Let’s get one thing out of the way first — yes, New York buzz band Cymbals Eat Guitars does sound a lot like classic indie heavyweights Pavement, Built to Spill and Modest Mouse. But here’s the kicker: when those bands were releasing their best work, Cymbals front man Joseph D’Agostino was still in elementary school. Fast-forward a decade and the now 20-year-old has released one of the year’s most hyped debut albums. Why There Are Mountains is a beautiful mess of scrappy punk, epic guitar jams and sing-alongs that’ll make you feel 1995 all over again.
Your song “Indiana” hints that you’ve been driving through the state. But have you ever spent much time here?
Joe D’Agostino: My girlfriend of 2 and a half years — we recently broke up — went to school at Notre Dame. I went to school in NY. I was out there a few times to visit her for clips of four or five days — as many days as I could cut class.
The band is often compared to classic indie bands of the 90s. Is that a great complement or tired reference?
It’s the best thing in the world to be compared to Built to Spill or Modest Mouse or any of these bands. I don’t want to sound like a complete jackass; I’m serious about this. I listened to (Modest Mouse song “Teeth Like God’s Shoeshine”) one day, got all the way through and just said “Oh….Oh, my.”
When you write, do you hear the whole thing or do you start with a simple piece of the song?
Writing music and writing lyrics are independent processes for me. Sometimes I mix and match — I don’t know which song will go with which lyrics. But I’m no Brian Wilson — some genius who can hear it all in my head then go ahead and produce it.
Neil (Berenholz, bassist) is 12 years older than you. How has the broad range of life experiences shaped the band?
Neil brings a different generation of music to the table. His CD book is always available, and its filled with 80s college rock. He’s called himself a ‘Band Dad.’ At first I thought that was embarrassing, but it’s true.
Has that gap led to any awkwardness, being underage with a bunch of older guys?
In places where they’re lenient, it’s not a problem. Most of the time I walk around clubs with big, black X’s on my hand.
For the Indiana area - the band'll be here Thursday. Check em out here:
The Wall Street Journal reported Friday that Brooklyn native Alec Duffy owns the sole rights to the latest song by folk rock wunderkind Sufjan Stevens.
And the only way for far less lucky saps like you and I to hear the track is to listen to it in Duffy's living room.
So, here's the bottom line.
If you want to hear the only Sufjan Stevens song not available on the internet (called "The Lonely Man of Winter," and, according to the WSJ, is "a soulful number, at once jazzy and melancholy") you have to travel approximately 11 hours and 43 minutes, seek out Alec Duffy and sit in on one of his in-house listening parties.
Sure, that's great for Sufjan fanatics on the east coast. But for us in Indy, well, we're out of luck.
Though only the four members of psychedelic rock group Grizzly Bear took the stage June 9 in Bloomington’s Buskirk-Chumley Theater, they sounded like an army.
The Brooklyn band’s buzz has severely snowballed since its latest album, Veckatimest, was released last month, and its set proved the hype worthwhile.
To a sold-out college crowd, Grizzly Bear unleashed over an hour of its haunting, obsessively orchestrated chamber pop. Band founder and vocalist Edward Droste’s ethereal melodies, harmonized with guitarist Daniel Rossen, gave each song a deeply personal touch — one couple even began to slow dance during “Cheerleader” — but Rossen’s guitar bursts were thunderous.
That mixture (Christopher Bear’s drumming amplifying Rossen’s massive, forceful sound; bassist Chris Taylor’s flute and oboe reinforcing Droste’s quiet subtlety) captured the crowd while allowing fans to get lost inside their heads.
That’s not an easy task, and as the band swept through the piano-led bounce of “Two Weeks” and the crawling swell of “Knife,” it became obvious why Grizzly Bear’s been compared to other mind-melters like Radiohead and Animal Collective.
But while there’s an almost overwhelming seriousness to Grizzly Bear’s music, the band members were anything but austere.
“It’s been four years since we’ve played Bloomington,” said Droste. “And I’m sure some of the eight people that were here last time came tonight.”
Tunes like “While You Wait For the Others,” with its churning guitars, plodding bass and delicate chorus, seemed constantly on the edge of imploding. That’s how Grizzly Bear, a band featuring a harp and a clarinet at times, manages to hit harder than any heavy metal act out there.
By building walls of intensity from a foundation of whispers - only to let it crumble, song after song, on top of the audience - the band has cultivated one of the most exciting and emotionally draining shows in the indie scene.
While so many bands are busy finding beauty in chaos, Grizzly Bear is searching for chaos in beauty. And in Bloomington last night, they certainly found it.
‘Modern Rock’ isn’t a term included in Ketch Secor’s impressive lexicon. In fact, while Secor’s band, Old Crow Medicine Show, is a part of an underground music scene only growing in size today, his music is far from modern.
The band, which released the record Tennessee Pusher last fall, has been purveying traditional tunes and like-minded original songs for almost a dozen years. Secor, Old Crow’s fiddler, banjoist and harmonica player, called from Nashville to talk shop about keeping America’s musical traditions fresh.
Gravity Rides Everything: So the new record came out last fall. How have fans reacted?
Ketch Secor: It’s been a really positive feeling out there in all the towns we’re playing. We got people singing along to all the new material. Just got back from Texas. It’s been going great — we did a lot of growing with the record.
GRE: How do you feel the band’s style has evolved over the years?
KS: We’ve sharpened that feel we had all along. It’s been refined. We’ve been playing together for 11 years. At that point, you don’t really get a new sound, you just get better at the sound you’ve always had.
GRE: What was different about Tennessee Pusher than previous records?
KS: Well, we included a full drum kit and an organ on this record. But the biggest difference is that this album is all original material. In years past, we’ve always had a majority of traditional music on the album.
GRE: Looking at the album half a year later, is there anything you would’ve done differently?
KS: No, it really felt like it was the best it could’ve been. I must say I feel that way about all our records. Generally, in live shows you have the regret. ‘Oh, I should’ve said this. I forgot to say we were in Steubenville.’ But when it comes to making a record, you get the chance to make it right. You don’t get a second take onstage.
GRE: Do you feel the same kind of personal connection to the traditional songs as your originals?
KS: Yea, definitely. When you make your mark on a song, or that song on you, you can form a bond with a song. It’s like if you found out your brother was adopted — but you never treated him like he was. You loved him all along. I mean, we’re in a string band. The music I love is rooted in those traditions. The feeling you get playing traditional music, it’s not like a cover tune.
GRE: What’s a record in your collection that might surprise me?
KS: I have a lot of music from Mexico and the folk music of South Texas. But then I also really like Cyndi Lauper.
GRE: Do you feel the band is playing an important role by exposing traditional American songs to a new audience?
KS: To turn on young people to American music traditions is no small feat, considering how removed today’s young people are from the oral traditions and cultural events that lead to the passing on of this knowledge. If your parents aren’t telling you about singing and dancing, then who is? The radio and television media, of course, is just homogenous and disconnected from that source too.
I mean the radio is so homogenous and we’re all guilty of falling into it, myself included. But it’s hard to get through to people who’ve been exposed to that much bad music.
Some people out there, they hear us play and they know that it’s right. They feel that whatever they heard before is somehow not pleasing enough. We’re fairly lovable — we get all your senses. We have a musical force that’s so much more than ourselves. We’re carrying on the torch of a genre that is the root of so much of what people like about pop music.
If you like Chuck Berry, you’ll like us. If you like Little Richard, you’ll like us. But also if you like Kurt Cobain, you’ll like us.
GRE: How would you describe the atmosphere at an Old Crow show?
KS: It’s pretty fired up. There’s a lot of excitement. But it depends where you are. We just played a lot of Texas venues that were dancehalls, so they had their belt buckles properly postured and they were swingin’ their gals around. There are hearts being broken and some promises being made.
-Fin-
Please, if you will. Enjoy this music. It's the truth.
When a band that had its heyday about 10 years ago rolls into town, sells out a decent sized club and draws booming applause for nearly every song, there’s one question that should shoot into any discerning fan’s mind — are we actually enjoying the music or just bathing in soothing nostalgia?
Well, judging from Third Eye Blind’s set in Greensburg’s Palace Theater last night, the answer is a complicated one.
Sure, the crowd of mostly drunk late-twenties bros (many of whom refused to stop screaming for the band to play “Jumper” even after the song was played) seemed genuinely wet-their-pants excited when the San Francisco band busted out late 90s hits like “Graduate,” “Never Let You Go” and, of course, “Semi-Charmed Life,” but the tracks from the upcoming Ursa Major album only saw lukewarm responses.
Is that because the crowd really came just for the hits and not to hear something new? Probably, as could be expected, but only time and the records’ release will tell. My guess is that, as has been Third Eye Blind’s album trend, Ursa Major will go largely unnoticed, forcing the band to continue touring behind decade-old hits for at least another half a decade.
And yet, while all this sounds like Blind bashing, the truth is the band busted out a seriously rousing set — post-grunge rock god pandering of front man Stephen Jenkins aside — of familiar, comfortable radio rock staples and the requisite non-single crowd favorites. Nostalgia or not, the sold-out crowd, this reviewer included, belted out every note.
After a reverb-drowned walk-on, Third Eye Blind launched “Wounded,” one of the band’s better, bigger choruses from its second album and the kicking “Graduate,” one of the five hit singles off the band’s eponymous debut. So far so good.
But when Jenkins led the band in a string of unreleased tracks from the new album, the sing-along, ‘I remember this song!’ sentiment of the crowd was lost — especially among the dudes who could barely stand, let alone get into the groove of an unfamiliar jam.
Jenkins didn’t seem to notice.
“This place is filled with bats and ghosts. I feel like a vampire ready for fresh blood,” he said of both the gothic Palace Theater and the crowd’s energy — both of which were impressive, and matched, in earnest, by the band’s performance.
Third Eye Blind were always one of the more serious late 90s alt-rock bands (and so much better than, say, The Verve Pipe) and, a decade later, the group is still chugging along like it wants to save the world. Or at least wax poetic about doing so. And for the most part, Jenkins and crew pull it off. Quotable tunes like the haunting “God of Wine” and “Motorcycle Drive-By” were played as the mini-epics that they are; the slinky, mostly-acoustic “I Want You” was even sexier than on record.
But barefoot with painted toenails and prone to outstretched-arms crowd-embracing, Jenkins remains in the Ed Kowalczyk (Live) school of spiritual-via-lyrics-about-sex-and-drugs front men. And somehow, his stage character is passable. But it’s when the band’s music tries to match Jenkins’ sprawl that things suffer.
Was a three-minute drum solo in the middle of “Jumper” necessary? Definitely not.
We dig Third Eye Blind for tight, four or five minute packages of sincere (and sincerely affecting) rock gems with glistening choruses, not faux psychedelic guitar and drum meandering. When the band stuck to its core of emotional pop rock, it hit all the right spots — especially for the college bros who know every word of “Semi-Charmed Life” and have no idea it’s about drug addiction.
And when those bros all joined in a group hug during “Slow Motion,” nostalgia or not, Third Eye Blind was doing exactly what it came to do.
I'd read a whole lot about this St. Vincent/Annie Clark character, but as I've been stuck on a constant feeding tube of Stevie Wonder and Animal Collective (No, I can't explain why) lately, I let the actual act of listening to her music fall way to the sidelines — it was one of those records that I'd been meaning to listen to, but just never got around to it.
But holy hell, I'm glad I decided to stop being so passive.
I just got through the new record, Actor, and I'm extraordinarily smitten.
From what I'd heard (little lady, big voice, lush soundscapes), I expected a more atmospheric Regina Spektor, minus much of the, ahem, kitch factor.
What I got, however, is a lot closer to the latest Portishead album — a beautiful voice singing catchy, affecting melodies with worth-a-closer-reading lyrics caught in a storm of truly engaging, darkly mysterious (almost) trip-hoppy beats. But, truly, that is an overly simplified description of music that is endlessly layered in both sound texture and meaning.
Take "Laughing With a Mouth of Blood," for example. We've got Clark's delicate, lilting voice singing about her old friends and televangelists over a spritely, back and forth bouncing beat. Sounds positively pleasant, right? It could be, but there's a weight to Clark's music. No matter what she's singing about, the way her voice and music combine forms this heavy wall of indescribable emotion, this feeling that she means it, that she's felt pain you've only dreamt of.
Pop music, my friends, this is not.
"All of my old friends, aren't so friendly" would hurt sung by anyone, but it stings here.
Then there's "Marrow." The beat could be an outtake from the latest Bloc Party record — all chunky, breaking synths and pulsing drums and angry guitars piling up on each other like aggravated rugby players — but Clark's voice, quieter here than usual, gives the song an unnerving feel. Whereas the last Bloc Party just sounded awkward and forced, this tune might as well be the soundtrack to your night in a haunted house. And you're not coming out anywhere near sane in the morning.
Clark's first single off the record, "Actor Out of Work," is similarly arresting. With different music behind her, Clark's vocals could be a lullaby. But the song's driving, steady guitar and percussion keep things moving fast, hard, strong.
Check it out:
So what's the bottom line?
Don't slack on checking out the new good stuff, even when you're in the middle of a Stevie Wonder phase.
Creative animation and music videos don't come together nearly enough, and the new clip for The Mae Shi's "The Lamb and the Lion" is solid proof. Combining some of my favorite things (knights, elephants, silly violence and great music), the video is downright dazzling. The final scene, with a dude flying through the air, sword raised and ready to kill, is, for lack of something more eloquent to say, freakin' awesome.
Oh, and did I mention the song? More fun than a summer barbecue, one of which I'm going to right now. Check out the video now:
In the late night wars, it's fairly obvious (unless you are, in fact, my parents) that Dave Letterman is entirely funnier than Jay Leno. But one way in which Dave also breezes past Jay (and nearly any other late night host) is in the sheer musical talent that shows up on the show.
That said, check out last night's Animal Collective performance on Letterman. I love the dancers in the background, the lights and, of course, the song. Here we go...
Omaha band Cursive has been called many things in its decade-plus career — from deeply personal to whiny and from indie and post-hardcore to emo. But one thing the band’s never been called is selfish.
Cursive offered its recent sixth record, the evocatively titled Mama, I’m Swollen, online 10 days before its release for only a dollar, with the price increasing everyday leading up to March 10, when it hit shelves.
The record continues in Cursive’s style of wild, ragged, torn-up-heart-on-sleeve rock’n’roll with far more variety than fans have ever seen from the band. Dynamics range from whispers to all-out aural assaults, horn sections pop in and front man Tim Kasher’s lyrics have never been so dark, mysterious and downright poetic (check out “We’re Going to Hell,” prepare to get chills).
Gravity Rides Everything called founding bassist Matt Maginn at his home in Missouri to talk Kasher, dance clubs and why Cursive will never play MTV Spring Break.
Gravity Rides Everything: What is your favorite thing about the new record?
Matt Maginn: I like that it’s different than stuff we’ve done recently. It’s a little dark and melancholy — it reminds me of our first record in some ways. That brooding sense with a cathartic element. It’s almost hopeful.
GRE: You started selling the new record for a dollar on the website. What went into that decision?
MM: It was an idea from (Cursive’s label) Saddle Creek. That the supporters or fans could get an email hearing about the deal — that was really attractive to us. So we thought, ‘Well, we’re ok not making any money, so let’s do this.’ But you walk a fine line — it’s better to look like a special or a gift than like you’re giving away your music. This system also helped the label beat the leaks of the record. The sale went up Saturday at midnight, and the first leaks we heard about went up at 5 p.m.
GRE: In my experience, Cursive is best enjoyed in a tiny, packed club. What do you love most about a small, intense club audience?
MM: We went through this phase where we wanted everyone who wanted to see the show to be there, but then you end up purposely playing rooms you can’t fill. Then you learn that the energy just isn’t there. It doesn’t work in a big room. We’ve been trying to do smaller clubs. If you sell out a show too early, you don’t want to exclude anyone by that situation. But I think we’ve traded that fear for just loving playing smaller rooms instead.
GRE: Well in Pittsburgh you’ll be playing Diesel, which is also a dance club. So after the show, everyone’ll be kicked out to make room for people coming to dance.
MM: I feel like we’ve been playing more and more shows like that, where we’ll be kicked out so the club can have some little dance party. It’s really weird — those scantily clad men and women that come to the clubs we play…what the hell? It’s like a swimsuit contest. I don’t like that world.
GRE: Cursive’s long had a core faithful audience. Is there an attempt to expand the fan base at this point?
MM: Never in the writing. We never think about who to reach when we write music. But there’s never been a time where we didn’t want to reach new people in a normal, fun way, without doing anything cheesy or strange.
GRE: Well what would be cheesy or strange for Cursive?
MM: I don’t know — like you’re playing the beach house for MTV Spring Break. That’s where it gets to the cheesy element. But you should attempt to reach new people simply to be inclusive, not exclusive.
GRE: There’s a line in “Sink to the Beat” about (former drummer) Clint. Is it awkward to play that now?
MM: At first it was. But the more I thought about it, well, it’s a record of a period in time. To change it or not say it would be even weirder in some ways. Clint is who it was written and recorded with. His existence is in that song now. But at first, it did catch my ear. We were playing (sans Clint) in early 2006, and onstage I thought ‘Oh weird, I guess Tim can’t change that.’ And then ‘Why am I thinking about this?’
GRE: How has the style of the band changed with each record?
MM: It’s really weird for us to think about. Some people dislike that we’ll be so eclectic to the point of having a whole record that they just can’t get into. When we were writing The Ugly Organ and the song “Art is Hard,” we realized we didn’t have to have this angular, dissonant, bizarre time signature stuff to be Cursive. We decided to stop worrying about the style we were playing — if we don’t sound like who we are by now, then who are we? That mindset pushed us towards our later records.
GRE: Do you feel personal ties to Tim’s lyrics?
MM: Part of being in a band with Tim this long…it’s very hard to be complementary towards members of your own band. But as a songwriter, he’s probably my favorite. Since they’re not my lyrics, I have a connection with his lyrics like I would another band I enjoy lyrically. I can’t say that I love Cursive, that’s weird to say. But I do like his writing, his lyrics. Whether we make it good or not, who knows. So my connection with his lyrics is as a spectator.
GRE: You were a big part of the original Saddle Creek community. Do those close ties still exist among the musicians who were there at the beginning?
MM: That’s a good question. I think it’s there, but it pales in comparison to what it was. That’s hard for me to say, because I feel like I’m being disrespectful to our past, but it would be untrue to say that there was remotely the cohesive community that we had. It’s just not true. It’s much different now. And that’s inevitable time and space. I miss those times, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing that people have broadened their lives. It’s funny — it was the success of some of the bands that caused the community to break down.
GRE: In what ways is rock’n’roll struggling right now, and in what ways is it succeeding?
MM: First, I like that you used the word rock’n’roll — instead of ‘music.’ I don’t know if there’s anything that’s really kicking my ass right now. I mean, there are plenty of great records, but nothing monumental in the last five years. And I feel like we’re due. These things ebb and flow, and maybe we’re in ebb right now. Some of the shit I’ve seen on MTV remind me of that glam stuff from the end of the 80’s, before Nirvana — there’s not a whole lot of difference between them and hair metal. Do hairspray and eyeliner always precede the new messiah?
GRE: When you’re onstage playing, what’s going through your head?
MM: ‘Oh, I hope I don’t fuck up.’ That’s mostly it.
I'm a big believer that, as I've written before, a lot of music fits best in a certain season. The National, for example, have for years been a fall band to me. Something about falling leaves and heartbreaking piano ballads just go together marvelously. Similarly, Sigur Ros has always been a band for snowy winter days.
But, folks, now it's summer. And, hot damn, I found a perfect summer jam.
It's Mos Def's new track with the Japanese DJ Deckstream.
Yup, I'm as surprised as you.
It's been a little while since we've heard Mos Def sound as smooth, laid back and stress free as he does on this wonderfully floating and bobbing track, appropriately titled "Life is Good." HIs last full, official record, The New Danger, was full of half-baked ideas, most of them angry — so a breezy summer track like "Life is Good" is a pretty staunch change in direction.
But it couldn't have come at a better time — I mean, shit, it's summer!
Deckstream's jazz-piano over splash-crash percussion sounds like walking down a Manhattan street in the middle of August without a care in the world — the chaos is all there, but you're blissfully floating above it.
While I'm sure there'll be many more perfect summer songs to come, this one's got me in the mood. Thanks Mos Def. I needed this.
When Manchester Orchestra’s I’m Like a Virgin Losing a Child came out in 2006, both fans and critics weren’t exactly sure what to make of it.
The record was certainly ambitious — hell, just look at the title — but the songs weren’t quite so epic to back up front man (then teenage boy) Andy Hull’s philosophical meanderings. Let alone that I once played the record for a friend who subsequently asked if it was the new Saves the Day.
But fast forward three years, thousands of tour miles and a generous helping of musical development, and Manchester Orchestra have returned with Mean Everything to Nothing, a record that feels fully cooked on all fronts. And it tastes, or rather, sounds, stunning.
The band’s centerpiece has always been Hull’s emotive (read: vast understatement) vocals, varying from a near-whisper to some serious throat-shredding, all tied together by the notion that the dude really, truly means it.
And that doesn’t change on Mean Everything to Nothing — if anything, Hull is even further out front to the benefit of the band. The 22-year-old bearded Southerner is a hell of a front man from both the performance and lyrical standpoint.
His voice has a distinct Isaac Brock-ian quality in both its variance and its almost mysterious beauty. But where Brock seems to know his own over-the-top-ness, Hull’s bleeding-heart and often bleeding-palm (religious imagery abound) sincerity makes the music that much more affecting.
The songs on Nothing rock like more complex and layered Pinkerton-era Weezer tunes with significantly more emphasis on faith and love than sex and paranoia. But that comparison alone would rob the record of much of its aural depth — throw in some early My Morning Jacket and fellow Southern gloom-rockers Dead Confederate and the record starts to take shape.
After the twee-pop with meaty guitar opener “The Only One,” “Shake It Out” seems like the real beginning to the album — opening with frantic guitar stabs and Hull singing so frenetically I can picture him looking nervously around the room and pulling his own hair out as lines like “I am the living ghost of what you need / I am everything eternally / God, just speak!” shoot out like stray bullets.
Then the levy bursts and Hull screams the song’s title like a man possessed while his band somehow manages to furiously keep up the pace with huge percussion and muscular walls of guitars. “In My Teeth” is Manchester’s take on In Utero-style Nirvana, and, believe it or not, it works. Marvelously. The song’s intro even sounds like the type of riff Cobain would’ve loved to write, not to mention the dun-dun (pause) dun-dun guitar drops during the verses were lifted from “Lithium.” Still, the similarity isn’t grating — if anything it’s refreshing, a return to form for angry-at-God guitar rock.
Nothing isn’t all Hull’s flailing around like a rag doll, though. “I Can Feel a Hot One” is a gorgeous, slowly-plodding ballad in which Hull builds and deconstructs his melody in each verse, never gaining too much intensity but steadily pushing his thoughts forward. When he sings “To pray for what I thought were angels / Ended up being ambulances / And the Lord showed me dreams of my daughter / She was crying inside your stomach,” whether you believe him or not, think it’s trite or beautiful, it’s near impossible to feel nothing.
And when Hull sings, “I’m gonna leave you the first chance I get” on the sprawling, 11-minute “The River,” you’d be a fool not to believe him. The scary part is figuring out if he’s singing to God, to his audience or to his own oft-tortured, scared and brilliant mind.
So the Dr. Dog show last night was predictably fantastic. Be it in a tiny club or a 600-hundred seater, the Philly boys of Dr. Dog could stir up a room of the tightest Republican senators to break into a groove and get down. I'd refrain from saying the show was perfect — but that's mainly because they didn't play "My Old Ways."
Aside from that, all was wonderful — overwhelmingly positive vibes bouncing from wall to wall in the club, kept afloat by the band's sublimely flowing rock and roll. A Dr. Dog show has the same effect on me that I imagine Oprah does over most of the middle aged women in America — that feeling that everything is alright, everything is lovely.
But the surprise of the night was openers Drink Up Buttercup. Just like Dr. Dog often hit like Beach Boys at that band's most happy and magical, Drink Up Buttercup take the same band's creepier, psychedelic side and twist it into a wild swirl of pounding trashcan percussion, maddening harmonies and dinosaur stomp bass.
This music is following Alice down the rabbit hole. It's being inside an Edgar Allan Poe story. The band's live experience is that crazy.
The studio recorded stuff (check MySpace) successfully sounds like it was recorded in the lowest level of a submarine mid-deep sea dive, but live the band explodes off the stage with enough energy to take down said submarine.
These videos don't nearly do the band justice, but I hope it's a decent primer. You owe it to yourself to check out Drink Up Buttercup. Just don't go too crazy.
If you've read much of this blog, you know that I love the music that really makes me feel something — whether it's happy or sad, dirty or sexy, in love or totally full of intense dislike.
Dr. Dog do that to me. The band's music is so full of motion, of emotion and of the richest imagery in rock right now.
Forget about the haters that say Dr. Dog sounds like the Beach Boys or the Beatles. Because, well, they do — but that's not a bad thing. The band takes the restless, swaying positivity of classic sunshine bands like the Boys or Beatles and puts a distinctly modern twist on it.
It's impossible, at least for bleeding hearts like me, not to be moved by tunes like "We All Belong." Call me a sap or not, but singing a phrase like that, with such a lilting and catchy melody, makes me nod and say, "Yeah, man. We sure do."
The Dog's singer and bassist Toby Leaman took some time while cruising around Seattle's fish market on his day off to talk. Here's what the doc had to say:
Gravity Rides Everything: What was the first record to blow you away?
Toby Leaman: I was a kid. It woulda had to be Out of Time by REM. I liked music before that but it was the kind of music you like before you decide that you like music. I was really into DJ Jazzy Jeff and Fresh Prince — the one with “Parents Just Don’t Understand” – but as far as that having any musical affect on me…maybe not.
GRE: What about (Dr. Dog hometown) Philly inspires you?
TL: The people. The more people you meet and all the interesting things people are into — because its not extremely expensive or at the cutting edge, it affords people to just do what they want to do without sacrificing too much. If they want to do something really weird that’ll never make them any money — you can do that in Philly. There are outlets for it — little house punk shows, art shows.
GRE: The band has said that FATE is the record that the you guys were destined to make. How do you interpret that?
TL: You could say that about any album we’ve made. They’ve all been a product of what we had available to us at that time. And certainly for FATE we had more available to us. Still, we don’t really feel limited whether we were recording on 4-track or reel-to-reel 8-track or even when we moved to 24-track.
GRE: Is Dr. Dog's best record still to come?
TL: Absolutely. The next one will be the best one to date. Without a doubt. We’ve been talking about it a lot. We wanted to release something this summer — it’ll be like a mini album. I'm trying to avoid calling it an EP. We’re going back to 8-track on that one just for the hell of it. But the next full album, we’re talking about not doing it ourselves — maybe in partnership with somebody else. We agree that for us to get to the next level artistically, as lofty as that sounds, we need to get out of our own studio. Mainly it’s an engineering issue. But also it might be fun to let another head in.
GRE: How would you describe your approach to songwriting. Does it come naturally or do you set aside time?
TL: Both. Sometimes you’re not trying to write anything and something just comes up and its easy as pie. I try to play at least a couple hours in my head when I’m at home. It’s my favorite thing to do, so it’s not a hassle. I would write all day every day if I could. Like 90 percent of what I write never becomes a song. It’s hard to say when you’re actually writing and when are you just dicking around, though.
GRE: My favorite Dr. Dog line is "What blows us hear today will blow us all away" from "The Breeze." How does that mentality factor into being a traveling band?
TL: I never thought about it in that light. Obviously the term "blow us all away" has multiple meanings. Essentially, I would imagine that what Scott (McMicken, guitar and vocals) was trying to say that the things that have brought you to a place are the same things that’ll get you beyond it. All your history and experience, up to whatever the present is, those are the things that’ll push you further. He might’ve meant it the other way — when you reflect upon your life, it’ll blow your mind. But you can take it anyway you want. Once the lyrics are out of our hands and recorded, they’re no longer ours.
GRE: I recently spent some time working with the poor in Guatemala. The only band I listened to was Dr. Dog because of the music's infectious positivity and hopefulness. What music makes you feel like I did in Guatemala?
TL: In one sense, I feel glad to be doing what we love to be doing. I’m happily married, I have a dog and a house and shit. But as far as actual things that’ve made me feel lucky. Well, I play cards and it’s always beautiful when you get lucky. I haven’t found money recently, but whenever that happens… Honestly, we’re lucky to have a day off today.
Check out Dr. Dog's latest record, last year's FATE, on Park the Van and let the happiness in.
Something about the so-in-your-face-sexuality made it, to me, totally unsexy. And aside from the ridiculously catchy "Fuck the Pain Away," which was itself so over the top it was hard to hate, Peaches just wasn't a train I was riding.
But hot damn, her newest record I Feel Cream, out just next week, has made me a believer. Gone are her over simplified, sparse beats — they've been replaced by some fine, thumping and pulsing electroclash (dare I say) soundscapes that toy with her better-than-ever plaintive moans.
This is 'late 80s, blowing lines in a sweaty club where there are girls dancing in cages'-type electronic fuzz, and finally - finally - Peaches' is heavier on the innuendo than the straight up sex. And, by the logic of music, that makes her latest sexier than ever. By far.
Don't get me wrong — I Feel Cream still has its flaws. Peaches' attempt at actual rapping on "Billionaire" is just goofy and forced.
Check out some of the better jams of the record below:
Granted, Peaches is half-naked in this clip, but the point still stands. Quivering beat that flares up at all the right times, catchy-sexy melody and allusions to fucking without waving the fucking in your face. Hot shit.
Rubber-band-bouncy beat and some grit in her voice, this is a hell of a jam.
So there it is. Peaches, a stranger no longer.
Check out I Feel Cream out May 5 on XL. Then get laid. Peaches wouldn't want it any other way.
You probably wouldn't expect that an album called My Maudlin Career (read: foolishly emotional) would be the one that'll be played out of rolled down car windows across the country this summer. Or maybe you would, in which case I say way to go. You are a seer of the future.
That's the name of the new one just dropped by indie-pop-boppers Camera Obscura, and it's the bands best record to date. Which is saying a lot — 2006's Let's Get Out of this Country had more catchy-cute songs than a Jonas Brothers record that didn't suck.
Nonetheless, on My Maudlin Career, the Scottish band has sharpened everything about its sound. The harmonies are Beach Boys sunshine, the guitar lines are perfectly catchy and non-obtrusive, cutting in just as Tracyanne Campbell's gorgeously heartbreaking melodies step aside. Is it twee pop? Maybe, but in the least annoying way possible.
Take the first single, "French Navy." The percussion and bass parts are straight out of a 1960's chamber pop tune that was probably about holding hands and those strings are like a part Grizzly Bear wrote for a cartoon. Weird. Lovely. Really, really fantastic.
Here's the clip:
The happiest thing you heard all day, right? I know!
My Maudlin Career is full of gems like that one, and it just dropped this week. You're $9.99 couldn't be better spent.
No surprise there. And though study aids like booze, Facebook and reading my blog may seem to help pass the time, they won't help you land an A.
That said, I've assembled a study aid that does work — it's the playlist that I listen to whenever attempting to write a paper, study for a test or read something I don't care about. It's a tough life being a college student, I know.
Because the actual playlist is over 7 hours long, I've pulled a few samples for you to use as suggestions. Obtain music by these bands any way you can — I promise you'll make Dean's List.
Here we go:
Welcome to the wonderful world of Air. All smoothed-out, slowly unfolding grooves that'll soothe your brain into learning. I know that sounds stupid, just trust me. If I could only listen to one band during my four years of college studying, this would be it.
Ahh, American Analog Set. Beautiful, muted and subtle. Slow and simple enough not to distract you, but more than gorgeous enough to keep your spirits up. And the fact that almost all the vocals are sung in a hushed whisper is perfect to remind you that there's no talking in the library.
Explosions in the Sky are the perfect band for writing papers. You've got no words to distract you from pumping out your own. Write your thesis to this band, you won't regret it.
And finally, we come to the motherload. Above is one of Godspeed! You Black Emperor's shorter songs. Most edge in on 20 minutes, which is perfect to keep you focused. None of that checking to see which song is playing next — it'll be the same one until you finish reading this chapter!
Of course, the list goes on. Any study session that has any chance of being successful probably shouldn't be without Sigur Ros, Boards of Canada, Portishead's newest record, Chairlift and, of course, a healthy dose of non-swing and definitely non-smooth jazz. As in, real jazz. Davis and Coltrane will make you smarter. And probably sexier.
So there you have it. Good luck taking tests about subjects you despise, writing papers on topics that bore you and generally living in a library or at a coffee shop. As for me, come tomorrow afternoon, I'm officially done doing any school work. Yes.
Having just watched last week's South Park that lambasted Kanye West's monumental ego six ways from Sunday AND heard his new track with Clipse, conveniently titled "Kind of Like a Big Deal," all within a few hours, I can't help but feel that there's a tinge of irony floating around.
Nonetheless, while no one's got a show stopping verse on the track, this beat if monstrous — a needling guitar line that sounds like its blasting from a garage in the 60s over pummeling drums. I give it a few days before there are remixes even hotter than the original.
So without further ado, here's "Kind of Like a Big Deal." You decide if the track will end up being just that.
Annnnnd in case you didn't catch it last week, here's Kanye's South Park episode. Do you like fish sticks?
Generally, you can categorize most music into a day of the week. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday tend to be tough, but the rest of the week has fairly defined sounds.
Thursday — anxious, nervous, ready to hit the weekend (See: Most post-punk)
Friday — free at last, spacious, upbeat soundscapes, excitement, urgency (See: hip-hop, tense indie rock)
Sunday — slow down, grab a blanket, recover from the weekend and mourn the coming week (See: Most things acoustic, Norah Jones. Ha!)
Well, funneling through my inbox today, though it's only Wednesday, was one of the more beautiful Sunday albums I've heard in a long time.
The name is Matthew Barber, and his new record is Ghost Notes. It was just released stateside yesterday, but was already nominated for a Juno (Canadian Grammy equivalent) this year for best Traditional Roots album. Not bad, eh?
His acoustic guitar and piano have the same light, meandering and lovely tones and melodies as Mark Kozelek/Red House Painters or a less urgent City and Colour (which, if you haven't fallen in love with already, you should check out...now).
As I was attempting to write my last music column for my college newspaper, I put on this record and got wildly nostalgic, in the least cheesy, last-song-at-prom way possible. His melodies are plaintive but hopeful — and I couldn't help but sadly smile, sitting alone in my room, writing what will be my last imprint on college.
This is Sunday morning music, coming home from war music, falling in or out of love music. Beautiful, aching in a way that doesn't quite hurt. Check it out here.
And here:
And he's only got one tour date coming up in the states: May 13, Union Hall, New York, NY and supporting Jill Sobule. If you're in the area, this is a solid bet for a great night. Even if it isn't on a Sunday.
Ryan Adams, on his criminally underappreciated record Rock’n’Roll, sang it best when he howled, “This is it. This is really happening.” While he wasn’t singing about graduating college — it’s time to say goodbye.
Farewells in rock’n’roll are a tricky business, though, and have historically come in many forms. There’s the KISS model, in which farewell actually means, “Goodbye until next year, when we decide to launch another farewell tour. That’ll be our 12th!” Then there’s the Nirvana model, when goodbye really does mean, um, goodbye. Like, forever. Too soon?
Nonetheless, there’s an important message that must be sent before bowing out of academia.
Take some time, as much as you need, maybe years, and find the music that actually affects you. Simple enough, right? Well, sort of.
For many of us, there’s a general apathy towards our choice of music, or art, or movies or any form of creative expression. If it’s on the radio, we’ll listen to it. If it’s playing on MTV (do they play videos anymore?), we’ll watch it.
And for many people, that’s worked out just fine. Maybe you’re not a music person, particularly, and the beat of the new Flo Rida jam makes you smile. And that seems good enough.
But there’s a huge world of music out there waiting to be discovered, and it’s filled with things that won’t just make you smile — they’ll change your life. I don’t care how ‘not that into music’ you are (people who list “Everything. Except country” on Facebook, I’m talking to you), I promise that there is a song out there — hell, maybe even a whole genre — that will change how you think about life.
Sound silly? Maybe I’m just a music nut idealist. Were the tables turned and an engineering major told me there was an equation out there that would change my life, sure, I’d have trouble believing him.
But there’s something about music that is so purely human, so organic and emotional, that even the most robotic engineering student will feel something. The same argument could be made for film, for literature, for dance — and to that, I say go and explore those mediums too.
But don’t spend your life listening to whatever’s convenient. Especially in this world of technology, when any song in any genre is literally a few mouse clicks away, there are no excuses left to keep yourself in the dark from the music that could, and will, change you forever.
And that music, the earth-shattering, life-moving stuff, is different for everybody. The argument could certainly be made that Lupe Fiasco or Nas are more inspiring rappers than Flo Rida, but if Flo Rida really, truly moves you then run with it.
The point is that some music, whatever it is or however awful people like me might think it is, it’s your duty, as an emotionally-driven and intelligent person, to find it.
Don’t let critics or your friends influence you with this, either — no matter how much I hate Nickelback and wish that the band and all its music would be shot to one of Jupiter’s moons and legislation would be passed to banish any mention of Nickelback or Chad Kroeger for the rest of time, leaving the world a much better and bullshit-free place, the truth is that some people are actually moved by that music.
And if you are one of those people truly affected by lyrics about blowjobs and strippers, then, though it pains me to say this, more power to you. I wish my mind were as simple as yours.
Now your search might take some work. If your search for meaningful music truthfully starts and ends on Top 40 radio (I could believe avid card enthusiasts to be emotionally stirred by “Poker Face”) then maybe you are luckier than the rest of us.
For most people, though, the search could be long and hard — you may need to dig through your old favorites, listen hard to friends’ iTunes, search through tons of music online.
My progression began with Boyz II Men, dancing around the living room with my dad. Then somehow on to Hendrix and Zeppelin, through Saves the Day and Thursday, through The Decemberists and Jeff Buckley and, maybe most importantly, The Grateful Dead among countless others. What a long, strange trip it’s been indeed.
But, hey, you can do it. You’re a Pitt student, educated more than most people in the world. And I’ll even give you a suggestion, quite appropriate for those of us feeling scared and crazed and exhilarated about moving into the real world next week — “So Alive” by (can you see a trend?) Ryan Adams.
A few months back, the world was introduced to Tinted Windows, the new band featuring Taylor Hanson, James Iha and company. And hey, they didn't blow.
Apparently, though, the notion that any random assortment of musicians from other, unrelated bands can join together to become a (gulp, I hate this word) supergroup is becoming a trend.
And with that, I introduce Chickenfoot, the new band featuring Chad Smith (Red Hot Chilli Peppers), Joe Satriani (guitar virtuoso, relative douche bag) and ex-Van Halen bros Sammy Hagar and Michael Anthony.
The truly (cough, cough) exciting part is that Chickenfoot is heading out on tour this summer! Anyone who was really dying to see over-the-hill Sammy Hager put on his best (read: still not good) performance will finally get the chance to see it!
Now look, supergroups are all good and fine I suppose, but few reek of such desperation to get back into the limelight than this one. Besides Smith, none of these dudes has done anything remotely noteworthy in years — aside from, of course, Satriani's sad attempt to sue Coldplay for stealing his song. Which sucked.
In terms of musical backgrounds, we can again make an exception for Smith — his drumming in the Peppers (mixed with Flea's bass acrobatics) make for one of the tightest rhythm sections in rock. But Hagar was, for years, the worst part of Van Halen, and Satriani's pompous, bloated guitar rock is less exciting than waiting for Led Zeppelin to reunite.
If you're not convinced yet that Chickenfoot will not, in fact, save rock'n'roll, here's a post Anthony wrote on his blog when the band first surfaced last fall: "I just got back last Wed. from a week and a half of recording with Sam, Joe, and Chad, and all I can say is....F_K, the shit is ROCKIN!!!! NOBODY will be disappointed!"
Hmmm. Al caps tends to mean "I don't even believe myself."
Now! 30, as in the 30th installment of the popular Now That’s What I Call Music! compilations, was just released and sold 146,000 copies in one week.
This news immediately brings to mind two questions. First, how in the hell have 30 of these things been made? And second, who are the 146,000 people dumb enough to buy Now 30?
The answers to these questions are actually rather simple, but they point to a deeper issue. Basically, 30 of these compilations have been made because they continue to sell, and they continue to sell because fans of soulless pop music are the most vapid type of music fan, and hence will buy anything with an exclamation point and a good beat. But that’s a gripe for a different column.
My real issue with Now still existing is that, in an age where we can download entire catalogues of records in under a minute or buy individual songs on iTunes, thereby making your own hits compilation, this series of pop song collections is utterly and completely irrelevant to the music scene. What's more, you can actually go to the Now! website and stream the compilation in its entirety, meaning that anyone willing to shell out 17 bucks for the actual disc may be the last person in the country to discover the internet.
But it wasn’t always that way.
Now! actually debuted back in 1983 in England as a 30-song double vinyl, but even then the idea wasn’t new — hits collections had existed since the early 1970’s. The series exists in Mexico, China, Czech Republic, Poland, Portugal, Israel, New Zealand and Greece, where the title roughly translates to “Now These are the Hits Today!” They’ve long served the purpose of encapsulating Top 40 radio in one place — all the catchiest pop hits of the last few months on one record, no waiting around to hear them on MTV or the radio.
Even in 1998, when Now! debuted in the states it was arguably relevant. Napster was big, sure, but the downloading scene certainly wasn’t as saturated as it is today. Looking at the track list is particularly entertaining, too — remember “Never Ever” by All Saints? Fastball, K-Ci & JoJo, Aqua, Marcy Playground and Cherry Poppin’ Daddies all show up too. Inexplicably, so does Radiohead. Seriously, Thom?
In seventh grade, when I was king of the Bar Mitzvah party dance floor circuit, I actually won a copy of Now! 2 (which included the New Radicals’ still-underrated “You Get What You Give”) at a middle school dance when the DJ asked students to have a dance-off. And at time, it was a pretty cool prize.
If I was the same 13-year-old winning Now! 30 today, though, I doubt I’d be as thrilled. With the incredible amount of access we have to music, the fact that I could burn my own version of Now! from iTunes, without any songs I didn’t like, in a few minutes, the compilations just seem unnecessary.
Now by no means do I condone downloading mass amounts of music and stealing from deserving artists, but the songs on Now! compilations are so ubiquitous in the pop music lexicon they’re basically public property. Why spend money on a compilation that has pop songs you more than likely have on iTunes already? For the cover art and liner notes?
It seems pop music consumers have begun to catch on. While Now! 5, to name just one, sold over four million copies and Nsow! 7 sold 621,000 copies its first week, as access to music increased, the series’ sales have dropped pretty dramatically. Now! 30, with 146,000 first week sales, is one of the series’ least successful.
Still, folks, come on now. Make your own, better mixes of your favorite hits. Plus, any establishment that would put Nickleback on a compilation, like, say Now! 30, is one that doesn’t deserve your support.
When he speaks, his words are slow and crisp, each sentence clearly well thought out. The music that emanates from the multi-instrumentalist, then, seems to make sense — delicate, detailed and beautiful.
With his latest record, Noble Beast, Bird takes listeners on a musical hike through enchanted woods, complete with violins, guitars, hand claps and, as appears on so many of his records, whistled melodies.
Since Bird left his first gig — as a member of the swing revivalists Squirrel Nut Zippers — he’s been making music that floats between folk, rock and old-world jazz and blues.
Bird recently spoke to Gravity Rides Everything about music, his decidedly un-rock ’n’ roll life and the liquid state of songwriting.
Gravity Rides Everything: How much of what you write never makes it into a song?
Andrew Bird: I started off writing 25 or 30 songs for a record and cutting half of them. But that became such a heartbreaking process. Now I tend to take the same 10 or 11 songs and record them in like 10 different ways, putting them in different lights. Sometimes I’m writing three different songs at first and I realize they’re the same song. I put them together and cut off the fat.
GRE: Your songs often transform greatly from one live show to the next. How do you put together a set list?
AB: You’re tempted to do whatever worked the night before, but you have to work against it. Once you repeat the night before, there’s the potential for getting in a rut. When you’re playing every night, it’s a lot to ask of yourself, but you have to work to make the set more precarious.
GRE: Do you look back on your time with the Squirrel Nut Zippers nostalgically?
AB: It was pretty exciting to be a part of that. I was 22 or 23 playing for over a thousand people a night and hanging out with a hard-living, Southern, eccentric group of people. But it was a double-edged sword, because years after that, my own original stuff and the promoter of the show would say, ‘Come on, daddy-o, come down for a swing lesson.’ But my music had nothing to do with that scene.
GRE: What factors pushed you toward a completely solo career apart from [your former band, Andrew Bird and the] Bowl of Fire?
AB: Hitting the road really hard with five people and no support — all sleeping in one hotel room if we could afford it. And the pressure of being the host of a large band, and also just creatively not wanting to delegate parts to other musicians with their particular taste. I was writing bass lines in pizzicato in an octave pedal and playing whatever felt natural, not thinking like a bass player at all. There were no rules all of a sudden. I was just doing what I’d suppressed.
GRE: Where are you most at home — writing, recording or playing live?
AB: Playing music live is the most honest. A close second would be when I’ve a new song in my head. It can be very gratifying — the time before you bring it to anybody. It’s like this cool secret. Then the moment finally comes to show it to an audience, it’s a pretty special thing.
GRE: Do you carry around a recorder to get new melodies in your head?
AB: No, I figure if it’s worth remembering, it’ll come back. Especially with melodies — I like things to stay in a liquid state in your head for as long as possible. They stay more interesting there. Once they get out of your head, they start to solidify. That liquid magma state is the key to new songs.
GRE: So what’s next for you?
AB: A good solid year of playing shows almost every night. I don’t want to call it work, but it’ll be very demanding. I’m about my health like I’m about to do the Tour de France, putting myself on a specific training and diet regimen. It’s not the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle exactly. If I did indulge in that, well, I just wouldn’t make it.
The Smashing Pumpkins, how I remember them blissfully.
Just this week, Billy Corgan, the one-time rock god of The Smashing Pumpkins, announced that he’d be holding auditions to find a new drummer for his somehow-still-existing band.
As in, you could be a pimple-faced 15-year-old high school band geek today and the drummer of a multi-platinum and formerly awesome alt-rock band tomorrow.
The recent development in The Pumpkins’ devolution into rock’s longest running joke formed after original drummer Jimmy Chamberlin quit the band, leaving Billy Corgan as the sole original member. Unsurprisingly, Corgan was quick to let the public know he’d continue to truck on.
As a former Pumpkins junkie ho long ago played the band’s opus Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness so much that the cassette tape actually wore through and snapped, I must say that I’m really bummed.
This is just the latest in disheartening news to spring from the Corgan camp since the band began to unravel back in the late 1990s — and the slow, painful process of watching the Pumpkins rot has been a difficult pill to swallow.
Here’s a scene: The big family Hanukkah party, held in my grandparent’s basement, and there are no fewer than 15 separate piles of presents scattered along the walls. Each grandkid gets one, and, as a general rule, the piles vary in size depending on how much each set of parents wants to show off their wealth to the rest of the family.
Well, the Jacobs brothers tended to have the smallest pile of gifts while our cousins’ would consist of several boxes the size of small cars stacked atop one another. Usually, this dichotomy would bum me out, the sensitive 9-year-old that I was.
But this year — 1995 it was — I knew that my best gift was the smallest — the double-cassette of Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, by the coolest band in the land, The Smashing Pumpkins.
My young mind rationalized the Pumpkins as the coolest band ever using the following logic:
1. The guitar riff of the song “Zero” sounds like the most violent car chase ever.
And so it went, for several years, that The Smashing Pumpkins were everything to me. I picked up the band’s earlier work (“Cherub Rock” is killer) and buzzed my hair off. Whether this was to emulate Billy Corgan or not, I can’t remember, but I looked like a penis and grew it back as quickly as I could. Several Hanukkahs later, I even received the five-disc B-sides collection box set and carried it around like a lunchbox.
But I was no blind follower, and when The Pumpkins began to decompose, so did my adoration for them. First came Machina/The Machines of God in 2000, a record that was about as memorable as the pysch class you slept through today.
Then came the first breakup — during which a few band members actually made some decent work. Guitarist James Iha’s A Perfect Circle work was solid, and Zwan, the band including Corgan and Chamberlin, was at least passable.
Bassist D’arcy Wretzky, on the other hand, was arrested for buying a whole bunch of crack. Oops!
But then began the long climb toward both a reunion and the notion that Billy Corgan is batshit insane.
In 2005, the dude took out a full-page ad in the Chicago Tribune begging his old band to rejoin him. It worked, sort of, but the resulting album Zeitgeist (featuring only Corgan and Chamberlin) was anything but, and the band began a freefall into irrelevance.
Corgan’s statement that The Pumpkins would only release singles, not albums, because, “People don’t even listen to it all” made him sound like a bitchy child. Maybe people just didn’t listen to all of your record, Billy.
And now, with Corgan living out his notorious reputation as a weird and egomaniacal control freak, he’s attempting to hold on to the spotlight for just a few more minutes by holding public drummer auditions. Seriously, send your bio, picture and a video to pumpkinsdrummer@gmail.com, and it could be you.
The whole thing stinks of desperation and is the nail in the coffin of the credibility of a once-fantastic band.
So, though I don’t have the money or shamelessness to take an ad out in The Chicago Tribune, Gravity Rides Everything will have to do.
Please, Billy, stop dragging your good name through the mud. Continue to make music, sure, but quit the childish stunts, quit the lame excuses. Iha, who just formed a band with Taylor Hanson, is more respected than you.
Enough is enough, man, and it’s time to know when to gracefully bow out.
Though the school's got negative fashion sense, very little social normalcy and entirely too much emphasis on academics, Carnegie Mellon University sure knows how to pick its live bands.
While Pitt will be aurally bludgeoned to death by the likes of The Academy Is... and the insufferable Secondhand Serenade for its free spring concert, CMU bagged Ted Leo & The Pharmacists and The New Pornographers.
I knew there was a downside to attending a state school.
Nonetheless, the show is going down at 8 p.m. on CMU's large lawn in the center of campus on April 17.
And it's free. Did I mention that?
If you're not a fan already, it'd be a marvelous idea to familiarize yourself with either of these two truly great bands. Here's a start:
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