Ah, the blogosphere. Vast expanse of impenetrable, obscure, and often trivial knowledge, misunderstood by 24 hour news networks and soccer moms alike. A personal outlet for me to express views that anyone (or, more likely, no one) in the world can view. I'm probably just going to use (or, more likely, not use) this space to talk about music, but who knows what the future holds (or, more likely, does not hold...?). So, anyway, on to bigger and larger things!
Last weekend, I went to see
The State Lottery with my girlfriend in Brooklyn. It wasn't even in Williamsburg, so I got to keep my soul (for the time being). Now, I'm new to this whole "going to small shows in the New York metropolitan area" thing, and at both of the other shows I've seen in this area (Lemuria at
Death By Audio and Bridge & Tunnel at
ABC No Rio), the authentic (see: dirty) and intimate (see: cramped) nature of the venues endeared them to me. However, this show was different. It was at somebody's dirty small fucking apartment. Everybody knew each other. And it was somebody's birthday. Now, to most of you (imaginary) readers out there, this may seem like, "So what? It's a house show." But let me clarify some things for you: me and my girlfriend are both 18, a good half-decade younger than most of the people there; I have never been to a house show before; and we are both incredibly awkward. Rather than dwell on every excruciating detail, I will paint a single image of what it was like for us there; while everybody else sang happy birthday, me and my girlfriend entertained ourselves with a broken matchstick and a button. Draw what conclusions you will.
After at least 45 minutes of awkward standing, the band decided to put us out of our misery and start playing. Let me say, it was worth it! I read somewhere (I forget where exactly, maybe from the band itself) that The State Lottery sounds like Jawbreaker with good production values. This is a pretty accurate description. However, I don't think it really accounts for the indie rock edges that creep into the music. I would say it sounds more like Jets To Brazil traveled back in time and made sweet, sweet, forbidden love to 24 Hour era Jawbreaker, which then had a bastard child in a well-lit Puerto Rican alley. With good production values. The good poppy bits of Jets with the good punky bits of Jawbreaker. My only complaint would be that it's kind of obvious these people have been listening to a lot of Blake. But since when is that a bad thing?
So their set ended, and they were immediately followed by a band composed of a bunch of Juggalos (not really, but they had clown makeup on) with leather, spikes, and mohawks. Not the worst thing I've ever heard in my life (see:
brokeNCYDE), but not really my scene, and definitely kind of rediculous. Me and my girlfriend ended up waiting this one out in the hall outside the apartment, having a cigarette, talking about life, love, beating up NYU kids, the works. We did go back in for the next band, Acid Reflex. Much more of an 80's hardcore throwback, from what I can remember. Actually sounded pretty promising, again not exactly my scene, but something I could listen to. Unfortunately, by this point, I really, really had to pee. Like, really. And the fact that a mosh pit had conveniently opened directly to my right did not help the situation. In all honesty, I was one sweaty, leather-jacket-clad body slam away from being asked never to return to a show in Brooklyn. By that time, it was almost midnight, we had to catch a train, we were both pretty tired, and to top it off, the band we had come to see had already played. Yeah, we left a show early, want to fight about it?
I pissed in an alley.
Wistful, dreamy, beautiful. A sonic cloud of post-rock fluffiness. Can you guess which album I'm describing? That's right, it's obviously Mogwai's Mr. Beast. Got you. But The Appleseed Cast's new album Sagarmatha sounds an awful lot like that too. Fortunately, The Appleseed Cast has turned down the impenetrable pretentiousness knob down a couple notches since their last release, Peregrine. The paranoid soundscapes have been reduced by about 20%, and Owen-esque twinkliness, as well as some good old fashioned booming rock guitar, have stepped up to fill the gap, making for a much easier listen than the preceding album. Unfortunately, with 5 of the 9 songs coming in at over 6 minutes long, the album still feels a little more art than heart. Also, the band has a pretty impressive early catalog to live up to, and the dreamy wash doesn't come anywhere near capturing the heart-wrenching energy of their magnum opus, 2000's Mare Vitalis. Sagarmatha is an interesting album, its a pretty album, but its not something you grant permanent empty-cd-player-filler status in your car.