Jogging and Crying

If I had grown up with my father, I might play hockey, but I grew up with my mother, so I play accordion. Not to say that I didn't spend my childhood struggling through little league soccer, handball, basketball and myriad physical activities that were deemed beneficial to my development as a well-rounded individual, but the support in my household was far more for the painting and pottery classes, the theater group and the piano lessons. (A decision that was no-doubt revisited when I dropped out of university twice to join bands.) If my mother was indifferent to the lure of sports, my stepfather was downright hostile. As a chess champion and math PhD student, he dismissed the whole idea as uncivilized. Have you seen The Squid and the Whale? Jeff Daniels' bit about philistines could have been quoted from my childhood.
As such, my entrance to sports fandom came later in life. In Montreal, I dabbled in baseball. The Expos were so unpopular that, despite having a winning season, you could cut coupons out of the newspaper for free tickets to games in a futile attempt to fill the stadium. My friends and I did this a bunch of times, until we realized that what we really liked was hanging out with each other and drinking beer. The rest of the city apparently felt the same way, so the Expos decamped for Washington and became the Nationals. I don't think anybody misses them. Then, while living in New York, I was surrounded by bandmates and roommates who were Jets fans, and resistance proved futile. A football fan was born. I soon found myself spending Sundays in the fall glued to the TV set, jumping up from the sofa and cheering, or more typically cursing the gods and the universe for such an unfair fate. As I said, Jets fans. (A quick side note: this cut both ways. 2 Skinnee J's was initially divided into those who liked football and those who liked sushi, but the hive mind eventually took over and I clearly remember all of us in a hotel room in Blacksburg, Virginia, where everybody was eating tuna rolls and watching the NFL draft.) My love of football has been long lived. To this day, I check the results every Monday morning of the season from the computer at at my desk. My love for the Jets, a team of people I would so clearly despise in person, has finally expired, so I'll need a new horse in the race come September. Any suggestions?
I figured my move to Barcelona would engender a love of soccer. (I'm not calling it football. I don't say lorry either.) While it has given me an appreciation for the sport, I would never call myself a fan. It's a shame because I live in the city with one of the best teams in the world, home to arguably the best player, and can only muster up moderate enthusiasm. There are a couple of reasons. The main one is that cheating and lying is an integral part of the game. How many rules you can get away with breaking is an inherent part of the strategy, sometimes the deciding part. Games are won when the ref isn't paying attention. The hand of God is the most famous case of this. Which leads us to the second problem: all the bitching and moaning. As much as you try to push the other guy around and sneak some dirty shit into your game, it is your duty to be outraged when he does the same to you. Lying on the ground and grabbing whichever body part seems appropriate in a bid for sympathy, or following the referee around like an eight year old tattle tale is a necessary part of play. It can amount to watching a couple dozen men jogging and crying for 90 minutes. It's bullshit, and I call shenanigans.
As for the Eurocup underway now, Barcelona has a funny relationship with it. Being proudly separatist, most fans don't want to support the national team. However, they do want to watch some soccer, so they make excuses like "half the team is from Barcelona anyway" conveniently ignoring that the other half is from the hated Real Madrid. And when Spain win, as they have done in the last Eurocup and World Cup, sports trumps politics and the streets fill with people celebrating.
Last night was the semi-final against Portugal, whose star player is the almost universally reviled Cristiano Ronaldo. He's like the Tom Cruise of soccer: a talented pretty boy who freaks out when he doesn't get his way and who most people agree would probably be greatly improved by a really hard punch in the face, Mad Men style. The game itself was boring. Two hours of ineffectual running around followed by standing there and kicking the ball at each other's nets. When a game reaches penalties, it seems like bullshit to me. It totally invalidates all the time and effort that came before if the champion is simply chosen by what amounts to rock paper scissors. Spain won the roshambo and proceeds to the final against the winner of tonight's Italy-Germany showdown. Germany so far has swept aside Greece and will now face another Mediterranean challenger. It's like sports imitating life.

NDGU!!!

  

Never don't give up! You know who gets it? Linkin Park gets it. (Is this one of their tattoos? I bet it is!) Nu Metal's Nsync just released a new album. In 2012. And have a song in a vampire movie. Also in 2012. CULTURAL RELEVANCE. Their teenage fans (did they have any other kind?) could almost have teenagers of their own now. Some of them probably do. Named Linkin, I'm sure.

I am taking this inspirational slogan to heart and reuniting once again with my 90's rap-rock band apologizing for my laziness in blogging this past week. I'm sorry. Something something lack of inspiration excuse. But no more. ABNDGU!  (Always be never don't giving up. Duh!)

I did some cool stuff. I saw St Vincent in concert on Wednesday. Live, Annie Clark is a guitar goddess who stalks the stage with zombie swagger. She doesn't just crowd surf. She crowd WALKS.

She really doubled down on the eccentric and the rock. It's a look that suits her well. No "Marry Me" or "Paris is Burning After All." The only song she played off her first album was the weird one. I was standing next to her biggest fan. He probably tells you shortly after meeting you how he's St Vincent's biggest fan. He was wearing a backpack, and inside he certainly had a revised and updated list of questions to ask her because how often is she in the same city and what if he had a chance to speak to her, it would be foolish not to have his revised and updated list of questions on hand. He sang and interpretive danced along to every number. But far from being obnoxious, his unabashed joy was charming. On the other side, I had two knuckleheads who were aggressively frustrated that the crowd was not reacting in a way they deemed proper. I understand the disappointment that indie rock crowds tend to just stand there at shows, but "Year of the Tiger" really isn't a mosh song guys.

Annie Clark is a talented musician with a great voice, a unique perspective and a kick ass live show, so it was a bit disappointing to see her met with cries of guapa from some fans. (Guess which ones.) I realize cultural relativity all, but I see your cultural relativity and raise you one gender sensitivity. That being said, if you ever want to yell gorgeous at me, feel free. I'm happy just being a pretty face.

Then, last weekend, I saw a nineties band I was glad to see live.

Portishead! They played for two nights at Barcelona's own Spain-centric Epcot Center called Poble Espanyol. A strange relic of a tourist attraction, it's main square of fake olde tyme buildings did provide the show with a certain ambiance.

The opening bands were mostly a bust. MF Doom did his best late eighties style hip hop show. Unfortunately, hip hop acts in the late eighties sang along to their album for twenty minutes then walked off stage in a huff. Keep it real, Villain. The band Thought Forms played music I can only describe as the soundtrack to being buried alive. There is plenty of music I hate, but they were a band I didn't understand. Watching them really rock out to atonal drones and pedal effects in monotonous ten minutes intervals was weird, then funny, then annoying.

From their album of the Roseland show, I suspected Portishead would be good in concert and they did not disappoint. Beth Gibbon's voice is more powerful on stage then I would have guessed, and her awkward grateful demeanor was an endearing contrast to the downer-fest that is their music.

Meanwhile at the beach...

Sant Joan! Where everybody gets drunk, throws firecrackers at each other and hangs out on the beach till they are cleared out by bulldozers.

In more NEVER DON"T GIVE UP news, Les Fat Jones' first out of town concert next Saturday has been cancelled. When your band is a hobby, sometimes people's lives and commitments (non professional musicians have these things) get in the way. I guess my life and commitment to the beach will have to carry me through these trying times.

NDGU 4 EVER!!!

Family Meeting

Hey guys. Thanks for coming. How are you? Good? Not so good? I hope it's good. I'm doing pretty well myself. Lots to look forward to this summer. Going to see some cool concerts. Les Fat Jones are playing next week. Some exciting trips in the near future. All in all, I can't complain. Well, I can, and I will, but I'm gonna have to get creative about it.
Anyway, I just wanted to have a friendly chat. First, I'd like to thank you all for coming. I've been back at this whole blog thing for a few months now, and I'm psyched that you keep showing up. With all the porn and kitten videos (I really hope you're keeping them separate!) I know your time is valuable. It's gratifying that my semi-coherent musings show up on your radar at all.
But as Paul Krugman has taught us, growth is important. I want to take this Salient Green to the next level. I don't know what the next level is, but hopefully it has enough coins and mushrooms to get us through. What I'm asking is if there's a post you particularly like, please share it. (Not this one. This one's kind of boring.) Put it on Facebook, tweet it, send it to your grandma or whoever you think might be slightly interested in the life and times of an aging musician-cum-teacher ex-pat in Barcelona. (A small target audience, I'm sure.)
Also, I'd like this to become less of a rant and more of a conversation. So I guess, uh, what do you want to talk about? My area of expertise is:
a. Grammar
b. Me
That doesn't mean I can't discuss other stuff too. Making bold declarations on subjects I read about once somewhere is one of my talents. So feel free to bring up whatever. You can comment. I believe there's a section for that. If you have something to share with me, you can send it to salient.green1@gmail.com and I can make uninformed pronouncements on the things you hold dear. Doesn't that sound like fun?
I'm also toying with the idea of some structure, in the form of regular features. Right now, this is kind of like a journal with all the good bits cut out. (I'm not sharing the good bits. Sorry.) I am thinking of having weekly posts. Like, for example, a roundup of photos. Barcelona provides plenty of visual fodder for my iPhone. Think of it as Instagram with more snark. (I'm also on Instagram @ noahdjgreen). The Rock Reports will come as I rock. Not regularly enough for a weekly post, which probably means I'm not rocking enough. Anything else? Surveys? Contests? Dating advice?
So there you have it. It's internet 2.0. (Isn't it time for an update yet?) Jump in. Choose life. Help me help you. Get busy blogging or get busy dying. I'll show myself out now.

UPDATE: Being the internet genius I am, i mis-wrote the email address. It's salient.green1@gmail.com

More tour pics? More tour pics.

Can you believe it's been a month since the 2 Skinnee J's tour ended? A month! On the one hand, I can hardly believe it. On the other hand, I can totally believe it. (He's a complicated man, and no-one understands him but his woman.) Remember how much fun it was? No? Then you should probably refresh your memory with some pictures. Where? you ask. How about here. Lance Rockworthy sent this link to me yesterday. Photos from the Pre Apocalypse 2012 Now and Forever tour (emphasis on forever) taken by a real photographer. Enjoy.

The Week in Photos

I didn't go to Sonar, Barcelona's annual electronic music festival, this weekend. But judging by the teachers that called in sick this morning (yup) or staggered into the office, semi-coherent, clutching beer-soaked euros (really!) it was a great party.
The weekend saw Greece, like a battered spouse still unwilling to leave its abuser, reluctantly agree to keep the Euro and all the pain and suffering that entails. The markets reacted by mostly ignoring it, with the currency gaining nothing in value and Spain still being punished for what is already being called a failed bailout. (The check isn't even in the mail yet and already nobody thinks it was a good idea.)

Sant Joan, the annual let's-blow-shit-up holiday is around the corner, so firecracker stands are appearing throughout the city. Given the current economic and political climate, it might be time to stock up on explosives.
Humor can be found in anything. Racism, the Holocaust and rape, for example, are horrific things, but I am sure there are some good jokes based on all of them. I don't know any, and will not even try to come up with examples. As the Jerry Sandusky trial continues, the Yahoo comment section, one of the most depressing reads in the world, is full of terrible attempts at laughing at child abuse. The average Yahoo commenter can probably not even count as high as their stunted IQ, so you can imagine the cringe-inducing attempts at hilarity that litter the boards. But sometimes, the universe does the work for you:

This was an actual flyer I saw stuck to a wall.
Translation: I need children and babies from 0 to 10 years old. TV, Film, Fashion, Internet. The internet is the highway. Photo DVD session. A unique project in Europe. Commercial actors, extras and models. Call for free.
Clear a cell in space jail. We're gonna need it.
Finally:

Melancholia

Did you see the movie Melancholia? It's great. Probably my favorite film from last year. (But last year saw the release of Green Lantern! - you. I know, but the heart wants what the heart wants.) It has a really interesting and accurate depiction of depression. Kirstin Dunst is a depressed bride who wanders around her wedding, disappearing at will, quitting her job, fucking a guest and finally ditching her brand new husband. It's very real in the way it shows that depression is a serious condition for the sufferer who is not in control of her actions which she can't explain let alone understand, but it's also a giant pain in the ass for everybody else who lives in a world where rules govern behavior and breaking those rules has consequences. Very good. Very real. (Less real is the idea the ultra handsome charming Alexander Skarsgard would settle for depressive Kirstin Dunst, but at least she's not a buck-toothed psychic bobble-head. Skarsgard is making a career out of onscreen couplings way below his league. Just saying.) The second half of the movie deals with -spoiler alert - a giant planet smashing into Earth and totally destroying it. After the depression wedding, the end of all life as we know it is actually the less harrowing part of the film. Anyway, before -spoiler alert - the giant planet smashes into Earth and totally destroys it, it just floats by and everyone (Kiefer Sutherland is everyone) watches it and is super impressed and says "Wow, that was cool. I told you not to worry." Then the planet does a loop and ends up -spoiler alert - smashing into Earth and destroying it anyway. (This is a great review. I know. I should write for the Hollywood Reporter. Just send my contract to awesomereviewer@salientgreen.awesome) My point (yes, Virginia, there is a point!) is that right now I feel like maybe we are at that point after the giant planet has flown by but before -spoiler alert - it smashes into Earth and destroys everything. Spain got it's bailout this weekend. Yay! 100 billion euros (that's a real number) for incompetent and corrupt bankers to fix their incompetent and corrupt banks. A round of drinks for everybody! (But only Don Simon brand wine in a box. We're on austerity here.) The markets, ever wise, always reliable, have rallied at the news that 100 billion euros (again, that's a real number!) was thrown at incompetence and corruption to make it better. Hopefully you can make some of your Facebook money back. Greek elections next weekend. Happy fake ending, everybody!

Kickin' in the Front Seat

Hey everybody, it's Friday! How was your week? Mine was uneventful. Maybe you thought that lightness of this week's blog output was due to a busy schedule so marvelous that it didn't leave me time to humblebrag about it here. Sadly, this is not the case. No festivals or tours to report on. No outrages to bitch about except the usual ones. The usual ones do involve daily news about the country falling apart, the latest being that Spain is officially going to ask Europe for a bailout. Yay! Now we can join the likes of Greece and Ireland as third world nations of white people. It's strange, cuz to the naked eye, nothing seems different. Despite staggering unemployment, crashing consumption and a currency that may not make it through the summer, there is no palpable sense of doom or dread. The terraces are still full, and nothing is burning yet. (The occasional protest met with wild overreaction by the authorities does pop up, but really, that's nothing new. If you put six Catalans together anywhere, someone's going to be carrying a sign decrying something. That's the nature of the beast.) I guess it's because nobody really knows what's going to happen or what it will mean. It's probably going to be bad, but this is a country where people still have memories of a brutal civil war and an oppressive dictatorship. Add to that the fact that Catalonia defines itself in part by its historic victimhood, and you get a pissed-off wait-and-see attitude. Also, there's this to distract us:

Ok, maybe one small humblebrag

Happy weekend everybody.

We Need to Talk About K

How many Ks is too many Ks? Two is fine when making delicious donuts, even if the correct spelling is with C. (Why opt for such a controversial spelling? That will be investigated at another time. Possibly another place. I'm not making any promises here.) Three Ks is definitely too many. I'm pretty sure we can all agree on that one. I'm not into calling people with different opinions names (fucking moron isn't a name, right?) but if you're cool with three Ks, you are probably racist. But what if you have more than three? Like, what if you have twelve Ks? Is that ok? Twelve is a multiple of three, so maybe it's one K too many, or one too few. I mean it's a shame that a bunch of murderous rednecks went and ruined a perfectly good letter, but you can't change the past. Don't cry over spilled milk, stiff upper lip and all that. Agglomerations of Ks are just not cool. No offense, K. If it had been the Pu Plux Plan, well, then P would have had to bear that historical shame, but P got lucky. You didn't, K. You can go stand in the corner next to the number 13 and think about how life ain't fair. But, my poor put upon letter, you can take comfort in the fact that countries which suffered through a murderous civil war, a murderous inquisition and several murderous crusades but not murderous rednecks have no such issues with you. They will put you on beer coasters in the bar across the street to advertise motorcycle repair workshops. Finally, you are reaching your potential, K. Enjoy.

You however, minstrel bookends, are never not offensive.

That Was a Lot of Rock & Roll

Thirty hours of concerts in three days. That's a lot of rock & roll! (and chillwave and Afro-pop.)
I spent the weekend at Primavera Sound, a sprawling music festival that turns a hideous expanse of cement at the edge of Barcelona into a hipster paradise for a brief moment every year. It was fantastic. I had a blast wandering from stage to stage, catching bands I loved, bands I'd heard of, and being surprised by new music.
Now any hipster gathering is going to have some truly ridiculous (and ridiculously awesome) people there, but I'm not going to spend a post laughing at hipsters. Mocking their mustaches and bow ties is as obnoxious as those mustaches and bow ties. Besides, as someone who spent the first half of his twenties sporting dreadlocks, I have forfeited the right to criticize youth fashion. (Within reason. Poopy pants are still a crime, no matter what you have in your past.) We are all the products of our circumstances, and if asymmetrical haircuts and fuzz on one's upper lip are the current circumstances, then so be it.
In a weekend full of massive cheering crowds and stage theatrics, one highlight for me was an intimate acoustic set in a little theater on the premises. Jeff Mangum, sitting on a chair and strumming a guitar, entertained a couple thousand people with renditions of old Neutral Milk Hotel songs. I was late to the NMH party, receiving On Avery Island as a birthday gift in 2003, and discovering and falling in love with In the Airplane Over the Sea shortly thereafter, by which time the group had already disbanded with Magnum receding into seemingly permanent exile. He recently started performing again, so I was psyched to catch him in concert. He was affable and personable onstage. His voice was more powerful than on the albums, and he delivered his songs with a passion that gave me the chills that hearing Two Headed Boy sung live should. Good times.
A$AP Rocky confirmed that I just don't like modern hip hop. Various synth bands proved that, despite the nineties revival underway, the eighties will never die. I was pleasantly surprised by the enthusiastic reception given to Afrocubism, a merging of musicians from Mali and Cuba. I figured hipsters generally liked their world music delivered by preppy white guys.
Two other bands got me thinking about what greatness in music means. On Thursday I watched back to back sets by Death Cab for Cutie and Wilco. It is a given among most of my friends that Wilco is a great band, a proposition I support wholeheartedly. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is one of my all-time favorite albums, one I return to regularly over a decade after its release. The thing is, since then, I hadn't really been into an album of theirs until last year's The Whole Love. Songs, yes - Hummingbird and You are my Face, for example, are standout tracks on albums that I will generously call mediocre. It took ten years for Wilco to make a musical statement that approaches the genius of YHF.  Holding a band up to the standards of a classic, even if it is their own, may be harsh, but it cuts two ways. I have been willing to indulge their guitar noodling, wan sentimentality or whatever turn they have taken since 2001 because I know what they are capable of.
Death Cab, on the other hand, have been turning out reliably pleasing pop albums for years. I have never loved one, but each release gets heavy rotation on the Noah Green playlist for months after I get it. Their concert was a best of that most bands would be proud to have in their catalog. But I would never consider them great.
I guess this means that the average rating of a band's oeuvre is ultimately not how I measure them. If someone reaches the peaks that Wilco has, I will patiently follow them through the valleys. I'm thankful for consistency of a band like Death Cab, and would frankly be overjoyed as a musician to equal such an even output, but my true admiration goes to the mercurial geniuses.