If I get another email about the Horrors, I’m gonna assault a publicist. Any publicist. Why don’t they know when it’s over? Because they’ve been paid. And so i can’t really blame them. Speaking of paid:
Today plans to be one of the few, first hot days of the pre-summer in NYC. Nothing better than to turn off the lights, pull the shades halfway, and dig myself out of my current crater of unemployment while playing the title track of David Sylvian’s Blemish album on endless repeat.
Thassright. Unemployment. I’ve got a handful of writing gigs, one of them fulfilling spiritually, the others not so much. But it’s not enough. Know anyone who needs a semi-talented editorial new media/online drone? I even have the glasses for it. Nothing’s too scary. I’ve already done the teaching criminals gig (this wasn’t DOE), and there’s little that can intimidate you after you’re alone with a recent Nigerian illegal immigrant /Blood member with symmetrical cheek scars who’s wanted for attempt manslaughter and who, in your office, says “what would you do if I fucked you up right here?”
Of course, following Gospel, I answered by appropriating the mock tone of an interviewed crime witness, pointed to my sixth story open window, and said, “oh officer, it’s terrible, he got so sad about his life and just jumped.“
Needless to say, that kid’s face was priceless, and one of the best moments of that gig. But I’m still tempted to write that teacher-saves-roughkids script but have the kids actually end up killing him/her.
In the interest of remaining a music blog, I’ve recently been reading the free Village Voice music section.
PS the Siren Festival lineup has been announced. If it happens. Not enought good stuff to make me suffer the whole experience for the New York Dolls, The Black Lips, or Twilight Sad.
Granted, the new Bjork album lacks, and heavily, but she’s always good fodder for the likes of the longstanding culture-vulture and king of rhythmic rhetoric Greg Tate. His review of her recent Harlem show made me remember what I’ve always liked about music writing — I’ve liked it being funny and smart — and how few writers can manage something like this, like Tate does, describing the concert scene:
Plenty of nappyheads for sure (you know we represented), but was trill hiphop in the house? No, nobody vaguely resembling a single ATL stripper in sight, though human nature tells us, just like East Village Nuyorican she-males once transformed the Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams” into a personal problem, down in the Dirty, Björk’s probably inside hella pole dancers’ iPods. “Pagan Poetry”? You know them girls are living there: “Swirling black lilies totally ripe/A secret code carved.”
That nails it, as far as Bjork’s lasting, broad appeal. It also explains Madonna, if you hold your ears.
Big Dipper – She’s Fetching
this might not work
Of course, much of the other articles spur yawn yawn yawn (btw – great band name, that. Thank me someday) and self-deflating hatred.
Bulletin: Tonight, after the weekly Orgnaized Sporting Event, I will be taking in the DJ-ing of our pitcher, Phast Phreddie, at The Royale, on 5th ave in the BK. I don’t advocate this bar at all, despite having once hosted a music quiz there, and having dj-ed there. I much prefer the one across the street. But PP works for the Archive of Contemporary Music (keep an eye out for their coming record sale – best kept music buying secret in NYC) and probably has the sickest record collection of anyone I know, not to mention the fact that when we recently talked about the Stooges he casually mentioned “They’re still good live. But then I saw the original lineup.” When my pants had dried, I asked him what he’d be playing tonight, and he answered ‘rockabilly, etc).
See you there, but not too late.