(photo courtesy of bumpershine)

It is distinctly possible that this post will be the end of me. And, you may not want to read this review, either, come to think of it. (See a few weeks back for the first of my unreadable reviews...)

I was actually kind of hoping it would write itself. These things sometimes do -- and when the Bellmer Dolls closed out their set on Saturday night with a cover of Harry Nilsson's "Jump Into the Fire" with assistance from a whole slew of people including members of The Choke, Preacher and the Knife and Golden Triangle, I thought to myself, "Oh, it would be brilliant if Shearwater would play their cover of Brian Eno's 'Baby's On Fire.' This fucking review will write itself."

Sadly, Shearwater did not play "Baby's On Fire." And this review, in hindsight, most definitely did not write itself.

But that's okay, actually.

I have another way to open it. Let's start over?

There's an old, wizened black man who sings soul music in the Columbus Circle subway station. If New York City is heart of the world, then he sits squarely in its broken core, perched atop an old amp that cranks out backing music that sounds like it's coming through all the way from 1964. I generally kind of hate waiting for a train there; I despise being uptown, and it always seems like it takes longer for a train to arrive there than in any other station -- I don't know why, but it does. Perhaps it's due to the fact that, I kid you not, the base of Central Park is some kind of Bermuda Triangle of train traffic. It's where multiple lines split and mutate and take off to Queens or the hinterlands uptown. It's where class and race divide more distinctly than they do at other subway junctions in town; trains that creak through Brooklyn double back and circle around to Queens after gliding through a handful of Manhattan stops; trains that germinate in the bowels of the financial district also head that way; in the meantime, the A train just keeps plowing up the west side, hitting every formerly undesirable (yet now "up and coming") neighborhood in Brooklyn and Manhattan.

Oh, please don't let me get distracted talking about the subway. I can go on and on -- as you can see.

The man who sings soul music in the broken heart of the world was just the salve I needed Monday night, as I stood in the train station and cried, my heart kind of broken too, after seeing Michael Gira and Shearwater at the Florence Gould Hall. I'd been kind of inconsolable through the last five songs or so, and managed to make little pleasantries with people after, but I was crying all over again during the walk past the Plaza Hotel all the way to Columbus Circle, and was now letting tears roll down my cheeks, not really caring if the opera patrons and tourists and students and people just trying to get home after staying too late at work saw me -- anyway, it was more likely that, like me, they were all drawn in by the busker's luminescent and crumbling voice.

Pinkie gave me a few bucks (I hardly ever carry cash!) to tip the man who sings soul music in the broken heart of the world -- it seemed almost perfunctory, but was certainly not given out of mere obligation. He really was amazing; I hope you'll have a chance to hear him sometime -- try a weeknight at Columbus Circle, but I make no guarantees.

It was actually the perfect ending to the day, to the evening -- even if I was a terrifying emotional wreck -- but I should start at the beginning.

I know I've ranted about my job here and there recently, but really, you know there's nothing like trying to get things tied up when you're about to head out on vacation. I was literally fixing the table of contents on the hugest book I've edited to date when I should have been headed out the door to get uptown in time. So then I was a little frazzled and running late and kept Pinkie waiting in the lobby of my building, which, naturally, also made me feel bad; I changed into my heels before I realized we were walking a few avenue blocks, which made me cranky. To top it all off, I was a bit out of sorts in general, convinced I'd forgotten to tell someone somewhere to take care of something while I was out of the office. (I'm not a control freak, really. I swear!)

By the time we made it to the hall, I was a bit rough around the edges, but otherwise fine. The interminable wait for the N train had calmed me down somewhat, though we did get a bit disoriented somewhere in the vicinity of Central Park South, near the carriage horses -- I hate going uptown!

So, of course, the first person I saw as we went in was former member of Shearwater and Okkervil River frontman Will Sheff; we used to see each other all the time in Austin, naturally -- and even though he's in NYC all the time now, it seems, we totally never cross paths. So it goes. But, of course, he had to see me in my frazzled state, which was vaguely embarrassing. There were lots more familiar faces inside, though, and even if seeing Shearwater in NYC will never be like the nights in the front room at Emo's with Joanna and Summer Anne and Dylan and Phil and Dorothy, that eight-piece string section kind of totally made up for it.

Then again, this isn't the same Shearwater, either, the string section aside. We've all grown up and moved into different directions, and the band I believed from the very beginning is poised, with Rook, to further cement a reputation as a culty tour-de-force that will achieve gobs of critical acclaim, but never be wildly popular.

Which is a shame, really. But something tells me that the wide world isn't exactly ready for frontman Jonathan Meiburg's gorgeous falsetto vocals, stunning stage presence and byzantine story-songs -- not to mention the one-two punch of Thor Harris on any number of creepily beautiful percussive instruments and Kim Burke on bass, who, as ever, placidly, wickedly and beautifully keeps the whole performance on track.

But enough of my useless prattle -- you want to know about the actual show.

I'd never had the pleasure of seeing Michael Gira play a solo set before, and there's no way to describe how I felt during it all, except to say that he scooped out all the bullshit of my day -- of the past few months, even. I've recently been listening to the Angels of Light record Everything is Alright Here, Please Come Home a ton lately, and a massive dose of Gira's brand of the blues -- even if just for four songs -- was incredible to see and hear. He's the kind of performer who demands attention the moment he steps on stage, even when he hasn't yet sung a note. And he's aging handsomely -- his voice has mellowed to into an even bigger, booming instrument over the past several years. A song in his hands is something dredged up from the depths of the darkest corners of his, your, my soul and brought up into the light. The imperfections of his voice suddenly become the sharp edges of a perfectly cut diamond, almost too painfully beautiful to hear. An inopportune broken guitar string isn't a catastrophe -- far from it: Gira finished the song acappella without missing a beat, his voice both filling the room and crawling deep into my chest, pouring into the empty spaces I didn't even know were there to begin with. (Though, to be fair, perhaps the catastrophe was that the time spent switching out the broken string, however, robbed us of one more song.)

Gira, naturally, was quite possibly the best lead in for the latest incarnation of Shearwater -- we used to talk about how they transitioned from airy-fairy folksy to just plain evil over the course of a few years, which culminated in the incredible live shows that followed the release of Palo Santo. The band's a little less evil now, but no less intense. (I think this is most notably due to the absence of the taut and mercurial energy brought to the stage by former bassist/keyboard player/manic tambourine shaker Howard Draper. I didn't quite realize, though, how much I missed Howard until the second half of the set -- "Red Sea, Black Sea" really isn't quite the same without his demented turn on the tambourine over the chorus.)

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. The first half of the show was, as promised, Rook, played in its entirety with assistance from a string section, trumpets and harp. Though I'm currently quite enamored with the new album and think it is, quite clearly, the band's strongest and most challenging work to date, there were a few problems with this part of the set -- and there's a distinct possibility that I (and Pinkie) were the only ones bothered by these kind of nitpicky details. The sound mix left a little to be desired, though this could have been due to the problem of amplifying so many instruments on stage at once. The piano was too muffled while the drums were, at turns, too sharp and then completely inaudible. (I wanted to run down to the stage and throw the piano lid open; it seemed a shame to keep a grand closed in a hall that intimate ... perhaps when open it drowned out the strings?) This all wasn't terribly distracting once I got used to it, but compared to the mix, say, at the band's stunning set last summer as part of the city's River to River festival, the sound was pretty muddy and grim and, as Pinkie noted, a little too "adult contemporary" at times.

And, I'm not entirely sure that the projections, which relayed the story of the album's songs in some prettily-shot short films directed by Kahn and Selesnick (who also did the cover art for Rook) and starring multipercussionist/hammered dulcimer wrangler Thor as the archetypal last man, really worked for me. That is to say, I'm not sure that the music really needs this embellishment, and at times it was even a little distracting when I was trying to focus on the band's actual performance. If I didn't know better, I'd accuse them of precious pretentiousness, or even of using the projections as a crutch as they get used to the new lineup and new songs on tour, but I don't really feel that's the case -- and I even think that under better circumstances, all the parts of the whole may work well together. And, truth be told, we're very much looking forward to seeing Shearwater at a proper rock venue in June (not that seats aren't great, mind you, but they make the rocking out a little difficult) after they've had time to work out the new material on the road over the next month or so.

The second half of the show, on the other hand, more than made up for the slight weaknesses in the first bit; at the risk of slipping into yet another moment of over-sharing, I felt like revisiting Palo Santo and assorted b-sides (especially some of the older ones that the band played for years before recording them -- like my long-time favorite, the sinister and lovely "Mountain Laurel") was just what I needed after that ultra-fantastic Bellmer Dolls set a few weeks back that totally threw me for a loop and the deep-down blues that opened this show. I was perfectly primed for an emotional purge of the highest degree, and thus spent the last five songs or so completely in tears -- of fierece pride, for this band, who I love so much and of pain, too -- for my dead past that still haunts me when I least expect it to.

A few weeks back, I mentioned my little private aerie that I lived in after leaving my fiancé, before I moved to Brooklyn -- it was always really, really perfectly cold there (the air conditioning was new, and really worked) and I had ice blue bedding and there was tons of natural light that filtered in through porthole windows 15 feet up, and it was kind of like living in a ship sailing to the Antarctic. There were many, many nights I would come home from work in the spring and summer of 2006 and just blast Palo Santo (a clandestine promo of the Misra version of the release, mind you -- a burned CDr with a hand-written tracklist), ensconced in my perfectly cold studio flat, freezing out the parts of my life that I wanted to forget; consigning them to the furthest, most compartmentalized places of my brain and heart as dusk fell, making everything purple and dim until it all went black. And I felt that chill again as Shearwater moved backward in time for about half an hour, hitting the high points of that album. I'd almost very nearly forgotten that it -- that they -- got me through that terrible summer and fall, when I was so miserable and disjointed (really -- go read the posts from that time -- they're kind of ... frightening) as I tried to recover from the awfulness that had been the past five (ten?) years of my life.

I had to practically flee the venue when it was all over for fear that I would start crying all over again on some unsuspecting acquaintance -- I wasn't nearly as successful at avoiding post-show conversations this time around as I was a few weeks back, but I didn't regret most of them, as I had a chance to catch up with a few people I miss seeing because, uh, they kinda don't go to shows in basements in Williamsburg. Ever.

Speaking of basements in Williamsburg, I'm actually kind of sad to report that the Bellmer Dolls' residency at the Charleston has come to an end (though, they've got shows planned for the end of May and early June already, so we'll survive until then, I suppose!) -- as predicted, it was pretty freakin' legendary. The Choke were actually much better than I expected -- or more accurately, they're much better live than the tracks up for offer on their MySpace would lead you to believe; unfortunately, the performance does start to wear thin after a handful of songs, but what they may lack in sophistication and nuance, they more than make up for with some of the biggest doses of enthusiasm than I've seen in quite some time.

The jury's still out on Golden Triangle, though. Were they fucking amazing? Really terrible? Somewhere in between? What can you even compare them to, really --- save maybe if Throwing Muses were on K Records instead of 4AD? (Something tells me that about 14 people will understand that reference ... ) How about if we say the following: when it works, it really works (the psycho girl-group action that prompted Pinkie to mention the cold, unison vocals of Lansing Dreiden project LD Section 1), and when it doesn't (the falling-apart improvisational messes that reminded me of what I hate most about "Brooklyn" bands), it kind of feels like you're being beat over the head with affected oddness. That being said, Golden Triangle is definitely a band we'll keep our eye on in the future. And, if we could dispense any advice here, it would be to practice more -- until those falling-apart moments are an intentional part of the performance, and not an unfortunate side affect of your relative inexperience. (Really, it's not cool to leave your audience waiting for five minutes between songs without some kind of explanation. We understand technical difficulties; it's the silence that comes off as amateur-ish.)

As for the Bellmer Dolls, how could they not please after all this time? We're glad to report that after three Saturdays of shows in a row and a week on the road with Secret Machines, they hadn't killed each other (always good ... ) and were tighter than ever. The new songs are really filling out nicely and we can only imagine they'll be really great recorded. Highlights of the evening included Peter donning a black sequined dress thing that was either a kurta or a caftan -- or maybe just formerly belonged to a really, really big lady -- for the first part of the set, and then an absolutely hideous J. Peterman ca. 1994 caftan for the delightfully unhinged encore of "Jump Into the Fire" -- the song with the hottest bassline and the most ridiculous drum solo and the best naked male pain hollerin' of all time. Which makes it wholly appropriate for cover treatment by our dear No. 1 crushes, even if they've sworn off ever playing it again. (The only thing better would be some Wolfgang Press, perhaps -- hint, hint!)

In summation, I would just like to ask: why is it that no one falls in love with bands anymore? It dawned on me as we rode the local late-night A train back to Brooklyn after seeing Shearwater that over the past few years, we -- the music consumers of the world -- have become grabby, drunk party girl sluts who want to make out with every guy in the room, and take no joy from it -- just a killer hangover once the party's over. And the more I hear hundreds of new bands that just leave me cold -- the more I want to remind everyone about the virtues of falling in love. Try it. Go see new band, let them seduce you. Go to every show, talk incessantly about them, tell everyone you know to buy their music, drag friends to shows, put them on mix cds. We are all the tastemakers now, don't squander this gift.

***

As a sidebar, I'm writing this on a plane back to Austin (not surprisingly, Matador's Gerard Cosloy is also on this flight!) and I'm listening to the XM radio (thanks, JetBlue!!), which is a dream for a musical omnivore like me. I've listened to a slew of my favorite top 40 hits, some big band standards, 50's do-wop, Interpol, a Lizst symphony during takeoff, Spiller's "Groovejet," Lil' Wayne's "Lollipop," Jonny Greenwood's score for There Will Be Blood -- and now some Vaughn Williams followed by Tchaikovsky and Chopin followed by some dance remixes! I think the dude sitting next to me, busily hacking away on a Powerpoint for a prototype of a fascinating-looking consumer electronics device of the future, must think I'm nuts, flipping between genres the way that I have for the past two hours -- especially when I was trying NOT to sing along with Flo Rida and Lupe Fiasco and Chris Brown and Gnarls Barkley and, god help me, the dreadful yet catchy Ting Tings. But the most notable thing I've heard so far is Miley Cyrus' "See You Again." And I've heard it THREE TIMES on three different stations. I admit, I was pretty much a mere spectator when it came to Ms. Cyrus before now -- I'd actually never heard her music and hadn't felt particularly compelled to seek it out, but now I totally understand what the big deal is -- she's a little girl with a grown-up woman's voice singing about teenage longing -- a trope that's infiltrated popular music since the advent of recording. (And possibly before? This might take more research ... ) Think of Judy Garland, Timi Yuro, April Stevens, etc -- she's on par with where they all were at fifteen, even if the songwriting is a little weak (then again, most of standards we cherish today aren't exactly the pinnacles of intellectual lyricism either ... ). And what's more, Ms. Cyrus has what Shirley Temple Black's mother called "sparkle," so how could she not be wildly popular -- especially heading into an economic depression as we are?

(photo totally ganked from the preacher and the knife-space because we know how to use the mac version of prtscr)

Look, I know I don't write so much anymore about bands you haven't heard me yak on and on and on about -- which is why I'm going to devote this section of the post to fawning over (relative) young 'uns Preacher and the Knife, who, along with Effi Briest and Crystal Stilts, are the one of the only new bands we've heard in the past year who are worth ... well, fawning over. We really are trying to let new things gestate for a little bit before we write some disconnected text about how they sound like this, that or the other -- and try to keep everything in context.

I wish I could come up with some pithy catchphrase for these bands who totally bring it with a mix of bizzaro psychedelia and minimalist no wave action -- all reverb-drenched hollering and cowbells and thumpy drums. I guess I'll leave that to some other tastemaker.

The first thing you need to know about Preacher and the Knife is that they're incredible live. The second thing you need to know about Preacher and the Knife is that their ep The Beginning, available for free on their website (and recorded, perhaps not shocking to hear, by the Bellmer Dolls' omnipresent knob-twiddler and expert hollerer, Peter Mavrogeorgis) perfectly captures the energy, intensity and awesome fearsomeness of the live Preacher experience. Here's our fave track, if you're hesitant to check them out without a specific endorsement:

Preacher and the Knife -- Darkness Comes

For a band that's played a mere handful of shows, Preacher are spectacularly tight. Frontman Daniel Barcelowsky (scroll down at this link to see him lookin' dapper and sedate...) has a stage presence that's almost uncomfortably confrontational -- or perhaps, well, it is uncomfortably confrontational, if you're not up for having him come up and, well, holler in your face. Or if a band with a ridiculously wonderful rhythm section and absolutely no guitar won't work for you.

We have really only one request after being blown away by their much too-short set in the basement of The Charleston last Saturday night: darlings, next time -- please give us more cowbell. Maybe not quite as much as the following but ...

Liquid Liquid -- Bellhead

(Also, if you don't believe us about the awesomeness of the live set -- check out their appearance at P.S.1 last summer ... believe me, we'll be sure to tell you when they're playing another show because we'll totally be there.)

***

As for the rest of the show Saturday?

Seeing Fresh Kills is still like watching The Hold Steady do an impression of Joy Division as interpreted by The Dead Kennedys. (Ha!) They've really improved greatly since we saw them last. And, as much as it kind of kills me to say this, they have an interesting commercial appeal now that certainly needs to be exploited ASAP. Because when the kids who dress like members of Tokio Hotel start showing up at your shows, it's time to start thinking Hot Topic. And I mean this in the best possible way -- really!

In the meantime, troublesome PAs always seem to muck up the most ambitious sets; I'll try not to hold it against the Bellmers that I was mostly deaf in my left ear for two days.

And so, the last night of the (potentially legendary) Bellmer Dolls' residency at The Charleston wraps up this Saturday (May 3); added bonus, it's Peter's birthday. Bring cupcakes! Or whatever! The Choke and Golden Triangle also play. Remember, right across from the Bedford L stop. You can't miss it. Or us, really. We're the ladies who are dressed.

I'm going to stop here and apologize for the brevity of text this week; we're still having server issues, and if you see me this weekend, I'll probably tell you the story of how my (former) assistant quit. It's a wonderful story, really. I also finished editing the biggest book of my career. I think my brain may be entirely dead.

***

That being said, we will sign off with our new MTV Hits boyfriend, O'Neal McKnight, and his charming track "Check Your Coat" featuring Greg Nice. McKnight's music scored the Conde Nast "Fashion Rocks" special earlier this year; don't hold this against him as he's styled some of your favorite hip hop videos and can totally out-Michael Jackson Michael Jackson in the way we thought only, perhaps, that Romanthony could ... Get on this bandwagon now-ish. This is clearly a late spring hit that might have some momentum into the summer ... we love it! (Count the guest appearances in the video, and try not to hold the Back to the Future pastiche against him either.)




O'Neal McKnight feat. Greg Nice -- Check Your Coat

Daft Punk -- Too Long

Hi -- we're having some technical difficulties stemming from a DMCA takedown notice that arrived early Monday morning (4/28). Pls. excuse the broken images & links. We're getting things cleared up as soon as possible.

It just occured to me that our new header (hit refresh if you can't see it!), which was inspired by this image (thx Mr. Hill!), kind of looks like a creepy, gloopy version of the Idolator logo. Totally unintentional, I promise!

I'm pretty sure that no one will want to read this review.

But before I start berating you, I should start at the beginning. This story is really about ... yarn.

Now, I know what you're thinking, I can hear you all the way over here. "Cindy Hotpoint has jumped the shark for reals this time. I mean, we tolerated her moving to NYC and no longer providing us with the best remixes in the known universe and her incessant rantings about The Mountain Goats, Shearwater and the Bellmer Dolls. But ... yarn?"

(It's funny you mention Shearwater, actually. Can we just tell you how amazing Rook is? I mean, really really amazing. We're listening to it right now. Pinkie just muttered something about "Mariachi Meiburg" -- eerie horns! -- and now there's some weird creepy percussion groans. But we'll tell you about that some other time...when we've had time to digest it properly. And, if you're nerdy for studio details, go check out the blog of recording engineer Matthew Barnhart, owner of Echo Lab, the Denton, TX studio where Shearwater also recorded Palo Santo; he's documented the entire recording process, much to my delight ... )

So, yeah, yarn.

It won't surprise you to know that I have a problem finishing projects ... and that I have no problem starting them. About 10 years ago, I picked up knitting. It was an innocent enough habit at first, but as I became further entrenched in the terrible relationship with my former fiance, I spent more time at the yarn store hiding from him and the reality of our relationship and more money buying yarn I was never going to knit up into anything.

This is a common enough affliction among knitters and other people with obsessive tendencies. I'm sure some of you know what I'm talking about. You don't actually need that thing, but by god, you want it NOW. And you can't get rid of it because, heaven forbid, you might need it someday. At various points in my life, I've had this attitude towards all kinds of things; for instance, I'm currently trying to curb my obsession with adorable dresses and antique autoharps. I'm doing okay with the former, not so much with the latter.

So yes, I collected a lot of yarn. And I took it with me when I moved out of the shared apartment and into my protective aerie in South Austin, and again when I moved to Brooklyn at the end of 2006.

And despite the fact that I have a side business that actually involves knitting, most of my hoarde remained in plastic bins, generally untouched. I lugged it all up to the fourth floor front room closet (technically the Kindling & Tinder workroom is in Pinkie's apartment, not mine...) and occasionally riffled through the four musty casks looking for something or another, but mostly all that yarn just sat lumpen in the closet, a wad of wool-shaped unhappiness. Thousands of dollars and thousands of hours spent avoiding ... everything. And I couldn't let it go.

Until Sunday afternoon, that is.

Ok, now this is probably the part of the story you're really interested in, which is how the Bellmer Dolls made me clean out the deadwood. How, for the maybe third or fourth time since I've started this blog, did I see a show that literally changed my life. No, I'm not exaggerating.

I'd had a really bad week. I was supposed to hire a new assistant, but the budget won't allow for it now. (I basically had to demote my old assistant, and as such am now doing 2.5 peoples' work, as I'm also missing an intern ...) I'm editing 5 books currently. Thousands of pages of minutae. When I get home, my eyes ache and burn (the recent arrival of spring isn't helping on that score either); I don't want to go out, I don't want to write for this blog, I don't want to listen to music, I don't want to knit. I want to fucking stare at the wall. I'm not complaining, really -- I actually quite like my job, and the people I work with. But between sinus headaches, taxes general bullshit, I was beat.

So, you'll understand how important it is to have somewhere nice and cozy to go on a Saturday night; enter the Bellmers' residency at The Charleston, week two. As the rest of loathsome Williamsburg teems above, I am safe in a low-ceilinged firetrap of a basement (see last week's review for a full accout of the glories of The Charleston's performance space).

I admit, I was only mildly interested in openers The Brides and Shock Cinema. And, they were only worthy of mild interest; but we were all the more amused by the presence of Pinkie's darling co-worker Miss Arabella Churchill, who is seriously a Rich Girl-in-training. Raised on Roxy Music and Bowie, we're gonna start easing her into the intensive Eno programme shortly.

A few picturesque details about the Bellmer Dolls this week: Peter's shirt was hideous, but at least he didn't split his pants. At several points in the set, a staple gun and drumsticks were used as weapons. With love, of course. And, one of the things I love about being crammed into a space that tiny is that you can hear the jangle of Anthony's tiny prayer bell tied to the headstock of his bass, ringing out a demented call to prayer as he bends his instrument into some kind of submission.

A demented call to prayer indeed -- Peter brought the dirty preacher act back. Unlike the nearly rareified comfort of last week's performance, the air was brittle with the itchy, creaky tension of boys who'd been locked in a practice room all day. We knew we were in for something quite different. And from first tight rhythm lines to the last broken holler and squall of feedback in the dark, I was, as ever, transfixed.

It's all at once too much and sometimes not enough ... but as the set progressed, blazing through 2.5 minute messy garage raveups (including "Automation," one of the band's very first songs) to the more eloquent filth of old faves "The Diva" and "Push! Push!" it became clear to me that we were all going down together. Or maybe it was just me; I barely registered the people around me, at one point it felt I was in some sort of Lynchian nightmare: words of fire hung in the air; the band became smudgy shadows behind a wall of distorted sound.

Wait -- not really, but it sounds cool, huh? I mean, it felt like that at least. It did.

The perverse finale of "Push! Push!" really can't be put into words without edging towards ridiculous hyperbole. I always look forward to this moment of performance with sick glee; we all know Peter's going to molest Anthony in some way or another whilst Daniel steers the ship straight into a maelstrom of noisy, feedback-drenched petits-morts. There was a great amount of shoving and hollering and near-destruction of various instruments (keyboards, kick drums, etc.) until the lone, hot light bulb shining on stage was unscrewed and the rest of the lights came down, leaving us in the dark, the air so thick with sinewy, booming feedback that you could nearly taste the sound waves bouncing by. (See, I told you ... ridiculous hyperbole!!)

And when it was all over, I found I couldn't speak. Didn't want to speak. I couldn't even tell anyone good night and loitered on a patch of sidewalk outside the Charleston, watching everything through the wrong side of a spyglass; everyone around me was so very, very tiny, and everything inside me was so very, very large. Somewhere in all that bloodletting and hollering, something had rattled loose inside, and I wasn't sure what drawer in my compartmentalized brain it had tumbled out of.

You must understand, it is very unlike me to be this way.

And I was really quite out of sorts all the way home the roundabout way -- all the way across the river to 8th Ave. on the L to catch the late-night A train all the way back home to Bed-Stuy. (Believe me when I tell you Williamsburg is as far from Bed-Stuy as it is from ... Mars.) Even a late-night snack didn't bring me back around, and I stayed up far too long, just thinking of nothing before drifting into a stretched-thin sleep that ended far too soon.

Which brings me back to the yarn.

After a crabby morning, bolstered by a few Americanos, I suddenly decided -- apropos of nothing, really -- to clean out the workroom closet. Specifically, all that bloody yarn. And I pulled out everything. Sorted abandoned projects from viable ones. Threw away grotty plastic bags. Re-balled falling-apart skeins. Ripped out unfinished pieces. Threw everything I couldn't stand to look at ever again into an empty 20-gallon plastic bin, which was soon overflowing with the last cast-off bits of an old life I thought I'd discarded long ago. And it's all earmarked now for donation to worthy causes -- to teach kids to knit, or to make hats and scarves for the homeless, or baby blankets for tiny little souls new to the world. Because some good should come of all that.

So, there you have it -- the Bellmer Dolls show that changed my life, and the tale of the yarnpocalypse. As a reward for making it this far, some tracks selected by Pinkie (and I threw in the last one...because I am a sap!); it was amusing, once I was able to speak again, we both remarked upon the fact that we never mentioned that the Bellmers owe more than a little to the stark, spiky early work of Siouxsie and the Banshees. Especially when Peter opens up and ... bellows with abandon; or the way the formidable combo of Anthony and Daniel in the rhythm section fill out the remaining corners of every song, barely leaving any room for the guitar at all. Yes, just like that.

Siouxsie and the Banshees -- Carcass
Siouxsie and the Banshees -- Metal Postcard
from The Scream, 1978

Siouxsie and the Banshees -- Dazzle (Glamour Mix)
from the "Dazzle" 12" single, 1984

Morrissey & Siouxsie -- Interlude
single-only, 1995; cover of a standard popularized by Timi Yuro in 1968

The Bellmer Dolls play the next two Saturdays at The Charleston in Williamsburg, right across from the Bedford L stop. See you there? Preacher and the Knife open this week (great if you love hollerin' boys) and Fresh Kills, who are like, you know, the oh-my-gawth version of The Hold Steady.

We've caved. We have a Tumblr (like all the cool kids, apparently), which we totally adore. We've already linked to lots of thrilling things: scopitones, recipes, show schedules ... you name it. One thing I hate, however is the lack of comment functionality, but I'm sure that serves some esoteric Web 2.0 purpose that I can't fathom. It feels so self-indulgent with no feedback! And yet! It's high on the instant gratification factor! There's good and bad, I guess. (Speaking of new toys, I've dabbled with Muxtape, but haven't posted anything yet.)

Anyway, add our Tumblr to your RSS feed reader, or we'll kick yr butt.


And, watch this space for my review of the Bellmer Dolls @ The Charleston, Week Two (yay, my turn to write about them!) and a rundown of the best and worst that's passed through our post box lately. Thrills!

(Little Annie in London, 1993. Photo by Conyle Jay)

4.12.08: The Charleston: Wmsbrg, Bklyn: Bellmer Dolls/Josh Garza & Brandon Curtis of Secret Machines/Little Annie with Paul Wallfisch

If there's something I'd almost very nearly forgotten about, living here in NYC, it's my love of the unexpectedly awesome new venue. The problem with existing in the greatest city in the world is that there's always something incredible going on somewhere, and you are so not there. I'm getting used to it, though, as this happens to me pretty much every night. There are awesome shows I'm not seeing; grotty venues I'm not falling in love with.

So, that being said, here I am, chastising you for not being in a basement in Williamsburg with us last Saturday night, where insanely magical and wonderful things happened, and I'm still not sure if I believe it all went down the way it did. Mostly due to the fact that there's no photographic evidence that we can find -- and isn't that how you prove anything these days? With photos on the internet?

What follows is a multipartite review, with attributions as follows:
I. Cindy lauds Little Annie with a selection of torchy numbers curated by Pinkie
II. Cindy waxes poetical on the Secret Machines with a selection of night driving tracks specifically for I-10 between Junction and El Paso, TX
III. Pinkie serenades the Bellmer Dolls with a selection of lupine secrets.

I.

I'd really, almost to my detriment, really, forgotten that Little Annie was kicking off the evening (I can be so spacey sometimes); when she and Paul Wallfisch took to the tiny little stage area, I was actually kind of confused. Until the strains of Mr. Wallfisch's piano intro suddenly turned the dank, low-ceilinged basement of The Charleston into a dark little cabaret somewhere between New York and Paris and Berlin; we were all enthralled. And supervising this whole transformation was Little Annie; a downtown fixture since the late '70's, Annie's seen it all, done it all, watched it all, and now her voice is weathered with the evidence of all that living. And we should all be so lucky to look and sound so divine someday in the not-to-distant future. I never keep setlists and I don't take pictures; I really am the worst person to be telling you about all this, but highlights of her set included "Private Dancer," "Smile," "Strange Love," "Yesterday When I Was Young" and, as an encore, that old traditional Irish shanty "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For." We laughed, we cried, we wished that she weren't playing a bunch of dates in London with TRGAW faves Baby Dee and Marc Almond -- and we hope to see her again very soon.

Little Annie -- End is Near
Kate Kuhl -- Matrosenlied
Claire Waldoff -- Raus Mit Den Mannern Aus Dem Reichstag
Marlene Dietrich -- Peter, Peter
Margo Lion -- Die Braut
Trude Hesterberg -- Die Herren Manner




Tina Turner -- Private Dancer (a song, which, until I heard Little Annie sing it, had never really understood. Pinkie, of course, knew all the words and shed a tear or two at Annie's careworn interpretation.)

II.



(photo courtesy of the Secret Machines' Myspace presence)

Confession: I'd never seen Secret Machines before (no, not even last spring @ the Highline -- long story...), even though I rather liked their recorded material. Resolution: I'm glad I saw them this way, mashed up against a deteriorating brick wall, shoved out of the way by superfans thrilled to be seeing their heroes in such an intimate space. I admit, I rocked out unashamedly, eyes closed (because I couldn't see anyway) -- probably for the first time since I'd moved north I think, glad that the music was (mostly) blocking out the jeers of the people behind me who were taking shit about how I was rocking out. Fuckers.

I'm sure we'll have more to say on this subject in the future, but the lovely gents of Secret Machines recently wrapped up their next album and they're releasing it themselves, not under the aegis of Reprise/Warner Brothers. (Not-so-coincidentally, the Bellmer Dolls' Peter Mavrogeorgis recorded and plays guitar on one of the album's tracks.) If the clean, blistering epics they treated us to are any indication of what's to come, it's one hell of a record indeed.

What's won our hearts is that Secret Machines, who are our Texas brethren, make what we like to fondly refer to as "night driving music" -- when you kick on your cruise control at about 75 or 80, pop your moonroof to gaze up at the black, black sky peppered with stars, blast the stereo, and bring a friend along to keep an eye out for wayward deer on the roadway.

I'm looking forward to some much-needed windshield time when I travel to Texas in May -- I have a drive from Austin to El Paso and back on the luscious, endless expanse of I-10 planned with my dearest friend Vonelle; no doubt Pinkie will find some time to do some driving when she's home this spring too, out on Hwy. 30 between College Station and Huntsville.

But amazingly, somehow, in the crush of magical basement in Williamsburg, I was, just for a half hour or so, back in Texas, with the sweet night wind on my face and a soaring song in my heart. Thanks, y'all.

Explosions in the Sky -- To West Texas
VHS or Beta -- Nightwaves
...And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead -- Mistakes and Regrets
I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness -- We Choose Faces
Calla -- As Quick As It Comes Carrera
The Mountain Goats -- Jeff Davis County Blues (n.b.: remind me to tell you sometime about how a semi nearly ran me off the road in Jeff Davis County -- while this song was playing on the stereo. oh. hey. i just did...)
Explosions in the Sky -- From West Texas

III.



(image blatantly ganked from Paper Magazine, because we love this picture, and because they're really not this glossy in person. We swear it!)

OK, readers. All of you out there in Kraftwerk's Computer World know that Cindy and I are totally (and regularly) guilty of waxing rhapsodic about our friends in bands. And you know just as well, however, that even though we're both lovely in pink, neither of us are particularly guilty of sporting rose-colored glasses. If anything, we're brutally honest ... even where the Bellmer Dolls are concerned.

It's always a little weird when you see guys who you know as slightly unhinged, loveable doodz morph into a three-headed masculine animal machine that delivers sex, death, aggression, and raw emotion without a hint of irony. We ask now, "Was this what was like to see the Birthday Party?" Oh wait...A. that analogy is as tired as comparing Interpol to Joy Division, and B. the Birthday Party were a four-piece. That being said, Los Bellmers make enough racket for six or eight, hauling an audience further along through Hell's proverbial wringer or meat-grinder in a short set than most bands manage to do in twice as many songs.

In the 11 months since we last saw them (not counting the Fashion Week appearance at Ecko that Cindy was privy to in September) the Bellmers have matured. They have three more weeks to prove us right. We've heard grumblings about complicated set-ups, saxophones bought and sold, extra vocals on live tracks, and some weird, primitive piece of electronic ephemera that comes from India. Blame it on last summer's time on the road with Grinderman, or on time spent working on other projects, or extended studio sessions. At any rate, wherever the fault lies seems to suit them, and every second of the long wait since last spring's final NYC show at the Highline was worth it. Daniel is still driving, with Anthony providing the muscle and funk, but Peter has muzzled the dirty hot preacher man, and the three of them are present together for the otherwordly, not-of-this-plane horror show of ecstasy. Here's hoping they hold it together next week.

It's difficult to talk about the Bellmers without mentioning how fragile the experience is, that -- much like a Trail of Dead set -- they're at their best when they're just far enough from falling apart that they can sneer at the idea with hips-first bravado. It's immediate, devastatingly sexy, and (forgive me for being vivid) leaves me feeling simultaneously turned on and a little violated. A few weeks ago, the Fourelles made an overly precious joke about a "rock'n'roll facial," but I'm sure those nice lawyer ladies were not talking about the kind I'm thinking of after Saturday night at the Charleston.

Under the visceral display of unfettered male sexuality, the dark vulnerability that drew us in back in 2004 is still there. We joked then about the Bellmers becoming the official unofficial house band of the long-gone depravedfangirls.org. Thus far, we've seen fit not to tell them about that. Here's some more hearts on sticks from similar places:

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds -- Loverman
The Birthday Party -- Mutiny in Heaven
PJ Harvey -- Oh My Lover
PJ Harvey -- Legs
Wolfgang Press -- Shut That Door
Wolfgang Press -- Respect
The Creatures -- Strolling Wolf

The Bellmer Dolls play the next three Saturdays at The Charleston, right across from the L station at Bedford Ave. in Williamsburg. See you there?

Thank you, and good night.

Sunday night is 120 Minutes on VH1 Classic. Just like the uh, good old days. (Yes, we are so that old!) What follows is a transcript of an actual conversation between your friend, Cindy Hotpoint, and the illustrious Pinkie Von Bloom, which took place just a few minutes ago.

[Love and Rockets' "So Alive" on the TV]



PVB: Blegh!
CH: Oh yay! Man, I was so obsessed with this song when it came out.
PVB: I'm sorry. This is is totally the worst Love and Rockets song ever.
CH: Oh, cut me some slack, I was like 10 years old!
PVB: You were older than that! This was 8th grade.
CH: Ok, fine -- I was 12, 13 at most. Again, cut me some slack.
PVB: [makes scissor motions with her fingers] I'm cutting, I'm cutting!
CH: I mean, really -- what else sounded like this then?
PVB: [sighs heavily] Nothing.
CH: See! My point exactly. I still love it!!! [sings along loudly]
PVB: [mumbles] It still sucks. The whole album sucks.

So, that being said, here's some assorted Love and Rockets (and related projects...) that Pinkie deems worthy; you're welcome from the land of late-night vinyl ripping.

(Also, you know that they're getting back together and playing Coachella in a few weeks, right? I'm fundamentally opposed to reunions -- even when they're of badass bands -- so I'm not too bummed to be missing that particular nightmare in the desert with drunk LA hipsters. Seriously.)

Bauhaus -- Kick in the Eye
Tones on Tail -- Go!
Love and Rockets -- The Dog-End of a Day Gone By
Love and Rockets -- Kundalini Express



Love and Rockets -- Ball of Confusion.

We'll be back with our weekend recap tomorrow night. We may or may not still be recovering from the awesomeness.

ps -- If you're wondering about the header image, more about the fantastic Love and Rockets graphic novels by Los Bros. Hernandez can be found in this handy Wikipedia entry. Because they're awesome too -- even though I pretty much universally hate all pretentious comic books. Except these. Because er, they're not pretentious.

(photo courtesy of wkrantz)

Hola people! Sorry we've been off the radar for the past few weeks -- late March was a killer. First off, we must thank everyone who came out to see us dj -- it was nice to see you! In case you didn't make it, here's some recaps, as well as some news about our two most favorite bands (that are still together), The Bellmer Dolls and Shearwater.

Sidecar Bar is lovely, and the fried chicken is totally scrumptious. We can't speak for the tequila we were helping to shill -- it's not cute when we drink it. Seriously. (Pinkie sez: "Some man would be wearing me." Ditto.) Thanks again to the lovely Brooklyn Based for asking us to provide the musical entertainment, and thanks to the dude who plugged in my iPod behind the bar. Easiest. dj gig. ever. There was a request from the organizers for some Mexican tracks; somehow I ended selecting a lot of stuff in Spanish that wasn't Mexican in origin...

Calexico -- Accordion Waltz // Celia Cruz -- Flor De Mayo // Manu Dibango -- Soul Makossa // Mark Ronson -- Amy (Feat. Kenna) // Love -- Alone Again Or // Lone Justice -- You Are the Light // June Carter Cash -- Ring of Fire // Billy Bragg & Wilco -- California Stars // Willie Nelson -- Cherokee Maiden // Nacho Vegas -- Que Te Vaya Bien, Miss Carrusel // Mazarin -- Another One Goes By // The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up -- Silver Sparkler // The Radio Dept. -- The Worst Taste in Music // Calla -- Testify // Elefant -- Tonite Let's Dance // Maneja Beto -- Son De Amor // Calexico -- The Black Light // Goldfrapp -- Human // Herb Alpert -- This Guy's In Love With You // Nancy Sinatra & Lee Hazelwood -- Some Velvet Morning // Devastations -- As Sparks Fly Upwards // The Sadies -- 1000 Cities Falling (Part 1) // The Drifters -- Mexican Divorce // Giant Drag -- Wicked Game // Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds -- He Wants You // Neko Case & Her Boyfriends -- Duchess // Morrissey -- Suedehead // Julieta Venegas -- A Donde Sea // Pas/Cal -- The Handbag Memoirs // El Perro Del Mar -- Somebody's Baby // The Long Winters -- Fire Island, AK // The New Pornographers -- To Wild Homes // Spoon -- Laffitte Don' t Fail Me Now // The Mountain Goats -- Collapsing Stars // Magazine -- A Song From Under the Floorboards // The Earlies -- Wayward Song // Señor Coconut y su Conjunto -- Trans Europe Express (Cumbia) // The Walkmen -- Red River

The next night, we set up shop at Cake Shop for our guest stint at Corduroy. Special thx to Jennifer for asking us to fill in for Andi, to the Fourelles for the cute set, and Kate & Vickie for the giggles.

Spinanes -- Noel, Jonah and Me // Bow Wow Wow -- Fools Rush In // Tsunami -- In A Name // Snowpony -- Who's Gonna Be Your Daddy When I'm Gone? // His Name Is Alive -- Red-Haired Girl // Mazarin -- Wheats // Vaselines -- Son of a Gun // Black Box Recorder -- Andrew Ridgely // The Stranglers -- Duchess // Furniture -- Love Your Shoes // The Dears -- Open Arms //Morrissey -- Piccadilly Pilare // Acid House Kings -- Heaven's Just a Kiss Away // Datarock -- I Will Always Remember You // Pulp -- Countdown // Franz Ferdinand -- All My Friends // Jesus & Mary Chain -- You Trip Me Up // Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds -- Breathless // Patsy Cline -- San Antonio Rose

Notes:

1) Obvs, I am trying to bring back Mazarin (I mean Black Stoltzfus) in a big way.

2) The new El Perro Del Mar record, From the Valley to the Stars, is divine.

3) More about Furniture; so criminally underrated.

4) Props to anyone besides me who remembers/owns records by Snowpony. (Dude, if you'd said "Deb & Deb," it would have made a lot more sense. --Pinkie)

**

(photo courtesy of Nicki Ishmael)

We'll be booked for the next few Saturdays -- the out-of-hibernation Bellmer Dolls have a 4-week residency at the Charleston in Williamsburg in celebration of the fact that they've finished that full-length record they've been promising us for goodness knows how long. Anyway, we hear tell the Charleston has a skeevy glamour. Sounds perfect!! Additionally, Los Bellmers join the lovely Secret Machines on a mini-tour of the great cities of the Northeast. Yeah!

Can't wait to hear the new stuff; it's really been too long since we've seen these guys perform a proper show.

Bellmer Dolls -- Push! Push!
Secret Machines -- Nowhere Again

Apr 12 2008 @ The Charleston, Brooklyn, NY
with Josh Garza & Brandon Curtis of Secret Machines & Little Annie with Paul Wallfisch

Later:
Apr 19 2008 @ The Charleston, Brooklyn, NY
with Shock Cinema, The Brides
Apr 26 2008 @ The Charleston, Brooklyn, NY
with Fresh Kills and Preacher & The Knife
Apr 28 2008 @ Northstar Bar, Philadelphia, PA
supporting Secret Machines
Apr 30 2008 @ Great Scott, Boston, MA
supporting Secret Machines
May 1 2008 @ Jack Rabbit Slim’s, Albany, NY
supporting Secret Machines
May 3 2008 @ The Charleston, Brooklyn, NY
with guests Golden Triangle and The Choke
May 4 2008 @ Pearl Street, Northampton, MA
supporting Secret Machines


(photo courtesy of christine tadler)

The release date of Shearwater's new album Rook is still a ways off (6/1), but they'll kick things off right with a special show here in NYC at the Florence Gould Hall at the French Institute May 5, with full orchestra; Michael Gira (Swans, Angels of Light), in a rare solo appearance, opens. Could it get any better? I seriously doubt it. (Oh wait -- projections by Kahn & Selesnick, the team behind Rook's gorgeous album art! And don't forget that tour-only 7" single of "Rooks" b/w the band's legendary cover of Talk Talk's "A Rainbow.")

There's a limited number of tickets for this show, natch, so hie you to Other Music or Ticketmaster at noon on Friday (4/11) to nab yours. Of course, we'll totally be there, in that perpetual state of blissful beaming we always seem to have whenever we see this amazing band play.

Shearwater -- Rooks
Shearwater -- Red Sea, Black Sea

***

While I'm thinking about it, we all remember how awesome Angels of Light's Everything is Good Here/Please Come Home is, right? Right. You probably didn't know me then -- though, I guess some of you out there did -- but I was insane and drunk and sleep-deprived and not very pleasant to be around. Anyway, I was really, really obsessed with this record when it came out. I realize now that it was definitely one of the turning points for me in terms of pinpointing exactly what I adore these days: naked male pain & hollering, live recordings in big spaces ... and limited edition vinyl.

After often rueing the fact that I would probably never own a waxy hard copy of this album (a CD just wouldn't cut it), Pinkie randomly found one at the Virgin Megastore in Union Square a few weeks ago and I very nearly fainted at the shock. (Additionally, Pinkie would like me to tell you that she bought a reissue of The Gun Club's Fire of Love on vinyl that day. It is awesome too.)

Anyway, you should come over and listen to Everything is Good Here/Please Come Home with me sometime. That's the best way to hear it -- sitting on my creaky bed in my big, echoy room, played on my toy turntable and precious Thrift Town $35 stereo with the thrashed-out speakers. Believe me, sometimes it is best to untether yourself from your iPod and just let wonderful music do what it does best -- bounce around in the air around you before it reaches your ears.

(photo courtesy of iandavid)

Well, sorry we didn't get to the post-apocalyptic playlist last week; I'll save that for another time -- promise.

What to say about The Mountain Goats show at Webster Hall? I'll admit, it was weird. It's always kind of weird to see your friends play that venue; its so huge, and hey, remember that time you saw them with 30 other people in a tiny room a million years ago? (It's an old story around here...) But it was an amazing show nonetheless; it was the first time I'd seen them play with drummer John Jon Wurster, who's amazing. And, though reports varied about the sound quality, it sounded pretty damn good on the balcony level. And I'm a little bummed that I didn't think to swing by the merch table and pick up one of the new hoodies.

And we must sincerely thank Mr. Darnielle for playing "Have to Explode" (off sentimental fave Tallahassee) during the 'solo' bit of the set -- I think that's one of my very favorite songs in the entire tMG ouevre. Also, we simply must let you know that Peter Hughes may indeed have (finally!!) ascended to the post of Best-Dressed Bassist in Indie Rock, snatching that coveted post from the grabby hands of Carlos Dengler. (Fashion-forward cardigans and sharp topcoats are rad, but NOTHING trumps Etro.)

We send our very best wishes to Mr. Darnielle & co., and hope that he's feeling better soon; illness recently forced the band to cancel the upcoming Australian/NZ leg of their spring tour.

The Mountain Goats -- Have To Explode

In the meantime, I can't help but want to share this with you: YouTube videos of Mountain Goats covers. Everyone from Ben Gibbard to teenage girls in Europe. Amazing stuff.

(photo courtesy of ryan muir)

As for The Gutter Twins -- it was sublime. We still don't have words -- especially when it comes to discussing, say, that bit of "Amazing Grace" in the midst of an 8-song (or thereabouts) encore. We'll just let Dinah Washington tell you about our general feelings.

(That being said, those guys are touring like gangbusters, and if they're headed your way, you really need to go -- I'm looking at you specifically, Europe -- if you're in need of some soul saving at the bottom of a grim, hazy, red-lit oubliette. Or something like that.)

Dinah Washington -- Fat Daddy

**

One of the best things that happened at this one-two punch of shows at Webster Hall this week was the chance to see two bands that were sorta on our radar who totally blew us away in person.

The Moaners, who opened for the Mountain Goats, are some fine ladies who play some very fine blues music. We're always glad to see women who don't play like "girls" (sorry, really, it happens); and this guitar-and-drums duo pack a vicious wallop. (Also, don't listen to anyone who compares them to The White Stripes; think early, early Quasi instead.)

That being said, I have to take someone to task here: neither the band nor their label, Yep Roc, provide a sample mp3; however, you can stream their new album, Blackwing Yalobusha, at the Yep Roc site. So, go buy the album, people, okay? Because Melissa and Laura seem the type who would not appreciate you engaging in piracy.

As for Great Northern, they are consumate professionals -- L.A. scene veterans whose lush, epic sound brings to mind a bizarre hybrid of Fiona Apple, Medicine, and Slowdive. Early demos suggested a more twinkly L.A. powerpop sound (by way of the band's associations with Earlimart and Grandaddy), but the band's definitely decided that a more dark and mysterious sound is the way to go live -- or maybe it's just touring with the Gutter Twins that's brought out their wicked side.

This means, unfortunately, that any of the recordings out there, especially from their debut Trading Twilight for Daylight, frankly don't do Great Northern justice. It's hard to say that because they do have so much promise live. That being said, I very strongly believe that they need to possibly license the hell out of the following song and embed it into the brains of teenage girls, who, I believe, would totally eat it up.

Great Northern -- Telling Lies


**

We're WAY busy this week; we've got a hastily-scheduled Kindling & Tinder photoshoot and two dj gigs -- Wednesday we'll be curating the music selections at Sidecar Bar in Park Slope at the second installation of the Brooklyn Based Cocktail Club. We'll be bringing the Mexican music to go with the tequila theme, so come by between 6:30 and 9pm and say hello.


And Thursday we're the guest djs at Corduroy, the new monthly at Cakeshop. Also on the bill are the inimitable DJ Jennifer and the perky pop of The Fourelles. Again, stop by and say hello!

Hello, dear readers. We've got a mad week ahead, what with The Mountain Goats tonight at Webster Hall and The Gutter Twins on Wednesday, also at NYC's moldiest venue. (n.b. The Mountain Goats play Brooklyn at the Music Hall of Williamsburg on Wednesday, btw) You should come too, yeah?

Have fun recovering from SXSW; we'll see you later this week, wherein we will post our post-apocalyptic playlist (it's a real bruiser), tell you about our misadventures at the Virgin Megastore and exhort you to go see The Vanity Set this weekend (Saturday 3/22 at Supreme Trading and Sunday 3/23 at the Annex). Also, we solemnly promise to stop bitching about the mediocrity of Southby coverage in the mainstream media. Maybe.

The Mountain Goats -- Lovecraft in Brooklyn (repost)
The Gutter Twins -- I Was in Love With You

Andi and Duckie are silently judging you.

Believe me, the above image will make sense. In a minute.

This is just a brief post. I hope that everyone @ SXSW is having a good time; we're looking forward to seeing What Made Milwaukee Famous and Louis XIV at Irving Plaza (or Filmore East, or whatever they're calling it these days...) tonight.

It seems like outside of the SXSW action, all anyone was really talking about this week was Vampire Weekend -- be it their Saturday Night Live appearance, or the fact that they seem to be everywhere at SXSW this year.

Now, I know it's become terribly passe to criticize Vampire Weekend or froth at the mouth about them or what have you, but I must relate the following story to you.

One of my co-workers is a bit older than me and is totally adorable because she only keeps up with the new music via what she sees on TV. She loves Ghostland Observatory and Bloc Party because she saw them on Austin City Limits. But she was a hardcore fangirl back in the day -- we had a great conversation about Urge Overkill, of all things, a few weeks ago. Anyway, yesterday afternoon she ambled over to my desk and asked, "So, what do you think of this Vampire Weekend band?"

"Well, I honestly don't like them," I said -- remembering with a shudder when The L Magazine pegged them as a "band to watch" early last year and how I kind of threw up in my mouth a little as my eyes first met the term "Upper West Side Soweto," and how that pretty much made me want to give up writing about music altogether.

"Oh good!" she sighed. "I kept hearing about how great they were, and when I saw them on Saturday Night Live, all I could think was: If Blaine and Steff started a band, it would sound just like this."

By Blaine and Steff, dear readers, she meant Andrew McCarthy and James Spader's characters, respectively, in the 80's teen angst epic Pretty in Pink.

"Yes," I said. "After Andi and Blaine broke up, and Andi got together with Duckie [which is how it should have turned out in the first place], Blaine starts a band with Steff in a fruitless attempt to win her back!" (n.b. Amusingly, when I related this story to Pinkie later that day, she totally followed my co-worker's imaginings to the same logical conclusion.)

"Exactly. And that band is totally Vampire Weekend."

So, there you have it kids. When you wonder why us crabby old bloggers hate Vampire Weekend -- it's not really because of the inappropriate appropriation of South African pop by tacky upper middle class white kids who have no sense of musical history. Rather, it's because they remind us of the Blaines and the Steffs of the world. [A note from Pinkie: Another reason the Soweto reference is completely offensive is that those of us who are cranky and jaded enough to make the Blaine & Steff connection are also old enough to remember Apartheid while it was happening. Somehow Vampire Weekend's namecheck doesn't ring with the same passion as Peter Gabriel's homage to Stephen Biko.]

The archetypes of high school society presented in Pretty in Pink are slightly quaint relics now. It's no longer taboo to make your own clothes, dress differently, hound dark rock clubs on a school night -- it's practically de rigeur. And from the outside, it seems like for many teenagers and early 20-somethings, faceless interactions through the Internet and other new technologes, as well as the economic opulence of the past 10 years or so, have completely wiped hardcore class distinctions that were the foundation of youth culture in the 80's and 90's.

So yeah, cut us some slack. Those Vampire Weekend songs are p(r)eppy and hollow and catchy -- and they're totally the Tapes 'n Tapes of 2007-8 (on the same label, even!) -- good for them. But frankly, we're still hanging out with the music nerds and the weirdos and the burnouts and the drama fags and other assorted high school untouchables. And we'd much rather listen to the music they're making now.

Just for you, some selections from the Pretty in Pink soundtrack.

The Smiths -- Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want
The Psychedelic Furs -- Pretty In Pink
Echo and the Bunnymen -- Bring On The Dancing Horses
Orchestral Manoeuvers in the Dark -- If You Leave

Bonus vid, New Order -- Shellshock

Thank you, Madonna Louise Ciccone for reminding us that it's OK to be a control freak, and that you can't expect to get anything if you don't ask for it.

Watching the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Awards show wasn't really intentional. I think, or rather hope, that Cindy was channel-surfing; I was rudely awakened from from a couch nap I don't really remember falling into by Damien Rice warbling butchering Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." I mumbled something about if Jeff Buckley were still alive; Cindy informed me that I'd missed Lou Reed's leather suit and reading glasses. By the time I was fully conscious and realized what, exactly, we were watching and had made some derogatory comments about the PLUG Awards Experience (less Nick Cave), Justin Timberlake magically appeared and made us laugh at gratuitous sophomoric prurience. Madonna, however, made us cry. True to today's reports, she didn't perform. Rather, Iggy and the Stooges did, wrenching out "Burning Up," "Ray of Light," and a short acapella version of "Like a Virgin." Though the camera trailing Mr. Osterberg et al through the venue kitchen was unnecessarily cheesy, it was worth it to see grizzled and venerable garage jerky genuinely awed by Madonna's presence. Ever the gentleman, Mike Watt bowed.

Both Cindy and I are old enough to remember a time and when neither of us were aware of Madonna. Cindy's first favorite song (after the Steve Miller Band's "Abracadabra) was Human League's "Fascination," and I vividly remember waiting for the video for Duran Duran's "Girls on Film" on MTV. Soon after was "Borderline," starring a platinum blonde who wasn't Deborah Harry and some swarthy young thing with a studded belt. Fast forward to 1984 when Cindy's uncle Vince purchased a bootleg cassette copy of Like a Virgin in Mexico. She claims her family knew she was gone and would never be back after she singsonged "Madonna-like-a-virgin" in reply to her grandfather's question about what she was listening to on her WalkMan. My own conscious introduction came courtesy of WTBS's Night Tracks. My cousins Rikki (yes, really) and Heather were really excited, but I was sort of clueless until I learned that that we were indeed living in a material world...then promptly begged for a copy of the LP at the local discount store until my mom gave in, somewhat scandalized by the title. Times were simpler then, but "Material Girl" is still the best video in the history the material world, but we probably shouldn't have heard "Love Don't Live Here Anymore" at age nine.

Listing Madonna's contributions to popular music is a pretty moot point. The reality is that there was always some way to rationalize being a fan, no matter what else I was listening to at the time. There was a good chance that what Madonna was doing might ultimately more important than that Book of Love record I was all about in 1986, Depeche's Music for the Masses in 1988, Peter Murphy's Deep in 1990, Sisters of Mercy's Some Girls Wander by Mistake in 1992, or Seefeel's Quique the year after. For any and every record on my formative roadmap, there's an offering from Madonna--resplendent with bubblegum, glitter, steam, fresh scandal, and a new eyebrow configuration--to which I've forgotten none of the words.

After some quality crate diving, we've assembled a few things from own collections, none of which are the gicky strange-sounding remasters from 2001.

Madonna -- Borderline
Madonna -- Shoo-Bee-Doo
Madonna -- Love Don't Live Here Anymore
Madonna -- Live to Tell (7" version)
Madonna -- Hanky Panky (Bare Bones Single Mix)
Madonna -- Rain (