oh, moving day. while waiting for the demon uhaul to return so i can begin this upstairs downstairs drama, i thought i'd blog about this bizarre little experience of seeing bright eyes/ tilly and the wall/ coco rosie.
well, it was at the academy of music, all decked out like a birthday cake, and the parade of south jersey hardcore kids, confusing frat boys in sensitive mode ("i like it when that hot chick makes a dick sucking sound" during the coco set not with-standing") and just plain folks was charmed and a little bit yay we're going to the prom. this is complete with a blonde chick behind us throwing up with excitement and mad dog, a brutal combo. the floorstaff was quick, and the clean up chased away the frat boys, so i looked at it as a blessing from above.
tilly and the wall, three girls (a chick who looks like scream club, a chick who looks like cat power, a chick who looks like joan jett - in short, a charlies angels' of contemporary girlie icons/cliches) and two dudes singing music that is so damn earnest it could be a campfire revival. and, there's a tapdancer, complete with glitter armbands and jazz hands. as suspected...tap dancing has more interesting origins than contemporary usages. Alas. Their songs are limited but their voices are powerful - in short, a bad gimmick for otherwise decent musicians.
Then, there's Coco Rosie, who I wanted to like when I listened to them this summer but dude, they're a super yikes twee folk band that drops the n-bomb in a song, unapologetically, and well, they paint moustaches on their faces. One sings opera, the other sings Joanna - a third gentleman wore an indian headdress and rapped in French on the last song, one of many featuring musical toys in ways that the Elephant Six never dreamed (namely, as they were intended to be used, without stressing or distortion) while shoddy projections of weird christian imagery flashed on a wayy to small screen behind. I didn't like it, it smelled funny.
And Bright Eyes - sooo Bruce like, big drum sound, solo set (where's the spotlight) post-election earnestness turned political - 'when the president talks to god', a big fabulous buildup of ironic conversation betweeen the two big men then let down with a balloon fart sound of conor shouting 'bullshit' as if his otherwise clever song just couldn't exist without some expression of inarticulate adolescent rage. ahh, the contradiction, a big man at 24. his songs about life in new york are disingenuous and feel spatially dislocated from the reality of city living -as if the somewhereness of new york, with its history, it's 'not on the road'-ness, blunts his emotional perception somehow. he sounds like an asshole talking about new york, like ' i get lost if i leave the village, i can't come to brooklyn to meet you' dude, get one of those little plastic maps and a little pocket card with the subway routes on it and shut the hell up, cause you sound like a yuppie scumbag. okay, that was mean, but that's my advice to any new new yorker - get a map and stop sounding like a yuppie scumbag. okay, otherwise it was a nice little show - sort of short, but the union dudes were panting and the vomit was drying and the parents were waiting outside to pick out timmy and alex to go back to the main line.
Then Making Time - former site of Philadelphia indie kid decadence turned sad display of subcultural factionalism and DJs reducing to the lowest common denominator. What good comes of it? I have found a new fucking terrordome dance partner in Nick Sylvester and got to have cheese fries with the man plus radical, recent ilx pin-up Amy Phillips at Silk City. Okay, I like, drove them to Philly, but it was still an awesome friend date galore.
That is all. It's 1pm and I'm only a little closer to getting my Uhaul - curses!
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