(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

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.

I have the "Williamsburg Crud" -- a/k/a some crappy upper respiratory infection brought into my office last week by the creeps who live in Williamsburg. Nothing against them, or Williamsburg, but seriously, that place is like a freakin' kindergarten in more ways than one. The L train may be a swell train, but it's also a petri dish of disease. Sorry, you'd be this bitter too if you had a sharp, hacking cough that made you sound like a sick five-year-old. I'll get over it. Pass me a Ricola.

In the meantime, had a lovely time this weekend in Williamsburg, of all places -- and at the increasingly down-at-heel Annex in the increasingly trite Lower East Side. Pity that lovely faux walnut paneling is gouged like, 12 feet off the floor -- I don't even want to know how the hell that happened! But hey, they have nice barstools. [Pinkie argues that they're merely OK.]

We'd never actually been to the rather storied, infamous Glasslands, that bastion of hip artiness right next to the water and catty corner to the "historical" Domino Refinery monolith thing home to lots of rats who eat sugar. It's spitting distance from Manhattan (provided you don't mind a wade in the East River) and 2/3 a mile from the nearest Brooklyn subway stop. Riiiiiight. A $15 cab ride later (because you can't get there from any other neighborhood in Brooklyn, really -- unless it's one of the adjacent ones) we arrived just in time to catch the Napalm/Dero/Malat set (I totally tried to suggest a more mellifluous name, like Possum Noir -- one of my better suggestions, if I must say so -- but they had to be all Medeski, Martin & Wood about it). Anyway, wow. I mean sure, it's easy to rave about something when it's your friend's side project with his buddies from across the pond, but seriously... It was all kinds of dark and lovely and cinematic -- just what the doctor ordered. And any drummer who attacks his cymbals, as M. Dero did, with a length of chain is totally all right by us. And oooh, Tex Napalm is totally the naughty post-punk little brother of one of our other Berliner faves, Max Raabe (well, it makes sense to us, anyway... BTW, remind us to tell you about seeing Max Raabe und das Palastorchester from a box at Carnegie Hall for Pinkie's birthday with our friend Vonelle...)

So, anyway, catch the ol' Napalm/Dero/Malat train if you're in the PacNW this week:

Thursday, Feb 7 with Garland Ray Project (Sam Bond's, Eugene)
Friday, Feb 8 with The Dead Science & Magick Daggers (Vera Project, Seattle)
Saturday, Feb 9 with Magick Daggers and Garland Ray Project (Rotture, PDX)

Meanwhile, we thoroughly enjoyed Jerry Teel & the Big City Stompers, who did a grand cover of Johnny Cash and June Carter's "Long Legged Guitar Pickin' Man". And we totally got big, giant crushes on Five Dollar Priest before the bass cab blew out, bringing the proceedings to an early close. (Plus, they made us totally nostalgic for Austin's long-lost The Arm.)

Somehow, we managed to miss WOMAN both Saturday and Sunday (sorry, Ryan!) and we totally missed Mark Steiner & The NYC Pikers at the Annex because we're slow old ladies who need to do laundry on Sunday nights (sorry, Peter!), but here's a taste of his slinky song-stylings (with the aforementioned M. Dero on drums & Mr. Napalm on guitar) -- sit through the opening bit, it's worth it:



...

And now a note from Pinkie... Mere mention of The Arm is cause for me to start babbling about their fizzling out being the biggest disappointment in Austin music in the past several years (other than the mere existence of Sound Team). Ask me to justify it, and I can't, but I'm sort of embarrassed that I never fessed up, in person, about liking them so damned much. Sean Oh-No was sort of Austin's own James Murphy or Mark E. Smith and could (and probably still can) holler like no one's business, even though he's now over at The Onion A.V. Club. Five Dollar Priest took us back to that weird night at 710 when The Arm ran out of steam after an organ bit the dust. Cindy managed to get a word in amidst Ron Ward's hollering to tell me that she kind of missed The Arm, and that the Five Dollar Priest experience (ex-Swans / Sonic Youth status and a clarinetist notwithstanding) was probably the closest thing we were going to get...which led me to mumble something about the wrong city at the wrong time before I stepped back up onto the banquette so I could see the stage again. So NYC and other places, we bring you The Arm. Too little and too late.

The Arm -- Vile Lives
The Arm -- Song Automatic 1-2-3

In other news, another band from the hometown shortlist of awesomeness has a new EP. Said band would be Cry Blood Apache, who--last we saw them--were overly loud and performatively inaccessible, yet doing something that managed to be just shy of amazing despite the involvement of costumes. I'm not sure if Cindy remembers, but it was the night we went to meet Terry at le Chain Drive and check out the DJ booth before we started our residency. At the time, Cry Blood Apache were lauded long and hard by Voxtrot's Ramesh Srivastava, and they delivered on every superlative. It seems they've settled into a more mainstream post-punk groove with the new release, but we expect that the live experience is still pretty raw.

Cry Blood Apache -- The Northern Travelers

For a taste of the spectacle, here's some footage from a warehouse show at SXSW 2007:



Thus concludes today's note from Pinkie. At some point she promises not to talk about bands from Texas, dead projects that haven't had a release in 20 years, fantasies about the Pyramid Club in 1982, Modernism in the Weimar Republic, or the infamous October 1988 issue of Seventeen.

...

Blessedly, this week is pretty low-key, and hopefully, I can shake this terrible disease I've caught. Wish me luck. However, later this week, we promise to take you through our slush pile, for a new feature known as "You sent it to us, it's your own damn fault."

This post is respectfully dedicated to The Guy From The Middle of the Block who hollered after me Saturday night as we walked down the street, "Damn, I wish I was your daddy." Thank you kindly, but I'm not havin' it.

Is this thing on or what?!?!? Hello! OMG, we're back. I kind of swore up and down (and UP AND DOWN) for months that I wouldn't wouldn't wouldn't resuscitate this project, yet here we are.

We have some catching up to do, but I think that would just be boring, really. I mean, did anything good come out in the last 6 months? Oh, I'm kidding, I'm sure something did. You should tell us what you're hot for, yeah?

First off, look! We actually rated a voice in the Idolator poll this year (ok, I filled out the ballot, but Pinkie helped!) -- I couldn't have been more thrilled. And, it's 2007 in a nutshell, more or less -- can we reiterate how much we love James Murphy AND T-Pain? The only thing that would be better is if they would actually work together. Ha!

In the meantime, I have to admit I got the itch to write about thrilling new music again after seeing blogger favorite Bon Iver open for Elvis Perkins back in early December. Initially, I'd avoided Bon Iver like the plague -- nothing like the deafening clamor of CMJ buzz to kill any nascent interest one might have in a band. However, once I actually stopped to listen (ok, ok -- yeah, it was the press release from Jagjaguwar that finally hooked me, I'll confess), I was floored.

And the live experience of one-man band of Justin Vernon, hunting cabin popster? It's is a joy to behold and hear -- he's got an arsenal of pretty instruments and looping processors and a pretty voice to go with. On record, his vocals are haunting, distant -- but in person it's clear that Mr. Vernon is the bizarre musical offspring of Joni Mitchell and Joe Cocker, with a liberal dash of Warren Defever and greasy side order of Benjamin Smoke. The set left me giddy and weak in the knees, though I wasn't quite as tongue-tied as the idiot blogger who declared to Mr. Vernon that For Emma, Forever Ago was "Easily in my top six records of the year!" (People: NOT TOP TEN. OR TOP FIVE. TOP SIX. Really, now!) No, let's instead say that Mr. Vernon has made one of the best records of the new year -- it's getting a splashy re-release in February on Jagjaguwar -- really, we can't express how strongly we believe that it's totally worth your time to spend a watery, grey winter afternoon with this one.

His Name is Alive -- No Hiding Place Down Her
The Opal Fox Quartet -- Frail Body
Bon Iver -- Skinny Love
Bon Iver -- Lump Sum

So, after spending November recovering from our non-bloody appearance at the Bellmer Dolls' video shoot (more on that when they actually release it to the public), a December full of travel (don't ask how I ended in Orlando for 3 hours, I just did!) and a January full of work (I edited over 1,000 pages for three books and Pinkie saved the world approx. 16 times), we're busting full-on into 2008 a month late with activity levels not witnessed in ages and ages.

We sadly skipped Blacklist opening for The Teenagers and the inaugural date of Andi & Jen's new monthly Corduroy Pop Dance Party at Cake Shop, to catch Joanna Newsom & band with the Brooklyn Philharmonic at the BAM. Now, since Pinkie'd had such a great time seeing Antony (and assorted Johnsons) perform with the BP last year, I was expecting something transcendent -- but instead just came away with a really, really bad taste in my mouth. Newsom & Co. were dazzling; but the orchestra was limp, faint and practically toneless. And the oboeist's contempt for the proceedings was unprofessional and distracting, as she sat moping, chin in hand, turned off by either Newsom's performance or Van Dyke Parks' oboe-less orchestrations -- or both. The best part was when she matter-of-factly tooted her few notes, packed up her instrument and closed her score in the middle of a song. Note to orchestra: when you're on a stage, we can see you. That being said, big ups to the trumpet player for totally rocking out. Dude, you rule. Thank goodness that torture only lasted a few songs; the general climate of the performance improved greatly after the orchestra vacated the stage and Ms. Newsom donned a too-short hot pink velvet dress.

As for the rest of the weekend? Well, we'll have to miss Ola Podrida at Union Hall because we simply must catch our favorite tailor, moonlighting Bellmer Doll and all-around righteous dude Anthony S. Malat's shows with pals Tex Napalm and Dimi Dero at Glasslands on Saturday. Also on the bill, Five Dollar Priest, Jerry Teel & the Big City Stompers, WOMAN, and the ubiquitous Jim Sclavunos on selector duties (pick a link...we can't decide on one). The party continues Sunday night at The Annex on the early side (7:30!) with a slightly different bill (Mark Steiner and the NYC Pikers, Napalm/Dero/Malat, Jerry Teel & the Big City Stompers, WOMAN) -- happy birthday, Ryan!

So, we're back. We're planning some regular features and lots of fun things in the next few months, but we'll sign off for now and respectfully dedicate this entry to the Bad Taste Bear crossing Fulton this evening, headphones leaking Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl." Sir, this one's for you.

Oh shut up and drive already... So, it's been a while since we sat around the Castle and watched music videos; we've been busy at work and not in the mood to go to shows, so that's what we did this evening, after stopping at the grocery store after work and ooohing and ahhhing over my new box of records shipped direct from End of An Ear in Austin.



When Rihanna's "Shut Up and Drive" came on, Pinkie unceremoniously sneered, "This is a Republica song. A Republica song I don't even like." She paused. "Wait. That implies there's a Republica song I do like -- which, is not in fact true. I was listening to real dance music. Republica is the crystallization of all bad dance music."



Which naturally, prompted me to jump up and bounce around like Republica's hyperactive frontwoman Saffron, screeching "I'm back and ready to goooooooooho! From the rooftops, shout it out, shout it out!" (As previously discussed, dear readers, you know that I know at least the chorus to every terrible pop song ever written.)

Pinkie just looked pained.

"And, well, apparently Melody Maker coined the terrible horrible loathsome term "elecronica" to describe their music." I pointed out, after settling back on the sofa, post-dance break. "Thanks, Wikipedia."

"What about the New Electronica label?" she asked, incredulous.

"Oh, you would bring that up! I have no idea...!"

After some frustrated Googling, I discovered that the first New Electronica release came out in 1993; a full year before that alleged Melody Maker piece. Experimental music wins! Again. Yes, kids -- occasionally, the Wikipedia is totally wrong... Perhaps, more accurately, it was when the term was pulled up into the mainstream, which seems more likely.

[aside: david toop + robert christgau = awesome. we luv ocean of sound.]

But, anyway, back to Rihanna: there's echoes of the good in "Shut Up and Drive" too -- we're pretty sure there's more than a hint of Prince's "Little Red Corvette." You know. Because um, these are not songs about cars. Duh.



Just for kicks and giggles, I thought about posting Njoi's RAVE ANTHEM (tm) uh, "Anthem," featuring vocals from the lovely Saffron, but I realized that we really don't need to relive the Manchester warehouse scene ca. 1991. Or the 2006 remixes either. Srsly. You're welcome.

**

A few other items:

The always awesome Bellmer Dolls are opening for Grinderman in San Francisco (they're thankfully playing a few dates sans The White Stripes, but sadly, not here); that show's sold out, but Our Darling Dolls are playing Saturday night, too, at the ethereally lovely Rykarda Parasol's The Hive Art Space. If you go, do please tell them the Rich Girls sent you.

The Bellmer Dolls -- Push! Push!

Upcoming NYC shows of note: ...Trail of Dead & the amazing Shock Cinema @ Luna Lounge, August 2; The Holy Kiss @ Cake Shop, August 3 (They're also playing Midway on Ave. B on the 2nd).

...The big question remains, though -- To Suicide or not tonight at South Street Seaport? Generally, I loathe reunited bands, but this might be worth making an exception for.

**

Didn't you totally DEMAND these for your hot weekend doings? I thought I heard you asking...?

Interpol -- The Heinrich Maneuver (Paul Epworth Phones Remix) [OMG, we can dance to it now -- thanks Epworth!] [myspace] [remixer]

Cold War Kids -- Hang Me Up To Dry (Ingo Star Cruiser Remix) [Golly! Love those handclaps! I know it's deeply uncool to like this band, but I still think this song is great.] [myspace] [remixer]

Sly Hats -- Someone To Dress Up For [if you missed the Sly Hats show in Brooklyn last night, they'll be back at Union Hall on the 30th; the soft-spoken Aussie darling is currently touring the eastern seaboard, check myspace for info]

Let's Wrestle! -- Song For Abba Tribute Band [I'm slated to appear on next week's episode of Blog Fresh Radio (Monday), wherein I pontificate ineloquently on the greatness of this song] [myspace]

Variation Three of A Prelude to Interpol's Our Love To Admire: Waving, Not Drowning (the final installment, see Tuesday's post for the (cranky) introduction).

[There's a poem, by Stevie Smith, about a man, far from shore -- the spectators on the beach think he's waving, when he is in fact drowning: 'I was much too far out all my life/And not waving but drowning.' What's presented here means to convey the inverse of that melancholy statement. ]

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds -- (I'll Love You) Till The End Of The World
from The Soundtrack to Until The End Of The World

Hank Williams Sr. -- They'll Never Take Her Love From Me
from American Legends: Best Of The Early Years

Calexico -- The Black Light
from The Black Light

Johnny Cash -- Cry, Cry, Cry
from American Music Legends: Johnny Cash

The Beach Boys -- Sloop John B
from Pet Sounds

Sarah Vaughan -- What'll I Do
from Benny Carter Sessions: The Lonely Hours

Laura Nyro -- New York Tendaberry
from New York Tendaberry

Sugar -- A Good Idea
from Copper Blue

Cursive -- The Night I Lost The Will To Fight
from Domestica

New Order -- Regret
from Republic

The Hope Blister -- Hanky panky nohow
from Smile's Ok

Big Star -- Nighttime
from Sister Lovers/The Third Album

This Mortal Coil -- I Am The Cosmos
from Blood

Roxy Music -- Avalon
from Avalon


[Public Service Announcement: Hey, New York area readers! I know a lot of you are in bands -- our lovely pals The Bellmer Dolls need to go pick up a new board for their studio and their transport plans just fell through this morning. The catch is, it's out in Iowa! Have a van you're not using right now and would like to hire out for a side trip in return for some quality studio time? (Secret Machines used the Dolls' facility to record and mix their latest effort.) It'll be your good deed for the day week month year! Drop them a line (bellmerdolls AT yahoo DOT com) if you can be of assistance. Thank you!!!]

(photo courtesy of packratticus)

It's summer in the city, finally -- and NYC is bursting at the seams with shows we're intent on catching over the next few weeks. We finally broke down and Craigslisted tickets to The National's sold out stint at the Bowery; we'll be at the Friday show. Also on the bill, the tomb-gloomy song stylings of ubersupergroup (producer Peter Katis, full-time dad and studio/label namesake Tarquin Katis, and label and multi-band project impresario Adam Pierce) The Philistines Jr. (Austinites in the house can catch Mr. Pierce in his Mice Parade guise a few days later at Emo's on Sunday June 3rd. Such a jetsetter!)

Also, next week packs the one-two punch of the Bellmer Dolls' free show at the Clemente Soto Velez Cultural Center (107 Suffolk Street) Monday the 4th; Piker Ryan, Dimi Dero Inc., and Preacher and the Knife are also scheduled to appear. And in what seems to be an unprescedented feat, we'll be at the "secret" Interpol show at Bowery (it's not even on the calendar at press time) on the 5th. According to our sources, it sold out in a few hours with roughly zero promotion. Welcome home, buckaroos!

[Also not to be missed: Lavender Diamond (June 3), The Clientele (June 8) and The Long Blondes (June 9), also at Bowery.]

Relatedly, all this unbridled man-howling (the ladies and more mellow choices mentioned above notwithstanding, of course), hot rhythm sections, and pwanging guitars have given us Television on the brain. That lead us to reread Lester Bangs' "free jazz punk rock" to get ready for our hot hot hot summer of nouveau blues. Get on board!

Television -- Marquee Moon.

Our secret fave Magazine's also popping up all over; the quintessentially bitter "Song From Under The Floorboards" has appeared over a handful of blogs lately, much to our delight; afternoons just aren't complete these days without a listen.

I was so tired and slammed today -- I wanted to post and didn't get around to it. I think I may still be just a smidgen drained from seeing the Bellmer Dolls on Friday, even though I lounged around for the rest of the weekend. It was highly amusing -- the usual Fun denizens were in Studio B's mythical "other room" which could only be reached by traipsing through the crowd of gloomcookies who came out for the Bellmer Dolls and made the entire main room look like that dark corner of the gym where misfits hung out in high school. The looks on the faces of the hipster kids coming for the underground dance party really were quite priceless when they were faced with a wall of coldwave, as selected by guest dj Alex Chow. (Pinkie swears she heard some Antler action in his set... We'd post some Poesie Noire or something, but Pinkie just has it on vinyl, and we are so not putting up some Lords of Acid, y'all. You understand.)

Anyway, we were pleased that the Dolls tried out some of their fabulous new songs on the small but enthusiastic crowd. Here's a visual aid (photo by Collin LaFleche); Pinkie wrote elsewhere (she's kindly letting me quote her here):

Like I said on the bus the other night, watching Peter is like watching a young and dirty hot tent revival preacher on a hot summer night. He's not handling snakes, but he's feeling the spirit, and even though he's holding his bible open, it's just a tangible link to the divine because he doesn't need it for reference to scripture. For those 20 minutes, he's God's tool, but afterwards it's likely that he'll be a creature of the flesh, waging his own battle with the sins of liquor and women, saying things like "you look good in your skin, girl." And Anthony is his straight man, and Daniel just drives. ... You have Preacher Man Peter poised on the edge of offering someone deliverance and engaging with Anthony in this uneasy-making, primal, completely masculine, and hetero-erotic (yes, I said hetero) paso doble. It's really a paso doble, in the tradition of bull fights. ... Seeing the Bellmer Dolls gives me that same weird feeling that I get when I start to wonder if there is any truth to the legend that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads so that he could play the blues.

They're also playing an already sold-out show with the Secret Machines on the 19th as part of the High Line Festival (Highly recommended if you feel like Craigslisting it...) and are working on a full-length album.

Here's an earlier track from their previously well-received ep on Hungry Eye records, The Big Cats Will Throw Themselves Over.

Bellmer Dolls -- Push, Push

***
In other news, Rihanna's "Umbrella" is totally our unequivocal broken heart summer jam (oh, boys can be such trouble sometimes...) -- it makes you happy and sad at the same time, as all great pop songs do. And wow, we sure do love the video.



Rihanna feat. Jay-Z -- Umbrella (Clean)

(And dude, who cares if that's not her en pointe, really? The fetishy aesthetic is grand...)

Reminds us a lot of this particular video too...



Madonna -- Fever

...which of course, made us then think of this ...



Sinead O'Connor -- You Do Something To Me

which inevitably brought us full circle, back to the Wiemar Republic, with:



Marlene Dietrich -- Falling in Love Again from The Blue Angel

ps -- Watch out, it's gettin on summer, and we're kind of totally freestyle-mad. Doesn't help that they air the commercial for Forever Freestyle constantly on VH1 Classics -- even during Metal Mania. Stay tuned! You've been warned.

Two quick items: Go NOW and listen to the Bellmer Dolls guesting on East Village Radio's Dead Beat Radio until 2pm EDT -- I can't because I'm firewalled here at the day job. Happy Birthday, Peter!

When you're done with that, it's imperative that you head over to OI OI OI, the new blog of the Bang Gang kids. (via Big Stereo...) YOU ARE COMPELLED TO DANCE. Do not fight it. Nope. Don't.

(Also, big ups to Song, By Toad -- because we hadn't seen his new banner, and we lurve it.)

Randomly, because I love you and I love this -- Lo-Fi-Fnk smooshes all the squeaky clean popitude out of this track and turns it into a rhythm-happy and perky-dirty floor-thumper:


The Feeling -- Love It When You Call (Lo-Fi-Fnk remix) / (myspace) (remixer)

Favorite current subway commute track, from what's really shaping up to be the best album of 07 so far:

Mark Ronson w/ Amy Winehouse -- Valerie

BONUS: Our old friend Rachel Rhodes (old-skool Austinites may remember her gorgeous, smoky voice from back in the day when she was the vocalist with Rubinchik's Orkestyr) is living in Paris now and is in the process of self-releasing a covers album on her Virb page titled A Tribe Called Request -- the content's directed by specific requests from her pals from around the world via her Vox page. I've missed hearing her sing; perhaps we can compel her to record "Psycho Killer" with ukelele next! (hint, hint)

Rachel Rhodes -- Just What I Needed (and there's more to be had on RR's Virb site)

EXTRA BONUS: Via 14icedbear, The Believer interviews Okkvervil River's Will Sheff. Well, it's Sean from Said the Gramophone, actually doing the interviewing. Best part: knives and being pro-murder. That's what Okkervil River is all about, people. Seriously.

YAY BONUS POST. In proof that I can tie everything together, eventually -- I present the following as an addendum to the previous post:

LCD Soundsystem -- Jump Into The Fire (Harry Nilsson cover)
Hank Williams Jr -- All My Rowdy Friends (Have Settled Down)

SUPER BONUS:



Bellmer Dolls -- The Diva

So, even if we couldn't pull enough strings to get into the grand opening of the Highline Ballroom tonight with Lou Reed and Overkill (um, Okkervil) River (that mutual admiration society is a bizzaro complement to the Iggy Pop/At The Drive-In pairing back in the day, isn't it?), we were super-stoked to find out today that one of our favorite Austinites, the always wonderful DJ Mel, is rolling with the Yo Majesty & CSS party barge for a few dates in June. Though we aren't the biggest CSS fans ever (or at all, even), the idea of darling Mel with the ladies of Yo Majesty is very pleasing to us indeed. (Grab one of his dj sets from November on East Village Radio con Nick Catchdubs over yonder.)

DATES:
april 30th - nasty's / austin, tx
may 30th - nasty's / austin, tx
june 1st - irving plaza w/ yo majesty & CSS / new york city
june 2nd - the middle east w/ yo majesty & CSS / cambridge, mass.
june 6th - dagobert w/ yo majesty & thunderheist / quebec city, quebec
june 7th - academy club w/ yo majesty & thunderheist / montreal, quebec
june 8th - babylon w/ yo majesty & thunderheist / ottawa, quebec
june 11th - casbah w/ yo majesty, diplo & bonde do role / san diego, ca.
june 12th - cinespace w/ yo majesty / los angeles, ca.
june 14th - beauty bar w/ yo majesty / austin, tx.
july 7th - milk bar/san francisco

Speaking wonderful things, I can't get enough of DC's Da Committee -- as they put it, they really are the perfect blend of Dirty South and East Coast Hip Hop. Thanks (again) to AgentLovelette for the tip. (And check out the "DC Clap" on their MySpace page...)

Da Committee -- Bruce Wayne (sorry for the zshare action, I was having trouble uploading it to the Rich Girls server...)

Also: Prince covering Joni Mitchell is indeed the best thing ever. Don't even attempt to disagree with me here. Or wait, or is it John Cale covering LCD Soundsystem's "All My Friends"? (Which, btw, is totally the "All My Rowdy Friends (Have Settled Down)" of 2007, I think. Too bad I didn't have that to post, too.) I just don't know.

John Cale -- All My Friends (DFA cover). [I don't need to tell you this is mad limited, get it before Murphy and Sweeney nail my ass for this one. FASTER!]

Prince -- Case of You (Joni Mitchell cover).

And, hey! Congrats to our new pals The Muggabears for making the grade on the L Magazine's Class of 2007: 8 NYC Bands You Need to Hear list. Rock on, y'all! We don't envy anyone the task of winnowing down the gobs of bands sprawled across our lovely metropolis to a list of just eight to watch, and The Mugs totally deserve the shout-out.

The Muggabears -- Dead Kid Kicks.

Needless to say we weren't at Coachella. AS IF -- it was totally the weekend to clean the Castle, duh! However, this Friday we'll yet again voluntarily subject ourselves to the FUN! gathering at Studio B in Greenpoint. Oh, the things we go through for the Bellmer Dolls, I tell ya. (They'd best play that cover of "Jump into the Fire" if'n they know what's good for them.)

And, dear NYC'ers -- don't miss the adorable Yellow Fever, who will be in town this weekend too -- featuring Jen (aka 'remember when there was a girl in Voxtrot?') and Isobel, one of Pinkie's former coworkers! It's gonna be positively Austin-tastic up here for the next few weeks, and that's totally fine with us!

ps -- Are you a writer with a strong background in financial journalism (3+yrs) in the NYC area? Are you looking for a new gig? Are you a nerd for business news, operations, and history? Let me know. Seriously.

pss -- One of our favorite show-going pals, the magnificent photographer Kathryn Yu, is selling prints of her work. Show the love -- and someone buy me this one, okay?

Sorry we've been gone so long, things have been a little crazy. I started my new job yesterday, so there's that. Plus, after a bit of a hiatus, we're out and about again. Last Wednesday I caught Andrew Bird at the Bowery Ballroom. It's always hard to see a show chock-full of new songs when you haven't heard the album yet, but the new stuff seemed to go over well with the crowd, even if I found it a bit drone-y and bordering on (really, I'm not trying to beat a dead horse here) jam band business. (We have a sneaking suspicion this is due to collaborative efforts with his new drummer (and Antikon mainstay) Dosh.) Anyway please, please don't get us started on the dreadful opening act, John Southworth, whose songs are an unlistenable melange of Nilsson + Dylan with the dippiest lyrics ever. Appropriately, Mr. Southworth (don't confuse him with the uh, saint of the same name) has a residency at Piano's upstairs starting this week and running through February (*cough*), should you be interested in checking out the auditory torture. Mr. Bird is playing around the world currently; Armchair Apocrypha is out March 31.

Pinkie's gonna check in later and tell you all about her experience seeing My Brightest Diamond, some dudes who played the shit out of some Charles Ives, and a guy with a Sondheim-esque Craigslist song cycle. I caught the tail end of this show, and was completely blown away by the My Brightest Diamond experience. Ms. Worden is also currently out and about internationally (see site for dates), but will be back stateside opening for The Decemberists this spring.

Hopefully, Pinkie will also speak to the grand time we had checking out German chanteuse Micaela Leon at Don't Tell Mama before we slogged back downtown to catch Blacklist and The Bellmer Dolls at the skeeve-tastic Crash Mansion last Friday.

Also, you may have noticed, to your right, a little tip jar that's part of the previously mentioned Rich Girls Are Weeping Capital Campaign 2007. Give generously and often! Seriously, thanks for your support over the past year -- we love bringing you this site and have some changes in the works that will be implemented over the next few months or so.

A little digression, completely unrelated: I enjoy watching people listen to their iPods (or other digital music players) on my commute into town. Today, the soundtrack to my early morning was Loose Joints, Herb Alpert, MIA, The Hourly Radio, and Serge Gainsbourg. (I love the shuffle function!) Do you commute via pubtrans? What was on your headphones today? Alternatively, what's on your car stereo?

Here's some items for your enjoyment that have been moldering on the server for like, a month:

Sally Shapiro -- I'll Be By Your Side (MarfloW Version) [myspace] [remixer]

Spektrum -- Don't Be Shy (Speakerjunk Remix) [myspace] [remixer]

M.Craft -- You Are The Music (Playgroup Remix) [myspace] [remixer]

Freezepop -- Get Ready 2 Rokk (For Those About 2 Rokk Mix) [myspace]

As you know, from time to time, Cindy or I may pose you--the reader--a question; answers to which may inform us of your coolness and of places where she or I may need to be. No, we don't want the phone number for Milk & Honey. What we--well, I, speaking specifically--want is to know if where, if anywhere, in our fair city there is cabaret going down. Not jazz revues, not simple drag revues (though we like those too), not burlesque, but straight up cabaret. Torchsongs, dancing, depravity...just like Liza brought it in everyone's favorite musical about the Weimarer Republik. And, well, Milk & Honey quality cocktails and boys in dashing menswear. You know...like a Bellmer Dolls show with a chorus line. (For the record, that was Cindy rather than myself who described the Interpol live experience as "porn directed by Leni Riefenstahl.") All cabaret tipsters email your top sekrit answers to elegantfaker at gmail dot com.

ETA: Cafe Carlyle is a little bit beyond the reach of the TRGAW budget. I'll put that on my Christmas 2007 wishlist. Right next to that other thing... Also, this is the best set of tags. Ever.

Thank you. In other other related news, go see Glitter and Doom at the Met.