@

A mellow sequence is interrupted
by light strikes upon the drum kit.
My mind is popping in a wild blue convulsion,
and the drums invigorate my inner child,
climaxing in a solo of thirds and cymbals.

Quiet, in the midst of a storm,
lightning meditates in the ethereal,
flowing forever in an echoing trance.

Today, SPIN Magazine opened the floodgates for avid fans of Hooray For Earth (HFE) by streaming their entire upcoming album “True Loves” online. I wasted no time in listening to it here. I urge to do the same, before this offer disappears. The album goes public on June 7th.

For everyone who got here late, HFE is a guitar band originally from Boston. They now operate in New York, and have since then exploded. Their heavy-hitting presence from years ago (i.e their EP “Momo”) has not changed. If anything, they have complimented that energy with music that makes people feel alive. The vocals resonate on almost every track, as if welcoming listeners to sing along. Check out songs like “Last Minute” and “True Loves” to get a feel for what I mean.

There are layers to their music that simply never existed before. They’ve been exploring the boundaries of guitar rock with electronic enthusiasm, and their hard work has paid off. I sense a very strong and positive reaction to their new release from Dovecote Records. Check out their music video for “True Loves” below. It aptly demonstrates the caliber of their work.

Rubblebucket, Millionyoung, and Com Truise @ Le Poisson Rouge
Greenwich Village, NY
04/20/2011
Red Fish IPA

New York City is a ready-made home for music lovers looking to experience something new. Their scene is so eclectic, and yet it gives every band and artist a place to peacock. Greenwich Village is one of those places, a hotspot for music, and it’s there my notes began.

My bus from Boston dropped me off in the heart of Chinatown, and I waited, leaning on a newspaper kiosk at the corner of Canal and Bowery, scanning the countless passing faces for my friend, Lapre, to meet me after work. He, like me, wouldn’t pass up a show like this.

Le Poisson Rouge (The Red Fish) is a great venue. It looks like a nightclub, and its basement feels like a trendy jazz club. The tables were cleared out for standing room only, and yet, having arrived there when the doors opened, we dropped our gear at a standing bar table near the VIP lounge, and began to marinade on Red Fish IPA and colorful lights blanketing a slowly-growing audience.

The show started for Com Truise, and the club was quarter full. I could tell right off (but was surprised) that he was the opening act. I’m familiar with his work, and recognize it as the night begins. He breaks into something new that flows with his style of heavy percussion and synth waves. This is future electronic music. He improvises on the machines, even though it is an orchestrated piece. Lapre compares it to a modem and a drum, and I laugh.

He grooves to his own music as he plays on stage, and on occasion he looks back at the wall, covered with visualizations. A song plays with reverberating alarms, and dissipates to a rolling thunder of applause. A set of hieroglyphs flash on the massive screen, and I try to grasp what they mean. A sun rises over a polygon mountain. A pair of Italian women talk under the music at a table in front of us, smiling and laughing with big Italian smiles.

I’ve heard this one before. He is in his groove now, and more people have filled the club. A couple people dance by themselves as the heavy song and vibrant visuals coat us listeners in an odd, electronic fog. I seldom consider how prepared these guys are, especially when they run into something at 150BPM and they tap-tap-tap away on music machines, turning knobs and blending track after track. He made it look easy.

A quick intermission allowed me to meet Com Truise after the show and simply thank him for the great show. He was chatting with a couple that met him before I did, so there was an awkward standby moment in front of them as I waited for my chance to interrupt. “Hey man, great show, I’m glad I came out for it.” He was happy to hear it, thanked me, and we shook hands before I made my way back into the club. The next act, Millionyoung, was setting up, and it was only 10pm. I ordered another Red Fish IPA.

Photo Credit - Jessica Lehrman - on The Jealous Lover

Millionyoung was a discovery that resonated with me ever after. They explode from the start in bursts of electro indie flavors comparable to Animal Collective. They open with a track that reverbs harmonic vocals and melodic, beat-infused guitar rock. There is an atmospheric quality in the results, something apt for beach-side parties. They certainly know how to get a crowd moving and cheering. There is energy brewing in their music, and it bubbles over in vocals sweetened by reverberating delays. They use it well, and my head bangs.

If Cut Copy heard this last song, they’d probably go along with the groove. Their sequences of synth, pop, and rock highlight an ambient quality in their vocals. A lady sits alone between us and the Italians, drinking a glass of Vodka neat, and she bobs her head to the beat. The band comes together in a cavalcade of sounds, and despite the odd delay, the vocals really make it great.

We applauded as they collected their things and left the stage. I found them after the show and talked with them briefly, mentioning I traveled from Boston to see the show. They were flattered, and I gave them my card in case there was a chance to see them play in Boston. I had no idea they were playing the following night at Brighton Music Hall, but it wouldn’t have been the same kind of show. I shook their hands and thanked them for the great show, and made my way back into the club. Another Red Fish IPA, and I sit in wait for the final act of the night.

Photo Credit - Jessica Lehrman - on The Jealous Lover

The club was full as Rubblebucket took to the stage. They completely blew the top off any preconception I had. They explore the space around us with harmonic energy. The horns and natural melody in their music bring everything together in a funky groove. They’re beats are uplifting, juxtaposed against afro-like themes and eye-closing harmonies. The crowd was clapping and jamming along, and so was I. The Italians left their table to join the dancing masses, and the lady alone grooves even harder than before in the barstool in front of us. Someone threw a bra on-stage, and everyone was chanting “Happy Holidays!” between songs. The trumpet player did a stage-dive, and everyone was loving it.

I want to know what this song is; it has a happy groove to it, slow but in step with a confident satisfaction. I smile as the vocals take on a jazzy instrumentation, ushering in a breakdown revival of ska and funk. The singer has a great voice that reminds me of Bjork and Sister Nancy. Her melody inspires a state of jam that feels like it could go on for much longer. Thankfully, I think I found the right track, and posted a video for it below.

The show was over late, and Lapre and I were well-off with our drinks before the night came to a close. He had to get up in a few hours to go to work in Manhattan, and yet that didn’t seem to bother him. In the closing notes of the night, I remember the long train ride home, and the pit stop for munchies, handing over my few remaining dollars to impatient ethic men wearing uniforms and hats.

Sitting at Lapre’s kitchen counter, we ate snails from their shells and chased them with sweets, while sipping Glenmorangie scotch and rehashing the night’s encounters. I told Lapre about my conversations with the artists I talked to, and he helped me conceptualize the sounds we heard in words that made sense – it’s a hard thing to do when you’ve never heard music like this before. I only hope for your sake, you get what I mean.

Bloc Party has been around for years now. And yet, every time I listen to their album “Silent Alarm”, I am reminded of a great experience I had in June 2007. It was Boston’s Best Music Poll, and Bloc Party was headlining. I was working for The Phoenix, the media group that put on the show, and they gave me an all-access pass to document the show. I was free to explore the stage and get close to the action. I had not really listened to their music beforehand, but the show itself was a defining moment for me. Many people would agree; live performances surpass a studio recording in more ways than one. They opened with “Like Eating Grass”, drawing out the introduction for everyone to know, and went on from there, playing “Silent Alarm” song by song. Their sound resonated with me ever after.

Fast-paced guitar rock blended with powerful vocal harmonies to make waves in the ocean of people that flooded the streets. They started playing “Banquet” and I couldn’t help jump along with everyone else. I was there, fifteen feet from the stage, moving around every song to capture pictures of the band in their element. By the time they started “She’s Hearing Voices”, the percussion took on an industrial presence, and everyone began clapping their hands and jumping to the beat. A girl next to me was losing herself in the vibrations of the song, dancing in place with her eyes closed and mouth slightly open.

Listening to their album now, I feel the same vibrations, echoed years after they released it. Their sound has changed since then, incorporating more electronic instrumentation, but they still have that iconic, indie feel. It’s only getting better.

People compare them to The Cure, Joy Division, and The Smiths, all of which fall under a subgenre of English alternative rock. It’s only fair they share the same sound; the British influences have shaped their music in such a unique way. There is so much energy and emotion in the sound and lyrics, almost like a rebellion. A teenage rebellion, which is exactly what I saw on Landsdowne Street that night. I snapped picture after picture of the show, trying to capture a visual piece of the moment. Years later, I can look back at these pictures, while listening to this album, and remember a great experience, one-of-a-kind, not likely to be forgotten.

ATLAS SOUND – BEDROOM DATABANK: VOLUME TWO

I’m listening to Atlas Sound’s album “Bedroom Databank: Volume 2” and leaning recumbent in an office chair. My head falls back as acoustic sounds progress,  (opportunistically) like a snow flurry (on a day filled with love) turning into a beautiful blizzard for hours and hours. It turns electronic.

The energy keeps me happy, seeing stars and moonshine, feeling warm, under a jacket and earmuffs, gloves, hat and scarf. I dust my mind and recognize the blatant indie-rock “-ness” of my situation, and begin to focus like a good Grizzly Bear song on the meaning of it all.

Being inebriated (and alone) is an unusually Zen experience while listening to some of this music; I think freely and do what I want.

On beaches at night, the plaid-wearing hipsters could lay around bonfires enjoying a good conversation, and/or resting before sleep, looking up at the stars, wondering how this music’s still on with only one man  (Bradford Cox) playing all the instruments. I often thought of MGMT, Washed Out, and Panda Bear.

The vocals stood out among all of his instruments, along with the bass guitar; I really liked the sound and style of both. I also really liked “Here Come the Trains” at the end, a great example of what his project is all about. It’s enough to get me looking into his other work. Overall I enjoyed the album very much, and await another production.

I found this song shortly after discovering Atlas Sound, and thought you’d like it. Enjoy!

Ahmad Jamal @ Regattabar
Cambridge, MA
11/20/2010
Sam Adams Lager

His entrance was noble; the last one to show up, sitting down while everyone was clapping, and jumping right into something groovy. The band was on queue and picked up right when he did. The tempo was fast at times, and made me think of the fast city streets.

There were moments of release that charged the audience and got us moving in our seats. At other times, things were slower, orchestrated to perfection. There were great solos from all the players, full of improvisation and personality. Manolo Badrena was a creative delight on the percussions. Idris Muhammad was sharp and strong on drums, and James Cammack kept the rhythm and foundation on standing bass.

Ahmad Jamal took the melody and harmony to incredible levels. It was my first impression of him as a musician, and I had no idea he was a major influence on jazz in the 1950s and 1960s. Elements of swing swept the beat from song to song, not wasting a second too long for applause and cheer. My leg kept tapping to the beat underneath the cocktail table, almost spilling my Sam Adams Lager.

I bought his most recent album after the show, and I noticed he was signing autographs after the show. I was the last in line to see him. I told him it was the first time I ever heard his music, and this show made me a fan. He was pleased to hear it, signed the album cover I handed to him, and wished me well as I left. I left him there, knowing he would sit there silently before returning to the stage for a second show. He’s still got it.

Combination reasoning
Halloween 2010

It was the Halloween party, 2010, out in Somerville, deep in the residential area, among the houses rich enough to build, but too expensive to own. It was fun; the house was a notorious four-bedroom, three-floor brownout that held parties year after year, a tribute of the press company my roommate worked for, exploding into 300+ visitors.

I was a coked-out investment banker in my blue Saks pinstripe, black portfolio pants, Aldo dress shoes and old red tie; a blotch of white face paint covered my nose, and I was considered one of the more original costume ideas of the night. Honest, except for the hot women and men who were too proud to say anything, everyone I introduced myself to was impressed. I was too, on the inside, at all the characters I half-knew amidst the beer and booze.

But I left – combination reasoning. Shit grew weird after the 6^th drink, when I ran into some butchers who called themselves “ninja turtles.” It was intolerable; the three of the four I met (Raphael, Donatello, and Leonardo) wore green clothing underneath white smocks with “blood” spattered across them. Different colors, yet they all looked like green Jackson Pollock’s.

Apparently I offended one of them with my costume. I told Donatello what my costume was, and he began to question my intentions. “Why would he be coked-out?” I was caught off-guard, kind of like an awkward come-back from a would-be girl you’re hitting on. I had to defend my intentions, and it gained the interest of more than just the turtles. Raphael was more offended than Donatello. His father was an investment accountant.

The beer and booze did little to solve the problem. Raphael began to ask me who I was, who I came with (to the party), and really made a scene around the ten-odd people in the foyer. I was humiliated at the hands of a bastard ninja turtle; there was no social comeback.

I decided to leave. The keg was finished and I rounded up the remaining booze in a blue solo cup. Believe me when I tell you, the party is over when the booze is all gone. Luckily for me, I spent my last minutes there drinking a combination of Yellow Tail and Jim Bean, provided by a girl dressed like a clown, but claimed she was Elton John. She looked funny, and I thanked her for the help before running into a Frenchman and his companion with a proposition.

“Hey, do you want to smoke some pot?” I was easily swayed, and I quickly forgot about the party inside. The smell of marijuana didn’t seem to bother other people, despite it countering my inebriated self the same way sugar does with coffee. I was in a good place, even after the negative episode minutes earlier, feet away.

I left when I saw the ninja turtles hovering around the front entrance. I didn’t want to cross paths with them again. My roommate would find his own way home; he’s the type to milk a moment until it’s dry, and being only 2am, I knew he would continue his escapades for a while longer. I said my goodbyes to the Frenchman and friend, Gretel and Charlie Brown, along with Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield, Red Riding Hood, Dobby the House Elf, and that dancing banana from that hit “Peanut Butter Jelly Time” by the Buckwheat Boyz.

There were so many others I remember, but I knew there was no opportunity worth trying for to get past the obstinate (and obdurate) ninja turtles. Before heading down the gravel path, I saw them talk and point and stare directly at me, bringing Michelangelo into the mix, making my odds of physical conquest four-times more difficult. I cut my losses and left. It wasn’t worth it.

I had my iPod shuffle. It was somewhere in the middle of a track mix my brother gave me from New York, so I couldn’t tell you what I was listening to. I wasn’t sure where I was going, either, but I was blessed with five seconds to ask a passing cyclist where Highland was. He pointed in the right direction, the general area which led me towards another house party.

Now imagine this scene – you’re out of your mind and in a personal zone, and all of a sudden a character you know and revere is standing outside with a monk and a tennis player smoking a cigarette. Patrick Bateman, the lead character from “American Psycho,” was wearing a poncho over a business suit, just as he did before killing Paul Allen with an ax.

I play off that angle when we first met. I simply asked where Highland was from here, and then asked if I could use his bathroom. “Yeah, go for it. You seem like a nice guy,” he said, and I casually entered the scene. The place was amazing, definitely more expensive than my place on Grand View. He had a bigger foyer with dark brown tiling and windows overlooking the street, and steps leading up into the apartment rather than a hallway turn-around like mine.

The party was still in effect; club girls in skimpy outfits were talking to each other near a billiards table that nobody was using, dudes in cop outfits and spiked Jersey do’s were taking shots of Petron, and a couple or two were making out in distant corners of the lavish apartment. I wandered around, looking for the bathroom, kind of like a fool who didn’t know where he was. The bathroom was in a weird location, and there was a line, but a cop who knew I wasn’t a part of the crowd saw through me and let me jump in line. Nice guy. I enjoyed the relief and thanked him as I left.

I walked back outside just as quickly as I entered. “Thanks Bateman,” I said to the host as he talked to the monk. “No problem,” he said, as if he didn’t notice the name I called him. I told him flat out, “you know, you look just like…” and he flipped out, in a good way. “You know, you’re the first person all night to get my costume. Why don’t you come in and have a drink…”

All the random people who saw me quickly come and go were surprised to see me return with the owner’s arm around my shoulder in smiles and praise. It was a different turn, and I took it. I became one of the dudes taking shots of Petron. I opted for a round of pool with the owner. “You know, it’s been ages since I played this game.” I don’t remember if he or I said that.

I remember we shared quotes and scenes from American Psycho, and the girls with hard bodies revolved around us because we looked like we knew what we were doing. I caught the eye of some blonde who was talking to her friend; they were among the few sitting by the entrance when I first arrived. When the game ended, I shook hands with the owner and thanked him for his hospitality. “Hey man, thank you,” almost competitively gracious; explains the multi-hundred dollar getup he was rocking.

I had to excuse myself, not because it was late, but because I wanted to meet the blonde outside before I left.

“Hey,” she said, “who are you?”

“I’m Alex.” She meant what my costume was, confused by the blotch of white paint on my nose. I told her, and she said “oh, that’s funny.” She didn’t laugh, but smiled. Her teeth were whiter than my face paint. I got her number but didn’t get her name.

I stumbled home the remaining half-mile to the sound of Cate Brothers “Give It All to You.” I still got home before my roommate. 4:30am or so, and he strolls in with some girl he met at the party. She wasn’t fabulous, certainly a couple notches below the blonde I met, but still fun. He brought home a brown paper bag full of beers, and he and I drank more as the girl began to have second thoughts. Within minutes, they left again; he drove her home as I sat in my Eames chair, drafting the first part of this story. At 5:10am, he returned with a smug look on his face. “Man, I did that girl a favor.” I could care less if he got laid that night.

We talked about my shenanigans at the press party, and laughed about the chance encounter with Patrick Bateman and his lavish house apartment over stale pizza and beer. It was near 6am when I went to bed, and my dark empty sleep was interrupted a few hours later when my parents texted me to meet them in Copley for brunch.

Artifact Loves Viva Radio
WWW.VIVA-RADIO.COM

Despite sailing through a legal storm of issues right now, LA-Boutique clothing company American Apparel proudly supports a radio station online, and it’s just great. VIVA-RADIO.COM, go check it out. It was well-received by employees and customers of American Apparel when it first went live, but in time it grew thanks to word of mouth and the way of the web. Now, anybody can listen to it. I’ve been listening for a few months, and it has effectively replaced the other radio stations I frequent.

It is no surprise that a station like VIVA RADIO would sprout from chic retail like this, but it is surprising that so few competitors market their stations the same way. Plenty of retail stores (like Hollister, Gap, Guess, etc) have a dynamic theme to their fashion, be it sexy, business, casual, or more. Their standpoints on fashion provide an opportunity to better retain customers; using music as a mode of media marketing, retail companies have the power to influence consumer interest and demand.

VIVA RADIO is brought to you by a group of freelance music producers, each with a sound that agrees with the style: chic, artsy, trendy, hipster, basic, yet original. That means pop, disco, funk, hip hop, and a mishmash of electronic genres that I am unable to categorize. Some of it comes from far reaching places around the world. The producers who submit work to Viva Radio do so for a generation of young, savvy, and capable listeners who live for the moment. Such is the mission… Viva!

For enthusiasts, there is a blog you can follow from their site. Check out interviews, upcoming shows, emerging artists and music trends. It’s a great resource for people looking for new music, as each DJ brings something new to the front. With that in mind, I want to give a special shout out to POSSO, The DJ duo Vanessa Giovacchini and Marylouise Pels. After listening to their show, I fell in love with the station. Thank you girls, and thank you VIVA RADIO for keeping the music loud and proud.

WWW.VIVA-RADIO.COM

HOORAY FOR EARTH – August 17^th, 2010
T.T. The Bear’s Place, Cambridge, Massachusetts
9:45pm, Pabst Blue Ribbon

Lights passed above as I entered the dimly lit spot in my friend’s hand; welcoming the others and grabbing a beer at the slightly vacant bar. Not too many people were around yet. People were loitering around the more popular scene next door. The joke was on them – the real show was back here.

I get there late but the show hadn’t started yet. My friend was entertaining a seedy group of enthusiasts inside before he came out to welcome me. He gave me my ticket; I was upset to see a different band headlining – ADMIRAL RADLEY – but I didn’t care. They were not what I came to see. I came to see HOORAY FOR EARTH, and they were on shortly.

At a place like T.T. THE BEAR’S, bands can embrace the small performance arena, throw everything they got at the audience at volume ten, break the knobs, and still sound great. That doesn’t work for all bands out there; unfortunately… you have to have talent. The ground shook when HOORAY FOR EARTH came on stage. Almost out of competition, THE MIDDLE EAST – DOWNSTAIRS had a show on too, and their fire down below was completely smothered by the footfalls of rockers young and old. It was the best live act I’d seen in a long time.

HOORAY FOR EARTH is Noel Heroux, Chris Principe, Gary Benacquista, and Joseph Ciampini, formed in 2005. They’re mostly based out of New York, but they have roots in Boston that keep them coming back to destroy local venues. Joe on the drum keeps the energy going while Noel and Chris tear up the guitar and bass. Gary’s on the other side, playing synthesizers with the occasional guitar act. Noel, the man behind stories of sleep-deprived inspiration, broke off on occasion in frantic mini-fits of thrash and metal. It was awesome. Chris and his bass kept the melody in motion with on-point precision, and my head began to rock uncontrollably with the beat.

These guys know each other, like good friends, and it’s helping them control and mold the musical fury they create. Their sound is clean and their energy is hot. I bought their MOMO EP a few weeks back on my friend’s recommendation (including the vinyl, a very cool press). Fortunately for me, they played that album live at T.T. THE BEAR’S, so it was all my familiar favorites, and if anything they bettered their studio work. Young, indie, club rockers across the world would eat this stuff up.

Hands rise in the air when “SO HAPPY” begins with its anthem guitar distortion, and people dance when they bring on “SURROUNDED BY YOUR FRIENDS,” a personal hit laced with uplifting undertones of life and death. Their lyrics seep into the teenage wasteland within, and they stand behind a thrash-electro-pop sound that makes contemporary rock wonder where its mojo went. Just try “HOW ARE YOU HERE” and you’ll hear what I’m talking about. As for a top track suggestion, I would go with “VIDEOSTORE” for its climactic finale, a total blowout of melody and percussion that hits an apex unachieved by other pieces. The audience rocked around me, bobbing like waves of skin and sweat, praising ecstatic when they finished their last song. I was hitting my apex too… and then the lights came on for the next act and final act.

I would check them out whenever you get the chance. They are definitely worth a listen. Try the three sites below for songs and more information on upcoming shows.

http://www.myspace.com/hooray4earth
http://hoorayforearth.net/shows/
http://rcrdlbl.com/artists/Hooray_For_Earth/track/Video_Store

It’s a good feeling when bands gain international fame. It’s an odd feeling, I bet.

Everything Everything. In little time, they have come out of the woodwork of the UK with a music video for their new single, “MY KZ, UR BF” and I have to tell you, it’s a really great song. Give it a listen, give it a look, I embedded a music video below for you to watch. The song tells the story of a guy who’s been found out by this girl’s boyfriend. Enjoy :-)

This track should be highly rated on big billboards, and have a great “one-hit” feel to it for a while. The lyrical quality is strong and plays a big part in the band, acting as an instrument of its own. Rekindling this energy felt in the minor chord, they took pop and guitar rock to a nice, mellow level. While their other music is varied in vibration, they have a clean sound that is not often heard. Their studio work is mint. I hope to hear more just like it.

Metaform, the LA-raised hip hop producer, made famous for his acclaimed album, “Standing on the Shoulders of Giants,” has taken the fruits of his labors and given them a neon-electro supplement. The end-result is a new album, “The Electric Mist,” a broad collection of electro pop that stands apart from the sound he was famous for. Metaform has changed ways with this album. There was no explosion at curtain’s open this time, no overabundance of soul and funk samples, but rather a winding up of progressive music interlaced with synthetic urban culture. The opening track, “Electric Eyes,” started me down a path of club-set electro and down tempo r&b. I caught onto the auto-tune, and immediately began to worry. I was worried that Metaform had lost his roots with the west coast music scene in which he so successfully found himself.

My worries were not realized, fortunately. Metaform is a talented musical producer, and this time around, he’s offering a new mix to bounce to. Tracks like “It’s Gotta Be” and “Introversion” reminded me that he’s still got the skills he came in with, and new stuff like “Secretly Alone” and “Strange Girl” demonstrated the unique transition he made into electro. And, as if foretelling a greater story in the making, “I Dreamt of the Machine” and “The Machine Approaches” offered ambient piano interludes that quieted the madness of the mist he stirred up. Amidst all the sampling, natural instrument recordings made his work stand out just as they did back in 2007.

“The Electric Mist” is a second induction, and not a follow-up album. Metaform is branching out into the eclectic waters of digital music for a new and ever-changing audience. He’s got more sounds at his disposal now, in addition to a new feature – his own words. This lyrical element puts his new album in a genre of its own, and fans of the electronic type will eat it up. Fans of the old school Metaform may not see things the same way, but through the mist I can clearly see an evolution has occurred. It’s a strong attempt to transition into electronic music, and I am confident he will continue down this new path with the same level of clarity he had years earlier.

“The Electric Mist” is set to release on June 15^th, 2010. Learn more at www.metaformonline.com.

I wasn’t alive in the 1960s, but if I was, I’d expect to see a band like this play on tour. When I first heard Tame Impala, I thought they were a time-bronzed act from that golden era of classic rock. In actuality, the band is the product of a dedicated trio of Western Australians who took their interest in classic rock to the next level.

They love the sixties too, and emulated the fundamental ingredients of authentic 60’s jazz, blues, and progressive rock into something pure. There was a healthy blend of psychedelic acid in their guitars and bass, comparable to… well to be honest, I can’t compare it to anything. That’s a really good thing.

This video encapsulates the spirit of their music, a moment young and bold, when they as a band were defining everything.

Waiting for the Train – Looking for Alaska

Waiting for the inbound train from the boonies of West Wellesley, I was confronted by a dazed and confused hipster rocker-type; tight cut-up jeans, yellow and blue plaid zip-up hoodie and a baseball cap turned sideways. He asked me if I had a five, to which I said I didn’t have one. I followed him and watched as he struggled to fit a crusty five into the MBTA kiosk with shaky hands and smelly breath. He coughed up a lung or two before we really started talking.

I asked him where he was off to, and he said Harpers Ferry out in Allston. He was playing there, lead vocal for a southern hard rock group called “Looking for Alaska.” He suggested the name, a dedication to the 2005 young adult novel by John Green. Their group is an audible depiction of that fragile teenage youth, ripped apart by love, hate, and death.

His complexion was pasty, his eyes were red, and he smelled like sex and alcohol.

“What have you been up to?”

His reply was honest enough, “I’ve been on tour, and just got back a couple days ago.” Doesn’t explain the smell, but he went on to explain who he is and what he does. “I manage an art store when I’m not playing, and when I’m not doing either I’m either drunk, stoned, sleeping, fighting, or fucking my girlfriend.”

His composure was befitting, and his language, unfiltered, aptly expressed a “fuck the world” attitude. He told me he was twenty-one… he looked younger than that.

I asked if he had anything he could play for me, and out of his hand he flips his touch-screen phone and provides me with some heavy sounds while we waited. I couldn’t understand the lyrics because cell phones aren’t boomboxes.

“What are you singing about?”

“Eh, mostly about why I hate girls and yet do anything for them. This song was written with my girlfriend in mind, and it became a lot more when I brought it to the band.” I could feel his words through the soft incandescence of his voice. The song had a good vibe to it, and I like when they drop the chorus line because it changes the tempo of the song radically. But why so aimless? And why all the pessimism? I pressed on, and our awkward happenstance became an impromptu interview on the subway as we slowly rode into the city.

“So what brought this all about? Why’d you guys make a band?”

“Well, it started out all fun and games. I had a couple guitars, and my friends all had instruments to work with. It really kind of fell together a year or so ago and we’ve been going forward with it ever since.”

“So you’ve been on tour lately?”

“Yeah, we just went on a back-to-back tour in California and Texas.”

“Whoa, that’s a lot of touring.”

“No shit, lots of driving with six sweaty dudes, no showers, no A/C.”

“Shit… how’d you guys keep on?”

“Lots of raw Ramen noodles and Chef Boyardee. Lots of alcohol and lots of pot.”

We laughed at the thought, and yet the truth was bitter. Going on tour is not as glamorous as it’s made out to be for your average band. It’s costly when you don’t have representation to get you from A to B. He went on to explain that the van they were touring in belonged to their friend and Chief of Security. I got a good look at this “Chief of Security” he was talking about, and he blows my fucking mind. Side profile of this guys face is blue, covered entirely in tattoo. He was bald too, a big defined head, and shoulders that suggested he was huge.

“Whoa, that’s nuts,” I said after hearing his age. Forty-four, and yet he didn’t look older than thirty.

“Yeah, tattoos tighten up the skin, so he’ll look like that his whole life.”

“No shit, he’s got tattoos on his face!”

Our conversation took a detour away from music and Looking for Alaska, and landed on tattoos and other body art. He had a bull-ring hanging from his nose, and he kept touching it, so I had to say something.

“I hear it’s bad to fuck with a piercing like that so soon after getting it put in.” He mentioned it was a week or two new.

“Yeah, it just keeps fucking with me, getting all crusty and shit. I can’t wait for it to get cleaned up.”

“Keep it clean, or you’re gonna be in deep shit. What else do you got?” It turned into a show-and-tell bragging session, appropriately done in front of a score of young, clueless girls. We sat in front of them all, but my new acquaintance didn’t waste any time acknowledging their presence. He turned around in his window seat, his right hand-held the brim of his cap, and he tilted his head around, keeping the hat in place. His eyes sneakily looked over at the prepubescent situation at 5-oclock, looked back at me with an odd look, smiled, and then went on to explain some of his more revealing body art.

“I got half a sleeve done on my right arm here, check this out.” He took off his hoodie and showed me the half-completed tattoo of a white tiger among bamboo and other designs. “This one so far has cost me $1,300, and it’s still not finished. It’s gonna’ cost me another couple hundred to fill it in with color, but so far you can see what it’s gonna’ be.”

The train approached Kenmore. He was getting out at Boylston to meet his friend and guitarist, and I was going to Lechmere to get my ass home. I noticed our window of conversation was quickly closing, so I ended our time together with some serious questions for him.

“Where do you see yourself going with the band?”

“Well, we’re signing with Check Minus Records this weekend, so things are about to move forward. We have an EP out there, recorded and pressed, and another one that we put together this year. Nobody’s heard our new shit yet; we’ve been playing the same songs live for a long time, so we’re sharp. It’s time for something new.“

Confidence. He may have been young, but he had vision, and he knew the score. Music is his art, and art is his life, he would say. You have to live your life and make your art because you only have one moment and it’s not worth wasting.

In Looking for Alaska’s case, the dream is there, and these guys are consistently putting out. I heard recently that they have just added a new member to their group (six in total now), so their image is changing, like their music, like their lives. I went home and listened to some of their stuff on their MySpace and Facebook sites. It reminded me of bands that pushed the boundaries of modern rock, fresh with quality breaks and rhythm that suggested undertones of metal and hard southern rock.

Honestly, I am not an avid listener of the stuff, but it opened my eyes to a type of lyrical passion only expressed in a few styles, and I can see why people eat it up. They certainly have a following, and have only begun to get their hands dirty in the national music scene. I can see this group taking solace in various tours with other major groups and labels, growing in the metal music scene, networking, and hopefully, playing somewhere in Europe for those metal-loving rockers abroad. That’ll be the moment when they’ve gone there and back with their music and their message.

4pm, Sunday, 04.04.10

There are songs in life that make us feel and do as we want. Our hearts have an uncontrollable power over the body that if left undeterred, would eventually resemble a pagan-like dance in the middle of a random place. That happened earlier, but thankfully at home, in my living room, with roommates in the geography. I didn’t care, this music blew my mind.

I first heard The Animal Collective on WERS 88.9FM Boston. They were playing “My Girls,” and I had just woken up to it. I kept on listening until I heard who it was. Animal Collective, another electronic beast in the digital mix of other bands in the spotlight recently, like Grizzly Bear, Department of Eagles, and Gorillaz. And yet this time, the band caused a sensation in my music world. I listened to more; sentimental lyrics about the simple ironies of life and death; love and happiness; sadness and healing; all of it collected in their energetic, psychedelic, indie-rock  music.

I recently listened to to their album, Merriweather Post Pavilion, and “Brothersport” struck me. It is the last track on the album, and rightly placed. The song can not be followed. Through its progression, the song began to build and increase in instrumental complexity. I was cleaning the apartment, and I had just finished organizing things. I began to enjoy standing in the clean open living room, and the music was flowing like the wind through the windows. I began to rock out to the song, dancing with energy and positivity. The ornaments and plants nearby could see me dancing and laughing and singing and smiling while jumping in circles around the living room. Pagan. That was my thought earlier. And then I saw the music video, and saw a whole new side to the song.

It eventually ended, and I felt like I had just exercised my heart and soul for the first time in so long. It felt so good to dance, expressional and exuberant, unaware of anything else around me but the beat and the jam and the feeling that it gave me. I felt like I could accomplish anything.

Central Park South & 5th
Chapter Four – Respect Reflected
11:17pm
12-26-2009

My cab ride to Bowery Bar on 40 East 4th Street would have been a lot faster if the cab driver knew where he was going, but thankfully for me, I was the first to arrive. I thought I was late since we shot for 11:00pm; the bar did not have a lot of patrons because it was raining outside. I walked in, bought a drink, and sat down in the lounge area past the bar to dry off.

He must have been drinking with his friends, because when Petar walked through the door, he was extremely festive. He was also very wet.

“Zucker, so good to see you!” He had the biggest smile I had ever seen. He walked with his fiancé alongside, followed by three guys speaking another language, possibly Croatian, laughing at something while another was upset. “Were you waiting long?”

“No, only a couple of minutes. I got a whiskey sour and was checking out the scene.” I was also checking out the more provocative side of Bowery Bar’s ‘Naked’ New Year party promo. A nice lined halftone pattern filtered through the image on recycled cardboard paper. It acted double as a coaster.

“Ah, yes, my kind of drink,” said one of his friends in broken English.

“Zucker, these are my friends…”

“Nice to meet you guys.” Their looks were welcoming and friendly, and yet their names escape me upon hearing them.

“And this is Irena, my fiancé.”

“It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Hi, I’m sorry we’re late,” she said it with a cool and casual voice. I expected her to have an accent, but she didn’t.

“Oh, you’re not late, it’s cool. It’s great to meet you at last. Petar’s told me a lot about you.”

She shoots Petar a look, but he cuts her off. “Not bad things, Honey. I told him you worked in Publishing.”

“I’m so glad I can finally put a face to the name.” She smiled and gave Petar and a look. He smiled back and said, “I’ve told her about you too – your writing and your magazine.” I give her an interested look.

“Yeah, I think what you’re doing is really great. Have you been writing for long time?”

“Yeah, since I was a kid.”

“What do you write about?” A lot of this was lost in the drunken happenings of the night. At this point in time, however, I felt accepted in the group. For the next hour or so, we really made the most of an empty rained-out bar garden.

Everything was great, but then the Bowery Bar closed. It was 12:45am, and I called “shenanigans” on the joint for not living up to New York’s “all night” nightlife. They didn’t understand, but agreed that we should move on. I didn’t feel as drunk as everyone else, maybe; there was no stumbling into the cab and no head-hanging on the windowsill.

Seven bucks took us to La Esquina, a reclusive hot spot on 106 Kenmare Street in Soho.

La Esquina is a taqueria that runs all night, offering up delicious tacos and tasty beers and spirits for parties to go the extra step. Doubling as a pick-up food stop for late-nighters on the front, patrons can also walk inside, downstairs past the ‘employees only’ sign, and through the kitchen to a cozy bistro lounge, aptly filled with hipsters and couples who know about the “other part” of La Esquina.

When we got there, there was a group of people waiting for them. They all spoke in accents, and picked out friends immediately upon our arrival, talking in Italian, French, and Croatian amidst English, the language of choice for international translation. I felt like an mono-lingual jackass half-following the English parts to conversations around me, drinking extremely good beer offerings, trying to collect my thoughts in a strange new place and time.

“Let’s take a picture!” Petar had the camera in his hand, standing with Irena at his side. “Zucker, can you take this?”

“Yeah buddy.” I was standing back about five feet at this point. Aiming the camera at them, drunk, I move around to crop the picture. Click! And I capture the two of them. It was like capturing a special moment for them, together, when they were so young and happy. It may be a picture they come back to years from now and smile at in reflection.

“Yeah, that’s a great shot. Check it out.” And I hand them back the camera. They look at it and smile together.

“Thank you,” she said. Petar and I exchange a look of respect and appreciation.

“You’re welcome.” I smiled at them both, happy and relieved that they saw what I saw. I kept on drinking, and I half-connected with the other group we joined.

“I’m a graphic designer,” said this Italian guy who wore big designer glasses next to me, and we started talking about art design. I thought about how difficult it must be for him to see right now with those glasses on. I mentioned my magazine idea, and he liked it. He talked about the work he put up at his college’s gallery recently. I think he went to Pratt, but I wasn’t sure. I talked about the Picasso exhibit I saw in Chelsea a few months back, and how that exhibit was the first of its kind in over fifteen years. We talked about the thought of living in New York, the costs, and the benefits. He was not interested in it.

It was 3:00am, and the group decided to leave for another bar. Some of the new group came with us.

After deliberation and twelve bucks, the group decided on some random bar in Little Italy, and it was just about to call the last round. We walked in and ordered a quick double order of drinks and had introspective conversations with one another as we downed our drinks. At this point, the Croatians were buying me drinks. Neno, one of Petar’s friends, had left his luggage in the taxi he took to the Bowery Bar. Things did not go over well for him; talking to his friends and me about the things he lost, calling the taxi company for lost and found updates, cancelling his cards and such. We bought him drinks that night too since he didn’t have his wallet. He had his passport, thankfully, safely tucked in his back pocket, along with around $200 bucks. Who keeps that kind of cash in their pocket?

“Neno, there is some good to all this situation,” I actually tried consoling him when we were in this last bar, “you’ll get to go shopping!” By that point, nobody cared about anything, and yet he smiled and lifted his spirits. The Italian and his friend listened to us talk, and two of Petar’s friends were chatting up the female bartender, who apparently was from Boston. Petar and Irena were outside with another friend who was smoking a cigarette.

It was raining outside. I joined them to see what was going on.

“I think we’re going to get out of here soon,” said Irena. She was holding Petar, who seemed too drunk to stand. He was still smiling, like a child enjoying the party, and he was getting wet in the rain.

“It was so good to see you Zucker, I’m glad we got to hang out.”

“Yeah man, me too, and in New York of all places!”

“This would make a good story, right?”

“Yeah man, this would make a great story.”

“Yeah,” he looked away with satisfaction. Irena was holding him up as they looked for approaching cabs, and I smiled at her holding him around the waist with his arm around her shoulders. He was bigger than her, but she could handle him. They looked like a great couple.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, and I go back inside, telling the others that people were leaving. I chug my beers and say my goodbyes. They all followed me out though, so everyone began hailing cabs. People in the bar get the message, and in no time, the street was mobbed with people looking to get a ride home. Watching them drift into the night, people dispersed on foot and wheel , and I watched as my friends from the night got in cab after cab.

“Where are you heading to?”

“Central Park South and 5^th.”

“Cool, what’s there?”

“The Plaza.”

“Wow, you’re staying the Plaza?

“Yeah, it’s pretty great.” I left it at that. I felt like I mentioned it earlier in the night, but I can’t remember. It’s really hard to explain the extravagance of it all at 4:00am.

“Unfortunately, it’s in the opposite direction to where we’re heading. Are you cool with taking a separate cab?”

“Yeah, I’ll be alright.” They were relieved I had a way home.

“It was great to meet you again.”

“You too.” The doors closed and they sped off into the night; their fluorescent tail lights streaming distance in the darkened streets. The rain was still coming down, and no more cabs were in the area. I found myself alone on the end of a sidewalk between a closed bar and a pizza parlor packed with late night drunks. I couldn’t help but go in and buy some pizza.

“One slice of pepperoni and one slice of bacon chicken, please.”

“You got it.” It was like a factory line, always moving, slowly and surely, looking at all the colorful slices they had. While they had ten offerings on display, I chose my two favorite. I didn’t think when I bought them. They were huge slices, and I was in no shape to eat them both. They had Kiss on the radio, and people slurped away at their soda cups, talking and laughing about things they talked and laughed about in the bars. It was a quiet moment for me, observing the people, trying not to draw attention to my solitary silence.

The pizza was hot and ready and by fortune the cabs were around and vacant. It was a twenty dollar cab ride back to the Plaza, a blurry tour of Times Square and Central Park. I looked out the window with pizza in my mouth as people tried to open my cab thinking it was vacant. Some people were really pissed off that I was relishing the experience so much.

I ended up finishing the slices in the hotel, in one of the comfy lounge chairs that sat at the foot of the bed, next to a small nightstand that had the New York Times and my brother’s Nikon D700 camera laying on it. My brother was sleeping, but woke up when I got back. Our vibrations nearing 5:00am were faint, and yet it did not stop the sky from changing its color from black to blue. I closed the blinds and hopped into bed, falling into a deep, drunken sleep within minutes of the rising sun.

Waking up five or six hours later, I had a light breakfast with my family and packed up my things. I had a train to catch at 1:15pm, and that left me mere hours to clean up and enjoy the remaining time there with my family. They drove me to Penn Station and gave me some money for the Acela Express ticket ($100), wishing me the best on my way back home. I spent the remaining free time I had in the waiting area with a copy of the Sunday New York Times, reading the Book Review, brushing up on styles of writing that were capturing people’s attention. Twenty minutes would go by before I made my way down to the train, back to my everyday life in Boston.

I Found the Wrong Album!

A Man Called Adam – Duende

So earlier I was online looking for “Café” lounge music to listen to while I was working. I usually try Grooveshark.com. Of the several hundred results that came up, I randomly chose “Easter Song” by A Man Called Adam. I like choosing music at random; it’s a luxury I take for granted. The song I chose was very relaxing, as if I was in a spa or meditation center. “Bringing me back to life” was the vocal instrument that brought my spirits up throughout the piece. It reminded me of something out of a Paul Simon song. I decided to listen to more of the album it came from, Duende, anticipating more of the same.

The rest of the album was not as down to earth. Things began to sound more like house music, well-meshed with modified drums and bass, electric keyboard, stunning female vocals and an array of acoustic jazz instruments. Jazz is a major influence with this group, and I noticed a lot of electronic improvisation throughout the album.

A Man Called Adam is the brainchild of electronic music artists Sally Rodgers and Steve Jones, a talented duo from Great Britain that made a name for themselves in the late ’80s/early ’90s by uniting Latin Jazz and House music into a groove like no other. A lot of their music samples were original, exotic, and inspired. They released three albums to date (The Apple in 1991, Duende in 1998, and All My Favourite in 2004). Check them out on their website (http://www.amancalledadam.com/) to learn more about their current and upcoming work.

Overall, this album was a well-made tribute to Latin house music; a sangria of house music made with basic groove and acid jazz. While each song had a positive, upbeat flow to it, the first track I heard, “Easter Song,” still set itself apart as the most relaxing track on the album. Ibiza music lovers would enjoy this album a lot, and anyone who needs a reprieve from the modern electronic scene would do well to check these guys out.

This last bit here is an encore track from their latest album, All My Favourite, and it’s called “Yachts.” Enjoy!

If I was a product of the 2080’s, I might hear stories about how things were in my parent’s time, or perhaps my grandparents’ time. All the same, there would come a time or two when I heard stories of history and change, long before any time of my they knew of. We, the product of that enduring turmoil across the world.

There was this time before all that, in 1969, when a million people came together in search of peace, love, and music, at a place called Woodstock. People found a way to coexist for three days with little food, a lot of drugs, and an endless supply of parties for the senses. The parties were on stage; the passionate cameos of legendary artists, daytime stillness in the sun and rain, explosive demonstrations of musical talent, candid late-nighters by famous sounds like Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, The Band, Santana and more. Nobody would know the names of these musicians except the few and privileged, who listened in school, and saw the grand picture of our creative evolution since our modern renaissance.

If life had to be so different from the world of yesteryear, why are we not as happy as then? What has jaded our minds to think that the world of today is not as satisfying? Innovation and technology have made our world better; a living, breathing entity in the galaxy, flourishing with countless, interactive life forms that coexist and sustain a healthy, natural environment. We are living on the product of collective consciousness, sensible and compassionate and in balance with all things.