to Cincinnati is about 11 hours long, and despite getting a late start and the fact that NYC got snow on the day before, our trips were relatively uneventful. 11 hours in a car can be a test on even the best of relationships, but my lady and I managed just fine enjoying the music and the sites and the road food. All was good.

The drive from my parents house in Cincy to my grandparents house in butt-fuck Indiana (Poland, IN, if you want to get technical about it) is typically about 2.5 to 3 hours. Shortly before we got to Indianapolis traffic began slowing down due to the freezing rain on the highway. By the time I pulled onto 465 (Indy's bipass) I was gliding through curves and clutching the wheel to make sure I stayed on track. Just west of Indy I got on 70 and stopped at the rest stop (which would later prove to be a great idea). Within ten minutes we were in completely stopped traffic. Between the hours of 430 and 1130 we moved about a mile and a half. I have to say both of us kept our temper pretty well (and hats off to my diabetic girlfriend for making it through without a potty break...or killing me). It wasn't until about 830 that I really started throwing my shit out the window (so to speak). For the first couple of hours you just sit there thinking "Well, this is annoying, but I'm just going to hang out with my grandparents, nothing that I can't be late for...surely it'll clear up any minute" And then it doesn't...and it doesn't...and it doesn't.

Even when we finally started moving again the roads were so icy that not much progress was being made. The fifteen mile drive to the next exit took an hour, when we finally got there we immediately went flying to the gas station bathroom and then went looking for hotel. Despite the fact that we were only 15 miles from my grandparents house, it was well after midnight and I wasn't sure I could navigate the country roads in the ice. However, the fact that all 4 hotels in the truckstop town were completely filled (People were even sleeping in the hallways and lobby) meant that I had to try my luck.

By the time I finally arrived at my grandparents it was 1:30...so it actually took me an hour longer to drive from Cincy to Poland, IN than it did from NYC to Cincy. But on the plus side, it's all over now.

This is my buddy Corey performing as Secret Agent Gel. His music is a bit more dancey and electronica-y than my usual taste, but I've gotta give my man credit for sound quality on this stuff and, as always, for having the hussle to produce his own work. That's more energy than I generally exert.

Apres Moi - Regina Spektor - Begin to Hope - 2006

Okay, I will totally admit it...I don't often listen to music just cause the musician is hot, but I have Ms. Spektor on my iPod for two reasons (no, I'm not going for THAT crass of a joke): 1 I really think Fidelity is a good song, and 2 I'm a sucker for busty russian jews...hey, everybody has their thing.

Approaching Pavonis Mons by Balloon - The Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots - 2002

Even in an instrumental, The Flaming Lips manage to squeeze some acid damaged goofiness in by giving the song an absurd (and somewhat dirty sounding title).

A filler track on what may stand as the last good Lips album.

Approaching Lightspeed - Wolfsheim - Casting Shadows - 2003

So I was riding the elevator in my office downstairs to buy a soft drink, when it stopped on the third floor to pick up a passenger. To the best of my knowledge this was the first time I'd seen the 3rd floor of my building, and I noted with some curiosity that it was an empty floor, completely gutted.

This reminded me of something that I hadn't thought of in a good while. Back when I worked for my crazy dotcom in the financial district in the early part of this decade, there was a similarly gutted and vacant floor in our building that the young men of the company adopted as "the clubhouse".

Due to the fact that we were all over worked and underpaid (and all the bars in the financial district are either ungodly expensive or meant for fire fighters and construction workers) we'd go down to the local delis and pick up six packs (which were equally inflated - $11 for a 6 of Bud, $14 for imports) and go hang out on this abandoned floor, drink and smoke and play baseball with a broken mop handle and the company's branded stressballs that we had in droves. It was nice to have a cheap hang out, in a city where space is at a premium and watchful eyes are everywhere.

I'm certainly guilty of romanticizing this period of my life on a basically daily basis, but tell me that it doesn't sound appealing. An empty floor of a an office building, a bunch of guys, a few six packs, and a game...what more could a man ask for at the end of a hard day of work?

Anyway, this is more German electropop. Not bad and a little more energetic than their previous entry.

Apply Some Pressure - Maximo Park - A Certain Trigger

Of all of the post-Libertine's bands to come flooding out of England in the middle part of this decade, Maximo Park seemed like the forgotten middle child. They lacked the spikey ferocity and politcal savvy of Bloc Party, but weren't as monotonous as one song wonders like The Cribs or The Fratellis. But as Bloc Party has released two underwhelming follow ups that have takent he bloom off their rose (and the other two bands have released lack luster follow ups that confirmed them as one trick ponies) the Gang of Four-esque pop of these Newcastle lads seems more and more appealing by the day.

Apples in the Trees - Mirah - Advisory Comittee - 2001

If you read this blog, you probably know that I am a fairly cynical person. (Actually, if you read this blog, you probably actually KNOW ME...so that's probably an unneccesary statement). I dislike forced sentimentality or any easy play on my emotions. I find traditions for traditions sake appalling, and I find the state of modern religion to be horrifying.

Having said all that, it might come as something of a surprise that I am a sucker for Christmas. And no, not cause of gifts, I rarely get many. No, I love the whole thing...okay, that's not true either, I hate the crass commercialism of the current incarnation. But I love the spirit of Christmas. The idea of a day in which we celebrate the possibility of good, of charity and love and hope in our darkest hour, the idea that God sent someone to help us...all of this fills me with warmth. I love the lights and the songs and the good cheer. I even love fucking egg nog.

And perhaps absurdly I love A Christmas Carol...and in particular the 1984 made for TV version with the incomporable George C. Scott, which I watched on TV last night.

I remember the Christmas of 1984 when it ran on TV laying on the floor of the living room of my grandmother's house with the other grandchildren (of which I'm the oldest) watching in awe and comforting the younger kids (I was all of 9) during the "scary" parts. And this became a tradition for the may years in which they continued to run it. I remember reading and re-reading the little leather bound copy my grandmother had on her book shelf. To me, this movie is Christmas.

It's memorable for many reasons, probably most for Scott's performance which is never cartoony and just campy enough to be vastly entertaining. You have all of the Dickensian/Victorian trappings...God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Here We Come a Wassaling, bed curtains, Jacob Marley's chains, Mr. Fezzywhig, Belle's punch, Scrooge's maid...and of course Tiny Tim's RIDICULOUS British lisp.

The thing that really struck me the most in this viewing though was that...viewing the film now, as an adult, the reactions of the various characters to the reformed Scrooge are really wonderful. To them, without the benifits of specteral holiday visitors, it must have seemed as if Scrooge has had a stroke and accidentally emerged a better man. They look at him out of the side of their eyes, as if expecting at any moment for the miserable old fuck they knew for all these years to emerge, only to still be talking to this strangely jolly old man. Fred Hollywell can't even figure out why he'd be at the front door. The men from the orphanage wait for the moment where he reveals he's fucking with them, only for it never to come. Bob Cratchit assumes he's about to be fired at any minute.

Really really good stuff, and all in the holiday spirit...and we certainly need that these days. Between world events and the fact that it is 443 PM and already pitchblack here in NYC...we could use a little of the Ghost of Christmas present with his bright torch and jolly ways.

Anyway, this in no way connects to Mirah and her hippie Portland lesbian ways...but while I prefer You Think It's Like This...to the more adventuresome and less succesful Advisory Comittee, this is one of the better songs on the album.

Apple Tree - Wolfmother - Wolfmother - 2005

So my buddy Rance and I went out to a new-ish bar in Brooklyn and discovered quite a gem (Ok, fair credit to Rance, he went there first). But the Draft Barn is tucked away on the industrial wasteland of 3rd Ave and 12th St...which is of course becoming less of a wasteland by the day.

It's a big German style (well Austro-Hungarian actually) bar with standing tables at the front and proper booths at the back. The Russian bar tender, who I believe is also part owner, was very enthused about the place and knew his beers. In fact he knew them so well that Rance and I didn't walk out of there so much as stagger...but hey, that's why you go to a beer hall.

Also, the beer crutons are simultaneously the best and worst bar food ever invented. Old bread, dipped in beer then deep fried and covered in salt is exactly what you want to eat when you are drinking tons of beer, and damn are they addictive...however I was still full until about noon today. Also, the made-especially-for-this-restaurant sausage was fantastic.

Anyway, this is Wolfmother doing their best Sabbath impression, and as always doing it fairly well.