Rock Report - Sunday April 29th - Now With Pictures!

I, like many others, am guilty of walking around with my face stuck in my iphone. The joke goes that what's on your phone is invariably more interesting than what or whoever is around you, but if your real life can't compete with Cut the Rope, you probably need to move / get new friends / stop or start doing drugs. In fact, our smartphones don't compensate for a lack in the world, they compensate for a lack in ourselves. With our handy mini-computers we never need be lost, late or wrong again. Instagram has turned us all into photographers, Garage Band into producers and Angry Birds into keen strategists with in depth architectural knowledge. However, until they make an app that allows me to take pictures of myself while jumping up and down and playing the keyboard, I'll have to rely on the talents of others. Here are some pictures from yesterday's Forestival gig, taken by Alba Mora. If you need the soundtrack to accompany them, you can get it here.

Rock Report - Sunday 29th April

Best. Sunday. Ever.

While I missed 2 Skinnee J's warm-up gig in New York in preparation for next week's tour (next week! holy shit does time ever fly!), I had my own day of rock and roll awesomeness. Amiel's friend got married and turned his wedding into a music festival in the woods outside Barcelona. Les Fat Jones were lucky to be part of it.

The happy couple

As is appropriate for a wedding, there was a ridiculous amount of food and booze. As is appropriate for a festival, there was a ridiculous amount of rock, provided for the enthusiastic guests by a mix of equally enthusiastic bands and DJ's.

Day...

...and night

I believe I speak for everyone when I say a great time was had by all. This guy knows what I'm talking about:

Day...

...and night

Free Album!

Unlike Radiohead and Nine Inch Nails, Les Fat Jones are not a band with a singular vision who achieved huge worldwide success without compromising that vision.
However, much like Radiohead and Nine Inch Nails, Les Fat Jones are giving away our album on the internet.
We recorded it in December and have grown impatient with it growing e-dust on the i-shelf it's been sitting on. Therefore, while we move forward with new songs and more shows, we have decided to offer it to anyone who wants it. Go to the link below and take it. Please.

http://lesfatjones.bandcamp.com/releases

If you like it and have some extra change in your pocket, you can deposit it into Paypal at nocomprendo25@yahoo.com

Please send this link to anyone and everyone you know. We want our music to spread like a poppy, hooky plague.

We hope you like it. We do.

UPDATE: You can download directly from the link. It doesn't ask for you email address. Just click on "download".

Homage to Catalonia

Barcelona has had some bad weeks. The end of summer in 1714 wasn't so great. The middle of March in 1938 kinda sucked. Still nothing compares to the trauma the city has suffered in the last few days. Barcelona Football Club's loss to the hated Real Madrid on Saturday effectively cost them the Spanish Liga title, and their defeat at the hands feet of Chelsea last night knocked them out of the Champion's League playoffs.
To make matters worse, Real Madrid is in position to win both. To put the teams' rivalry in American terms, it could compare to the New York Jets and New England Patriots if:
a. The king of the Pats had repeatedly bombed Manhattan and banned Brooklyn accents.
b. The Jets were actually capable of winning anything.
It also takes away one of the city's favorite excuses to riot. (victory = rioting; loss = blaming the referees and quietly going home)
Considering the recorded baby booms that have occurred in the city nine months after major victories, I expect to see the streets littered with the corpses of despondent supporters over the next few days.
My hearts goes out to both the players, who only have their international pop star girlfriends to console them as they weep into their piles of money, and to the fans, who rose to the occasion by singing a lot while wearing blue and red. Better luck next year.

Happy Sant Jordi

Most Catalan celebrations are pretty cool. They almost always involve fire and explosives, often drums, parades and people climbing on each other, or at least dudes chucking candy from horses. Which makes the holiday of their patron saint pretty underwhelming. Yes, just like Christopher Columbus and Santa, it turns out Saint George was Catalan. He slew the dragon somewhere north of Lleida. (wikipedia.cat)
Sant Jordi day is the local Valentines day. Now you'd think that love and explosives would go together like a horse and carriage, but you'd be wrong. It's a sedate affair where men give women flowers and women give men a book. (No gender reduction here. Nope.) The streets fill with people, but there is nary a dragon nor giant to be found. Just stalls and stalls of people selling roses and books. If Barca beat Chelsea tomorrow, I'm sure the city will make up for it by burning down a Zara.

Happy Sant Jordi

Bunnies > Nuns

Barcelona's urban planners treat the city like a six-year-old does the beach - digging up, building and tearing down a fluid metropolis with a shovel and pail. Following the same route on foot or bike from week to week constantly presents evolving challenges as streets, sidewalks and buildings are ripped up and altered. It's like an incompetent Mediterranean Dark City over here. Hell, the most famous monument here is a 130-year-old construction site. (That's in danger of crumbling due to another construction site beneath it!)
My own street is not immune to this frenzy. Until recently, a convent stood two doors down. Nuns would collect and hand out donated clothes, and pray for sky cake. Then this happened:

                                        


Goodbye nuns. Hello vacant lot. But not just any vacant lot. Suddenly the neighborhood discovered a pretty little garden once hidden by the building.

Everybody got very excited about some trees that they hadn't known existed and set up a campaign to save the garden.

                             

As I may have mentioned before, the country's economy is in the gutter and flowing towards the sewer. Unemployment is at 25% nationally and 50% for people under 30. World markets view Spanish bonds as decorative toilet paper. Not really really the time to add some luxury condos to a stagnant real estate market.  A public green space in a city sorely lacking in them would be nice. But aside from a few elderly people, nobody really seemed to pay much mind.

Until...

                             

Bunnies!

                                           
                                   
That's right. This elusive creature, seen before only in paella is now living on my very street! Three of them! In the wild! Now neighbors stop and watch our cute furry friends munching peacefully on lettuce leaves in the rubble of this former house of the Lord. Shhh. Nobody tell the king.

Killer King

Juan Carlos of Spain may be best known as the king who ushered in democracy and stood up to the coup, but he is so much more. A man has to keep busy between ribbon cuttings, so Franco's hand picked successor has developed some hobbies. One of his is hunting. I eat meat and wear leather so I'm not going to get on my high horse about the morality of killing cute little animals. No. Take that horse and shoot it in the face. We need more glue anyway. Now fetch me a higher, mightier steed from which I can view the uselessness of an institution that is based on centuries of scheming and bloodshed so that its progeny can have yachts. Allow me to present a brief history of our glorious king's hunting past.

Infante Alfonso

Juan Carlos started out on top, blowing away the most dangerous game in a move that would turn organ-harvester Dick Cheney green with envy if he were capable of human emotion: as a teenager he shot his 14-year-old brother in the face. Franco's regime, possibly already favoring the young marksman to ascend to the throne, gave the incident little coverage. Apparently traumatized by the killing, Juan Carlos renounced the use of guns for life. Except for the part where he didn't.

Mitrofan

Romania is on the receiving end of a lot of Spanish disdain. As the cradle of gypsies, it is one of the few places in Europe that they get to feel superior towards. The king, being a citizen of the world, refuses to display such prejudice and likes to visit the country to kill, kill kill! It has been alleged, though denied by the royal family, that in 2006 a domesticated bear named Mitrofan was given honey with vodka and released near the king to be dispatched to the giant salmon stream in the sky.

Babar

 This country is going to shit. The conservative government is slashing and burning the welfare state in a misguided attempt to appease Berlin while actively curtailing civil liberties in the vain hope of containing the masses. The specter of shortages and riots is real and frightening. You know who's not frightened? Good ol' JC. Despite crippling unemployment and an economy taking a dip in a cold swimming pool, Spain's best paid welfare recipient took off to Botswana this month, not for the first time, to shoot some elephants. His latest trip came to light because, like a good septuagenarian, he slipped and hurt his hip while there and had to be flown back for surgery. Meanwhile, unemployment approaches 25%.

It really is good to be the king.

Fun fact:

 He's not just a member. He's the president.  

TGIF13

Apparently, 19 million Americans won't leave the house today for fear of the date. That's a lot of superstitious people. It is not surprising then that according to a 2007 Gallup poll, about 43% of Americans believe that "God created human beings pretty much in their present form at one time within the last 10,000 years or so." Almost HALF! (Now there's information that makes me afraid to leave the house! At least in Spain, over 80% accept evolution as truth.)
Incidentally, In Spain, Tuesday the 13th is bad luck. Given the observance of the puente, the practice of linking a weekend to a Thursday or Tuesday holiday by taking the respective Friday or Monday off, I can't help but feel that the day was selected just to give the superstitiously petrified an extra-long break.
Despite being plagued by a colorful array of anxieties throughout my life, (as a child I literally lost sleep over the worry that a volcano would grow under my house and erupt. In Ottawa.) I have never been superstitious. Maybe it has to do with being told at the age of six or so, "God doesn't exist. It's just something people made up."* If my family was willing to so casually dismiss the possible existence of a divine creator, you can imagine the short shrift given to black cats, ladders and stepping on cracks.
Thank Made-up-entity! I have enough irrational fears as it is:

(a very abridged list)

• Bees. Seriously, they are the stuff of nightmares.
• Tardiness. If somebody is more than 15 minutes late, something horrible has happened to them, which I will be blamed for as they were on their way to meet me.
• That cough is cancer.
• That cold is AIDS.
• That decision was the one that irrevocably set me on a path that will lead to a short unfulfilling life followed by a long, painful and humiliating death. 

Happy paraskevidekatriaphobia, motherfuckers!

*Mixing this atheism with a healthy dose of Hebrew school and Jewish celebrations probably contributed to the aforementioned anxieties. Children do not process contradiction well.

This Video Could Save Your Life

Remember when apparently all of America was one giant Humbert Humbert salivating over the Olsen twins? Like sexualizing children who had played a BABY (!) on a sitcom wasn't a motive for marching everybody straight to space jail where not even Guy Pearce could save them? Then remember when the twins turned into eighteen-year-old Helena Bonham Carters and the world shrugged. Then Heath Ledger died in one of their apartements and people vaguely remembered that they had lusted after this girl when she was a BABY, before shamefully ignoring her (and her twin) again?
I ask this because I watched Martha Marcie May Marlene the other week, starring their younger (heh-heh, slobber, drool) sister. Have you seen it? Did you like it? Did you think she was a good actress? Did she awaken your inner pedophile like her sisters once did? What about the ending? I liked the ending. Did you? More importantly, after watching it, I thought that maybe I have the attributes to start a cult: I'm black and Jewish with a Biblical name born on Christmas to a single mom. I'm sure I could convince someone of my guru potential. True, I am lacking the rape-y bits and the desire or ability to grow or produce anything by myself, but maybe those are learned skills.
Then I remembered that I am in a cult. Although it previously seemed to have been put to rest like so many Hale Bop enthusiasts, once it has a hold on you, like Thetans, it doesn't let go. So watch our recruitment video. It could save your life.

From Rome With Love

It's strange that late in his illustrious career, Woody Allen has become a hack for sale. After decades spent artfully extolling New York's singular charms in classic films, he now pimps his talents out to the tourist board of whichever European city is willing to fund his increasingly nonsensical output, resulting in recent abominations like Vicky Christina Barcelona and Midnight in Paris. His upcoming From Rome with Love promises to offer equally shallow insights into pasta and love as he has into tapas and love, or baguettes and love. It opens in a couple of weeks, and despite my contempt for his latter-day oeuvre, I am curious to see it, having just spent the weekend in Rome.
Well played,  Konigsberg! 
A year ago, brother Eli left Barcelona with his Italian wife and their baby daughter for Florence. They now live in Rome so I took advantage of the holiday weekend to visit them.
Now, Barcelona is a city overrun by tourists. The low season stretches from the second week of January to the third week of January. At all other times, in certain areas and streets you are far more likely to hear German, English, French or Italian than Catalan or Spanish. Few places I've been compare for the sheer masses of visitors that overwhelm the city center. Rome at Easter is one of those places. It makes sense that the Jesus epicenter would be packed during Jesus week, but holy sea! Tons of nuns, priests and Americans flooded in while the locals, I presume, fled.
I had been before, so I spent most of the weekend in parks playing with my niece, which is frankly one of the best ways ever to spend a weekend.
My travelog is neither extensive or enlightening, but let me offer a couple of tips you won't find in your Lonely Planet guide. 
You can pick your poison to go with your politics, as one store offers bottles of booze emblazoned with your favorite historical figure, be it Che, Mussolini or Hitler.

The food was, of course, fantastic. We tried many different places at random, and they were all delicious. Here are some places we didn't try.

And here is the artwork that adorned the walls of one place we did.

Also ruins, churches, artwork ancient and modern, but for that, you'll have to go see the Woody Allen movie.

Happy Pesach

Long promised grey clouds moved in this week and dumped their payload on the city. The arrival of torrential rains that happen annually yet consistently catch the Barcelona off guard can only mean one thing: long weekend!
While February gets as close to winter as it does on the Mediterranean, the month of March always makes leaps and bounds forwards, with the temperatures rising and the sun drawing you to gaze out the office window and lazily dream of summer. The April comes along and yells "Psyche!".
Passover begins on Friday, when we celebrate that time only some of the Jews were killed. ("Yay! They didn't get us all! What's for dinner?" - every Jewish holiday.)
I will take advantage of my time off to got to Rome to visit brother Eli and family. While I'm there, I hear there is a local festival involving a man with a pointy hat and a two-thousand-year-old zombie uprising. Sounds neat-o.
The likelihood of me updating the site before next week are low, but don't fret. I know I'm just regaining your trust after months without even a phone call, and it looks bad that I'm already going away, but I promise, I can change.
By the way, in case you were wondering, the L word posted on your blog doesn't magically increase traffic.
Happy holidays!

Looking for Lesbians?

I was told that if I included the word lesbian in a post, I would get tons of hits from people going through search engines, so I've decided to check out the claim.
Did you, in fact, land on this page after googling the word lesbian? If so, welcome!
I'm curious. Are you:
A. A lonely lesbian looking for company?
B. A heterosexual male intimidated by the penis sizes on display in straight porn?
C. Other?
Unless your answer was C, and your had entered "obnoxious bloggers seeking page views" then I sadly don't have what you are looking for. However, please come back once you have found it. If romantic comedies have taught us anything (and romantic comedies have taught us everything!), it's that a chance encounter under awkward circumstances can lead to a life-long, satisfying, photogenic relationship. You just don't throw a chance like this away in this zany world. So ya'll come back now y'hear? Follow me on twitter. Follow me on instagram (noahdjgreen). Check out my app. Like my band on facebook. Visit our bandcamp or watch our video. And good luck with your search.

Rock Report - Saturday 31st March

There are some enduring myths in rock and roll: the self destructive artist, the feuding band, the meddling girlfriend/wife. These and many more populate mass consciousness in the stories we tell each other about the heroes, villains, contenders and has-beens from Robert Johnson onwards.
Some of these myths are known by all, and some are limited to the brave, the few, the idiots who pile into vans with banged up gear and which they drag onstage to kick out the jams in front of a few dozen inebriated souls. A common one for the novice is the magic gig. As a new band, you believe that you can play one concert where the right people are in attendance who not only recognize your unique genius, but are in the position and mood to spread it to the masses. They take you under their beneficent wing and guide you to the promised land. That gig is the one that will propel you from the van to the limo, the bar to the arena, into the arms of supermodels and piles of designer drugs where you rightly belong.
It is, of course, bullshit. Success is a process, quick for some, slow for others and elusive for many, one that involves lots of fake smiles and broken promises, handshakes and arm twists, sweat, faith, connections and luck. Obviously, there are better shows than others and opportunities which present themselves in different circumstances, but rare is the one show that changes it all.
I'm glad I know this because it allowed me to take yesterday in stride. We had been invited by a record label to play the album launch of one of their bands. This, we believed, showed their interest in working with us, and as such, we wanted to make sure that we put on a spectacular show. Now that nobody buys albums, small labels are more interested in your ability to deliver the goods onstage.
We dutifully practiced multiple times a week, not only perfecting the songs, but working on our stage presence and timing. We wanted our half hour in front of a crowd to be as transcendent as possible. By our last rehearsal on Thursday, we were sounding good and feeling confident.
On Friday, the day before the gig, I came down with a mild case of Ebola. My insides decided they would rather be outside and spent the following twenty-four hours actively trying to escape.
On Saturday morning, I dragged myself to our rehearsal space to help load gear, feeling like John Hurt in Alien. It was a beautiful day, the sun mocking my misery. We got to the club, carried our equipment to the stage, then did what one most does when in a band - we waited.
The headlining act took forever to soundcheck. That's fine and completely understandable. It was, after all, their launch party and they wanted to sound right. Soundcheck is my least favorite part of any day, and it was made worse by my digestive disease.
Allow me to briefly explain why soundcheck sucks:
Outside the club:

Inside the club:

When both bands had finally finished working through the feedback and volume issues that are an integral part of any soundcheck, I jetted home for a brief rest, a quick shower, an intestinal incident, another quick shower and was back to the club, ready-ish to rock.
The show itself was a blast. We had a responsive, enthusiastic audience and all our rehearsing paid off. We need to tighten up our pacing onstage. My banter is still somewhat awkward. Victor needs to look up from his guitar from time to time and move his feet. Carlos should start singing back-ups since he sings along to the entire show anyway. Nevertheless, Les Fat Jones is feeling more and more like a five fingered fist of rock and we're ready to swing. Hopefully the label president liked it, and it will just be a matter of time before the limousines and supermodels.