We left the theater bar drunk as Mickey Roarke, but we weren't about to leave until we'd gotten the most out of Boston. We attempted to go visit the north end and take some pictures, but we ended up getting confused by Court St and found ourselves right back at Boston Commons where we were accosted by an old crazy drunk Irish (actually from Ireland) dude named Paul who spoke in rhymes and had his jaw tied with a white handkerchief.
Walking by one closed bar, we saw two guys and two girls hanging out in front of the establishment smoking. One of the girls was laying on the sidewalk, blowing smoke rings up in the air. As we passed she cooed a "Hello boys" to us in a voice that I suppose was trying to be alluring. We just nodded at which point she said "You two look hammered"...it occurred to me later that the right comeback was "We aren't the ones laying in the street, honey" but at the time the best I could manage was a "We are". She then asked (as we were already walking past them) if we were English (in reference to Anand's Arsenal jersey I would assume) which seems pretty silly considering I had already spoken and I'm clearly from Indiana.
Finally, we gave up on finding any after hours action and just resigned ourselves to taking pictures of the city. But by 330, when Anand showed no signs of stopping talking in that Shakespeare accent we decided head back to the hotel.
Our last bit of humor came as we were near our hotel. A woman excited an apartment building at 4AM, still wearing a cocktail dress, clearly hoping the early morning departure would mean an escape from the prying eyes that usually go with a walk of shame. She immediately stumbled on her high heels three feet from the door. Anand and I applauded and gave her a thumbs up...cause we're jerks.
Anyway, the next day was spent checking out of our hotel and driving back to NYC. We rocked Boston as hard as we could and found it somewhat lacking...try harder Boston, try harder...you have the right ingredients.
Piano is usually a bad sign for Pinback. The band is typically at its best when they rock their punk rock side out, whereas ballads tend to be dragged down by their laid back cali vibe. Beyond which, a stint at the piano means that Zach isn't on the bass, where he consistantly proves himself to be the most inventive, technically skilled bass player in Indie Rock...but this song has strengths that most of their piano efforts lack.
For starters, it's not as "dreamy" as a lot of their slower stuff can be, in fact by the time the song reaches the "It's the monster at the end of the book" climax, it stands up to their heaviest songs. Beyond that, Pinback can frequently be a band for whom lyrics are just a place holder to accompany the sounds they want to make, but this songs rather sinister lyrics also aid in lifting it out of the stoned San Diego vibe they so often get stuck in.
And for the final touch of class, there is a truly awesome vocal performance by Rob Crowe. I always admire Crowe's restraint with his vocals. He's certainly shown before that, when he wants to, he has one hell of a set of pipes on him...but most of the time he hangs back and picks his moments (Take the end of Concrete Seconds for a great example) to display his talent...but this song actually lets him show off a bit more than usual and he does so. Impressively, I might add.
Showing posts with label Boston Massacre. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Boston Massacre. Show all posts
Monday, September 14, 2009
Autoriche - Autechre - Incunabula - 1994
We left Eastern Standard in a cab, in an effort to catch another one of the bars on our list before it closed, but of course we showed up to find the place wasn't even open on Sundays to begin with. So that left us bar-less at midnight...I made a game time decision and headed us towards Chinatown...there was a bar I had been to on one of my previous trips that I thought might stay open later. But we found something else along the way...
As we were walking down through the theater district we happened upon two Irish bars right next to each other. The first, was shut down for a private party, but the second was wide open and actually fairly busy for that late on a Sunday night. We plopped down at the bar and got ourselves a round.
Observing the unusually busy bar it quickly became evident what the deal was...in one corner was a group of ratty t-shirted burly dudes with longish manes and scruffy facial hair, in another was a group of slightly posh seeming openly gay men, at the front stood a pretty-ish woman who was less pretty the closer you got and wearing too much blush...she kept practicing a weird pose with one of the gay men where they would both stand facing into the bar, shoulder to shoulder, with her hands locked together at the fingers...we were at the wrap party for a play.
Upon sharing this observation with Anand, he immediately decided this was the funniest thing in the world and proceeded to spend the majority of the rest of the evening speaking in a bad phony Shakespearean actor accent. "Ohhhhhhhh, me lord, wouldst though parlay with the barkeep and find me another mug of ale?"
At some point I went to the bathroom and saw a bunch of guys shredding lines off the waiters tray. Later on, the only other guy in the bar who didn't seem to be with the play came up to us and asked us if we knew where he could buy weed. The actress approached me at some point with one of the gays as a wing man, she had apparently mistaken us for stage hands and was either honestly curious about the progress of the breakdown of the show, or was looking to find a bastion of heterosexuality. Either way, I just sort of mumbled something about being a tourist and having no idea what she was talking about.
2 O'clock rolled around and though last call had been...er called, no one seemed to be in a hurry to leave. Though the bar tender kept dropping hints that it was quitting time, Anand was insistent that we stay and try to figure out what sort of action was going to happen when they closed the doors...needless to say, we did not get this invitation...instead we finished our drinks and headed back out.
I have nothing to say about Autechre...their one of those groups that you have on your iPod cause bands you admire, speak in hushed and worshipful tones about them...but my actual experience of listening to them is generally a shrug and an "OK?" No different here.
As we were walking down through the theater district we happened upon two Irish bars right next to each other. The first, was shut down for a private party, but the second was wide open and actually fairly busy for that late on a Sunday night. We plopped down at the bar and got ourselves a round.
Observing the unusually busy bar it quickly became evident what the deal was...in one corner was a group of ratty t-shirted burly dudes with longish manes and scruffy facial hair, in another was a group of slightly posh seeming openly gay men, at the front stood a pretty-ish woman who was less pretty the closer you got and wearing too much blush...she kept practicing a weird pose with one of the gay men where they would both stand facing into the bar, shoulder to shoulder, with her hands locked together at the fingers...we were at the wrap party for a play.
Upon sharing this observation with Anand, he immediately decided this was the funniest thing in the world and proceeded to spend the majority of the rest of the evening speaking in a bad phony Shakespearean actor accent. "Ohhhhhhhh, me lord, wouldst though parlay with the barkeep and find me another mug of ale?"
At some point I went to the bathroom and saw a bunch of guys shredding lines off the waiters tray. Later on, the only other guy in the bar who didn't seem to be with the play came up to us and asked us if we knew where he could buy weed. The actress approached me at some point with one of the gays as a wing man, she had apparently mistaken us for stage hands and was either honestly curious about the progress of the breakdown of the show, or was looking to find a bastion of heterosexuality. Either way, I just sort of mumbled something about being a tourist and having no idea what she was talking about.
2 O'clock rolled around and though last call had been...er called, no one seemed to be in a hurry to leave. Though the bar tender kept dropping hints that it was quitting time, Anand was insistent that we stay and try to figure out what sort of action was going to happen when they closed the doors...needless to say, we did not get this invitation...instead we finished our drinks and headed back out.
I have nothing to say about Autechre...their one of those groups that you have on your iPod cause bands you admire, speak in hushed and worshipful tones about them...but my actual experience of listening to them is generally a shrug and an "OK?" No different here.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Autonomy Boy - The Long Blondes - Singles - 2008
Jesus...still trying to wrap up a story that took place over a month ago...anyway, after we got back from the game we all took a few minutes to get cleaned up before heading back out into the city. I exited the shower to find Skip laying in his bed, under the covers. I asked him if he intended to stay there, he stated that he'd probably just slow us down...so we headed back into Boston one man down.
The first place we went was probably the coolest bar we went to in Boston, a basement bar on Commonwealth called "The Lower Depths". The furniture was oak booths, the beer selection was impressive, and the bar tender was a friendly indie rock dude, but after a few rounds, we decided to check out another bar on our list.
The next bar was an upscale cocktail lounge called Eastern Standard where I had a fine whiskey smash. Unfortunately by this point I was also so hammered that I could not stop staring at the woman in the corner in an absurdly cleavage-y dress. Even the usually reticent Anand had to point out "Can't stop staring at those boobies, can you?" I blame the whiskey. It was abundantly clear that we had no business in a bar this classy when we were clearly hammered and under-dressed.
I tend to like Long Blondes songs when they are at their most Pretenders-esque (Weekend with out Makeup, Knife for the Girls, Christmas is Cancelled) but in reality the band is more typically a kind of Ska band, as demonstrated on this song. And I fucking hate Ska.
The first place we went was probably the coolest bar we went to in Boston, a basement bar on Commonwealth called "The Lower Depths". The furniture was oak booths, the beer selection was impressive, and the bar tender was a friendly indie rock dude, but after a few rounds, we decided to check out another bar on our list.
The next bar was an upscale cocktail lounge called Eastern Standard where I had a fine whiskey smash. Unfortunately by this point I was also so hammered that I could not stop staring at the woman in the corner in an absurdly cleavage-y dress. Even the usually reticent Anand had to point out "Can't stop staring at those boobies, can you?" I blame the whiskey. It was abundantly clear that we had no business in a bar this classy when we were clearly hammered and under-dressed.
I tend to like Long Blondes songs when they are at their most Pretenders-esque (Weekend with out Makeup, Knife for the Girls, Christmas is Cancelled) but in reality the band is more typically a kind of Ska band, as demonstrated on this song. And I fucking hate Ska.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Autonomy - Buzzcocks - Another Music in a Different Kitchen - 1978
As much as the drive to the stadium was a better experience than expected, the stadium itself was a lesson in disappointment. We paid $30 to park in a lot almost a mile from the stadium itself, in an effort to prevent being stuck in the bottle neck that escaping the stadium would be post game.
As the game we were actually there to see was a match between two Italian teams, the people we walked along with were a healthy mixture of Italians, American soccer fans, and various ex-pats just glad to be able t see some quality "footie". Even the dudes at the liquor store where we bought our tailgating supplies chatted a bit about soccer...it was encouraging to see how the game has opened up in America.
Once we actually got to the stadium itself getting to our seats involved walking up a seemingly endless series of ramps snaked along the outside of the bleachers. On the walk we watched some Italian try to race his girlfriend only to elbow her out of the way and watch as she wiped out face down on the concrete. We all stopped to make sure she was ok, giving the jerk the appropriate level of dirty looks. He seemed indifferent. After we finally got to our level, we discovered that there was only 1 ATM on the level and that it was out of order...oh and absolutely nothing accepted plastic.
We tried to get beer at a beer stand that served microbrews from New England (one of the few nice touches) only to discover that nearly everything was sold out and the few beers that they did have were foaming uncontrollably...it took the woman behind the counter nearly 10 minutes to pour out three beers causing us to miss the beginning of the game and the first goal (of only 2). We spent the rest of the game drinking margaritas (Margarita stands were a nice touch...we need those at more sporting events, particularly for summer games). Due to the lack of cash, I never ate, but the hot dog Anand had he proclaimed to be the worst hot dog he ever had. At least the view was good.
When the game (which was itself a bit lackluster, but then we weren't expecting much from a preseason exhibition match...even between two giants with a fierce rivalry) was drawing to a close, we tried to leave a few minutes early to beat the crowd. We slipped in with a couple of reporters to try and sneak down on the elevator and were understandably turned away. We then tried to go over on the (COMPLETELY EMPTY) stairs only to be told that the stairs were reserved for media only...I had to be dragged away before I attempted to shout the security guard to death. I still, an entire month later, fail to see the harm in allowing us to go down those stairs. There is little that infuriates me more than a rule followed for the sake of foolish consistency.
Ultimately we got back to our car and navigated the back roads successfully. Another pleasant drive home awaited us now with a pleasant buzz and a good tan for the non-drivers.
The Buzzcock's can always be relied upon to deliver a good jolt of punky power pop and this song is no exception. It's always amazing to think that these guys were putting out music like this in 1978.
As the game we were actually there to see was a match between two Italian teams, the people we walked along with were a healthy mixture of Italians, American soccer fans, and various ex-pats just glad to be able t see some quality "footie". Even the dudes at the liquor store where we bought our tailgating supplies chatted a bit about soccer...it was encouraging to see how the game has opened up in America.
Once we actually got to the stadium itself getting to our seats involved walking up a seemingly endless series of ramps snaked along the outside of the bleachers. On the walk we watched some Italian try to race his girlfriend only to elbow her out of the way and watch as she wiped out face down on the concrete. We all stopped to make sure she was ok, giving the jerk the appropriate level of dirty looks. He seemed indifferent. After we finally got to our level, we discovered that there was only 1 ATM on the level and that it was out of order...oh and absolutely nothing accepted plastic.
We tried to get beer at a beer stand that served microbrews from New England (one of the few nice touches) only to discover that nearly everything was sold out and the few beers that they did have were foaming uncontrollably...it took the woman behind the counter nearly 10 minutes to pour out three beers causing us to miss the beginning of the game and the first goal (of only 2). We spent the rest of the game drinking margaritas (Margarita stands were a nice touch...we need those at more sporting events, particularly for summer games). Due to the lack of cash, I never ate, but the hot dog Anand had he proclaimed to be the worst hot dog he ever had. At least the view was good.
When the game (which was itself a bit lackluster, but then we weren't expecting much from a preseason exhibition match...even between two giants with a fierce rivalry) was drawing to a close, we tried to leave a few minutes early to beat the crowd. We slipped in with a couple of reporters to try and sneak down on the elevator and were understandably turned away. We then tried to go over on the (COMPLETELY EMPTY) stairs only to be told that the stairs were reserved for media only...I had to be dragged away before I attempted to shout the security guard to death. I still, an entire month later, fail to see the harm in allowing us to go down those stairs. There is little that infuriates me more than a rule followed for the sake of foolish consistency.
Ultimately we got back to our car and navigated the back roads successfully. Another pleasant drive home awaited us now with a pleasant buzz and a good tan for the non-drivers.
The Buzzcock's can always be relied upon to deliver a good jolt of punky power pop and this song is no exception. It's always amazing to think that these guys were putting out music like this in 1978.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Autobiography - Sloan - One Chord To Another - 1997
With our disappointing meal in our bellies, we were reasonably impressed with the museum itself. We spent a considerable amount of time walking through the Asian exhibit, particularly a reconstructed Buddhist shrine that was given the appropriate amount of reverence...unfortunately the clock was ticking, so we didn't quite get to see everything. Though most importantly we did get to see the weird giant creepy baby heads that were on display outside the back entrance of the museum.
After we picked up the car, we did have one last bit of business to attend to before the game...As we were parting ways with Uncle Singh the night before, he had stated that his wife had made a lunch for us to eat before we went out to the game and that she would be very disappointed if we did not eat it. We were stuck between not wanting to be rude, and not wanting to have even more of our road trip eaten up with familial obligations. The compromise solution was for us to swing by on the way to the game and pick up the food in a picnic basket to take with us. This situation was further complicated by the fact that Anand had lost his phone at some point during the evening last night, and Skip didn't have anything in his phone besides Uncle Singh's house number. We made several attempts to contact them at this number and left messages...we even stopped by their house, but the couple was apparently out and about and waiting for our call on their cells. After a few minutes of knocking on their front door we took off.
The one time I was truly happy about the Singh's love for their GPS Devices was on the drive to the stadium. From the Uncle's house in Alston it took us down back roads, rather than the main highway, allowing us to enjoy the warm summer air as we drove at high speeds down green tree lined streets...rather than sitting in traffic on the gray and dismal 90.
Autobiography is one of those songs...the song you don't like on an album you otherwise love. Sloan's extremely (Self-consciously) Beatlesque One Chord To Another is one of the great loves of my early 20's, songs like the bouncy "Can't Face Up" and the horn driven "Everything You've Done Wrong" are quintessential soundtrack items for my pre-NYC, post college Midwestern boredom driving...but this song has always bored the holy hell out of me, and annoyed me with it's WAY-TOO-CLEVER pun lyrics, but I can't bring myself to delete it...cause I love the album. I know, I know...I have issues.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Auto Rock - Mogwai - Mr. Beast - 2006
As expected, we spent a big part of the morning sleeping in. The soccer game we had come to attend didn't start until 5, so even with the lie in we had a bit of tourist time. We figured, we'd hike down to the Museum of Fine Arts and grab brunch somewhere along the way...and yet again, Boston seemed determined to thwart us.
As we walked each block between our hotel and the museum we were continually amazed by the lack of brunch options. There was not one neighborhood cafe or at least a pub with a big Irish fry-up...but no, nothing but chain restaurants and houses.
We finally arrived at the museum and resigned ourselves to eating at the restaurant onsite. The good news was that there were three of them, the bad news was that they were all crappy in one way or another. The downstairs was simply a cafeteria, the upstairs was a place that was going for the illusion of being upscale and offered a $35 pre-fix brunch (I wouldn't even pay that in NYC, let alone at a museum in brunch-less Boston). The place in the middle was where we settled, but none of us were overly enthused with the option. I got a bowl of seafood chowder and ate a bunch of the free bread. It would turn out to be my only meal of the day.
Ahhh Mogwai, is there anything you can't make sound ominous? Since their songs are generally wordless, the titles are usually the only place you can look for meaning and in this one it's fairly easy to see. From the plunking, Knight Rider keyboards, to the slow build of the synths and guitars swelling to an almost overwhelming level of intensity this is the sound of driving alone on a rainy night with a gnawing anger in your stomach. Having personally driven through the black Scottish night, and seeing just exactly how dark, dark can get...I feel like I know exactly what this song is about.
As we walked each block between our hotel and the museum we were continually amazed by the lack of brunch options. There was not one neighborhood cafe or at least a pub with a big Irish fry-up...but no, nothing but chain restaurants and houses.
We finally arrived at the museum and resigned ourselves to eating at the restaurant onsite. The good news was that there were three of them, the bad news was that they were all crappy in one way or another. The downstairs was simply a cafeteria, the upstairs was a place that was going for the illusion of being upscale and offered a $35 pre-fix brunch (I wouldn't even pay that in NYC, let alone at a museum in brunch-less Boston). The place in the middle was where we settled, but none of us were overly enthused with the option. I got a bowl of seafood chowder and ate a bunch of the free bread. It would turn out to be my only meal of the day.
Ahhh Mogwai, is there anything you can't make sound ominous? Since their songs are generally wordless, the titles are usually the only place you can look for meaning and in this one it's fairly easy to see. From the plunking, Knight Rider keyboards, to the slow build of the synths and guitars swelling to an almost overwhelming level of intensity this is the sound of driving alone on a rainy night with a gnawing anger in your stomach. Having personally driven through the black Scottish night, and seeing just exactly how dark, dark can get...I feel like I know exactly what this song is about.
Authority Song - John Cougar Mellencamp - Uh-Huh - 1983
The last bar actually skirted the rules a little bit and let us stay until 215. I guess this is as close as Boston gets to "after hours". Once we were finally given the boot from whatever random sports bar this was, we headed back to the hotel.
However, being who we are, we decided to walk the five miles back...at 230 in the morning. All in all it was an enjoyable time. We jumped in a sprinkler that was watering the lawn of some Boston College building (Well, at least Anand and I did, Skip looked at us like we were idiots). We took some pictures along Commonwealth Ave and enjoyed the sort of freedom that comes with walking through a city that is otherwise completely asleep.
When we got back to the hotel, Skip called it a night. His intestinal unpleasantness had subsided, but it left him a little lagging in the energy department. Anand and I decided to wander around taking some pictures of the city at night...which lead to one of our bigger disappointments of the trip. We walked all the way down up from the prudential building to city hall. We figured it's golden dome would be an awesome site all lit up and glowing in the night. We'd have no tourists in our way to obscure the picture and we'd have the commons between us to keep us entertained on the way there and back.
Upon arrival, we realized one flaw with this plan...they don't light the goddamn thing up at night. Like so many other things about this city, it was a let down. Boston could be so much cooler than it is...
Speaking of which...I'm definitely letting my white trash roots show here. There is almost no criticism one could level at "The Coug" that I wouldn't 100% agree with. Is he cheesy? Is he faux-earnest? Is he derivative? Does he need to wear those ridiculous tight jeans and add "cougar" to his name? To all of those, the answer is No, No, No and one million times NO! But then, you didn't grow up in Indiana, where the man was already considered a state treasure a few albums into his career. You've never actually driven by the Tasti-Freeze in Spencer Indiana (probably...I mean, I don't know you...maybe you have). I'd love to hate The Coug for all of the things mentioned above, for his glamorization of a small town America that never really existed, and for his really bad mullet...but at the end of the day, I'm a Hoosier, and I was born in a small town...and I fought the Authority and the Authority always wins.
However, being who we are, we decided to walk the five miles back...at 230 in the morning. All in all it was an enjoyable time. We jumped in a sprinkler that was watering the lawn of some Boston College building (Well, at least Anand and I did, Skip looked at us like we were idiots). We took some pictures along Commonwealth Ave and enjoyed the sort of freedom that comes with walking through a city that is otherwise completely asleep.
When we got back to the hotel, Skip called it a night. His intestinal unpleasantness had subsided, but it left him a little lagging in the energy department. Anand and I decided to wander around taking some pictures of the city at night...which lead to one of our bigger disappointments of the trip. We walked all the way down up from the prudential building to city hall. We figured it's golden dome would be an awesome site all lit up and glowing in the night. We'd have no tourists in our way to obscure the picture and we'd have the commons between us to keep us entertained on the way there and back.
Upon arrival, we realized one flaw with this plan...they don't light the goddamn thing up at night. Like so many other things about this city, it was a let down. Boston could be so much cooler than it is...
Speaking of which...I'm definitely letting my white trash roots show here. There is almost no criticism one could level at "The Coug" that I wouldn't 100% agree with. Is he cheesy? Is he faux-earnest? Is he derivative? Does he need to wear those ridiculous tight jeans and add "cougar" to his name? To all of those, the answer is No, No, No and one million times NO! But then, you didn't grow up in Indiana, where the man was already considered a state treasure a few albums into his career. You've never actually driven by the Tasti-Freeze in Spencer Indiana (probably...I mean, I don't know you...maybe you have). I'd love to hate The Coug for all of the things mentioned above, for his glamorization of a small town America that never really existed, and for his really bad mullet...but at the end of the day, I'm a Hoosier, and I was born in a small town...and I fought the Authority and the Authority always wins.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Author Unknown - Jason Faulkner - Can You Still Feel? - 1999
After we cleared out of The Middle East, Uncle Singh suggested we hit another nearby indie rock club called TT The Bear's, but I think we were all musiced out. At this point, I had simply accepted that this was going to be my Saturday night in Boston. It was approaching midnight, bars in this town closed early and the older Singhs showed no sign of wishing to go home. My hopes for a night of drunken debauchery and carousing had been transformed into a mildly pleasant night with a nice couple and an early call time.
We drove down to another bar in Allston (after the GPS was set, of course) to close out our night. The Sunset Tap and Grill had come highly recommended to me as the best beer selection in the city, and it seemed like it would be the type of place that we would all enjoy. Upon arrival, I was actually satisfied that I had picked the right place. An impressive beer menu and draft list was presented to us and we grabbed a quiet table in the corner to close out the night. Anand and I decided to sample the mead.
The table next to us got a plate of nachos...which I have to say was the biggest plate of nachos I've ever seen in my light. It could have fed a small village. If any of us had been even remotely hungry, we would have gotten them. As it stood, with our belly's full of fine Italian food all we could do was stare in amazement at the enormity of the plate.
After a couple of drinks last call was announced and we wrapped up our night. As we walked the older Singhs to their car, Uncle Singh asked if we wanted to come back to their apartment and drink some wine...we declined, hoping to take advantage of what little we had left of our night. We even declined a drive back to our hotel, as we wanted to walk. We put them in their car, thanked them profusely and then as soon as they were out of site, went back to the only bar on the strip open till 2.
This little power-pop nugget by Jason Faulkner manages to squeeze in the most jamming flute solo this side of Anchorman into it's late 90's instrumentation...and that's saying something.
We drove down to another bar in Allston (after the GPS was set, of course) to close out our night. The Sunset Tap and Grill had come highly recommended to me as the best beer selection in the city, and it seemed like it would be the type of place that we would all enjoy. Upon arrival, I was actually satisfied that I had picked the right place. An impressive beer menu and draft list was presented to us and we grabbed a quiet table in the corner to close out the night. Anand and I decided to sample the mead.
The table next to us got a plate of nachos...which I have to say was the biggest plate of nachos I've ever seen in my light. It could have fed a small village. If any of us had been even remotely hungry, we would have gotten them. As it stood, with our belly's full of fine Italian food all we could do was stare in amazement at the enormity of the plate.
After a couple of drinks last call was announced and we wrapped up our night. As we walked the older Singhs to their car, Uncle Singh asked if we wanted to come back to their apartment and drink some wine...we declined, hoping to take advantage of what little we had left of our night. We even declined a drive back to our hotel, as we wanted to walk. We put them in their car, thanked them profusely and then as soon as they were out of site, went back to the only bar on the strip open till 2.
This little power-pop nugget by Jason Faulkner manages to squeeze in the most jamming flute solo this side of Anchorman into it's late 90's instrumentation...and that's saying something.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Australia - The Shins - Wincing The Night Away - 2007
Once dinner had finished, we all piled back into the Singh's Acura and headed towards The Middle East (after setting the GPS, of course). The Middle East is Boston's equivalent of Mercury Lounge or Bowery Ballroom (bigger than the first, smaller than the second) it's a bar with a performance space where your mid-level Indie bands play. I was under the assumption that we would be hitting the bar half of the venue, enjoying some tunes and beverages and then going our separate ways...and yet again, my assumptions would prove to be incorrect.
As soon as we got to the bar, Uncle Singh proceeded to lead us down to the performance area and buy us tickets for whatever band happened to be playing...a band that absolutely none of us knew.
The lower level stank of patchouli and BO. The band itself was some sort of sludge metal band from Athens Georgia, that was louder than even the younger of us wanted to deal with. I was decidedly older than most of the audience, so I can only imagine how the older Singhs felt. Aunt Singh was certainly doing her best to appear as if she was having a good time, though she was clearly not. All of us tried to be gracious, since they boys' uncle had purchased our cover...but clearly none of us were having much fun. Anand and I stepped outside to smoke and get out of the noise and stench and the rest of the group followed us...it was clear that we would not be going back in.
I've been listening to Wincing The Night Away a little bit lately...it's not the crushing disappointment that it seemed on first release. In the early part of the decade, The Shins released a wonderful, shimmery indie-pop debut album. Shortly after their less shimmery, but still quite good second album was released, tool bag etraordinaire Zach Braff saddled them with the unreasonable expectation of being "the band that will change your life"...suddenly they went from being a cozy little secret to the poster children for the new wave of Indie bands...and that's when they seem to have hit the wall. WTNA isn't a bad album, it just couldn't possibly live up those sort of expectations...fucking Braff.
As soon as we got to the bar, Uncle Singh proceeded to lead us down to the performance area and buy us tickets for whatever band happened to be playing...a band that absolutely none of us knew.
The lower level stank of patchouli and BO. The band itself was some sort of sludge metal band from Athens Georgia, that was louder than even the younger of us wanted to deal with. I was decidedly older than most of the audience, so I can only imagine how the older Singhs felt. Aunt Singh was certainly doing her best to appear as if she was having a good time, though she was clearly not. All of us tried to be gracious, since they boys' uncle had purchased our cover...but clearly none of us were having much fun. Anand and I stepped outside to smoke and get out of the noise and stench and the rest of the group followed us...it was clear that we would not be going back in.
I've been listening to Wincing The Night Away a little bit lately...it's not the crushing disappointment that it seemed on first release. In the early part of the decade, The Shins released a wonderful, shimmery indie-pop debut album. Shortly after their less shimmery, but still quite good second album was released, tool bag etraordinaire Zach Braff saddled them with the unreasonable expectation of being "the band that will change your life"...suddenly they went from being a cozy little secret to the poster children for the new wave of Indie bands...and that's when they seem to have hit the wall. WTNA isn't a bad album, it just couldn't possibly live up those sort of expectations...fucking Braff.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Australia - The Kinks - Arthur (or The Decline and Fall of the British Empire) - 1969
We arrived at the restaurant around 730. It was a nice modern Italian place in the ground floor of a swanky hotel in Cambridge with a patio that looked out over the Charles, but since we were late for our reservation the places on the patio were all taken. We were seated inside, only to find ourselves the ONLY customers on the inside.
Now Anand and I had discussed this on the train ride out...we figured we stick around for dinner and maybe an after dinner cocktail or two and then we wrap up around 10 and go check out some of the bars in Allston and Cambridge, flirt with some Boston girls and then head back to the hotel. Simple plan. But from the get go, Uncle Singh was talking about taking us to some of the bars after dinner, and a picture was being painted here.
Now, let me first say, that the boys' uncle and their aunt were both very sweet, kind, and generous people. They paid for our dinner and nearly all the drinks that followed...they were nothing but gracious, friendly, and charming...but spending my entire Saturday night in Boston with the Singh family wasn't exactly how I envisioned this evening going.
The waitress came around to take our order, and she was immediately told by the Uncle that he wanted to have a few cocktails first, maybe have a few appetizers, and just hang out before he ordered dinner. At that point, I was certain of what was going on. Regardless of MY vision, it was clear that he envisioned a fun night on the town with his favorite nephews. When this man was my age, the Singh's would have been teenagers...he was the cool uncle who bought them drunks and took them out to rock shows. And now he lived in Boston, a town he had just moved to 1 month ago. He and his wife were both professionals, and between their jobs and the move they hadn't been out for six months...his very sweet wife was clearly delighted to be out on the town. Obviously, I was going to be stuck with them for the long haul.
After a few rounds of dinner, we did order our dinner and dessert and more cocktails. The food was quite good, and the drinks even better. It was well after ten when we finally headed out, Uncle Singh paying the bill without us ever seeing it. He was now ready to take us to phase two of his plan...
I was at a friend's birthday last week when the wife of the birthday boy chimed in that she thought The Kinks were probably the greatest rock band ever. Several people, all of whose opinions I respected, agreed with her. I just can't hang, I guess. I love a few of their songs (Victoria is particularly awesome) but by and large they bore the holy hell out of me...I try, I really do...but I just don't see the charm. Ah well.
Now Anand and I had discussed this on the train ride out...we figured we stick around for dinner and maybe an after dinner cocktail or two and then we wrap up around 10 and go check out some of the bars in Allston and Cambridge, flirt with some Boston girls and then head back to the hotel. Simple plan. But from the get go, Uncle Singh was talking about taking us to some of the bars after dinner, and a picture was being painted here.
Now, let me first say, that the boys' uncle and their aunt were both very sweet, kind, and generous people. They paid for our dinner and nearly all the drinks that followed...they were nothing but gracious, friendly, and charming...but spending my entire Saturday night in Boston with the Singh family wasn't exactly how I envisioned this evening going.
The waitress came around to take our order, and she was immediately told by the Uncle that he wanted to have a few cocktails first, maybe have a few appetizers, and just hang out before he ordered dinner. At that point, I was certain of what was going on. Regardless of MY vision, it was clear that he envisioned a fun night on the town with his favorite nephews. When this man was my age, the Singh's would have been teenagers...he was the cool uncle who bought them drunks and took them out to rock shows. And now he lived in Boston, a town he had just moved to 1 month ago. He and his wife were both professionals, and between their jobs and the move they hadn't been out for six months...his very sweet wife was clearly delighted to be out on the town. Obviously, I was going to be stuck with them for the long haul.
After a few rounds of dinner, we did order our dinner and dessert and more cocktails. The food was quite good, and the drinks even better. It was well after ten when we finally headed out, Uncle Singh paying the bill without us ever seeing it. He was now ready to take us to phase two of his plan...
I was at a friend's birthday last week when the wife of the birthday boy chimed in that she thought The Kinks were probably the greatest rock band ever. Several people, all of whose opinions I respected, agreed with her. I just can't hang, I guess. I love a few of their songs (Victoria is particularly awesome) but by and large they bore the holy hell out of me...I try, I really do...but I just don't see the charm. Ah well.
Aunties and Uncles - The Jam - News of the World B-Side - 1978
Which brings us to the car...Now, I certainly haven't spent enough time around other Indians beyond the Singhs to know if this is some sort of Indian cultural thing...or just particular to this specific family, but my God are these fuckers useless without a GPS device. How did they drive before they were invented.
The Singhs had insisted we pay the extra $10 to rent a car with GPS, and in all fairness, it did come in quite handy the following day when we'd take back roads to get to the stadium...but on the drive up, the brothers had spent a solid ten minutes trying to program the address of the hotel into the GPS and then find a way to successfully mount it on the window or dashboard...instead of, you know, just driving to Boston, following the signs and then figuring it out.
So here we sat, wedged in the back seat of their turn-of-the-millennium luxury sedan, already late for dinner and waiting while a middle aged Indian couple programmed their GPS device. Now, what made this slightly more ridiculous was that, as the car was nearly 10 years old...it had a GPS built into the dashboard, but since this was an old and slow model, they had also purchased a newer, shinier GPS...and they were now trying to program both or either of them to tell them how to get to the restaurant. The restaurant was just on the other side of the Charles, in Cambridge...again, simply driving over there was, I guess, not an option. After 5 or so minutes of fiddling with it, they finally got one of them to work and we headed out.
Sometimes a band can put out material as a B-side that is every bit as strong as their A-Side material. The Beatles were, of course, masters of it (Daytripper, Penny Lane, Revolution). Radiohead, in their heyday certainly put out some amazing b-sides (Permenant Daylight, Trickster, Palo Alto, Pearly*), and I would say that in this instance The Jam have put out a song that stands with their best work. Solid rabble rousing, that's equal parts punk and Beatle-esque...it's everything Paul Weller does, done well.
The Singhs had insisted we pay the extra $10 to rent a car with GPS, and in all fairness, it did come in quite handy the following day when we'd take back roads to get to the stadium...but on the drive up, the brothers had spent a solid ten minutes trying to program the address of the hotel into the GPS and then find a way to successfully mount it on the window or dashboard...instead of, you know, just driving to Boston, following the signs and then figuring it out.
So here we sat, wedged in the back seat of their turn-of-the-millennium luxury sedan, already late for dinner and waiting while a middle aged Indian couple programmed their GPS device. Now, what made this slightly more ridiculous was that, as the car was nearly 10 years old...it had a GPS built into the dashboard, but since this was an old and slow model, they had also purchased a newer, shinier GPS...and they were now trying to program both or either of them to tell them how to get to the restaurant. The restaurant was just on the other side of the Charles, in Cambridge...again, simply driving over there was, I guess, not an option. After 5 or so minutes of fiddling with it, they finally got one of them to work and we headed out.
Sometimes a band can put out material as a B-side that is every bit as strong as their A-Side material. The Beatles were, of course, masters of it (Daytripper, Penny Lane, Revolution). Radiohead, in their heyday certainly put out some amazing b-sides (Permenant Daylight, Trickster, Palo Alto, Pearly*), and I would say that in this instance The Jam have put out a song that stands with their best work. Solid rabble rousing, that's equal parts punk and Beatle-esque...it's everything Paul Weller does, done well.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Auf Achse - Franz Ferdinand - Franz Fredinand - 2004
I knew going up to Boston that The Singh brothers needed to put in a visit with their uncle who had recently moved to Boston. So after a series of phonetags and voicemails it was finally determined that we'd be having dinner with them on Saturday night. Anand got his uncle on the phone and attempted to make arrangements to meet at the restaurant, but his uncle was insistent that he keep dinner a surprise and that we meet up with them at their place in Brighton before dinner.
We took the T out there, which was slow and painful. Once you are out of Boston Central, the train runs above ground on street level. This means that the trains must stop at stop lights...in addition to it's already scheduled stops, making for a frustrating, lurching experience that is only slightly less annoying than taking a bus through Queens.
We finally arrived at our stop on Washington St. and began our relatively short walk to the boys' uncle's house. It was then that I was informed of a situation brewing in our little party. It seems that one member of our party, who shall remain nameless, but was neither Anand nor me...had been having some stomach issues during the trip. This person had purchased some medicine at the CVS the night before to correct this particular stomach issue and had taken some in the morning. When this proved ineffective, he'd taken more in the afternoon...now, several hours later, the medicine was beginning to take hold and he was desperately in need of place to take care of the situation.
When we arrived at the door, it took Uncle Singh several moments to come downstairs, causing the afflicted party to shuffle quite a bit and to occasionally grasp the chain link fence and clinch. Eventually, we were admitted to their very nice residence and Anand and I were left to make small talk and pretend not to notice the amount of time our fallen comrade had been in the bathroom.
Finally, when all was clear, we piled in the car to head to our dinner reservations...which we were already 15 minutes late for.
Most Franz Ferdinand songs sound pretty much the same, and either you like that vibe or you don't. On their first album, I generally like that vibe.
We took the T out there, which was slow and painful. Once you are out of Boston Central, the train runs above ground on street level. This means that the trains must stop at stop lights...in addition to it's already scheduled stops, making for a frustrating, lurching experience that is only slightly less annoying than taking a bus through Queens.
We finally arrived at our stop on Washington St. and began our relatively short walk to the boys' uncle's house. It was then that I was informed of a situation brewing in our little party. It seems that one member of our party, who shall remain nameless, but was neither Anand nor me...had been having some stomach issues during the trip. This person had purchased some medicine at the CVS the night before to correct this particular stomach issue and had taken some in the morning. When this proved ineffective, he'd taken more in the afternoon...now, several hours later, the medicine was beginning to take hold and he was desperately in need of place to take care of the situation.
When we arrived at the door, it took Uncle Singh several moments to come downstairs, causing the afflicted party to shuffle quite a bit and to occasionally grasp the chain link fence and clinch. Eventually, we were admitted to their very nice residence and Anand and I were left to make small talk and pretend not to notice the amount of time our fallen comrade had been in the bathroom.
Finally, when all was clear, we piled in the car to head to our dinner reservations...which we were already 15 minutes late for.
Most Franz Ferdinand songs sound pretty much the same, and either you like that vibe or you don't. On their first album, I generally like that vibe.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Auditorium - Guided by Voices - Alien Lanes - 1995
Following our child heavy adventure at the aquarium, we took a seat at an outdoor bar in Quincy Market to get our drink on. The day was getting hot and our walking and museum going had left us a little parched. Quincy Market is basically the same as the South Street Seaport here in NYC, designed for tourists, dominated by over-priced chains, and full of people that you are deadly certain that you are cooler than...but it still has it's seaport town charm. And you can't knock a margarita on the boardwalk on a hot day.
After we finished our drink we walked back to the hotel. Though Anand and I weren't particularly interested, Skip, the younger Singh brother was curious to see the Cheers bar (Which is actually called The Bull and the Finch) so we walked back via Commonwealth Ave. After a bit of circuitous walk we found ourselves in front of the famous sign only to find a line of people coming out the door. Both Anand and I had been to the bar on previous trips, and assured Skip that A) it was just a bar and B) the inside looked nothing like the show, and that C) there was no way we were going to wait in line to get into a bar on a Saturday afternoon.
Finally, we swung back to our hotel for a brief late afternoon respite before our evening plans would kick in...
Back in 1995 Uncle Bob Pollard wanted to record arena rock, and by God if the powers that be were not going to let him do it on their terms he'd do it on his own. Auditorium is one of the charming mid-90's lo-fi attempts at said arena rock that GBV would make a name for themselves on. Of course, 4 years later, Pollard would get a chance to record this type of music the way he wanted to and we'd all come to realize that we preferred it when he had to improvise with a cassette recorder in his garage. Just think of what a shitty movie Jaws would have been if Spielberg could have gotten that fucking shark to work.
After we finished our drink we walked back to the hotel. Though Anand and I weren't particularly interested, Skip, the younger Singh brother was curious to see the Cheers bar (Which is actually called The Bull and the Finch) so we walked back via Commonwealth Ave. After a bit of circuitous walk we found ourselves in front of the famous sign only to find a line of people coming out the door. Both Anand and I had been to the bar on previous trips, and assured Skip that A) it was just a bar and B) the inside looked nothing like the show, and that C) there was no way we were going to wait in line to get into a bar on a Saturday afternoon.
Finally, we swung back to our hotel for a brief late afternoon respite before our evening plans would kick in...
Back in 1995 Uncle Bob Pollard wanted to record arena rock, and by God if the powers that be were not going to let him do it on their terms he'd do it on his own. Auditorium is one of the charming mid-90's lo-fi attempts at said arena rock that GBV would make a name for themselves on. Of course, 4 years later, Pollard would get a chance to record this type of music the way he wanted to and we'd all come to realize that we preferred it when he had to improvise with a cassette recorder in his garage. Just think of what a shitty movie Jaws would have been if Spielberg could have gotten that fucking shark to work.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Auditor - Britt Daniel/Brian Reitzell - Stranger Than Fiction(OST) - 2006
We ate lobster rolls on the water at a place called The Chart House, which I gather was at one time John Hancock's counting house. The history nerd in me couldn't help but be amused by this fact. We sat outside, next to a family gathering of sorts. There were two older parents, with their adult son and his girlfriend/wife/fiancee and an additional man who I think was the other son, but who said very little. In fact most of them said very little, save for the daugher in law (or whatever) who did not shut up through the entire meal. Her father in law, clearly detested her and would occassionally attempt to talk to the men about the Red Sox, only for her to dominate the conversation the whole time.
The thing that always baffles me about people who talk loudly and constantly in public, is that they seem completely unaware that they are broadcasting information about themselves to everyone around them. They are giving everyone ample opportunity to judge them...and generally with this type of person, there is plenty to judge. This woman was clearly shallow and materialistic, petty and amused by awful things. She told a story about how as a child they'd take vacations where her family would drive an RV to a destination only to sleep in the hotel. It never seemed to occur to her that this might make her appear pampered and awful. She never thought of these things, all she could think of was how wonderful it was to have people listening to her, to be the center of attention...regardless of whether that attention was meritted. The arrival of her food did not stop her verbal diaherria.
Following our meal, we went to the Aquarium, standing in line for nearly 1/2 an hour to get tickets. Nearly a decade in NYC has made me forget a truth about museums of any type in American places that are not NYC, a lesson I should have remembered from my trip to DC. NYC, due to it's booming tourism industry and self appointed need to be seen as a cultural epicenter, regards its museums with a sort of European air. Museums are places where adults go to be edified about culture or educated about science. Museums in any other American city are places you take your kids so you can pretend you are doing something "educational"
The Aquarium itself was impressive, with it's central cone of water with a descending ramp wrapped around it and individual exhibits on the oppossing wall. The problem is, you couldn't get anywhere near these exhibits due to the sheer mass of children between you and what you'd want to see. Being polite, I'd stand aside and wait for a group of kids to clear...as soon as they did I'd step up and look at what I wanted to see...only for another group of kids to decide that the space between me and the glass was a place they could stand to get a better view...never mind that someone else was there first and viewing the fish. After about 45 minutes we gave up...there was just no way the kids were going to be polite, and no way that we were going to get to see what we want. With a few exceptions, it was $21 down the drain. If I had wanted to be annoyed by children, I could have just gone to Park Slope for the day.
Listening to these songs in alphabetical order means that I have heard this brief instrumental, performed by Britt Daniel of Spoon on the Stranger Than Fiction soundtrack, several times immediately following "Audience with the Pope"...the problem is that for the first few listens, I assumed that this was just an outro to the previous song. It actually works really well, in fact I think they are even in the same key and the same basic tempo. What is ultimately a coincidence of the alphabet and my particular tastes makes sure that "Audience..." well always sound a bit too brief without it's "Outro".
The thing that always baffles me about people who talk loudly and constantly in public, is that they seem completely unaware that they are broadcasting information about themselves to everyone around them. They are giving everyone ample opportunity to judge them...and generally with this type of person, there is plenty to judge. This woman was clearly shallow and materialistic, petty and amused by awful things. She told a story about how as a child they'd take vacations where her family would drive an RV to a destination only to sleep in the hotel. It never seemed to occur to her that this might make her appear pampered and awful. She never thought of these things, all she could think of was how wonderful it was to have people listening to her, to be the center of attention...regardless of whether that attention was meritted. The arrival of her food did not stop her verbal diaherria.
Following our meal, we went to the Aquarium, standing in line for nearly 1/2 an hour to get tickets. Nearly a decade in NYC has made me forget a truth about museums of any type in American places that are not NYC, a lesson I should have remembered from my trip to DC. NYC, due to it's booming tourism industry and self appointed need to be seen as a cultural epicenter, regards its museums with a sort of European air. Museums are places where adults go to be edified about culture or educated about science. Museums in any other American city are places you take your kids so you can pretend you are doing something "educational"
The Aquarium itself was impressive, with it's central cone of water with a descending ramp wrapped around it and individual exhibits on the oppossing wall. The problem is, you couldn't get anywhere near these exhibits due to the sheer mass of children between you and what you'd want to see. Being polite, I'd stand aside and wait for a group of kids to clear...as soon as they did I'd step up and look at what I wanted to see...only for another group of kids to decide that the space between me and the glass was a place they could stand to get a better view...never mind that someone else was there first and viewing the fish. After about 45 minutes we gave up...there was just no way the kids were going to be polite, and no way that we were going to get to see what we want. With a few exceptions, it was $21 down the drain. If I had wanted to be annoyed by children, I could have just gone to Park Slope for the day.
Listening to these songs in alphabetical order means that I have heard this brief instrumental, performed by Britt Daniel of Spoon on the Stranger Than Fiction soundtrack, several times immediately following "Audience with the Pope"...the problem is that for the first few listens, I assumed that this was just an outro to the previous song. It actually works really well, in fact I think they are even in the same key and the same basic tempo. What is ultimately a coincidence of the alphabet and my particular tastes makes sure that "Audience..." well always sound a bit too brief without it's "Outro".
Audience with the Pope - Elbow - The Seldom Seen Kid - 2008
After a bit of a sleep in the Singh bros and I were up and out the door before noon, and we couldn't have asked for a more beautiful day. 87 degrees, no humidity, a perfect ocean breeze and not a cloud in the sky greeted us when we walked out the hotel door. Our first activity for the day was the Aquarium, and we decided that there would be no better way to get there than to walk across town on this beautiful day.
If you didn't get a chance to read my European adventure from February, then I probably should explain again that I love to walk...and if possible would rather walk somewhere even if the distance seems greater than your average car loving American would normally go. Our hotel to the Aquarium was about 4.5 miles...no sweat.
We walked down Commonwealth Ave and across Boston Commons stopping for the occasional photograph or people watching moment. For all the negative things I could say about the city of Boston, there is absolutely no arguing with the fact that it is a really beautiful city. My very first visit to Boston was for Thanksgiving in 2002, a holiday that was accompanied by an early ice/snowstorm. While on many levels that particular trip was absolutely fucking miserable, I will always remember the beauty of the city covered in crystalline ice...and now I was here at the opposite time of year, with the city decked in green leaves and sunshine and looking just as lovely.
We took small detours, swinging by the site of the actual Boston Massacre (a rather unassuming circle on a cobblestone street) and down the market before we reached the water, to enjoy the full force of that ocean breeze and the sun reflecting off the water. Some days, it's just impossible not to love the world.
Sweet crooning from Elbow's rather impressive latter day output. Good stuff.
If you didn't get a chance to read my European adventure from February, then I probably should explain again that I love to walk...and if possible would rather walk somewhere even if the distance seems greater than your average car loving American would normally go. Our hotel to the Aquarium was about 4.5 miles...no sweat.
We walked down Commonwealth Ave and across Boston Commons stopping for the occasional photograph or people watching moment. For all the negative things I could say about the city of Boston, there is absolutely no arguing with the fact that it is a really beautiful city. My very first visit to Boston was for Thanksgiving in 2002, a holiday that was accompanied by an early ice/snowstorm. While on many levels that particular trip was absolutely fucking miserable, I will always remember the beauty of the city covered in crystalline ice...and now I was here at the opposite time of year, with the city decked in green leaves and sunshine and looking just as lovely.
We took small detours, swinging by the site of the actual Boston Massacre (a rather unassuming circle on a cobblestone street) and down the market before we reached the water, to enjoy the full force of that ocean breeze and the sun reflecting off the water. Some days, it's just impossible not to love the world.
Sweet crooning from Elbow's rather impressive latter day output. Good stuff.
An Audience of One - The Swords Project - Entertainment Is Over, If You Want It - 2003
We had the cab drop us off at the first stop on my list for "Southie", a place called The Blackthorn Bar only to find that it was pretty close to dead. So we walked a short distance over to another bar called The Junction which had some life to it.
As an Irish-American, I had always had a sort of morbid curiosity about South Boston. To me, the Southie's are an embarrassing cousin...with their "Yo, brah we're going out on a pissa and getting wicked retarded" lingo and attitude, they seem to have inherited absolutely none of James Joyce's DNA and an over abundance of Colin Ferrel's (only with even less class). To me, this was a bit like visiting my cousins who live in a trailer park (Which I also have)...but the experience was by and large not what I expected.
The problem you see, is that Boston is such a college town. Despite it's hallowed place in American History, it's supposed rivalry with NYC and it's abundance of my peoples, Boston primarily serves as the location of Harvard, MIT, BU, Northeastern, and BC and as such, it's bars are designed to appeal to college kids. Cheap pitchers and beer pong tables are the order of the day, waitresses in jean skirts and frizzy hair are the norm. So, I went in expecting little Dublin, and instead was treated to a Northern version of Chapel Hill.
We pulled a waitress over in The Junction to help get the lay of the land, but then were stuck with her for the night as she thought I was hitting on her. So, we put down our beers and made our way to the next location, a bar with the rather tony name of "The Playwright" only to find it largely the same vibe. It was quickly apparent that we were going to be in for an evening of college style bars, and while slightly more adult, The Farragut House was only a slight improvement.
After that, we took a walk down by the water to work off some of the beer wait. The last stop on the list was a place called Murphy's Law, which I had been told was a must check out. We approached the bar at 10 minutes till 1 and heard the roar of a crowd. A trio of people, 2 women and a man walked a few yards behind us and had been behind us for several blocks. As we neared the door, the bouncer stuck his head out and told us the bar was closed...only to allow the 3 behind us right in. The Singhs were convinced this was racism, which might be true, but I was more on the side of it being about getting more women in. Either way, our night in Southie was done...with very little Irish culture absorbed and very little to write home about.
The Swords Project is currently a band called simply Swords. I heard their second album (First with that name) a few years back and had a brief infatuation with it, and decided to check out the first album. Much like their moniker, their songs used to be much longer (This one clocks in at over 10 minutes), and while I still enjoy the sounds they produce, I must say I drastically prefer the shorter more refined songs on the Swords album. Even with their whiny Indie-boy voice singer given a more prominent role, the shorter songs have a stronger since of melody and use the atmospherics to greater effect.
As an Irish-American, I had always had a sort of morbid curiosity about South Boston. To me, the Southie's are an embarrassing cousin...with their "Yo, brah we're going out on a pissa and getting wicked retarded" lingo and attitude, they seem to have inherited absolutely none of James Joyce's DNA and an over abundance of Colin Ferrel's (only with even less class). To me, this was a bit like visiting my cousins who live in a trailer park (Which I also have)...but the experience was by and large not what I expected.
The problem you see, is that Boston is such a college town. Despite it's hallowed place in American History, it's supposed rivalry with NYC and it's abundance of my peoples, Boston primarily serves as the location of Harvard, MIT, BU, Northeastern, and BC and as such, it's bars are designed to appeal to college kids. Cheap pitchers and beer pong tables are the order of the day, waitresses in jean skirts and frizzy hair are the norm. So, I went in expecting little Dublin, and instead was treated to a Northern version of Chapel Hill.
We pulled a waitress over in The Junction to help get the lay of the land, but then were stuck with her for the night as she thought I was hitting on her. So, we put down our beers and made our way to the next location, a bar with the rather tony name of "The Playwright" only to find it largely the same vibe. It was quickly apparent that we were going to be in for an evening of college style bars, and while slightly more adult, The Farragut House was only a slight improvement.
After that, we took a walk down by the water to work off some of the beer wait. The last stop on the list was a place called Murphy's Law, which I had been told was a must check out. We approached the bar at 10 minutes till 1 and heard the roar of a crowd. A trio of people, 2 women and a man walked a few yards behind us and had been behind us for several blocks. As we neared the door, the bouncer stuck his head out and told us the bar was closed...only to allow the 3 behind us right in. The Singhs were convinced this was racism, which might be true, but I was more on the side of it being about getting more women in. Either way, our night in Southie was done...with very little Irish culture absorbed and very little to write home about.
The Swords Project is currently a band called simply Swords. I heard their second album (First with that name) a few years back and had a brief infatuation with it, and decided to check out the first album. Much like their moniker, their songs used to be much longer (This one clocks in at over 10 minutes), and while I still enjoy the sounds they produce, I must say I drastically prefer the shorter more refined songs on the Swords album. Even with their whiny Indie-boy voice singer given a more prominent role, the shorter songs have a stronger since of melody and use the atmospherics to greater effect.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Auctioneer (Another Engine) - REM - Fables of the Reconstruction - 1985
The final bar we hit in Jamaica Plain was a place called Brendan Behan Pub, which turned out to be something of a gem...though not really what we were looking for at the moment. It was a smallish bar that was clearly a bit old. The wooden walls and benches were all a bit warped, giving the bar an odd angular look that us NYC-ers would refer to as "Character".
The crowd was mostly neighborhood types and most interestingly enough, dogs. Now, not dogs in an 80's slang, ugly chicks kinda way...I mean actual canines. There were easily 4-5 dogs in there with their owners, just randomly wandering the bar and socializing. As I am a dog person, this was a plus. I'm sure if I lived in JP, I'd find myself in this bar quite often. We were, however, looking for a bit more excitement than that and the pub was not providing it...so we were out after one drink.
We made a quick stop in the CVS, as I had forgotten a toothbrush and deodorant (Prompting Anand to snipe "you use those?") and then it was a cab to "Southie" for the remainder of the night.
Fables of the Reconstruction, the band's 3rd album, has always been my least favorite of the "Golden Age of R.E.M." albums. Sure, I'd listen to it 20 times in a row before I'd listen to Reveal or Around the Sun even one more time...but compared to the stunning debut album and the autumnal majesty of Reckoning, this album has always been a bit of a let down. Not quite sure whether to recapture the murky haze of the early work, or to head towards the arena rock they'd move towards on Life's Rich Pageant and perfect on Document...Fables seems stuck in two places at once, neither one thing nor the other.
Beyond this, it always seemed an odd decision for a band so steeped in Americana (Despite it's artier tendencies) to produce an album explicitly dedicated to a sort of modern American folk lore in London. The band wouldn't record out of The States again until the execrable Reveal. Stripped of all of their baggage, R.E.M. are, at the end of the day, an American rock band and they are at their best when they remember that fact.
The crowd was mostly neighborhood types and most interestingly enough, dogs. Now, not dogs in an 80's slang, ugly chicks kinda way...I mean actual canines. There were easily 4-5 dogs in there with their owners, just randomly wandering the bar and socializing. As I am a dog person, this was a plus. I'm sure if I lived in JP, I'd find myself in this bar quite often. We were, however, looking for a bit more excitement than that and the pub was not providing it...so we were out after one drink.
We made a quick stop in the CVS, as I had forgotten a toothbrush and deodorant (Prompting Anand to snipe "you use those?") and then it was a cab to "Southie" for the remainder of the night.
Fables of the Reconstruction, the band's 3rd album, has always been my least favorite of the "Golden Age of R.E.M." albums. Sure, I'd listen to it 20 times in a row before I'd listen to Reveal or Around the Sun even one more time...but compared to the stunning debut album and the autumnal majesty of Reckoning, this album has always been a bit of a let down. Not quite sure whether to recapture the murky haze of the early work, or to head towards the arena rock they'd move towards on Life's Rich Pageant and perfect on Document...Fables seems stuck in two places at once, neither one thing nor the other.
Beyond this, it always seemed an odd decision for a band so steeped in Americana (Despite it's artier tendencies) to produce an album explicitly dedicated to a sort of modern American folk lore in London. The band wouldn't record out of The States again until the execrable Reveal. Stripped of all of their baggage, R.E.M. are, at the end of the day, an American rock band and they are at their best when they remember that fact.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Auctioneer - REM - Live Rockplast Oct 2nd 1985 - 1985
As we stumbled East on South St., now fairly lubricated, we came across a bar that hadn't been on our list (Even on vacation, I project manage...I had put together a spreadsheet of 40 bars and restaurants, spread around different neighborhoods, for us to check out). The bar was called Alchemy and was a bit more of a lounge type place, complete with low lighting, a cocktail menu and a fair assortment of Boston skanks in nice-ish dresses.
It was approaching 7 o'clock and the fact that we hadn't eaten anything but a small order of chicken wings and 1 bagel (both split 2 ways) all day long was beginning to take it's toll on our drinking. Additionally, we were beginning to rethink our plan. Clearly JP was too residential to get much of a happy hour scene, and most of the bars we'd been in were drastically under populated. If there was a good time to be had in this city we hadn't found it yet. We debated pulling the plug on this hood and heading over to Southie (our night time plan), but as we only had one JP bar left on the list, Anand insisted (in the insistent way that he does when he is drunk) that we finish the job and visit the last bar.
This is R.E.M., back when they were still a rock band playing in Amsterdam in 1985, complete with some unfinished spoken word nonsense from Stipe to kick off the song. This has never particularly been my favorite song but it is impressive to hear the band kicking in their prime.
It was approaching 7 o'clock and the fact that we hadn't eaten anything but a small order of chicken wings and 1 bagel (both split 2 ways) all day long was beginning to take it's toll on our drinking. Additionally, we were beginning to rethink our plan. Clearly JP was too residential to get much of a happy hour scene, and most of the bars we'd been in were drastically under populated. If there was a good time to be had in this city we hadn't found it yet. We debated pulling the plug on this hood and heading over to Southie (our night time plan), but as we only had one JP bar left on the list, Anand insisted (in the insistent way that he does when he is drunk) that we finish the job and visit the last bar.
This is R.E.M., back when they were still a rock band playing in Amsterdam in 1985, complete with some unfinished spoken word nonsense from Stipe to kick off the song. This has never particularly been my favorite song but it is impressive to hear the band kicking in their prime.
Auctioneer - The Broken West - Now or Heaven - 2008
My friend Shani had hooked us up with a discount rate at the Marriot in Copley Square, which is located inside the Prudential building. Our spacious and accommodating room was on the 17th floor with a great view across the Charles. The building had a gym and pool facilities, 2 bars, and a very friendly concierge service. If nothing else, we couldn't really complain about the lodgings.
Once we were settled in and had had our pre-game cocktail, we hit the subway to go check out Jamaica Plain. I'd been to JP a few times to stay with a previous girlfriend's sister and her husband and found it a nice enough neighborhood. It's clearly Boston's best swing at having a Brooklyn style area, with neighborhood pubs, little cafe's and craft stores. It would do the trick on a sunny Friday afternoon.
After dealing with Boston's almost useless subway system, we got off and found our first bar with the Jeanie Johnston Pub, which was easily the least interesting bar we were in that night. We kicked off the festivities with a beer and a shot and some small talk, before heading out...so far we were unimpressed.
After that we hit James's Gate, a totally cool Irish Pub in the center of the hood. The problem with this place was that it's a winter bar. Old world style dark wood fixtures, steaming bowls of clam chowder, and thick pints of stout are all great on a chilly November night, but on a hot July day...we ended up in the back yard watching the girls walk down the sidewalk, downing a few pints and a some chicken wings. The younger Singh had a salad, for which we gave him no end of shit. Then we settled up and headed back to our explorations.
The Broken West does non-threatening power pop with a fair bit of melody. What it lacks in risk, it makes up for in sunny accessibility. They aren't going to change your life or anything, but this song is a fine example of the way that a simple sing-song melody can be stuck in your head for days.
Once we were settled in and had had our pre-game cocktail, we hit the subway to go check out Jamaica Plain. I'd been to JP a few times to stay with a previous girlfriend's sister and her husband and found it a nice enough neighborhood. It's clearly Boston's best swing at having a Brooklyn style area, with neighborhood pubs, little cafe's and craft stores. It would do the trick on a sunny Friday afternoon.
After dealing with Boston's almost useless subway system, we got off and found our first bar with the Jeanie Johnston Pub, which was easily the least interesting bar we were in that night. We kicked off the festivities with a beer and a shot and some small talk, before heading out...so far we were unimpressed.
After that we hit James's Gate, a totally cool Irish Pub in the center of the hood. The problem with this place was that it's a winter bar. Old world style dark wood fixtures, steaming bowls of clam chowder, and thick pints of stout are all great on a chilly November night, but on a hot July day...we ended up in the back yard watching the girls walk down the sidewalk, downing a few pints and a some chicken wings. The younger Singh had a salad, for which we gave him no end of shit. Then we settled up and headed back to our explorations.
The Broken West does non-threatening power pop with a fair bit of melody. What it lacks in risk, it makes up for in sunny accessibility. They aren't going to change your life or anything, but this song is a fine example of the way that a simple sing-song melody can be stuck in your head for days.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Auburn and Ivory - Beach House - Beach House - 2006
AC Milan and Inter Milan (2 of the best teams in Italian football, and as such, 2 of probably the 10 best teams in the world) were playing a "Friendly" pre-season exhibition match in Boston this weekend. As such, me and the Singh brothers decided to head out to Beantown for a long weekend and see what the city had in store for 3 strapping adventuresome men.
Friday morning, I took the PATH out to Hoboken. The car rental was cheaper to pick up in Jersey and there was no sense back tracking into Brooklyn if we didn't need to. The Singh's picked me up, and we were on the road before 11...a good start.
The ride up North was relatively cut and dry, we hit some traffic in some of the larger cities (Stamford, Bridgeport, New Haven, Hartford) but these were rarely more than 10 minute stops. We marvelled at how, despite it's image as the "Who's the Boss" wealthy suburb state, Connecticut is largely blue collar, grungy, and depressing. It does however possess beautifully landscaped rest areas.
We arrived in Boston a little before 4, and tried to find street parking, but this was considerably trickier than we thought. Parking in NYC, is rather famously, a bitch, but if you are willing to take the effort, you can usually find street parking after a few swings through some residential blocks. Boston has residential blocks, but all of these require resident passes to park. Eventually we gave up and just begrudgingly sucked up the $30 a day parking fees available at the local garages. This town was already showing it's downside.
It's a good day here for Beach House...their name is deceptive. Rather than the sunkissed Beach Boys record you might expect from such a band, they play the kind of music that you'd associate with being stuck in the rain all week on vacation. Sad, morose and lethargic. It's pouring rain here to the point that my coworkers just stated that it was a hurricane, and it feels like Beach House weather.
Friday morning, I took the PATH out to Hoboken. The car rental was cheaper to pick up in Jersey and there was no sense back tracking into Brooklyn if we didn't need to. The Singh's picked me up, and we were on the road before 11...a good start.
The ride up North was relatively cut and dry, we hit some traffic in some of the larger cities (Stamford, Bridgeport, New Haven, Hartford) but these were rarely more than 10 minute stops. We marvelled at how, despite it's image as the "Who's the Boss" wealthy suburb state, Connecticut is largely blue collar, grungy, and depressing. It does however possess beautifully landscaped rest areas.
We arrived in Boston a little before 4, and tried to find street parking, but this was considerably trickier than we thought. Parking in NYC, is rather famously, a bitch, but if you are willing to take the effort, you can usually find street parking after a few swings through some residential blocks. Boston has residential blocks, but all of these require resident passes to park. Eventually we gave up and just begrudgingly sucked up the $30 a day parking fees available at the local garages. This town was already showing it's downside.
It's a good day here for Beach House...their name is deceptive. Rather than the sunkissed Beach Boys record you might expect from such a band, they play the kind of music that you'd associate with being stuck in the rain all week on vacation. Sad, morose and lethargic. It's pouring rain here to the point that my coworkers just stated that it was a hurricane, and it feels like Beach House weather.
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