Judi Chicago, Noot d’Noot, and Other Words to Feed your Bored Mind.

Judi Chicago and Noot d’Noot 8/8/09

This night I was amongst the hipster republic of Little 5 Points pondering the nostalgic wonder of young experience. We are all adults here in the Starbar, at least by the amount of years we’ve traversed the Earth, stumbling through buildings and attempting to ascertain the beauty of some strange landscape and rambling into reckless experimentation with various….drugs.

I mostly found a fondly close comfort in the fact that we are all still children. Yes, we, and by we I mean the collective young “adults,” have not deviated much from the lost days of silent lunch, boy-girl-boy-girl seating arrangement, or nap-time. We do not fall far from the primitive tree of child-like desire. We might even catch ourselves crying from a scrape on the knee after falling from that tree.

The important thing for us now is to capture that small window of vivid happiness. It is important to not analyze or intellectualize those negative occurrences we see in the great hill of life. Towards the bottom of that hill is a pit of fire and lava and all the women (or men) you pissed off with your genitals. Don’t look at it though. Just embrace it as an experience worth having, because they’re all worth having.

This leading to a concert review. I promise. I’m almost completely positive that maybe it will turn out to be probable.

I only thought all of this because I remember the first time I fell in love with Atlanta. I walked through the Krog Street tunnel, slightly inebriated and missing clothes that would’ve covered my lovelies. It was easy to feel love after enormous amounts of alcohol.

I fell in love with Judi Chicago’s music in a similar way, however, this particular time I was wearing my clothes…most of the time. “Mad Ape” came on and this youthful energy exploded during the chorus. It was as if we had been holding back for so long. Maybe those silent lunches and boy-girl seating and countless rules thrust on our tiny backs had finally been lifted. And it was lifting, or liberating, or any other ridiculous human emotion that one associates with being happy.

Later that night, I was viciously accosted by a strange little girl. She choked me. She put some kitten-like scars on either side of my neck. It was an aggressive cat scratch. A little girl coming at me like whirlwind of teeth and fingernails and absolute insanity manifested from some previous childhood issue. I preceded to put her in a deserved head lock. This little black haired girl is the silent partner of a posh midtown eatery or so my memory tells me.

Afterwards, I made this delicious grilled cheese sandwich with jalapeños. I recommend it. Really, come to my house. This is all I do. I get bored and make sandwiches. It helps me keep my youth while still pretending to have responsibility.

I think I shit my pants later on that fine day, though. I’m good about twice a year for that.

On a more conservative note…..

5 Straitlaced Things to do on a Monday in Atlanta:

1. Find shrooms. Go to the park. Stare at clouds.Then go to www.iprelay.com and phone your friends…seriously. Possibly the most entertaining thing to do with your time. Ever.

2. Find more shrooms. Take off work. Paint your walls. Make a Diet Coke Bomb with Mentos.

3. Find shrooms. Go to Java Lords. Get 14  $1 dollar PBRs. Try to remember the night.

4. Find shrooms. Call an old friend. Go break shit at a junkyard.

5. Stop doing mushrooms and writing inane lists.

P.S. Toy Story 2 was O.K.

Here’s a joke to tell your friends when you’re afraid they hate you for not being funny:

What did Adam say when Eve jumped into the river at the Garden of Eden?

(The stupid freaking answer): “Son-of-a-labia-licker! Now all the fish are gonna smell like that…

Today The Moon Tomorrow the Sun. With Who? The Ropes. That’s Who.

The Show

Ah… the 529…a gaggle of gathering hipsters wasting their money and brain cells. What is it about music that helps us socialize as young humans? The answer doesn’t really matter, though. The answer is too obvious. And if you’re confused by that, then…well I probably haven’t met you.

This night was like others. The moon was out. The polluted canvas of the Atlanta sky still enveloped the flicker of a star. That might be cancerous. This night was unlike any other in that there were bands playing that were worth a listen.

The Ropes came from New York to dazzle drunkards with a Lo-Fi multi electronic sound.

Today the Moon Tomorrow the Sun: a band that should already be famous.

And I’ve seen them play on many an occasion throughout the past six months. But this occasion I felt as though it was like being with a faraway, but fond lover. Sometimes you’re forced to make love to them, but there are those moments. There are those weird moments where it all seems to fit, and the lighting is skating across the spectrum, and she makes the right move, and she makes the right sound and you can’t help but flop on your back to imbibe such an unpredictable, ancillary beauty. Even so, you still sort of hate her for it.

In short, they deserve the record deal that’s coming to them. I didn’t tell you that.

When the Going Gets Weird, the Weird go to Starbar

So since the nights tend to meld together in such a mellow fashion in this town, I’m reminded of a later show at the Starbar. A heavy electronic show played by the Octopus Project.

The next most astute observation overheard since the one-eyed hobo lady was Derek Lyn Plastic: “this band sucks.”

For the first time in a couple of moons, I stood on my own ground. I kept my opinion wide open, like the vaginal hole of a Clermont Lounge beauty, tempting you into a hallway of love. I disagreed with Derek Lyn Plastic that night.  I sat pensive afterwards, enjoying my new favorite band…Octopus Project.

I wondered if anyone else drew a thought from their mind while tirelessly dancing, or drinking, or just hoping they would get laid again in some sort of depraved stupor.

Mostly, though, I just forgot about what people cared for, what lies they told to their friends, what music they could jump up from their normal life to see, what they actually did with their boogers, or what lady might meander my way to satisfy my own depraved desires while I sit in an inebriated torpor on my ridiculous bed.

It turned out that I just drove home and smiled a bit. Just a little bit. Just long enough to stop thinking. Just long enough to realize that eventually the inevitability of conscious thought would come upon me again in it’s ironic wonder. Smiled just long enough to sleep.

And then I woke up to a lady sprawled across the bed next to me.

The Judies – 529 July 3rd, 2009

A Sweaty Sring of Thought.

I stumbled to the keyboard this evening. I’m attempting to weld together the weird memories of this July 3rd night. When a plethora of pieces do not fall together, I doubt the significance of my consistent inebriation. Almost as consistent as The Judies ability to portray their talent. So here I go.

The Howlies played first. They played well.

Dancing…Sweat….Shirtless…Few thoughts about anything at all. Eviction from formal thought…Or any thought.

So after a flash of tasty images (all I could remember), I road towards elation in the cool twilight. With a some band mates, of course.

I steered my car wheel towards a coffee shop that Gatsby would have owned. That is, if Gatsby had weird sex parties above the stage. Or if drug use were violently apparent. Or if he had existed in this 21st century cultural haze at all. Illegal things happened and this Nick is not afraid to narrate such stringent subjects.

We then continued to my apartment complex. The absolute elation of the night was not decimated by the surreptitious creep of the sun over the flat of the horizon, but by a greasy greeting from a chunk of cheesy ground beef that’s churning your stomach. There’s always time to make one more bad decision, I guess.

So the day was starting. We came together because of music and left tired. We simply converged on a planet as humans, and we attempted to make our residence here slightly more tolerable. So as I sit here gently pulling a cigarette from my face, I ponder possible meanings in nights like this. And if you were in front of me, you would see my realization.

The realization that day had come. The realization that I wasn’t wearing pants. The realization that everyone had left to their respective partners, floors, or in some cases, a bed. I awoke from that trance and thought it better to lay down my naked body in bed.

The National – Tabernacle 5.27.09

The National…Delayed

Here is a small treat of an article. It was posted long overdue by Atlanta Guardian and you can find it at this link: http://atlantaguardian.com/the-national-tabernacle-52709/. I have to say that in case of a copywright violation. People could get angered if you post your work elsewhere without proper citation…But it deserves a place here. It deserved a more timely publish date. It deserves mild appreciation at least…

So simply soak it up. The writing is as enjoyable to read as it was for me to experience. It was the goal for me and will be in the future.

Enjoy.

“The ornate wonder of the Tabernacle is enough to leave the most simple-minded man breathless. Walking in might feel like attending a symphony performed by the precious Queen’s orchestra if there weren’t such a gaggle of grimy kids huddling and anxious to listen.

We all came to listen to a band that is strikingly sophisticated and effortlessly talented.

That band is known as The National, whose recent success has earned them a spot at this frustratingly elegant venue. After proclaiming my press status and gathering my pass, I wandered upstairs trying not to look smug.

This would be the first and probably only time I arrived at the exact moment that Matt and his seven piece band prepared to wow the crowd.  And, as a whole, wow us they did.

They opened with a not-so-popular song that I was not immediately familiar with–not that I could concentrate.  Focus left me when I stepped into the photographer section in front of the stage.

I was watching the particularly odd behavior of the other photographers who scurried around hunched over like velociraptors who might feast on anyone who got in the way of a good shot. They let me take pictures for “Mistaken for Strangers” and “Brainy” which are both songs that were performed with a professional punch that gave way to the impression that everyone on stage was a solidly talented musician.

Matt, the lead singer, seemed to embrace the microphone as though he were softly kissing a far away lover that he had reconciled with in front of a few hundred people.  And the silvery stage lights only made him look all the more forlorn.

It was one of those moments in which your eyes glaze over. You forget silly problems, lost lovers or even lost friends. You embed yourself into a vicarious, but fleeting release through the sound of this singer’s life.  You could read into such a moment deeply, but it’s as simple as a smile, it’s happy, and The National makes it happen.  Then you wake up in between. And there’s a large man yelling at you about something inane, like where you’re standing.

At one point, Matt addressed a comment from a loud crowd member proclaiming his love for Matt. He responded by mocking the ridiculous judgments of Pitchfork Media: “You’re great too. I’d give it an 8.3” (boos ensue) “Alright a 9.0.”

Though I was entranced with having such a close encounter with the music after “Brainy” was performed, I still glanced over to notice a T-Rex of a bouncer tread down the aisle.  We scampered out of this special place and returned to the herd out of fear from the strict repercussions of Tabernacle policy.  So I paced the floor of the venue, ferociously fumbling over feet to find a drink while shooting glances at the stage during “Slow Show”. I settled down to listen more intently, elated by the fact that I had won a free drink after delving into a broken conversation with a gay bartender.  The band played most of their set from “Boxer”, but still pulled earlier songs from “Alligator” first performed modestly. That was about to change.

I decided to strike up a candid conversation with a bouncer.  His name was Cory and he apparently “…enjoyed the instrumentation, but not the arrangements.” I secretly disagreed with him, but confirmed his observation vocally for a reason that would be ultimately useful.  I rambled back to the bar with whiskey brain and beer in hand to indulge in the last song which was the favored “Fake Empire”.

The happy herd of the crowd banged their heads and mouthed the words, as was the case for most of the set. What ensued after was a roaring applause to bring The National back on stage for the longest encore performance I’ve seen in a very long time. The most notable song performed, “Squalor Victoria”, was sublime.  The drummer could have held the opening beat for hours and the lead guitarist, Aaron, caressed the strings of his guitar with a violin bow.

It was as if Matt had been bottling his energy throughout the first set.  He was a pot of emotions that had been slowly brought to a boil and for me, everything came together when he began screaming the chorus: “..squalor victoria, squalor victoria.” They then performed in that boiling energy with a wonderful rendition of “Ada” and “Abel” which was performed in a rambunctious style.  At that point I knew things had picked up just when they were about to end.

The night seemed to fly around in an elegant whirlwind and ended on the same note. The room emptied out and Matt stayed around to talk with some mingling fans. I talked to him shortly about New York and music.  The time had come to head backstage and the aforementioned friendly Cory waved me along even though my badge had “After Show” blocked out with a Sharpie.  And it was a real backstage.  The rooms were set up like a miniature Ritz-Carlton.

Everyone socialized in the pool room, but not over a glass bowl of cocaine or personal bottles of Jack Daniels. We drank a few Coronas accompanied with chips and salsa. We talked about classical music and the beauty of the venue. We played pool.

I held a long conversation about Kurt Vonnegut with one member of the band.  Another of the band members described me as “Leonardo Dicaprio in ‘Catch Me if You Can.’” I responded by informing them who my usual look-a-like is: Keira Knightley. That encouraged some laughs, since I’m somewhat of an androgynous-looking boy.

It was hard to pinpoint who was in the band since they were all infinitely modest. You could pass by Bryce, the lead guitarist, and not even know his talent. For me, and I imagine for most people reading, it is inexplicably delightful to know that the musicians we idolize are immediately approachable and as personable as a friend at the bar. You could have a good conversation with any of the band members and leave it as just that.  And I did.  So it goes.”

Amidst Corny Chaos — Corndogorama 2009

The Judies at Athfest

The clocked says 8 a.m. when Warren, the lead singer from the Judies, positioned my 1000 feet per second air rifle to my ear and squeezed the trigger. It was a god forsaken time for a 21 year old to wake up wild eyed with ringing ear drums. With a vile cackle I could overhear: “Get up…get up sound-check at 11.”

I was following Warren and The Judies to the mistakenly revered Athfest in the sweaty, drunken college playground that is Athens, Georgia. The drive that followed brought me to a place called Little Kings, a hipsters dream bar filled with antique furniture and old ironic photos.

I stood outside as The Judies drummer, Dave, answers a stranger who wonders what sound his band brings: “It’s sort of like a gay polka band…imagine if The Beatles covered gay polka bands.” Now remember that this implies that there are heterosexual polka bands.

But when The Judies went on stage shortly after you would hear The Beatles pop arrangements with David Bowie-esque vocals. It was the kind of music that would get stuck in your head in the best way possible. If it wasn’t 1 p.m. in a town where no one slips from their sheets until 2, it would have been appreciated by a larger crowd. The smaller crowd he showed themselves early in the festival seemed to enjoy it intensely, for good reason.

They ended after 4 songs and as I walk behind stage I drag the drummer over to the cooler filled with PBR. He was packing up his symbol case as I direct him to shove what came to be 9 or so beers into the bag. Those who booked the show had no idea two budding alcoholics would show themselves. A small price for Little Kings to pay for being situated in Athens.

And so we made for the drive back in a sedan with a broken A/C that smelled like a few baby pigs were shot inside of it a few weeks beforehand. The 5 of us must have shared more sweat than we wanted to. The rest of the tired day that ensued was marked in my memory as a typical fun-filled festival at Corndogorama.

Corndogorama Day 1

I arrived back in Atlanta. I took a quick cold shower. There was a intense moment of anticipation as I arrived to Corndogorama. I just so happened to come right as a band come on that I had never hear of before. They are called Whores. If you don’t like heavy metal, you’ll definitely feel delight in the performance of their drummer who proved his stage presence with drumstick tricks and middle fingers directed towards the crowd.

Next up was dropsonic. They played a traditional rock set with an extremely accomplished drummer. I remember reading a Flagpole article stating that Black Lips are the last “real” rock back. Dropsonic (among others at Corndogorama) dispelled this inane summation of modern music.

We then had Noot d’Noot, the Howlies, The Judies (again) and the Modern Skirts run their way on stage to attempt to wow the crowd. Their attempts proved more than correct. The last four bands played incredibly solid sets. Noot d’Noot got the crowd going with their soul sister singers and everything the followed only amplified the energy of the already energized.

The Modern Skirts are officially the most solid live band I’ve ever seen to date. I even had a blond drunkard of a floozy of a girl tore me shirt off and threw it on stage. The lead singer of the Skirts wear it like a headdress in front of me a two shirtless Judies band members.

The after party at 529 made every tired dance in drunken heat worth it, sponsored by the party proletariats at Whynatte. Judi Chicago played 529 like no one else has seen. Their synth-based ultra dance rock kept every tired eyed music lover moving in the afterglow. And once again, they secretly stole a show in an intimate enclave. We might have traded more sweat then we wanted to, but no one cared. I didn’t.

Corndogorama Day 2

When it’s a Sunday and you wake up with a crippling hangover headache you don’t want to do much except watch cartoons and drink copious amounts of water. I, however, went to Corndogorama. It wasn’t Saturday Corndogarama, but it was still worth delving into every instance of musical marvel of that is the Atlanta local scene.

I would just like to give a strong sincere shout out to certain bands for their performance. This Piano Plays Itself who permeated the small field with their psychedelic hallway rock best appreciated on mushrooms. Today the Moon, Tomorrow the Sun who always annihilate a crowd with a solid rock-synth performance.

The Soulphonics and Ruby Velle for reminding me of the beauty of funk and the instrumentation that comes with it. Ruby Velle couldn’t have been a better candidate to cover James Brown. Abby Go-Go combined the best parts of rock and lyricism to damage my ear drums in the best way possible. Judi Chicago played again in front of a smaller crowd, and even though it was strange in contrast to such an intense group at 529, they still charmed me with their 8-bit sound accompanied by a multi-instrumentalist attitude that never fails.

And of course, the headliner. Dead Confederate creates a Nirvana sound that comes out more developed. Ending their set with a cover of Sonic Youth’s “The Diamond Sea” was more than fitting.

Having been a person who had an inkling of doubt towards the quality of Atlanta bands, Corndogarama hosted bands that shattered any supercilious presumption that had fell on my brain in the past. I give a 4th Ward Heroes fedora-hats-off to everyone that played and attended. Thank you Whynatte for making me coherent enough to be able to remember this. Your latte infused energy drinks exercised my wild young brain more than you’ll know.