Though lady luck says I'm trying a little too hard with this lonely drummer character of mine, there's something endearing and compelling about him that I can't give up on. So as chronologically fucked-up as it may be, here's another installment. This is him leaving for the tour.
-
My last lucid memory is of what a mess things were. The things in my apartment of course. I don’t usually like remembering things like that, or using words like “Lucid” either. But I was unprepared for our departure today. I didn’t give a shit anymore. The rancid state of my apartment didn’t help matters either. Rotting food had sat atop a pile of dishes for the past two weeks. I was beginning to get comfortable to the thought of constant “Road food” again. I hadn’t emptied an ashtray in over a month either. Preparation is key.
This tour already felt different. Rushed. I’d been smoking more lately but growing increasingly lazy at the same time. I couldn’t force anything down my stomach but olives. The only effort I’d put into my day to day life during this six week break was introducing myself to a new type of olives. (Kalamata, if any of you give a shit) I felt like asking Bassist Luke if a portable fridge was a possibility on our van this time around. But I quickly ditched that notion. Like I said, I was growing lazy.
I’d wanted to pack last night but a “Charlie’s Angel’s” marathon had me a little pre-occupied. It was all I could do to wake up this morning to begin with. I’d committed so many injustices on Farah Fawcett’s body throughout sleep that reality didn’t seem like much of an option. But a text-message from my cable company reminding me of my long-overdue bill reminded me that there was work to be done. Bills to pay. I might have been able to seduce Farah into marriage had I slept a few minutes longer.
Luckily packing didn’t cut into my standard 8 minute morning routine. Only owning 3 t-shirts will do that to a drummer. Bassist Luke didn’t like the looks of the last photo shoot and pulled the plug early on. While the photographer was way too fucked on coke for his own good and wanted us to be a band we most certainly were not, I could have used a crack at that wardrobe. Fuck knows both my credit cards have been red-flagged everywhere from Macy’s to 7-Eleven.
Red Brookswood High t-shirt? Check. Blue wool sweater, for smoke breaks? Check. Carton of Winstons, a gift from my resilient, chain-smoking landlord? Double check. I told that old bag I’d do her proud when we played her hometown of Duluth. Though I’d had three whiskey cokes by that point, if I remember correctly. I’m quite sure I was askng for an extension on the rent. I know for a fact I got one.
So this is our eighth North American tour, wrapped into a shitty old gym bag. I don’t have a goddamned clue where I got this gym bag. Sometimes I wake up not having a goddamned clue what I have to do that day. That’s only when I’m off the road of course. I drank half a litre of Kalamata olives straight from the jar and lit up a Winston. I wondered for a brief moment why I was leaving this paradise. Then I heard the cab honking one floor beneath me. The road beckons. Slammed the door on the filth I call home.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Back in a dark shade.
I realize I haven't updated this bad boy in awhile. I've been busying trying to avoid Christmas shopping and being asked to cover the ultimate bar band, AC/DC. The Vancouver Sun asked me to cover this gig just a few hours before it went down.
Rest assured after being given my reviewer ticket, it took every ounce of my conscience not to sell that ticket for 3 times its face value. (Somewhere around $300)
Anyway, here it is. Pretty surreal catching AC/DC live. I think I have to mention that this entire article was first printed in the Sun. So there you have it. I've got big balls.
-
Besides a certain ever-present curse word, rarely do four letters stir up as much emotion as AC/DC.
Their music isn't just a style of hard rock; it has defined the genre for over 30 years.
They are the band that entices many to pick up a guitar for the first time and, likewise, the band that entices many hesitant men onto the dance floor for the first time.
On the heels of their recently released Black Ice, their 15th full-length album, the tour de force from Sydney, Australia, brought their powerhouse live set to GM Place Friday night.
Expectations were high pre-set, as this was something of a homecoming for AC/DC. Black Ice was recorded at the Warehouse Studios in Vancouver and there was no shortage of hype surrounding GM Place.
Young and old alike beat the rain with the kind of elation most people pray to feel on a Friday night. Opening with the impatiently catchy Rock 'N Roll Train from Black Ice, the band wasted no time bringing the sell-out crowd not only to their feet, but as tall as they could get.
If AC/DC are pioneers of hard rock, then they're also the inventors of "fist-pumping" rock and roll. And the fist-pumping faithful showed their true colours during the beat-stomping Back In Black.
By this time, the crowd had begun to drown out AC/DC. And the band's response? Rock louder.
Sixty-one-year-old lead singer Brian Johnson left little hope for the future of his vocal chords, emitting a howl that would put both Roger Daltry and Mariah Carey to shame.
And guitarist Angus Young, clad in his infamous schoolboy outfit, swarmed the stage like a caged tiger.
Looks of disbelief swept the crowd. Not just at how vicious Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap came across but how a man of 53 years could move with that kind of fervour and lack of restraint.
Now, any fan of hard rock with a discerning ear will tell you that much of AC/DC's work is similar in sound and scope.
And while creative evolution ought to be at the forefront of any artist's thrust and heft, AC/DC have bested their peers and successors with a simple formula: play the hits.
While this reviewer heard very little difference between Big Jack and Highway To Hell, I was in the minority. Around me stood music lovers who had saved their paycheques and every ounce of hope for Friday night.
With tickets going for $100 and scalpers asking 10 times that amount, why wouldn't the band play what the fans who have kept them afloat for years want to hear? As the band plowed through Thunderstruck with the tenacity of a hungry pitbull, complete with a gigantic train in the background, the rabid crowd brought forth a painfully obvious realization.
AC/DC represents a sliver within everybody that lives for a night of singing at the top of their lungs and leaving their troubles at the door.
The mass sing-along of Shoot To Thrill proved that at their very core, the music lovers at GM Place just wanted to be part of a wholly benign and faceless movement.
Though there was a noticeable lack of beer at GM Place, there was another noticeable absence at this rockfest: needless violence. It was as if their harsh harmonies brought out a joy few in the crowd knew existed. There is nothing like discovering a new emotion inside yourself and as long as there are Friday nights, there will not be another band like AC/DC.
-
Full article can be found here.
Rest assured after being given my reviewer ticket, it took every ounce of my conscience not to sell that ticket for 3 times its face value. (Somewhere around $300)
Anyway, here it is. Pretty surreal catching AC/DC live. I think I have to mention that this entire article was first printed in the Sun. So there you have it. I've got big balls.
-
Besides a certain ever-present curse word, rarely do four letters stir up as much emotion as AC/DC.
Their music isn't just a style of hard rock; it has defined the genre for over 30 years.
They are the band that entices many to pick up a guitar for the first time and, likewise, the band that entices many hesitant men onto the dance floor for the first time.
On the heels of their recently released Black Ice, their 15th full-length album, the tour de force from Sydney, Australia, brought their powerhouse live set to GM Place Friday night.
Expectations were high pre-set, as this was something of a homecoming for AC/DC. Black Ice was recorded at the Warehouse Studios in Vancouver and there was no shortage of hype surrounding GM Place.
Young and old alike beat the rain with the kind of elation most people pray to feel on a Friday night. Opening with the impatiently catchy Rock 'N Roll Train from Black Ice, the band wasted no time bringing the sell-out crowd not only to their feet, but as tall as they could get.
If AC/DC are pioneers of hard rock, then they're also the inventors of "fist-pumping" rock and roll. And the fist-pumping faithful showed their true colours during the beat-stomping Back In Black.
By this time, the crowd had begun to drown out AC/DC. And the band's response? Rock louder.
Sixty-one-year-old lead singer Brian Johnson left little hope for the future of his vocal chords, emitting a howl that would put both Roger Daltry and Mariah Carey to shame.
And guitarist Angus Young, clad in his infamous schoolboy outfit, swarmed the stage like a caged tiger.
Looks of disbelief swept the crowd. Not just at how vicious Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap came across but how a man of 53 years could move with that kind of fervour and lack of restraint.
Now, any fan of hard rock with a discerning ear will tell you that much of AC/DC's work is similar in sound and scope.
And while creative evolution ought to be at the forefront of any artist's thrust and heft, AC/DC have bested their peers and successors with a simple formula: play the hits.
While this reviewer heard very little difference between Big Jack and Highway To Hell, I was in the minority. Around me stood music lovers who had saved their paycheques and every ounce of hope for Friday night.
With tickets going for $100 and scalpers asking 10 times that amount, why wouldn't the band play what the fans who have kept them afloat for years want to hear? As the band plowed through Thunderstruck with the tenacity of a hungry pitbull, complete with a gigantic train in the background, the rabid crowd brought forth a painfully obvious realization.
AC/DC represents a sliver within everybody that lives for a night of singing at the top of their lungs and leaving their troubles at the door.
The mass sing-along of Shoot To Thrill proved that at their very core, the music lovers at GM Place just wanted to be part of a wholly benign and faceless movement.
Though there was a noticeable lack of beer at GM Place, there was another noticeable absence at this rockfest: needless violence. It was as if their harsh harmonies brought out a joy few in the crowd knew existed. There is nothing like discovering a new emotion inside yourself and as long as there are Friday nights, there will not be another band like AC/DC.
-
Full article can be found here.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Encores and Green Olives.
I'm listening to Gabel's newly-released solo effort, "Heart Burns" right now as I copy and paste the below text. The enthusiasm and optimism heard on the record really doesn't suit what I'm pasting. Nevertheless, it's a new style I'm working with. Hope yer feelin' downright optimistic about it, 'cos it's way shorter, yo.
---
We killed last night in Toledo. Everything was cookin’ from the get-go. The crew had found their way into a few ample, drunken sluts in Cleveland and wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it for the rest of the day. But a sexually satisfied worker is a diligent one and they whistled tunes of debauchery while they worked. It was their quickest set-up of the tour.
The crowd hit us early and often. We didn’t miss a note, even after knocking back a few Jaggerbombs during the encore break. Saturday nights usually have that effect on a young crowd.
Guitarist Pete’s brother lives in Toledo and insisted on taking us to “El Baterista Solitario,” the best Mexican joint Toledo had to offer. He’s some hot fucker of a lawyer and had three limos waiting for us after the gig.
Sympathetic bassist Luke felt compelled to wait for the crew. We all twisted mighty ropes with frontman Jack’s finest homegrown dope and watched in awe at how uptight the dope rendered Pete’s brother. What a wank!
Rolled in sweaty and starved at the Mexican joint. The wank ordered 10 buckets of Corona which disappeared sometime during the appetizer. He looked out of place in his Armani suit. He still flirted his way into getting the “No Smoking” rule bent. Kept talking up the salsa verde piquante too. Apparently it’s sent even the hardest men home in tears. I didn’t want the shits onstage tonight. Stuck with my quesadillas.
But roadie Don, fearless bastard that he is dived right in and promptly chugged two Coronas to calm the fire. The overzealous owner had a good chuckle at that one. Everyone else did too, actually. The conversation remained giddy with possibility; what had three journalists and countless bloggers in attendance thought of the gig? I couldn’t be fucked with that horsepiss talk. Smoked a pack of Winstons while the quesadillas reminded me of nothing at all.
-
Played like shit all night in Coumbus. Soundman Barrett had me mixed way too fuckin’ low. I was playing in my grave. Couldn’t find a groove with bassist Luke. No rhythm sect-o, no reason to live. He stopped coming by the office after “The Wreck Of The Divine Grease War,” our eighth tune. Watched the bar all night. Watched the crowd dwindle. Took my anger out on my snare during our tepid encore.
Backstage, lead guitarist Angelo thought it was a fine time to bust open a bottle of 12 year old Scotch he’d been saving. He started chugging like a guitarist possessed. Give it up you prick; Jimmy Page is an old boy now, you heard?
Retreated alone to the van for a joint in some kind of quiet. Maybe a walk to mingle with the kings of underworld Columbus. Didn’t make it though. Fuckin’ dude fans. 3 of ‘em lined up, without a lighter between ‘em.
“Hey Johnny. Great show tonight. Real rock.”
“Yeah. Sorry guys, I think Jack won’t be out for awhile.”
(Or, don’t any of you have a sister I could talk to?)
“Oh that’s alright man. It’s you I wanted to talk to anyway. We came out from Bloomington to see this gig and tomorrow’s in Cincinnati.”
“Oh.”
(Real killer choice for a vacation destination pal)
“He’s a drummer too. The Deplorable Bears. That’s their band.”
(The drummer didn’t even look up. At least he acts the part)
Dude continued. “But I was wondering…”
(Fuckin’ God and Brian Wilson mixed together in a terrible drink! Put a lightning bolt together and end this shit! Unless he’s gonna offer me a solo deal and maybe some green olives, keep your trap sewn shut! You just know what’s coming. These rock goofs analyze our shitty tunes to the point of no return. I don’t even lose a quarter of the sleep that they do about it. I clenched my fists…)
“…how much the road effects what you guys do, who you are as a band?”
(Fuck dude! What motivates you to wipe your ass in a specific manner every morning? Ah, of course. Goof’s not finished)
“I mean, your tunes seem crafted for the road. I found your latest one, “Passport Stamps and Suppositions” at a hole in the wall in Prague and couldn’t peel myself away from it for my next six train trips.”
(Inspiring shit. He was on a roll now)
“The whole album stretched man. No limitations in your sound. No aesthetic stone left unturned. The rhythm sounded infinite.”
(We’re a goddamned bar band, weirdo! Oh, but he still had something else to say)
“So do you find the road influences you guys? Is it a palpable, tangible influence?”
(Dude masturbated into his thesaurus last night. I breathed hard. I looked down. But dude’s eyes were wide-open with anticipation. His stubble, his rock and roll look, his scars of the road made me smile)
“The road? It’s the only life I know. I don’t write any of the tunes but I know it ain’t always pretty.”
(That got their damn attention. Goof stood there, jaw in the dirt)
“Must be tough. But it breeds authenticity, don’t ya think?”
(Don’t you?)
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Hey thanks for the set tonight too. Nice to hear “Pale Boots” back in the set after these past few tours. Always enjoyed that one. The entire first EP in fact. You know, that one served as a soundtrack for my first year at school.”
(We’ve all but dropped that entire embarrassing pile of dog shit from the set, by the way)
“I was miles away from home and that record helped me out, a lot. I really appreciate it.”
(Someone dropped a bottle in the distance and had a damn good laugh about it)
“So we’ll be there tomorrow. D’you think you could play something else from the EP? Maybe “Dogs On Grandview Avenue?” What a groove on that one, eh?”
(I was nursing a deathly vodka hangover when we laid that one down. Bassist Luke had to pick up the slack. I couldn’t hum along to it now if I tried)
“Yeah, maybe man.”
“So what are you upto now? Could we buy you a drink?”
“Look, I gotta get some rest.”
“Oh yeah, no sweat. Thanks a lot for chatting. Really appreciate it. I’m Jason by the way. “The Road.” It ain’t all glory eh?”
“Sure thing Jamie.”
Curled up in a ball on the back seat. That damn conversation left me exhausted. Lit a smoke and woke two minutes later when it’d burned a hole in my jeans. My last Winston.
-
Harsh winds took us to Cincinnati. Not a bad gig either. I was rested and mixed perfectly. Might have even felt good to be up there. Spotted a few crowd surfers. Blue moon type shit. That really elevated our game.
Devoured a few hundred green olives from the spread after the gig. If I could eat nothing else but quality green olives for the rest of my life, I’d never quit the rock game.
The surfers were one hell of a prophecy, or so our manager said. Some industry type was waiting for us backstage. Said he wanted to fly us to Australia and Japan and make stars out of us. They serve green olives in Japan?
He fed us some coke, which frontman Jack deemed “A lot grade insult. Fuck Japan!” If anyone would know, it’d be that maniac.
Ducked out of that industry talk. Left that to the pros. Swiped the bag of coke and chugged a vodka and red bull. That left be feelin’ alright. Sympathetic. Light hearted, maybe. Thought I’d treat Jimmy (Or Jeff, was it?) to a bump of the coke. Maybe we’d share the first bump of the night.
Outside, I started tingling. Maybe from the red bull or maybe from the cold. Wandered out to the van. Caught a look at myself in the rearview mirror and quickly looked away.
Smoked 3 Winstons and got a raging hard-on without a girl in sight. Hadn’t had any road ass in awhile; doubtful that Cinncinati could remedy the situation at all.
I suppose some of this oughta be going on our blog, website, what-fucking-ever. But bassist Mark takes care of that. And if I were given that duty, I’m sure our crowds would be even smaller than they are.
Fuck. I’m freezing. What am I doing out here?
Fuck. I put the wrong shoes on. I’m wearing fucking slippers.
Bent over to brush the snow and mud off ‘em. Finally heard a voice. The murmur whacked me over the head.
Jimmy, Jason, Johnny, James, James Joyce, Jim, Jim Morrison, whoever the fuck he was, he was cutting through the cold with three other rock goofs in female form. They weren’t even talking the set but they were talking a good time. Anticipation galore. Couldn’t wait to get out into the night, find a bar, find the road he’d dreamt of. Didn’t even throw a glance in my direction. My ass grew numb.
Back into the club for warmth and maybe some conversation. Everyone was moving at the speed of sound. The sound of another song.
Picked up pieces of news. Just pieces.
Despite not recognizing our alleged penchant for high quality narcotics, we’re going to work with the industry slut from Best Of Luck Records. Manager Paul made the decision while the band were engaged in a game of ping-pong.
They’re gonna press “Dogs Of Grandview Avenue” as a 7’’ re-issue to test the market.
I shove my hands into a bucket of ice (Yesterday’s furious encore just kicking in) and felt like screaming at the top of my lungs. Next stop, Louisville.
---
---
We killed last night in Toledo. Everything was cookin’ from the get-go. The crew had found their way into a few ample, drunken sluts in Cleveland and wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it for the rest of the day. But a sexually satisfied worker is a diligent one and they whistled tunes of debauchery while they worked. It was their quickest set-up of the tour.
The crowd hit us early and often. We didn’t miss a note, even after knocking back a few Jaggerbombs during the encore break. Saturday nights usually have that effect on a young crowd.
Guitarist Pete’s brother lives in Toledo and insisted on taking us to “El Baterista Solitario,” the best Mexican joint Toledo had to offer. He’s some hot fucker of a lawyer and had three limos waiting for us after the gig.
Sympathetic bassist Luke felt compelled to wait for the crew. We all twisted mighty ropes with frontman Jack’s finest homegrown dope and watched in awe at how uptight the dope rendered Pete’s brother. What a wank!
Rolled in sweaty and starved at the Mexican joint. The wank ordered 10 buckets of Corona which disappeared sometime during the appetizer. He looked out of place in his Armani suit. He still flirted his way into getting the “No Smoking” rule bent. Kept talking up the salsa verde piquante too. Apparently it’s sent even the hardest men home in tears. I didn’t want the shits onstage tonight. Stuck with my quesadillas.
But roadie Don, fearless bastard that he is dived right in and promptly chugged two Coronas to calm the fire. The overzealous owner had a good chuckle at that one. Everyone else did too, actually. The conversation remained giddy with possibility; what had three journalists and countless bloggers in attendance thought of the gig? I couldn’t be fucked with that horsepiss talk. Smoked a pack of Winstons while the quesadillas reminded me of nothing at all.
-
Played like shit all night in Coumbus. Soundman Barrett had me mixed way too fuckin’ low. I was playing in my grave. Couldn’t find a groove with bassist Luke. No rhythm sect-o, no reason to live. He stopped coming by the office after “The Wreck Of The Divine Grease War,” our eighth tune. Watched the bar all night. Watched the crowd dwindle. Took my anger out on my snare during our tepid encore.
Backstage, lead guitarist Angelo thought it was a fine time to bust open a bottle of 12 year old Scotch he’d been saving. He started chugging like a guitarist possessed. Give it up you prick; Jimmy Page is an old boy now, you heard?
Retreated alone to the van for a joint in some kind of quiet. Maybe a walk to mingle with the kings of underworld Columbus. Didn’t make it though. Fuckin’ dude fans. 3 of ‘em lined up, without a lighter between ‘em.
“Hey Johnny. Great show tonight. Real rock.”
“Yeah. Sorry guys, I think Jack won’t be out for awhile.”
(Or, don’t any of you have a sister I could talk to?)
“Oh that’s alright man. It’s you I wanted to talk to anyway. We came out from Bloomington to see this gig and tomorrow’s in Cincinnati.”
“Oh.”
(Real killer choice for a vacation destination pal)
“He’s a drummer too. The Deplorable Bears. That’s their band.”
(The drummer didn’t even look up. At least he acts the part)
Dude continued. “But I was wondering…”
(Fuckin’ God and Brian Wilson mixed together in a terrible drink! Put a lightning bolt together and end this shit! Unless he’s gonna offer me a solo deal and maybe some green olives, keep your trap sewn shut! You just know what’s coming. These rock goofs analyze our shitty tunes to the point of no return. I don’t even lose a quarter of the sleep that they do about it. I clenched my fists…)
“…how much the road effects what you guys do, who you are as a band?”
(Fuck dude! What motivates you to wipe your ass in a specific manner every morning? Ah, of course. Goof’s not finished)
“I mean, your tunes seem crafted for the road. I found your latest one, “Passport Stamps and Suppositions” at a hole in the wall in Prague and couldn’t peel myself away from it for my next six train trips.”
(Inspiring shit. He was on a roll now)
“The whole album stretched man. No limitations in your sound. No aesthetic stone left unturned. The rhythm sounded infinite.”
(We’re a goddamned bar band, weirdo! Oh, but he still had something else to say)
“So do you find the road influences you guys? Is it a palpable, tangible influence?”
(Dude masturbated into his thesaurus last night. I breathed hard. I looked down. But dude’s eyes were wide-open with anticipation. His stubble, his rock and roll look, his scars of the road made me smile)
“The road? It’s the only life I know. I don’t write any of the tunes but I know it ain’t always pretty.”
(That got their damn attention. Goof stood there, jaw in the dirt)
“Must be tough. But it breeds authenticity, don’t ya think?”
(Don’t you?)
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Hey thanks for the set tonight too. Nice to hear “Pale Boots” back in the set after these past few tours. Always enjoyed that one. The entire first EP in fact. You know, that one served as a soundtrack for my first year at school.”
(We’ve all but dropped that entire embarrassing pile of dog shit from the set, by the way)
“I was miles away from home and that record helped me out, a lot. I really appreciate it.”
(Someone dropped a bottle in the distance and had a damn good laugh about it)
“So we’ll be there tomorrow. D’you think you could play something else from the EP? Maybe “Dogs On Grandview Avenue?” What a groove on that one, eh?”
(I was nursing a deathly vodka hangover when we laid that one down. Bassist Luke had to pick up the slack. I couldn’t hum along to it now if I tried)
“Yeah, maybe man.”
“So what are you upto now? Could we buy you a drink?”
“Look, I gotta get some rest.”
“Oh yeah, no sweat. Thanks a lot for chatting. Really appreciate it. I’m Jason by the way. “The Road.” It ain’t all glory eh?”
“Sure thing Jamie.”
Curled up in a ball on the back seat. That damn conversation left me exhausted. Lit a smoke and woke two minutes later when it’d burned a hole in my jeans. My last Winston.
-
Harsh winds took us to Cincinnati. Not a bad gig either. I was rested and mixed perfectly. Might have even felt good to be up there. Spotted a few crowd surfers. Blue moon type shit. That really elevated our game.
Devoured a few hundred green olives from the spread after the gig. If I could eat nothing else but quality green olives for the rest of my life, I’d never quit the rock game.
The surfers were one hell of a prophecy, or so our manager said. Some industry type was waiting for us backstage. Said he wanted to fly us to Australia and Japan and make stars out of us. They serve green olives in Japan?
He fed us some coke, which frontman Jack deemed “A lot grade insult. Fuck Japan!” If anyone would know, it’d be that maniac.
Ducked out of that industry talk. Left that to the pros. Swiped the bag of coke and chugged a vodka and red bull. That left be feelin’ alright. Sympathetic. Light hearted, maybe. Thought I’d treat Jimmy (Or Jeff, was it?) to a bump of the coke. Maybe we’d share the first bump of the night.
Outside, I started tingling. Maybe from the red bull or maybe from the cold. Wandered out to the van. Caught a look at myself in the rearview mirror and quickly looked away.
Smoked 3 Winstons and got a raging hard-on without a girl in sight. Hadn’t had any road ass in awhile; doubtful that Cinncinati could remedy the situation at all.
I suppose some of this oughta be going on our blog, website, what-fucking-ever. But bassist Mark takes care of that. And if I were given that duty, I’m sure our crowds would be even smaller than they are.
Fuck. I’m freezing. What am I doing out here?
Fuck. I put the wrong shoes on. I’m wearing fucking slippers.
Bent over to brush the snow and mud off ‘em. Finally heard a voice. The murmur whacked me over the head.
Jimmy, Jason, Johnny, James, James Joyce, Jim, Jim Morrison, whoever the fuck he was, he was cutting through the cold with three other rock goofs in female form. They weren’t even talking the set but they were talking a good time. Anticipation galore. Couldn’t wait to get out into the night, find a bar, find the road he’d dreamt of. Didn’t even throw a glance in my direction. My ass grew numb.
Back into the club for warmth and maybe some conversation. Everyone was moving at the speed of sound. The sound of another song.
Picked up pieces of news. Just pieces.
Despite not recognizing our alleged penchant for high quality narcotics, we’re going to work with the industry slut from Best Of Luck Records. Manager Paul made the decision while the band were engaged in a game of ping-pong.
They’re gonna press “Dogs Of Grandview Avenue” as a 7’’ re-issue to test the market.
I shove my hands into a bucket of ice (Yesterday’s furious encore just kicking in) and felt like screaming at the top of my lungs. Next stop, Louisville.
---
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Pearl Jam at Madison Square Garden, June 24th and 25th, 2008.
Recently I read "The Show I'll Never Forget." It was edited by Sean Manning. Though most of the writers were nobodies in the world of rock writing (Save for that bastard Klosterman) it was still a compelling yet easy read. More than that, I wished I would have been included in this book. It's impossible to feel reserved about things like that, I've come to realize. Anyway.
I began to think about the gig I'll never forget. Since all the hip gigs have kind of blended into one lately, I decided t'go with The Jam at The Garden. Now, I know I couldn't fit this concert into the perscribed 3000 word limit. I know that. BUT. Just writing this still gave me shivers. So, if you have some time, give it a read. This is probably the story I've always wanted to write. Cliches and Bolivars, is what I might call it.
-
Clichés are only funny as they allow for a cheap yet effective joke. And they’re only culturally relevant as they’re as important a piece of insight as you can find.
So you can understand why I was nervous about landing in New York City (From an 11 hour flight no less) yet also chalk full of anticipation. The idea that everyone who comes to New York City is just a lost soul is a matter of national and cultural importance, while the idea that they’re looking to find themselves in the city is a matter of national security. But that’s a cliché for you.
Stranded high above the Atlantic, I realized I’d bought into both clichés; I was lost. I’d left Istanbul, Turkey on bad terms. Which is to say I never really got off on the right foot with the city; I had a gut-wrenching feeling upon arrival and spent the next 10 months desperately fighting against the imposing nature and beliefs of the city. All the while I searched for a self-realization that never came. Unsure of how to make my timely exit from a bad party, I debated for all of about eight seconds before deciding to jump ship in late June and catch Pearl Jam for two nights at Madison Square Garden.
While it would only be fair to the title to pick one of the two gigs as my “Favourite,” that would be a slice of thin-crusted betrayal to the gigs themselves.
In the month or so that remained before my departure from Istanbul[1] the gigs had swelled into one momentous occasion. One joyous event that was not just six aging dudes playing their own authentic brand of rock and roll but two nights of re-affirmation. (Hopefully, of course. Not to say there was any pressure on those six aging men, of course) Re-affirmation that after ten months spent seeing how low I could sink in regards to physical and self-esteem, (Including a muted reliance on bad alcohol, slightly effective painkillers and throwing everyone I passed a look of part scorn and fear) that good and beauty still existed in the world.
With my girl of two years (All spent in foreign locales, this Pearl Jam gig her first and my 4th and 5th) in tow we landed, inauspiciously enough. We treaded oh so delicately, both knowing the last haggard year had taken a toll on our relationship.
We spent the day of the first gig wandering aimlessly through the village, trying to find common ground with which to approach June 24th at the Garden. The historical aesthetics serve themselves I’m sure: the Stones laying down what some call the best live album of all time, “Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out,” the Mess hosting the Cup after a 54-year drought for the Rangers, (I would engage in a “Let’s Go Ran-Gers” chant during the gigs, something I’m quite sure I’ll never get to do again) and of course, the beginning of Hulkamania, the only reason for many dudes my age to ever wear red and yellow together.
When the conversation would slip, we’d talk Jam. Or, I’d talk Jam. I’d grown up with this band, finding hope in Ed’s lyrics and solace in the endless jams the band seemed to produce effortlessly. She found it hard to keep up with my inane setlist hopes and my concern over the possible dramatics that might ensue. Whether or not I was drowning out her excitement was of no concern to me. I had become a goddamned ticking time-bomb.
-
Although Istanbul is a city of 12 million, there were few nights of outright tolerable live music (Because some people might be wondering: The National, Of Montreal, Piano Magic and Broken Social Scene. Piano Magic took the cake, in what some other people might consider an upset) yet not a single big gig. You know the type: tickets bought months in advance, the artist usually has at least 3 records in your personal collection. Though it doesn’t have to be a big venue, that’s usually the way it rolls. And the gig itself is either awesome enough that you risk shitting in the very pants you planned so meticulously to wear that night or better than most other gigs you’d take in that year by reason of default. If it’s a bad gig, you’d probably take that to your grave.
If a normal human must have sex once a month to stay level headed, then the average live music fan would probably have one big gig a year. And I’d had none for the past 12 months. The pressure on Pearl Jam continued to mount.
Like a caged gorilla, I paced throughout the area surrounding Madison Square Garden before the show, trying desperately to find my footing. It’d been just under 5 years since I’d last seen Pearl Jam, a show that brought me as close to tears as I could get in public. Did the band still have the gift? Did I? What kind of fan was I? Or more importantly, what kind of person was I now, 5 years later?
I needed to document this occasion. I wanted a poster. Pearl Jam has been creating posters specific to each gig for years now. It wasn’t so difficult for me to grab one at my first gig, almost 10 years earlier. But as Pearl Jam’s myth approached legendary status (Though this poor bastard would argue it’s already there) so too did the resolve of their hardcore fans to get any piece of any Pearl Jam memorabilia out there. And the posters were almost as big a part of their lore as the bootlegs they officially release for each gig. Bearing this in mind, I thought checking out the merch stand an hour and a half before the doors even opened would be ample time to snag a $25 poster. (A price my girl found to be outrageous. Welcome to the world of rock and roll excess in the 21st century, I thought. Currently, the poster from their Pittsburgh 2000 gig goes for $899 on Ebay)
When I approached the merch guy requesting a poster with the will of child awaking on Christmas morning, he rolled his eyes.
“No more posters!” he shouted at me.
“NO MORE POSTERS!” he shouted for the other wannabe-fans behind me. His words were like lemon juice on my freshly gaping wound. What I heard was:
“Move along, you fake fan! You weren’t actually looking forward to tonight, were you?”
Now, though I had snagged a poster for Barrie ’98, I failed to get one for Toronto ’03 and for some reason, there wasn’t one designed for Toronto ’00. And now, with Pearl Jam’s history of outdoing themselves during two-night stands, I would miss out on tangible documentation of what could be the greatest night of my life.
We began to drown our sorrows. We bounced from bar-to-bar, still trying desperately to find a common ground. She was leaving the next day and we were set to spend a month apart. We were both secretly wondering if this thing of ours was going to work out. We were caught in our own tailor made New York City drama, now drinking our way out of it.
-
And now we were drunk, and the doors were open. We found our seats behind the stage, only after getting the scoop on the posters. They went on sale at 4.30 and were gone in 15 minutes. Many folks were out of luck and there was a serious hype for the next night’s poster.
When the lights dropped and the band teased us by waiting a good 26 seconds to walk onstage to a crawling piano number on the PA, I grabbed my girl and looked at her the way one might look at the person beside them before jumping off a cliff for the first time. I’ve never taken speed before, but I imagine that’s what speed felt like. Actually, I hope that’s what most drugs I’ve never tried before feel like.
They crawled into “Hard To Imagine,” a slowly building number. It seemed fitting, though no matter what they played I probably would have dubbed it “Fitting.” I felt my heart doing backflips in my throat. My stomach become weightless. And I felt Jeff Ament’s deep bass bring the hairs on the back of my neck to a standing ovation. As most Pearl Jam fans feel I’m sure, this was my gig. Already, it was a show to remember. But admittedly, I was pretty fucking drunk.
Ed greeted us after just three songs. “We’ve had some memorable nights here, but I got a feeling like tonight’s gonna top ‘em off. I feel real good.” I screamed like a goddamn baby. I’m a big fan of frontman pleasantries. I don’t really know why. But there was communication. After a 5 year absence, this is important.
The band played 31 songs that night. While they’ve played more on various nights, the night already felt endless. So much emotion; so much elation. Of the 31 tunes, they played 19 I’d never heard live before. And when any number of those tunes kicked in, I’d leave my seat and bolt down to the aisles, just to get a little closer. (And probably to grab some weed from the long haired old boy down there.)
Jumping into “Faithfull,” one of the 10 songs I listed on a napkin hoping they’d play, (They played 7 of ‘em) I lit up a smoke, hauling on it for all of 8 seconds before being told to butt it out. And when “Who You Are,” a song with deep personal resonance kicked in, I lit up another one, getting 13 seconds this time. Things were going well, despite how drunk I was.
Throughout the gig I’d check in with my girl, tossing random facts her way which I’m sure she didn’t enjoy. But how could I help it? This show felt like home. The band wasn’t “Tight,” “On fire” or “Jamming to their heart’s content” or any other obvious concert-writer’s superlative. They were writing their own rules. It was a warm rain that wouldn’t let up, with strokes of lightning and genius littered throughout. It was urgent rock and roll. It was the embodiment of passion.
Now, because I’m looking at the setlist in front of me, I could probably give you a song-by-song account of the night. But in the guise of rock and roll mystery, those things are better left unsaid. But immortality was nearly achieved during the song Ed played solo at the beginning of the second encore. I’d never heard it before; it was a call to arms from the film “Body Of War” about an Iraqi vet who’d been paralyzed by an insurgent’s bullet.
Even those never having heard the song before sang along in unison.
“With his eyes he says, NO MORE. With his body he says, NOOOOO MOOORE WAR.”
The momentum swept through the audience like wildfires. 5 years earlier, less than 2 years after 9/11, Ed would bring a plastic George W. mask on stage and publicly deface it, publicly. Just 30 miles east of New York City, in Uniondale, NY, Ed and the rest of the band were booed for pulling this stunt. And now, everyone knew better; we became unstoppable.
-
The band disappeared after the third encore. Coming down from this high wasn’t on the agenda. As this was our last night together, you’d think that we’d share a night to leave us wanting more of each other.
Yet somehow, in the clutter of being drunk and trying to brush our teeth, I’d passed out inside our room and locked her out. She banged on the door, desperate to be let in. This wasn’t the first time this had happened.
And when she gave in and went downstairs to grab the spare key, she awoke me from my slumber with a rallying call of her own.
“You better think pretty damn hard about whether you want to move to Vancouver or not!”
I opened my eyes, vaguely heard what she said and returned to slumber.
When we awoke to raging hangovers, I asked her if I’d dreamt what she said. I hadn’t. She was pissed and set to leave me in less than 6 hours.
Though tempers cooled after a stroll through Central Park it was clear that we were leaving this thing on a sour note. Well done, you stupid motherfucker, I thought as her airport shuttle pulled away.
And though I’d spent the last two years with her and the night before with 20,000 folks just like me, I felt totally alone now. At 2 in the afternoon, still far from home and just having lost the only consistency in my life for the past two years, I wondered who the hell I’d become. In a more prevalent sense, I wondered who I was. Thank you New York City, for doing this to me. I began to wander aimlessly again.
-
I tried desperately to get my spirits up, leaning on my headphones to assuage my broken-heart and open soul. I began to search, though I ultimately knew where I’d end up.
I NEEDED a poster for tonight’s gig. I had a sneaking suspicion that tonight’s gig wouldn’t top the night before. But if my girl and I were to never find each other again, the least I could do was grab a poster for a little permanent heartache. (Pearl Jam fans are also an emotional bunch, if that hasn’t become apparent already. Some will win, some will lose, some were born to sing the blues.)
So at 3.30, I was the first person at the merch stand in the lobby of MSG. I brought a “Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates” by Tom Robbins and steel resolve. After waiting for 15 minutes, I had a dozen fans approach me with looks of equal part admiration and hope. They too had been shut out and now they were forming a line behind me. But 15 minutes later, our hopes were dashed.
A prick of an attendant informed me that not only did we have to leave but that the crowd of 200 or so gathering outside was the actual line-up for posters. And as I rushed out to join the line-up, I hoped this wasn’t what speed felt like.
At the back of the line-up, I began to sweat and smoke nervously. No one was exactly sure how many posters were actually available, though overweight collectors seemed to offer their opinions rather easily. A loud-mouth behind me spoke rather vehemently about how Pearl Jam was going about the process. We weren’t waiting in line for a poster, after all; we were waiting in line for a wrist-band that would guarantee us a poster after the gig. And the nerve of this guy to call the practice “Retarded.” Dude wasn’t even GOING to the gig tonight! He’d been last night sure, but just because he deemed himself a “Collector” he felt as if he was owed a poster and kept his heckling up throughout the duration of the madness that would ensue. Some people.
But that being said, “Some people” prove themselves to be the kind of music fans you wish would proliferate this earth. It’s folks like “Jesus” and “Belladina” that will probably save the music industry.
As 4.30 drew closer, so to did each of us in the line. Things were beginning to get a little hairy; people were beginning to lose their cool. But these two seemed to be holding their own. The dude in his Lennon-esque beard, welcoming demeanour, darn skin and thin glasses that seemed to be perpetually slipping down his nose thanks to the permanent sweat dripping from his head. And her, all of 5 foot nothing, a thousand freckles and a smile that made you want to hug her before speaking to her. Standing there alone, these seemed the kind of people I could share a gig with.
The dude was flipping through an issue of “Time Out,” a weekly city guide that I’d written for in Istanbul. It was my first paid writing stint and besides real kebaps, might have been the only redeeming part of that city. I loved writing for that rag. So I didn’t really allow self-consciousness to seep in when I asked him about the magazine.
We got off on the right foot; I name-dropped the mag and my stint writing for it, but quickly followed suit by talking Jam. Imagine my surprise when they revealed one bit of standing-in-line-for-a-freaking-poster-allure; these two were from Caracas, Venezuela and had flown in just for the gig.
These two epitomized dedication, or insanity depending on how much you like “Jeremy.” Pearl Jam has never visited Venezuela and I assume after awhile you just get sick of hearing “The Waiting Is The Hardest Part” on classic rock radio. Better to get on a flight than swear off Tom Petty for good, I figure. Their motives might have been why we’d all found each other in this line-up after all. Minutes earlier, when a cougar-ish woman wondered out loud what was happening, I remarked openly:
“I’m not proud of what I do. But I also wouldn’t trade this spot for any other place in the world.”
And now, I had a bit of that world on my side too. We skipped past the inane bullshit and decided to get comfortable as quick as possible. These are the rules of a roadtrip and it felt damn close to a roadtrip by this stage. We were hungry, sweaty and had no idea where we were, really.
Slowly, a few people gave up and hopped over the barrier. My resolve wasn’t weaning; I’d made a promise to lady luck that I’d grab a poster. If I had to prove anything, it was that I followed through on my sober promises.
And it seemed like judgement day was now approaching. A few official looking dudes approached the hoard of us. Seconds earlier, now crushed against each other, the three of us decided that if this all worked out we’d meet up outside the walls of this prison of rock and roll dedication and head out for a drink before the gig. Fuck knows I needed someone to talk to.
It all happened so fast, and it all ended so quickly as well. A megaphone was raised while another dude brought out what looked like thousands of wristbands. The sweaty mess of 5 dollar bills that I’d nearly suffocated in my pockets were out in a heartbeat. And they quickly returned. To combat the previous night’s “Fiasco,” wristbands were being issued early. These wristbands would not ensure a poster, but merely to ensure those in line at this moment would even be eligible for the next stage of wristbands.
I heard every curse word in a typical New Yorkers vocabulary soon afterward. But no one turned those wristbands away; it became even more of a mess. I made a joke about Ed Vedder waiting in the wings in dark sunglasses, having a good ol’ laugh at the hoops all of us would jump through. No one found that one too funny.
I asked Jesus if he’d brought his good luck charm. He looked down at Belladina and smiled with restrained affection. Fuck me, I thought. Is that lemon juice you’re drinking, sir?
“And what about you? What do Canadians consider to be good luck?”
“Whatever it might be my friend, I certainly don’t have it.” It wasn’t my intention to sound so damn pathetic, but some emotions just can’t be contained.
Jesus put a hand on my shoulder (Proximity left him little options otherwise) in a manner which seemed rehearsed (Only because he probably realized what his name meant very early on in his life) yet genuine. (Because dude’s fucking name is Jesus!)
With his other hand, he reached deep into his pocket and pulled out 2 Venezuelan Bolivars. It was a colorful note, all baby blue with what looked like a tiny sparrow on it. In a weird (And rehearsed and genuine) way, it became a symbol of hope for us. I don’t think 2 Venezuelan Bolivars are considered good luck to any Venezuelans (Though as Jesus told me, what I held in my hand could buy me a drink in most bars I’d frequent in the entire country. Score) but for me, it was as if I had some momentum, something physical on my side. Someone wanted me to get a poster and rock the fuck out tonight just as much as I did.
-
The gates soon opened, letting in only 25 fans at a time. The consensus by this point was that only 250 posters were printed. As I watched those first 25 fans slip through the gates with anything but guile, I began to do a headcount of everyone in front me. As usual in situations like this, I placed my odds squarely at 50/50.
I nudged forward as much as I could without knocking anyone over, though I’m quite sure I was anything but polite. I’d lost Jesus and Belladina by this point but I was sure our pact remained. It was actually them that I thought of as I slipped my way through two standard looking male Pearl Jam fans (Slightly chunky, often travelling in pairs, baseball capped and goateed with a permanent aloofish grin) and through the gates. I’d never associated freedom with so much pressure before. And when the merch dude threw the wristband on me, I really didn’t feel much at all.
No sense of elation. No sense of all kinds of hard work being paid off. I searched for an emotion as I walked back outside towards our designated meeting spot. I tried to figure it out, I really did. Perhaps I had no one to share this accomplishment with, which might have been while I made such a bee-line for the doors again.
That being said, there were still approximately a thousand high fives between the three of us when Jesus and Belladina emerged afterwards, both sporting wristbands I was sure were more valuable than any Venezuelan currency at this point.
At the bar, I suggested a round of Pilsner Urquells, which Jesus seemed happy to comply with. We flew through that first round before Belladina made a dent in hers. He’d never sipped the grand Pils before and wanted another, which we plowed through before the moisture disappeared from Belladina’s glass. Now, this isn’t meant to express bravado in any sense. Me and Jesus, we were simply riding each other’s high. But I could sense the slightest suffering in her (A nod to Costanza, no doubt) and decided that if anything could raise her spirits (And ours, as a collective) it would be to get hyped for the gig tonight. It’s often easy to lose sight of the gig while you’re soaked in your drink of choice hours before the gig.
“So what d’you want to hear tonight anyway Belladina? What’s your favourite Pearl Jam tune?” (I could have followed all this with, “What exactly was it that called to you and made you buy a ticket that at the time of typing was a 10 hour trip that cost around $1084?”)
But at this, her heart sunk deep into her half glass of Pilsner. Jesus’s face dropped too. What had I done?
“I won’t hear anything tonight. We don’t have tickets.”
Her voice was desolate. Jesus tried desperately to look as far away from me as possible. Who were these people? Crazed collectors from who knows where or…well, that’s about as far as I got.
“What do you mean you don’t have tickets? What are we doing here right now? What are we drinking to get psyched for?”
They looked at each other and began confessing to me as if they were teenagers who’d missed a curfew. They were full of regret.
“We only bought tickets for the first night.”
“But why ? Aren’t you guys the most hardcore fans known to man? Didn’t God put you on Earth for the sole reason to accompany me tonight and prove to me that good will ultimately triumph over evil?”
As you can imagine, “But why?” was all I got out.
-
They confessed that although they were staying with Jesus’s sister, because they only heard about the gig after it went on sale they were forced to buy tickets from Ebay. And though I never checked how much they might have been, I can only imagine that they would’ve been more than the cost of a few posters.
What followed was a hotly contested debate about how much tonight’s gig would matter. Although the consensus was that last night’s gig was life-altering at worst (Did I mention that not only did the band bring the least-known Ramone on stage, which is one of those cool by uncool moments but they also elected to bring three members of their road crew on stage that added harmony as well an aesthetic that had each note topping the last) there was still the hope that tonight would be better. And in a two-night stand, that’s usually the only reason to get up for that second morning.
And there we were, standing on the brink of oblivion in New York City. It was about time to figure out exactly who the three of us were. Were we fans, or just people who would take questions to the grave like, “What could have been?” And was I idle enough after having been left alone in a city of strangers for a day to just, well, stand by, idly?
“Why don’t you guys buy scalped tickets?”
This statement was met with looks of confusion all around. Thanks to my limited expertise teaching my native language, I was able to convince them that getting scalpers wasn’t only a legit idea but it was something a couple of Venezuelans could do. Jesus spoke tersely to Belladina in Spanish, convincing her that this was something that happened at many Venezuelan soccer and baseball games. And that was all it took; they were on board.
It was more than just motivational speaking that made me want to see them at the gig. After all, the road is an imposing force. Very often when you’re away from home it’s easy to fall into the road’s trap. You say to yourself, well, look at how far I’ve come, isn’t that an achievement in and of itself?
While that is a wholeheartedly valid argument, under the circumstances it just didn’t seem like a hitter I felt like dignifying by pitching too. After all, if Pearl Jam had subscribed to that methodology years ago, they probably wouldn’t be playing at Madison Square Garden that night. The road is a force that your soul must oblige to whenever called upon.
And slowly, the two of them warmed to that prospect. It didn’t hurt that me and Jesus were now four deep and he seemed to be a master of persuasion too. He continued to speak tersely to her; though she did seem excited she provided the voice of reason.
“How much do scalped tickets cost?”
It would have been easier to convince them that tickets were affordable had they not paid exorbitant amounts of money for the first night’s seats. But there was a sense of unrest within me that deemed it not only appropriate but mandatory that those two be at the gig tonight. And when things get as serious as that, telling white lies usually becomes of the essence.
“Oh, it won’t be much. Nobody wants to see the opening band, right?”
We all collectively glanced at our watches and realized that with somewhere around 4 and a half hours before Pearl Jam graced the stage that booze took precedent over the opening band.
“So how much then, for two tickets? We don’t care where we sit.”
“It might not come to that; scalpers usually have the best or the worst seats in the building.”
“Well, we’ll take the worst then.”
By our sixth pint to her second, she was convinced. Jesus and I were already discussing logistics, but she piped up like a rocket from the proverbial crypt and proclaimed to us (And what felt like the rest of the bar) that she was “Excited” for tonight’s gig. She was onboard. Jesus had to proclaim this to the entire bar himself.
“OK. It’s official. She’s onboard!”
With that, Belladina proceeded to drink two pints in the span of our next half-pints. And in that span, she’d proceeded to catch upto us. Now, there was no need to disappoint her. As we left, we caught a glimpse of dusk before quickly becoming accustomed to it. It seemed as infinite as the possibilities.
That is until Jesus tried to snag $150 out of a Citibank. (An amount for some reason I thought would be appropriate, knowing full well that $150 wouldn’t even buy regularly priced tickets) He was met with the realization that so many of us face with a half-hearted smile: insufficient funds.
So now what? Tread lightly into the night? Belladina began to grow anxious. He tried three other banks, though they all provided him with the same realization. Only dealing in Venezeulan Bolivars, he had exceeded his weekly allowance. Being part of the distant axis of evil had its drawbacks, I suppose.
Ted Leo was now well into his set and I began to wonder how this was going to turn out. The sun set was setting, I had one of those impatient drunks brewing within me and I had to piss like all hell. We tried two scalpers, though with Jesus’s outright affability and lack of guile (And more importantly, lack of cash) it was all they could do to not laugh at us. They were starting to seem dejected. They needed some luck.
I went to offer Jesus those 2 bolivars before realizing what I actually should be offering. I had $125 left to my name and 24 hours left in New York City. And that’s when the most self-less realization I’ve ever had batted me over the head. It might have been the first, indeed.
-
Though Jesus was terribly selfless he still knew his priorities. He couldn’t have been able to get back on that flight back to Caracas without wondering what “Could have been.” I asked him if I could lend him some money. They had $75 between them, and my $125 might have put him in the buying range.
Now, although his face showed interest in the offer, his lady showed otherwise. She didn’t want to put me out. However, I’m sure she didn’t want to disappoint her man either. This was not her time to speak ill of the Jam and the possibilities.
“But how could I pay you back? Don’t you leave for Toronto tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I do. But that’s not what’s really important here.”
And it wasn’t. I can’t exactly remember what transpired during our three-hour conversation to get psyched for a show only one of us had tickets for, but I know it was relevant and important. In some strange manner, I saw a bit of myself in these two fans. I saw my desperate longing of years previous in which I’d lose my cool to be at a gig. Now I know these two were keeping their hats on straight, but their frowns were beginning to bring me down. If I let them go now, odds are I’d never see them again. And if I didn’t share my post-show elation with them tonight, odds are I’d end up hanging with the vagabonds tonight.
So I dug deep into my pockets and pulled out all $125. That’d give them $200, which if they waited long enough would hopefully give them enough for two tickets in the back. At this, they freaked out. But they had to take it. They refused, and I nearly had to force it down their throats. But I’d calmed my drunk and spoke honestly to them.
“Just get inside. Just see tonight.”
They argued, but I repeated my sentiment. And I don’t mean to sound prophetic, but it sounded like the command I’d wished I’d heard so many times before.
“Just get inside. Just see tonight.”
And that was that. They took the cash. We arranged a spot to meet afterwards, though I can’t remember exactly where it was. And I’m not sure if I remembered it as soon as I left them, either
-.
Inside the Garden, everyone looked beat. Which is a good sign, considering most of the crowd were repeat offenders. I found my seat side stage, made time with a few more repeat offenders (Including a couple pushing 50 who’d seen over 100 Pearl Jam gigs but couldn’t pinpoint their favourite gig, for some reason) and readied myself for the gig. From side stage, alone, the Garden seemed to be bursting at the seams.
When Pearl Jam appeared, I tried to maintain focus. (Again) That is until some dude two rows down threw a packed bowl my way. I realized then that this might be the last time I see Pearl Jam for another five years; why not enjoy the shit?
I didn’t spend much time in my seat; I tried to make it down as far as I could, occupying whatever empty seat I could find. When it came time to take a piss, I swaggered to the can. And there, I remembered why I had adopted that swagger.
As I unzipped during the tripped out bridge/jam of “Rearviewmirror” I felt my hand shaking. It wasn’t my dependency on bad alcohol catching up with me; it was the ground shaking beneath me.
-
Flashing back to New York City 2003, the gig famously captioned on “Live At The Garden,” arguably their best concert DVD, Ed returns from an encore break to make sense of what had just happened during their set closer, “Do The Evolution.”
He details how fucked up it felt, having the stage moving beneath him and the rest of the band. Apparently this was a first for the Jam but not for the mighty Garden. The likes of the Grateful Dead, Bruce Springsteen and Iron Maiden had elicited this kind of crazed response years earlier.
It was happening again. As I was shaking myself dry, it all came rushing back to me: this had happened last night too. Fuck! Had I not been semi-sober tonight, would I have actually been able to recount that emancipating feeling of the ground shaking beneath me in a totally benign fashion? I won’t answer that question; I’ll just get back to my seat.
And there, I was left simply to watch and indulge a little more, with a few overpriced pints and help from that dude two rows ahead. (Or was it behind, now?) They dived deep into cuts I never thought I’d have the pleasure of hearing. (1991’s “Garden,” 1996’s “I’m Open” and 1993’s “Rats,” to name a few) They took the pressure I’d put on them and banished it into the proverbial endzone. This was what I’d hoped for. I couldn’t look away, or look back either. This was what being mesmerized feels like, I remember telling myself.
It came in the second encore, too; what being completely and utterly surprised feels like. As “Why Go?” ended in the second encore, I expected to hear one more hit and a traditional closer and call it a night. Life-altering indeed, but at the same time, nothing that would go down the Jam Hall of Awesome. But when Ed steps upto the mic, he commands an audience that Obama guy could only hope to rival.
He rambled on about a few guys lead guitarist Mike McCready had looked upto in his youth. Dudes like Richards and Vaughan were name dropped before Vedder stumbled onto the last one, a dude he thought “Came before all those other ones.” (Something history would take up a quarrel with, I’m sure) And though my knowledge of rock and roll history wasn’t riding high at that point, I was still gasping for air when Ed told the Garden that Ace Freehley was about to come onstage.
Now, I don’t find anything endearing about KISS. Makeup in rock and roll sucks balls, and “Detroit Rock City” was barely a tolerable movie. But when Pearl Jam beckoned Ace Freehley onstage, there was little I could do but laugh my ass off. This was really happening. As I’ve been told, for a gig to be great “Something has to happen.”
And “Almost Famous” be damned; it was happening. Watching Pearl Jam play is like having a thin cloud of smoke cast five feet in front of you. And though everything looks better through that cloud, there’s still something that begs you to fight through that cloud. Yet no matter how hard you try, that cloud keeps getting thicker and things keep sounding better. And if you surrender yourself to that cloud, the tunes will keep you afloat for longer than you thought rock and roll’s expiry date could ever be.
Speaking of clouds, chew on this one too; catching the band work together was like watching a stick of incense burn indoors. How did each strand of smoke blend together without any influence of the wind? How did Matt know to accentuate each one of Ed’s howls? How did Jeff and Stone become as in sync as two gusts of wind themselves? How did a few instruments and amps seem to produce this aura around the band that again, while righteous in appearance still seemed effortless? Or, to make it as apparent as it seemed to me during “Corduroy,” the fourth track, how did they manage to lace this seemingly harmless pot with something much, much more potent? And how did no one else notice? I looked around during the bridge and realized that in fact, another 19,999 Pearl Jam fans did indeed notice.
-
As soon as the houselights came back on, I tried desperately to breath new life into my lungs but not my soul. I looked around; I’d ended up twenty rows closer than I’d started, two sections to the left. A palpable part of me wanted to do something I hadn’t done in ages after a gig; take a seat, light a smoke and watch everyone tread slowly on deep water, trying desperately to make their way out.
But so much had changed in the last two days; I didn’t have more than $8 of my savings from 10 months in Istanbul. And I’d found myself void of the best friendship I ever knew while on the verge of something spectacularly friendly that could only be born out of punk-infused classic rock dedication. When that thought smacked me upside the head, I stumbled around and went after my poster. That poster, the singular idea of it had become my driving force in this city. It had become my familiarity. This was me reaping the rewards of rock and roll dedication.
The Garden was a buzz as I scattered throughout the wings. Faces blended into one. Nobody needed to consult any message boards. What had happened over the past two nights had rendered all of us light on our feet and heavy in our hearts. It was over now; as long as something happened next to take our mind off the fact that it might be another five years until nirvana, then we might be able to find some sleep. For me, it was that poster.
As we (Whoever I happened to be standing beside for a period of three and a half seconds) stormed down a set of stairs, we heard a rumble in the stairways and throughout the Garden. And though I didn’t spot anyone else with a poster bracelet, the mad dash grew prolific and poised for the finish line. I continued to let the momentum sweep me off my sweaty feet.
And then I was there, in the line-up for a poster. As everyone piled out beside me, I encountered exactly as many taunts, drunken belligerence (And sadly, I could barely come up with any constructive comebacks. For brief moments, I agreed with them) and endless offers for my poster. But I couldn’t stray from my path. I soon made it to the front of the line and saw the posters being handed out before their patrons headed out into the night.
And then I was there, with my hand out, showing proof of my existence in the form of a shitty black and white spotted wristband. And just then, my existence was brought home to me. Or better yet, it came crashing down on my back.
I felt the weight of the Northern Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea on my back. But when I turned around, I saw a smile that could have seeped up both those bodies of water on substance and emotion alone. It was Jesus. He had appeared before me. And he was speaking to me. How fucking cool!
Jesus and Belladina had made it inside on the strength of their combined cash, my contribution, will and determination alone. But superlatives, ego-boosts and adjectives aside, they had made it in. And after he mauled me, bear-hugged me and refused to let go, I got an idea of how much he appreciated my favour. Oh, how redeeming it felt to be standing there (Or anywhere) and actually wanting to be where I was. I ended up grabbing Jesus back and refusing to let go. We were quite close to losing out place in line.
-
After the three of us left the Garden (They ended up selling one of their posters to some dude for $300 almost immediately after they had bought them and promptly restored my faith in the money-lending business) we found ourselves in the same bar we started at. We were a wash of emotion; I continued to remind them how elated I felt to have Jesus confirm the fact that there was good in the world and that he was the embodiment of that good. Just two drinks had thrown me headfirst over the edge. Jesus and I remained locked in our hearts; antiquated rock and roll brought us together for the rest of the night. I’m beginning to write in flowery sentences, but that’s only because that’s how we felt. We would not shut up about the minute, innate details. What had Mike been wearing? What were the special, subversive meanings behind playing certain songs? And more importantly, how much would this friendship of ours matter in the morning?
We were still awake at 4 in the morning, so I was close to reckoning that it might. Finding each other was the easy part. Even the performances delivered themselves rather easily. There is now a rather large part of me that will associate New York City and those gigs with Jesus and Belladina. Which is why it wasn’t easy for me to say goodbye. But again, I’m getting flowery.
The greatest concert I’ve ever seen? Maybe. Somehow, had I never met Jesus and Belladina, I’m quite sure those gigs still would have been greater than a bag full of great things. But we found ourselves in that line-up, at our weakest yet strongest point. We re-affirmed a certain sense of pride in each other. And we sure loosened each other up a hell of a lot too. Getting that out of someone you’re almost positive you’ll never see again ought to be the photo that’s printed directly beside “Life-altering” in the dictionary, if such a thing existed.
And me and my girl? We ended up in Vancouver and survived the flood. We listen to the Madison Square Garden bootlegs together very, very often, usually in silence and appreciation. But now, she always carries a key in her pocket. And me, I carry a purpose, a little bit of self-definition and 2 Venezuelan Bolivars if for no other reason than to remind me that the New York City isn’t just a place you see in the movies, though it is one wrought with cliches.
---
[1] After the day that the gigs had become a permanent fixture on the horizon. I had sweat it out, smoking 28 cigarettes in one day, waiting until 5 p.m. Istanbul time, 10 a.m. Eastern time to find a secure internet connection and buy tickets online, punching in my details with the trepidation of an antelope bathing wide out in the open of the East African countryside. I’d bet a pound of antelope meat that most people who’ve purchased tickets to a “Big gig” online know the feeling
Monday, October 20, 2008
Digging A Hole With A Touring Band
An interview with guitarist Aaron Dessner of critically renowned rockers The National and a subsequent review of their show at Babylon, December 7th, 2007. It was printed in the January issue of Time Out Istanbul.
-
Whenever you travel anywhere, be it drunk on a bus in Europe or across the Bosphorus on a Dolmus you’ve got to refrain from searching for that existential sense of where you are. If anything, you’ll realize how late you might be. But by giving in, you’ll find that you’re doing something. And it could be something important.
This is probably true for moody Brooklyn rockers “The National.” The next gig is always the most important one. Looking back is always fun for a laugh, but as guitarist Aaron Dessner confessed to me from Copenhagen, the road “Seems to stifle creativity.” If that’s the case then the destination becomes paramount when touring. It’s easy to understand why there was a palpable buzz surrounding Babylon on Friday, December 7th a few hours before The National’s debut in Istanbul.
Dessner confessed that “No one wants to hear songs about a band being drunk of a bus in the middle of Europe. With an itinerary, your grasp on what’s important begins to slip. But that being said I think the more touring we do, the better we become as a band.”
I didn’t think to ask him then what’s really important for a touring band. My guess would be that it was the fans waiting outside Babylon more than a few hours before the gig.
If The National encountered any of the traffic that I did coming into Beyoglu, it promised to be an urgent gig. I jumped out of my Dolmus like a jack in the box who’d drank a little too much on the Asian side of the city.
Following a string of critically acclaimed records, the optimistically melancholic sound of these five friends has been lumped in with various other indie heroes, such as Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. What sets them apart is the unassuming manner in which they continue to conduct themselves. As Dessner put it, “We don’t write frilly songs for the sake of frills.” It’s as if their attention is better focused elsewhere, be it the gig in front of them or getting drunk on that bus, wherever it is.
The National didn’t appear to be bursting with ambition as they sauntered on stage nearly an hour late. They were victims of life on the road. Istanbul was their 33rd stop in 38 days. It was up to the eager and loyal fans swelling at Babylon to provide the only cure they could.
They opened with “Start A War,” an acoustically driven debate from “Boxer,” their latest and most relaxed full length. “Walk away now, and you’re gonna start a war” crooned vocalist Matt Berringer. But the fans were screaming “Don’t even think of walking away.” And this was only the first song.
Despite intriguing decor, the stage at Babylon is a small one. The National worked to make the most of it, regularly trading instruments. There were points when touring violinist Padma Newsome stole center stage from Berringer, adding fury and harmony. With such fervor, I don’t know how every one of his strings didn’t fall victim to that fury.
If nothing else, the band is consistent. When describing the recording of “Boxer”, Dessner told me that they “Like to keep things fair. Every instrument gets its due.”
As “Boxer” will be one of those albums that keeps people talking, I wondered how that urgently patient sound came to fruition. Dessner claimed that he had a soft spot for the ugly duckling under a rock. Hard to argue with that.
Visiting a new city rarely allows you to scratch the surface. It’s a shame that the day after the show, the band likely only had time to take in Istiklal Caddesi. This isn’t meant to liken Istanbul’s unknown haunts to ugly ducklings. But if the band likens a woefully righteous tune like “Green Gloves” to an ugly duckling, then they would have enjoyed more than the traditional hot spots in Istanbul. But that’s what guidebooks are for, I suppose.
So how do you scratch the surface of a city? And likewise, how do you see beyond a band that’s on a stage while you’re standing in a pile of cigarette butts? You work harder and make sure you get invited back. Midway through the set, I was wondering if this was going to happen.
With many of the tunes, including fan favourite “Mr. November,” the band ran through the song’s circular patterns with relative ease. It struck me as a bit lackluster.
I forgot that any and all judgment in rock and roll ought to be reserved until after the guitars stop making noise. When the final chorus broke, the band finally overpowered the audience. It was frantic rock and roll. I looked around and saw many a smoke dangling out of open mouths.
Now, on the morning of the show I was left without a ticket into the gig. I was pacing around the city with little to no regard. Though there were more than enough smiling fans milling about Babylon, I was that ugly duckling Dessner so affectionately referred to.
It was hard to come across as an unbiased journalist when speaking to Dessner. After all, I’d gladly be lumped in with those “Loyal fans.” I remember finding their previous album “Alligator” in a dank record store in Poland. I listened to it three times over and nearly missed work that day.
I couldn’t keep struggling with the thought that I wouldn’t be inside that night. I let the band know about my condition. It wasn’t long before I heard back from them. A journalist or not, I was still a fan. And they knew that. Though I was admitted into the show on only a few hours notice, I was still no better or worse than anyone else in the room. I had to do my part just as everyone else would.
“A good show grows” Dessner told me very matter of fact. It began with the wine which Berringer passed out to the front row. Then, sometime during the encore, vocalist Matt Berringer hopped into the crowd to sing a few verses. Realizing he couldn’t get a word in edgewise he took to a lectern stage left. He’d managed to escape the intensity the crowd had created and shout back at them.
Due to the band’s tight schedule it was likely they didn’t see much of Istanbul during their first day in the city. Their first impression must have been those fans up front. I suppose that wine was well deserved. It was sweet, as was the sentiment from the fans.
Sensing some timing and occasion, the crowd begged the band to play “Karen,” a tune Berringer claimed to be “Too painful to play. Not emotionally of course. It’d just be painful for you guys to hear.” But the front row was relentless. They drew smiles from most of the band. Berringer offered a mild “You guys are very commandeering. I like it.” This only added fuel to a growing fire. The night had grown; it was a teenager, upset with his pre-determined surroundings and clamoring for something more.
The National are as strangely compelling as Istanbul itself. As you move from track to track, tram stop to roasted chestnut stand it’s easy to find yourself swallowed whole. After listening to “Boxer,” you’re left wondering if you even feel like pulling yourself out of the hole that’s been dug.
Maybe one day that teenager will throw on “Boxer” and dig themselves a hole, searching for their memories of the show at the bottom somewhere. But The National will likely still be on the road. And hopefully both parties will stop and remember that the only way to get out is to learn your surroundings and learn how to use them to your advantage. Though anyone at the gig will tell you that The National visited a city worth discovering. And I’m sure that’ll mean another visit to Istanbul from the band sometime soon.
You should never stop and take stock, sure. But you should always question your motives. As the show drew to a close, Berringer told the crowd that the band had the next 24 hours in Istanbul to do as they pleased. “What should we do in Istanbul?” he asked us. More cheers and various suggestions. But really, what should any of us do?
-
Whenever you travel anywhere, be it drunk on a bus in Europe or across the Bosphorus on a Dolmus you’ve got to refrain from searching for that existential sense of where you are. If anything, you’ll realize how late you might be. But by giving in, you’ll find that you’re doing something. And it could be something important.
This is probably true for moody Brooklyn rockers “The National.” The next gig is always the most important one. Looking back is always fun for a laugh, but as guitarist Aaron Dessner confessed to me from Copenhagen, the road “Seems to stifle creativity.” If that’s the case then the destination becomes paramount when touring. It’s easy to understand why there was a palpable buzz surrounding Babylon on Friday, December 7th a few hours before The National’s debut in Istanbul.
Dessner confessed that “No one wants to hear songs about a band being drunk of a bus in the middle of Europe. With an itinerary, your grasp on what’s important begins to slip. But that being said I think the more touring we do, the better we become as a band.”
I didn’t think to ask him then what’s really important for a touring band. My guess would be that it was the fans waiting outside Babylon more than a few hours before the gig.
If The National encountered any of the traffic that I did coming into Beyoglu, it promised to be an urgent gig. I jumped out of my Dolmus like a jack in the box who’d drank a little too much on the Asian side of the city.
Following a string of critically acclaimed records, the optimistically melancholic sound of these five friends has been lumped in with various other indie heroes, such as Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. What sets them apart is the unassuming manner in which they continue to conduct themselves. As Dessner put it, “We don’t write frilly songs for the sake of frills.” It’s as if their attention is better focused elsewhere, be it the gig in front of them or getting drunk on that bus, wherever it is.
The National didn’t appear to be bursting with ambition as they sauntered on stage nearly an hour late. They were victims of life on the road. Istanbul was their 33rd stop in 38 days. It was up to the eager and loyal fans swelling at Babylon to provide the only cure they could.
They opened with “Start A War,” an acoustically driven debate from “Boxer,” their latest and most relaxed full length. “Walk away now, and you’re gonna start a war” crooned vocalist Matt Berringer. But the fans were screaming “Don’t even think of walking away.” And this was only the first song.
Despite intriguing decor, the stage at Babylon is a small one. The National worked to make the most of it, regularly trading instruments. There were points when touring violinist Padma Newsome stole center stage from Berringer, adding fury and harmony. With such fervor, I don’t know how every one of his strings didn’t fall victim to that fury.
If nothing else, the band is consistent. When describing the recording of “Boxer”, Dessner told me that they “Like to keep things fair. Every instrument gets its due.”
As “Boxer” will be one of those albums that keeps people talking, I wondered how that urgently patient sound came to fruition. Dessner claimed that he had a soft spot for the ugly duckling under a rock. Hard to argue with that.
Visiting a new city rarely allows you to scratch the surface. It’s a shame that the day after the show, the band likely only had time to take in Istiklal Caddesi. This isn’t meant to liken Istanbul’s unknown haunts to ugly ducklings. But if the band likens a woefully righteous tune like “Green Gloves” to an ugly duckling, then they would have enjoyed more than the traditional hot spots in Istanbul. But that’s what guidebooks are for, I suppose.
So how do you scratch the surface of a city? And likewise, how do you see beyond a band that’s on a stage while you’re standing in a pile of cigarette butts? You work harder and make sure you get invited back. Midway through the set, I was wondering if this was going to happen.
With many of the tunes, including fan favourite “Mr. November,” the band ran through the song’s circular patterns with relative ease. It struck me as a bit lackluster.
I forgot that any and all judgment in rock and roll ought to be reserved until after the guitars stop making noise. When the final chorus broke, the band finally overpowered the audience. It was frantic rock and roll. I looked around and saw many a smoke dangling out of open mouths.
Now, on the morning of the show I was left without a ticket into the gig. I was pacing around the city with little to no regard. Though there were more than enough smiling fans milling about Babylon, I was that ugly duckling Dessner so affectionately referred to.
It was hard to come across as an unbiased journalist when speaking to Dessner. After all, I’d gladly be lumped in with those “Loyal fans.” I remember finding their previous album “Alligator” in a dank record store in Poland. I listened to it three times over and nearly missed work that day.
I couldn’t keep struggling with the thought that I wouldn’t be inside that night. I let the band know about my condition. It wasn’t long before I heard back from them. A journalist or not, I was still a fan. And they knew that. Though I was admitted into the show on only a few hours notice, I was still no better or worse than anyone else in the room. I had to do my part just as everyone else would.
“A good show grows” Dessner told me very matter of fact. It began with the wine which Berringer passed out to the front row. Then, sometime during the encore, vocalist Matt Berringer hopped into the crowd to sing a few verses. Realizing he couldn’t get a word in edgewise he took to a lectern stage left. He’d managed to escape the intensity the crowd had created and shout back at them.
Due to the band’s tight schedule it was likely they didn’t see much of Istanbul during their first day in the city. Their first impression must have been those fans up front. I suppose that wine was well deserved. It was sweet, as was the sentiment from the fans.
Sensing some timing and occasion, the crowd begged the band to play “Karen,” a tune Berringer claimed to be “Too painful to play. Not emotionally of course. It’d just be painful for you guys to hear.” But the front row was relentless. They drew smiles from most of the band. Berringer offered a mild “You guys are very commandeering. I like it.” This only added fuel to a growing fire. The night had grown; it was a teenager, upset with his pre-determined surroundings and clamoring for something more.
The National are as strangely compelling as Istanbul itself. As you move from track to track, tram stop to roasted chestnut stand it’s easy to find yourself swallowed whole. After listening to “Boxer,” you’re left wondering if you even feel like pulling yourself out of the hole that’s been dug.
Maybe one day that teenager will throw on “Boxer” and dig themselves a hole, searching for their memories of the show at the bottom somewhere. But The National will likely still be on the road. And hopefully both parties will stop and remember that the only way to get out is to learn your surroundings and learn how to use them to your advantage. Though anyone at the gig will tell you that The National visited a city worth discovering. And I’m sure that’ll mean another visit to Istanbul from the band sometime soon.
You should never stop and take stock, sure. But you should always question your motives. As the show drew to a close, Berringer told the crowd that the band had the next 24 hours in Istanbul to do as they pleased. “What should we do in Istanbul?” he asked us. More cheers and various suggestions. But really, what should any of us do?
The Mathematics of Exploration
An Interview with recent Polaris Prize winner Caribou, printed in Time Out Istanbul, March 2008.
-
Dan Snaith is a busy man. Between touring the world under the moniker “Caribou,” he’s found time to obtain his PhD in Mathematics. Though many think of mathematics as a black and white field, this doesn’t affect Snaith. “Andorra,” his latest effort is an alarmingly melodic mix of psychedelic tunes fused with pop-influenced electronica. The aesthetic is overwhelmingly apparent and serves itself upon first listen. He brings his idiosyncratic set to Babylon on March 11th. Leave your calculators at the door; it promises to be a mind-altering night. I caught up with Snaith from his home in London for his take on Istanbul, touring and the always confusing English language.
What are your hopes for Istanbul? This is your second time here, right?
My third time actually. The first time I came it was just to DJ. It must have been in late 2001. Istanbul has stuck with me as one of my absolute favourite cities in the world - being able to enjoy the depth and breadth of history and culture. It seems like no place I’ve visited before. If I could ask... what would you suggest I do on a third trip to Istanbul?
Ride the ferries back and forth between Asia and Europe. A good sunset and a cigarette means it’s a cheap thrill. But what can fans of Caribou expect from your gig at the Babylon and what can fans who haven't heard much of your music before expect?
I think people who know the music might be surprised by the physicality and visceralness of the live show. I want the show to be engulfing and moving for the audience as well us for us playing it. There are two of us banging away at drums... it's a big wall of sound and there are visuals synced to and reinforcing what's happening musically. We play new and old caribou songs so I hope both fans and people new to the music will like it.
Your music crosses back and forth will all kinds of brazen over different genres. What's the strangest thing you've ever heard (Or read) your music be labeled as?
I often forget but I think it's been called 'nu-jazz folktronica' at points. I don't know what that even means. I think psychedelic is an appropriate adjective for the music but don't think much past that.
Folks in Istanbul love history. Really, they love it. Describe your music in historical terms, if you could.
Excellent - I love history too although I am very much making up for a youth of disinterest. As far as the historical perspective of my music - I’m very much an aesthete when it comes to my music. It’s only about the way the music sounds and not intended to be autobiographical or social. that being said, listening to music from an aesthetic point of view allows me to listen to all music on an equal footing; allows me to draw from dance music of the nineties or free jazz of the 60s or Turkish psychedelic music from the late 60s and 70s (Baris Manco, Uc Hur El, Selda, Mogollar, Erkin Koray) and mix the sounds together. A lot of people only seem to be interested in music that's being made today.
You touring seems relentless and never ending. Do you view touring extensively as a means of escape or exploration?
Exploration definitely. I enjoy it but I’m not trying to escape anything. I’m very happy at home tinkering away with my recordings. I tend to have a year of recording and a year or touring. They balance each other well.How does touring influence your music? I think playing live music night after night makes me better attuned to building tension and release in music... in being aware of what the music makes me feel physically.
Likewise, how do specific cities influence the gig? Any stories of a city or circumstance that dictated process?
Gigs (at least gigs in clubs) are remarkably self-similar in many ways. a club looks like a club anywhere in the world - it's more about the people who are at the club and their enthusiasm or lack of it that dictates how we play and how the concert progresses.
I got confused yesterday with the meanings of the words visceral and cerebral. Which do you think better describes Caribou?
Well without knowing this question was coming I already used the word visceral in this interview so I think that's a clue! somehow I hope it's both though ... I like thinking about things on a conceptual level and appreciating music in that way but when I make music it's my gut that counts.
And what's a good headspace to make a Caribou record or play a live show?
I think something I love about music is that it generates that headspace for me. I can be in any mood and then playing music or recording music transports me to a state that suits the music. That is, apart from playing a concert immediately after being served with a court summons - that was a buzz kill.
Andorra sounds a little more emotional to me than MOHK. Describe the recording process.
I set out wanting to make an album that was overtly emotive. It was about trying to write music that had the 'lump in the throat' feeling of many pop songs that I love. It wasn't trying to capture how I was feeling at the time - by writing the music the idea was to create those feelings. Emotional escapism. It's the first time I've written all the songs and had them arranged in my head before I recorded them.
The progression of the sound in your records while not startling, is usually evident. Is there a direction you would like to take your music in the future? What were your original influences when you first began making music and how do they differ from your influences today?
I like not having a plan. My future records will document whatever musical ideas are inspiring me at the time. When I started making music (when I was 13 or 14) I was listening to 70s progressive rock like Yes and Genesis and 90s techno like the Orb. Now my influences are from 70s progressive rock like Can and contemporary techno like James Holden. It seems very different but maybe it's not.
Finally, what's been your favourite place to play (Or return to) not in terms of crowds or whatever, but because of the food in the city? Does Turkish cuisine interest you at all?
I love Turkish food. London (where I live at the moment) is incredible for Turkish food because of the large Turkish community here. I very much forward to coming to Istanbul from a culinary point of view but our best culinary touring experiences have been in China and Japan. Istanbul will have to top those!
Thanks for your time Dan.
Thanks!
-
Dan Snaith is a busy man. Between touring the world under the moniker “Caribou,” he’s found time to obtain his PhD in Mathematics. Though many think of mathematics as a black and white field, this doesn’t affect Snaith. “Andorra,” his latest effort is an alarmingly melodic mix of psychedelic tunes fused with pop-influenced electronica. The aesthetic is overwhelmingly apparent and serves itself upon first listen. He brings his idiosyncratic set to Babylon on March 11th. Leave your calculators at the door; it promises to be a mind-altering night. I caught up with Snaith from his home in London for his take on Istanbul, touring and the always confusing English language.
What are your hopes for Istanbul? This is your second time here, right?
My third time actually. The first time I came it was just to DJ. It must have been in late 2001. Istanbul has stuck with me as one of my absolute favourite cities in the world - being able to enjoy the depth and breadth of history and culture. It seems like no place I’ve visited before. If I could ask... what would you suggest I do on a third trip to Istanbul?
Ride the ferries back and forth between Asia and Europe. A good sunset and a cigarette means it’s a cheap thrill. But what can fans of Caribou expect from your gig at the Babylon and what can fans who haven't heard much of your music before expect?
I think people who know the music might be surprised by the physicality and visceralness of the live show. I want the show to be engulfing and moving for the audience as well us for us playing it. There are two of us banging away at drums... it's a big wall of sound and there are visuals synced to and reinforcing what's happening musically. We play new and old caribou songs so I hope both fans and people new to the music will like it.
Your music crosses back and forth will all kinds of brazen over different genres. What's the strangest thing you've ever heard (Or read) your music be labeled as?
I often forget but I think it's been called 'nu-jazz folktronica' at points. I don't know what that even means. I think psychedelic is an appropriate adjective for the music but don't think much past that.
Folks in Istanbul love history. Really, they love it. Describe your music in historical terms, if you could.
Excellent - I love history too although I am very much making up for a youth of disinterest. As far as the historical perspective of my music - I’m very much an aesthete when it comes to my music. It’s only about the way the music sounds and not intended to be autobiographical or social. that being said, listening to music from an aesthetic point of view allows me to listen to all music on an equal footing; allows me to draw from dance music of the nineties or free jazz of the 60s or Turkish psychedelic music from the late 60s and 70s (Baris Manco, Uc Hur El, Selda, Mogollar, Erkin Koray) and mix the sounds together. A lot of people only seem to be interested in music that's being made today.
You touring seems relentless and never ending. Do you view touring extensively as a means of escape or exploration?
Exploration definitely. I enjoy it but I’m not trying to escape anything. I’m very happy at home tinkering away with my recordings. I tend to have a year of recording and a year or touring. They balance each other well.How does touring influence your music? I think playing live music night after night makes me better attuned to building tension and release in music... in being aware of what the music makes me feel physically.
Likewise, how do specific cities influence the gig? Any stories of a city or circumstance that dictated process?
Gigs (at least gigs in clubs) are remarkably self-similar in many ways. a club looks like a club anywhere in the world - it's more about the people who are at the club and their enthusiasm or lack of it that dictates how we play and how the concert progresses.
I got confused yesterday with the meanings of the words visceral and cerebral. Which do you think better describes Caribou?
Well without knowing this question was coming I already used the word visceral in this interview so I think that's a clue! somehow I hope it's both though ... I like thinking about things on a conceptual level and appreciating music in that way but when I make music it's my gut that counts.
And what's a good headspace to make a Caribou record or play a live show?
I think something I love about music is that it generates that headspace for me. I can be in any mood and then playing music or recording music transports me to a state that suits the music. That is, apart from playing a concert immediately after being served with a court summons - that was a buzz kill.
Andorra sounds a little more emotional to me than MOHK. Describe the recording process.
I set out wanting to make an album that was overtly emotive. It was about trying to write music that had the 'lump in the throat' feeling of many pop songs that I love. It wasn't trying to capture how I was feeling at the time - by writing the music the idea was to create those feelings. Emotional escapism. It's the first time I've written all the songs and had them arranged in my head before I recorded them.
The progression of the sound in your records while not startling, is usually evident. Is there a direction you would like to take your music in the future? What were your original influences when you first began making music and how do they differ from your influences today?
I like not having a plan. My future records will document whatever musical ideas are inspiring me at the time. When I started making music (when I was 13 or 14) I was listening to 70s progressive rock like Yes and Genesis and 90s techno like the Orb. Now my influences are from 70s progressive rock like Can and contemporary techno like James Holden. It seems very different but maybe it's not.
Finally, what's been your favourite place to play (Or return to) not in terms of crowds or whatever, but because of the food in the city? Does Turkish cuisine interest you at all?
I love Turkish food. London (where I live at the moment) is incredible for Turkish food because of the large Turkish community here. I very much forward to coming to Istanbul from a culinary point of view but our best culinary touring experiences have been in China and Japan. Istanbul will have to top those!
Thanks for your time Dan.
Thanks!
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Young Rival, Pat's Pub, Vancouver, 10.11.08
Though I can't stand this bland, unimaginative and obvious style of rock n' roll writing (I'm pitching this story to a newspaper) if it gets me cash for being short (Which I know anyone who reads this enjoys) and I get to use terms like "Glorified egg" (Which I also know everyone enjoys) then shit, I'll fucking write like this. Check out Young Rival though, if you dare.
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Youth might not be the glorified egg it’s cracked up to be. The actual dog days of youth are spent in a perpetual state of confusion while looking back on your youth brings forth feelings of anger or loneliness. These themes are omnipresent within the guitar-driven lexicon of popular and independent music as well, spawning angry yet obvious bands such as The Clash. Hearing a year or so ago that Hamilton’s The Ride Theory had changed their name to Young Rival lead me to believe they had decided to embark upon a nastier path of rock and roll, with less hooks and more subversive degradation of young suburbia.
But even holed up at Pat’s Pub on East Hastings, an area of Vancouver whose reputation supersedes itself, the band were all smiles. And when they launched into their seamless brand of straight laced, British Invasion-esque rock and roll, it became clear that nothing at all has changed about these four fellows, still ripe with youth.
Fresh off the release of their self-titled EP, recorded in New York City with Emery Dobyns, (Patti Smith, Suzanne Vega) Young Rival is crossing Canada on an ambitious 22-date tour of Canada. Deep inside Pat’s Pub, the band wasted no time bringing the dance floor up from underneath the crowd who welcomed a chance to feel young, uninhibited and adventurous for the night.
Tracks like “Your Island,” while reminiscent of The Kinks and The Yardbirds, were still wrought with hooks and boiling over with pop sensibility. It’s the lack of pretension that sets Young Rival apart from the pop-punk wizardry that’s in a full swing of popularity with the ill-fated youth of the mall and lumps them in rather directly with the garage rock renaissance that keeps aging hipsters afloat.
Young Rival’s rock remains direct; while the swagger of “Poisonous Moves” didn’t pull any punches and sounded subtle enough, the constant thump of a chorus knocked out most of the crowd just as easily. Despite rhythm guitarist Kyle Kuchmey telling me that their name change was a result of a natural evolution, there remains very little transformation from Ride Theory to Young Rival. But the band has managed to keep things fresh by keeping things raw.
While it’s not an overtly original sound, tracks like “Parking Ticket” (Which the band tore through like an actual parking ticket) gave heed to an old adage: Play from your heart instead of your head and you’ll find the hearts on the dance-floor. Judging from the lack of room on the dance-floor by the time I left, Young Rival shouldn’t have much to be angry about anyway.
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Youth might not be the glorified egg it’s cracked up to be. The actual dog days of youth are spent in a perpetual state of confusion while looking back on your youth brings forth feelings of anger or loneliness. These themes are omnipresent within the guitar-driven lexicon of popular and independent music as well, spawning angry yet obvious bands such as The Clash. Hearing a year or so ago that Hamilton’s The Ride Theory had changed their name to Young Rival lead me to believe they had decided to embark upon a nastier path of rock and roll, with less hooks and more subversive degradation of young suburbia.
But even holed up at Pat’s Pub on East Hastings, an area of Vancouver whose reputation supersedes itself, the band were all smiles. And when they launched into their seamless brand of straight laced, British Invasion-esque rock and roll, it became clear that nothing at all has changed about these four fellows, still ripe with youth.
Fresh off the release of their self-titled EP, recorded in New York City with Emery Dobyns, (Patti Smith, Suzanne Vega) Young Rival is crossing Canada on an ambitious 22-date tour of Canada. Deep inside Pat’s Pub, the band wasted no time bringing the dance floor up from underneath the crowd who welcomed a chance to feel young, uninhibited and adventurous for the night.
Tracks like “Your Island,” while reminiscent of The Kinks and The Yardbirds, were still wrought with hooks and boiling over with pop sensibility. It’s the lack of pretension that sets Young Rival apart from the pop-punk wizardry that’s in a full swing of popularity with the ill-fated youth of the mall and lumps them in rather directly with the garage rock renaissance that keeps aging hipsters afloat.
Young Rival’s rock remains direct; while the swagger of “Poisonous Moves” didn’t pull any punches and sounded subtle enough, the constant thump of a chorus knocked out most of the crowd just as easily. Despite rhythm guitarist Kyle Kuchmey telling me that their name change was a result of a natural evolution, there remains very little transformation from Ride Theory to Young Rival. But the band has managed to keep things fresh by keeping things raw.
While it’s not an overtly original sound, tracks like “Parking Ticket” (Which the band tore through like an actual parking ticket) gave heed to an old adage: Play from your heart instead of your head and you’ll find the hearts on the dance-floor. Judging from the lack of room on the dance-floor by the time I left, Young Rival shouldn’t have much to be angry about anyway.
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