I swear this'll be the only sports-related post ever on here...

What do you get when you mix prepubescent kids, Pat Benatar and the Pittsburgh Steelers defensive line?

Hint: It's not this Sunday's half time show, though that would be undeniably and universally awful.

It's Pop Rocks, a group of kids, age 11-14, playing their ode to the best/only team in football that matters. This is about the coolest thing I've seen in awhile. When I was 11 I was making mix tapes off of the radio and trying to press record right when the DJ stopped talking. What a wasted youth. Seriously, check this out:



Where's your band of child prodigies, Arizona? Bitches.

New Trail of Dead track hints at a band 'Ascending' back to greatness

Well, here we are, Trail of Dead fans. The crossroads. That place where many a band comes right before a new album drops, with expectations caught in a schism due to a truly solid back catalogue, but a truly sordid last record.

...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, the Texas blitzkrieg rockers who've been bashing around on record since 1998's self titled debut, are on the verge of dropping its latest, sixth album, The Century of Self, on February 17th, three years after the almost universally panned So Divided, with its almost universally awkward anime-like cover art, seen here:

The record could go a few different ways. Hell, it could go in many different ways. For all we know, front man Conrad Keely spent the last three years listening to Tuvan throat singing and Europop and the new disc will sound like Ace of Base and we'll all kick ourselves and say "Those crazy art-punks, what'll they do next?"

Luckily, though, I don't think that's going to happen. In fact, it's looking like The Century of Self is going to kick ass. Like, a lot of ass.

SPIN.com just posted a track from the album, "Ascending," and it is damn good.

Check it out here.

The tune starts out in familiar Trail of Dead form: no warning, no guitar-strum intro, just a quick-punch dive into an angular, almost uncomfortable guitar attack paired with stuttering drums exploding like falling bombs.

The verses hit with traded vocals - a tactic too-often employed in god-awful emo mush. Here, though, it's done right: both vocal lines have distinct melodies, which intertwine, back and forth, forming one cohesive whole.

True to Dead's shooting-for-epic formula, the track slows down to a plodding, pulsing pace and marches steadily. The whole thing plays like a spunkier, less gigantic "Will You Smile for Me Again," Words Apart's best track.

All in all, "Ascending" deserves to be blasted from your speakers, as it has been from mine. For the past two hours.

Extra bonus: How cool is the new album's cover art? (Answer: very cool)

Bruce plays Superbowl. Now with 100% less Jackson nipple.

This Sunday will be a triumph for the blue-collar folk of America.

All eyes will be on a rag-tag gang who fought for years to be recognized for their talent and skill as they will undoubtedly put on a legendary performance at The Super Bowl, representing a hard-working, underappreciated ‘nation’ of millions of die-hard fans.

Oh, and The Steelers will be there too.

I’m talking, of course, about Bruce Springsteen and his almighty E Street Band, who will take the stage (or field, as it were) to bash through some classic songs during the halftime show of The Super Bowl. With The Boss’ latest, 16th studio album Working on a Dream having just hit the shelves on Tuesday, paired with his recent show-stopping performance at Obama’s inaugural concert last week, Springsteen’s popularity and visibility are riding high, making him the perfect pick to carry the torch of half time performers.

The list of those who’ve played for millions at a Super Bowl half time is long, sure, but it’s certainly had its ups and downs.

In fact, it was only in 1988, at Super Bowl XXII, that the notion of a rock’n’roll act playing at half time was even introduced. And even then, the performer was Chubby Checker, famous for his hit “The Twist” and several too many subsequent variations of the song, and is now the proprietor of Chubby's snacks beef jerky and steaks. Totally weird.

The folks in the Super Bowl ivory tower have gotten it right for the past few years with some truly great shows, including rock royalty like Paul McCartney (who I seriously doubted could kick ass, but proved me wrong), Prince, the Stones and last year’s Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. The formulas of these recent shows have been simple and successful — pick a rock band, let said rock band play a few songs, then get back to giant dudes smacking each other’s asses while wearing tight pants.

But it hasn’t always been such easy sailing. Some past halftime performers have been downright awkward, with China’s-Olympic-opening-ceremony size shows (1989’s show included an Elvis impersonator singing pointedly non-Elvis songs, dancers and hi-tech 3-D special effects) or just plain awkwardness. Nothing says football — gruff and athletic — like Carol Channing’s tribute to Mardis Gras at Super Bowl IV.

In 1999, the show was called “A Celebration of Soul, Salsa and Swing,” copping the popular and short-lived trend of the day, and featured Stevie Wonder (good pick!), Gloria Estefan (totally lame, but good pick!) and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy (Um…who?). The band, which rode in on the awesome-for-about-six-minutes swing revival, played one song at the Super Bowl, then promptly disappeared for the rest of time.

1991 saw the just-about-pubescent New Kids on the Block perform surrounded by over 3,000 children of different ethnic background. The two groups were a match made in awkward heaven. While ‘3,000 children of different ethnic background’ just screams diversity, the same cannot be said of the five rich white boys of NKOTB.

But nothing tops 1993’s Super Bowl XXVII for sheer awkwardness or irony. Sole performer Michael Jackson waved his humanitarian flag high, performing hits like “Black and White” and “Billie Jean” while the crowd held up different colored cards that, altogether, formed images of cartoon children. The finale featured a giant, inflated globe with Jackson singing “Heal the World” as a crowd of about 3,500 children surrounded him, raising their voices to high heaven.



Just a few months later, Jackson was first accused of child sexual abuse. Oops!

Thankfully, since the NFL has gotten over its penchant for filling the field with kids and moved on to straight (though certainly bloated) rock’n’roll performances since 2005.

And with Bruce Springsteen, the beating heart of all that is rock, playing this year, there’s slim chance that anything will go wrong. Unless Justin Timberlake shows up and exposes his nipple.

Decemberists. New Song. New Album. New Levels of Ecstasy.

Yes, I know, this track has been floating around the internet for the better part of two weeks.

But a new Decemberists track, to me, isn't something to simply digest and regurgitate onto a blog. A new Decemberists song, you see, must be dealt with carefully and slowly, like a small puppy or an infant child. These things are precious.

And so, my friends, though you've doubtlessly heard it elsewhere for awhile now, I'm finally ready to talk about "Rake's Song," the newest track from one of the greatest bands out there.

(Wait - did you hear that? I think it was any guise of journalistic objectivity flying out the window.)

The Decemberists have certainly changed since the absolutely gorgeous first disc Castaways and Cutouts and the criminally - criminally! - underappreciated follow-up Her Majesty. Colin Meloy has long since traded the lush, almost lullaby-like sound of his early material for more ambitious aims — long, complex song structure, more percussive tracks, concept albums, the like.

The first track to hit off the band's upcoming fifth album, Hazards of Love, due March 24, like much of Meloy's more recent work, attempts to reconcile 'lovely' and 'ambitious.' In other words, just as he did with The Crane Wife, he wants to appeal to both the critics looking for something impressively edgy and high concept and the more simplistic music lovers simplistically looking for a beautiful melody, a pretty guitar strum to hold on to.

"The Rake's Song" succeeds on both fronts. This sure isn't the care-free breezy folk of Castaways, but Meloy's melody is playful enough that we don't get the impression that The Decemberists are taking themselves too seriously.

The track tells a very Meloy-esque tale: Poor chap marries young, sees his wife's womb "start spilling out babies" (Imagine that line in doctor speak: "Ma'am, you're water has broken. You're about to start spilling out babies"), sees his wife die in childbirth and proceeds to kill (or, ahem, allow to die) his kids, freeing him to conveniently narrate the rest of the album.

It's catchy, certainly entertaining, and, more than anything, should push fans to mother-trying-to-buy-Hannah-Montana-tickets level excitement.

And, if you're in the Pittsburgh area, keep your eyes and ears open. A rumored (yes, just rumored) Decemberists show may be just around the corner.

Just for good measure, have another listen.

Silver Jews' David Berman Quits While He's Ahead

Silver Jews fans (which, if you're not already one, you've missed out) can forget about that fantasy they have in which, after a Jews show, they meet David Berman backstage and proceed to sit sipping whiskey all night talking about poetry, writing and depression. Or maybe that's just my fantasy.

Regardless, the Jews' braintrust, lyrical (if not musical) genius David Berman recently announced that he is moving on from music. A message board from his label Drag City revealed the following Berman gems:

"I guess I am moving over to another category. Screenwriting or Muckraking. I've got to move on. Can't be like all the careerists doncha know."

At least he left us with a bit of wit, writing: "If I continue to record I might accidentally write the answer song to 'Shiny Happy People.'"

For those of you in Pittsburgh, here is the point when you kick yourself (physically, if possible) for not shelling out the 8 bucks to see the fantastic Silver Jews show that Pitt's WPTS put on last fall.

As Berman only does (or, did...sigh) email interviews, here are the highlights from the e-conversation I had with him before that show:

GRE: Is a song just a poem that you write which happens to come to you with a melody? If not, how does the writing of both differ?

DB: My sit-down intent is different for each. Things don’t just come out of nowhere. I have to sit down and start to make them. That means taking a first step with nothing to go on but hope and past positive experiences. In the terms of weekend hobbies: Poetry is like painting in the laundry room. Songwriting is like building a motor in the garage.

GRE: How do you see your need to write as both a blessing and a curse?

DB: It’s a curse in that it involves anxiety that I imagine would be lessened in a line of work that everyone didn’t consider themselves to be an expert on. Everyone thinks they have good taste in music. Everybody is, somewhere inside, an expert on music. But it’s blessing all the way down from there.

GRE: Here's a classic debate: Why does the most boring music get the most play by fans and press? If independent rock is so good, why isn't it more mainstream?

DB: Because the masses are asses. Der oilem iz der goilem.

Get Up Kids Front Man Matt Pryor rehashes "Overdue"

Admit it: Like the rest of us, you listened to some semblance of emo music in middle school. Hell, maybe even high school.

Jimmy Eat World's "The Middle"? You loved it.

Taking Back Sunday's fist album? Classic.

And if you were a bit more dedicated, you most certainly loved The Get Up Kids. With Matt Pryor's aching vocals and not-even-close-to-punk instrumentals, the band was perfect for hearts reeling from early teenage love and break ups.

That said, here are two clips of GUK front man Pryor's acoustic performance last night at Mr. Small's in Millvale. The quality isn't too grand, but the melody's all there.

Check out GUK's "Overdue."

Matt Pryor covers Kevin Devine's "Brooklyn Boy"

First comes a cover of singer-songwriter Kevin Devine's "Brooklyn Boy," in which Pryor forgets the words completely. Adorable.