Rock Report November 27th 2012

Tuesday is the day Les Fat Jones normally practise. We head out to Bellvitges, an ugly neighbourhood of monolithic buildings on the way to the airport. There, we descend into the basement of one and create musical gems bash out arrangements of songs like smiths over a hot fire. Last night, we lugged our gear across town to do the same thing at Rocksound in Poble Nou. The difference was the eight to ten people who witnessed it.

Barcelona has great weather. It rains infrequently. The occasional time it does rain, it does so heavily and plans get cancelled. Last night was one of those times.

However, even if it had been a beautiful autumn night, I doubt the crowd would have been much bigger. We were opening for a band that not many people (nobody I know) has heard of: Mothlite. The tickets were expensive and there was zero promotion other than an event on Facebook. I felt bad for the band who were on tour form the UK.

Nevertheless, I had a good time as we tore through a 45 minute set. The sound was surprisingly good, and we played well. You can see a video here. Our guitar players our fickle tuners, leaving me to ramble between songs, a prospect even less thrilling (or interesting) in Spanish. 

Mothlite performed to a few more people, maybe as many as 15. That didn't stop the singer from adorning the stage with leaves and dressing up in a variety of costumes to play some experimental pop.

A Renaissance getup with mesh over the face

Hipster orfanato

The circle of life

Our next gig is in a couple of weeks in Badalona (awesome name). Hopefully, somebody will turn up.

Rock Report November 25th 2012

Poble Nou is a neighbourhood by the sea where this:

lies across the street from this:

Its mix of old and new, of families and businesses, of labourers and hipsters reminds me of Brooklyn. My teaching duties take me there every day of the week. This week, I also spent the weekend there, first seeing a concert on Saturday, then recording on Sunday with Les Fat Jones. 

The session was organised by Desert Pearl Union, the music collective we joined this fall. The goal was to record and videotape two songs that will be released on a compilation. It had been scheduled and cancelled before, so we were all quite enthusiastic to get it done. We therefore did the least rock and roll thing possible and arrived precisely on time, finding the place shuttered and abandoned. 

"Did I say five? I thought I'd told you six," was the reply when we called to find out what was going on, so we went to the bar around the corner to watch Formula 1 racing. I'm not much of  a sports fan in general and watching vehicle races come at the bottom of the list of ways to spend time, right after golf. (Rooting against the Jets is now at the top. So satisfying.) 

Mario and Victor of Desert Pearl did show up and we went to the studio to set up. The downside of being a keyboard and vocalist means I am the only musician in the band who is at the mercy of others for sound. When we play a concert or set up in a studio, the guitarists plug in and play, Poke can hit his drums at will, while I stand impotently by, waiting for the engineer to turn on the d.i. and mic. My random-noise-making potential is thus diminished. My random-picture-taking potential is however given room to flourish. 

We recorded a couple of new songs live, Peel-style. The idea is to have them out for Christmas. And I'll be back to Poble Nou tomorrow night for our gig. 

I Think Micah P Hinson Might be a Jerk

I don't know Micah P Hinson, so I'm not in a real position to say. Does anybody know him? What's he like? Cuz I think he might be a jerk. I base this on 80 minutes of watching him onstage, so it's like those psychiatrists or plastic surgeons who Yahoo quotes to give their opinion on the latest celebrity snapshot. Trust no-one! But watching him interact with his audience and band awoke the nagging suspicion in my mind that he could very well be a jerk. A funny one, no doubt, but still the kind of guy you are not sure about hanging out with cuz his jokes feel like they're probably directed at you. Everything about him is in quotation marks: his words drip with irony when he speaks, and his look, from thick rimmed glasses to plaid shirt and tie, is an uber-hipsterfied portrait of an artist. His Pee-Wee-Herman-as-singer-singwriter persona is in direct contrast to some seemingly achingly personal music. I don't need my artists to come with Chris Martin levels of bland cuddliness. Hinson's caustic takedowns of people in the audience who bothered him were entertaining and on the nose: iPhones held aloft during a show are distracting, and if you feel like having a conversation, a spare folk concert is not not the proper venue. But his snide superiority glossed everything over with a distancing effect, and that bled over to the music. It's hard to believe the passion he evinces while singing when he consciously sweeps it aside with a back handed comment the moment he's done.

Sorry, dude

Another One Bites the Dust?

Until recently I thought Bat for Lashes was a goth girl who played cello. Turns out she isn't. My bad. I have no idea how I came to think that. Is there some cello-playing goth girl out there who I could be confusing her with?
I saw her in concert last night and it was good. She has a good voice and some potent songs. Her stage presence is an ethereal kind of grace that leads to worshipful devotion from her fans. She gratefully accepted their adulation and seemed engaged with the music and crowd. The problem was her band, a dishevelled group of hipsters who looked and sounded like they love Amnesiac-era Radiohead. While she rode a roller coaster of theatricality and drama, they were content to noodle on moogs and drum machines behind her. Very competent, but a little lifeless. Remember that Radiohead actually rocks too, guys. The result was that the quiet subtle parts were well crafted. I was impressed at how sparse five musicians playing together could sound. However, when she started reaching for the heights, the band left her hanging. Never mind turning to 11, these guys barely made it past 6.
Troublingly, the concert was moved at the last minute from Apolo to a theatre across the street. Apolo was shut down by the city due to vague structural issues. I should be glad that local authorities are looking out for my well-being, but I don't trust them. Ours is a city government that is keen to shutter music venues while letting work crews tunnel under its largest tourist attraction despite warnings of possible collapse. I fear that Barcelona's best concert hall may be history. I'm glad I got a chance to play there before it died.

Perfecting Democracy

I'm taking a moment between all the rock and roll to discuss something a little more trivial: politics. (Hilarious! Nobody in 2012 has ever made light of politics. Where do I pick up my Nobel Prize for jokes?) I followed the American presidential elections with a mix of hope and disgust. Not all the disgust was levelled at Romney, btw. Obama has been a disappointment on so many levels, from financial reform to human rights, that he only deserved to lose less than the Republicans. But after the rape comments (really guys?) and the blatant soullessness of the GOP, I woke up relieved to find out he'd won a second term. Now I can go back to criticising him.
It's election time here in Catalunya, with people going to the polls on Sunday. At the heart of the campaign is a separatist movement that has long smouldered in the region and has burst into flames with the crisis and the conservative government running Spain. I'm mildly against Catalan independence, in that it seems many here view it as a panacea to cure all our ills. This disregards the fact that an independent Catalunya would not be the socialist utopia of these hippies' dreams, but another ineptly mismanaged free-market economy circling the drain of Europe. Take the current president, and leader of the separatist charge: Artur Mas. An opportunistic right-wing hack who only discovered his separatist passion in September when a million and a half people marched through Barcelona in support of the cause, his prior accomplishment was pushing for the creation of Eurovegas. This giant gambling complex helmed by Sheldon Addison (of Sarah Silverman fame) was to be a tourist trap that disregarded labour and environmental laws with the blessing of local government. It was such a terrible idea that I was sure it would happen. That Mas failed to secure the deal, losing out to Madrid, provided the minor relief of knowing that he is too incompetent to be sufficiently corrupt. And this man wants to lead Europe's newest nation.
He is not alone, nor even the worst. Spain has either completely misunderstood or brilliantly perfected democracy. One votes for a despot who then proceeds to act out at will while the populace grumble but take no action. Sure, that happens everywhere, but here they don't even bother to hide it. This month, the mayor of Madrid took off to a spa in Portugal the day after a tragedy at a stadium left several young people dead. Imagine Bloomberg, or even Giuliani, doing that. A politician in Valencia has won the lottery multiple times. Buying winning lottery tickets is a common money laundering trick, but he just claims to be improbably lucky, and nobody investigates. His daughter, a congresswoman for the ruling People's Party (a strange name for a right-wing group, but oh well) was filmed literally saying "Fuck them" about those most effected by recent budget cuts. (read: the poor.) These people put Blagojevich to shame. And let's talk about the plastic surgery. So much plastic surgery. The Mayor of Marbella was arrested at her home, with bags of money in her freezer, while recovering from plastic surgery. There are more duck lips and fake tits in parliament than at the AVN awards.

This is the PP (ie pro-Madrid) candidate vying to lead Catalunya. How many levels of artifice are there when you photoshop over the collagen lips to try to make her seem more human? (Two. There are two levels. Surgery and Photoshop. I should also get the Nobel Prize for counting.)
Anyway, it seems as if the ruling party will not achieve an absolute majority and thus nothing will change. At least it's provided a few weeks of distraction from skyrocketing unemployment and crumbling currency.
Well, I'm off to see Bat for Lashes tonight, so tomorrow I will bring you something of substance. (Zing, politics! Zing!)

Paris is Rocking

November has been, and continues to be, a rocktacular month. I've been putting off writing about it with various excuses (too tired, too busy, not inspired...) but too much is going on to let it accumulate in my psychic outbox.
After opening for the Gaslight Anthem, I took off to Paris for a few days. I spent several years growing up there as a child and like to return occasionally. The Paris I frequent now is completely different from the one I roamed as a young teen. Then, I escaped from International school or Bar Mitzvah class to explore the Latin quarter and Les Halles, eyeing the punks in awe and coveting the Doctor Martens in the shop windows. Now, I head east where artists have settled in amongst the large Muslim population that dominates the 18th and 19th arrondissements.

The closest I got to the Eiffel Tower

I went there for a concert. As part of a multiple-night festival in an old theatre, Alabama Shakes and Michael Kiwanuka were playing a show together with some other bands. The first one I saw was called Wild Belle, and play the sort of light reggae that Les Fat Jones does in our rehearsal space when we're fucking around. We often joke about doing an all-reggae set some day, but after watching these guys play, I'm even more convinced it's something only to be done in the privacy of basements in distant suburbs.

Willy Moon

They were followed by Willy Moon, a natty bean-pole with slicked back fifties style hair backed by a female Hot Topic drum and guitar duo and a DJ. The played the weirdest mix of rock and roll with hip hop tinges imaginable, a kind of reverse aesthetic to typical rap-rock. It was funny, endearing and lasted twenty minutes, the exact amount of time before the schtick wore out its welcome.

Michael Kiwanuka

Up next came Michael Kiwanuka, a Londoner who does a spot on take of "What's Going On" era Marvin Gaye. The sight of a multi-culti group of Brit hipsters reverently playing 70's American soul would be obnoxious but for two things: he's a pretty good songwriter, with strong melodies and riffs, and they were clearly having tons of fun. Their joy and his affability disarmed my cynicism and I thoroughly enjoyed the set.

Alabama Shakes

Alabama Shakes have been getting hyped in the music press, playing Southern rock- soul that sounds and feels like the real deal, a collection of music nerds fronted by force of nature Brittany Howard. She prowled the stage, guitar in hand or casually slung over her back, belting out her songs like a rapturous preacher. The crowd went nuts. The band got their hit "Hold On" out of the way early and rocked the house like a revival tent making fervent believers out of the Parisians who hollered and cheered for more even after the lights went up.
Watching to two bands got me thinking about identity and music. I wondered how Kiwanuka felt watching Alabama Shakes effortlessly pull off music that, by an accident of birth, they can claim as their own, while he and his cohorts will always be seen to be donning a look and striking a pose. I wondered how Howard felt, a black singer in a band that usually has a white singer trying to sound black (Janis Joplin, Black Crows), playing in a city that historically welcomed black American artists shunned by their own country.
Mostly, I just danced and sang along.
I'll be seeing more concerts this week, as well as recording with Les Fat Jones and playing next Tuesday, so hopefully, I will be better about writing. If not, you can always read the throwaway lines I drunkenly put as my Facebook status. People seem to like those.

Rock Report November 9th 2012

This week Les Fat Jones have been coming apart at the seams. In what is becoming a tradition, (twice is a tradition, right?) I was sick on the day of a big show. What started as a sore throat on Monday night ended up with me spending yesterday in bed with a cocktail of painkillers and decongestants. Carlos' van, our trusty steed, gave up the ghost, becoming an expensive pile of useless metal. More tragically, (way to bury the lead, Green!) Victor's grandfather passed away on Wednesday afternoon. My condolences to him and his whole family.
Nevertheless we soldiered on and opened for the Gaslight Anthem last night at Apolo. (Sorry spellcheck. Only one L or it's a chicken.) Victor had to attend the funeral so was unable to play, but we decided to forge ahead with only one guitar. We played on our largest stage to our largest crowd to date, and it went well. People clapped! Not just at the end of songs, but along with a breakdown! We sold merch! I sold merch. Unless you have spent time in 2 Skinnee J's, you're probably like, so? Well, former bandmates will know my allergy to the t-shirt table and my preference for hiding out backstage after shows. I'm far more comfortable relating to hundreds of strangers from the safety of a microphone than one on one. Yet, after we were done, I manned the stand and hawked our wares. It was a record night: one t-shirt, two bags. (Close the deal, Gil!)
As for the headliners, I became a fan of the album American Slang when it was released two years ago. The Joe Strummer meets Bruce Springsteen aesthetic appealed to me, and the songs were good. I have one problem with the band, somewhat with that album, more with the most recent one and quite pronounced at the concert: they have two songs - a fast one and a mid-tempo one. Pretty much their entire oeuvre is a variation on these templates. When I first discovered them, I was willing to put in the time to find the differences that make each song its own, but less so on a subsequent album, and a two hour concert became a bit of an endurance test. Nevertheless, the passion and personality they played with carried the day, and the packed house enjoyed the hell out of them.
So far, it was the pinnacle of our career, and I wish it was a wave we could ride to new shores. However, I know that a lone opening gig doesn't change fates and sadly, we have no shows booked until January. We are trying to book something before the end of the year, so I will keep you updated. In the meantime, here's a video from the show. (I can't embed it cuz stupid Blogger can't find it.)

It's Great to See You Guys!

 "You know the Walkmen are playing on Wednesday," my friend informed me two days ago.
"Didn't we just see them a few months ago?"
"Yeah. And for free. Still, I'd go. It's worth it."
That's about all the arm twisting it took to get me to the first of five concerts I'll be attending over the next few weeks. I guess I still really enjoy live music.
"I finish work at 9. Let's meet at Bikini," I said, referencing the venue, which could just as easily be named after a grilled ham and cheese sandwich as a piece of sexy swimwear. I honestly don't know which one the club is going for.
Being a teacher approaching 40, I try to fool my students and their parents into believing I'm a responsible adult. I do this by donning my responsible adult disguise, which today consisted of khaki pants and a Gap shirt. I fit in well with my last class - three teenage boys who are painfully preppy. It's not their fault - two of them are brothers who were born looking like Ralph Lauren models (tall, blond with brown eyebrows, angular faces). They would look wrong in anything other than striped shirts and boat shoes. Ok, the third looks so Jewish I think his great great grandparents must have changed their name and decided to weather out the inquisition, but he's trying to belong.
Anyway, it wasn't my rock-and-rollingest outfit, but, being a teacher approaching 40, I figured it best not to care. I needn't have worried at all. The Walkmen took to the stage in more button-downs, blazers and crew-neck sweaters than a TED conference. And rocked.

"Thanks for coming. It's great to see you guys. We're the Walkmen," said singer Hamilton Leithauser as the concert started on a quiet and pretty note, just him and the guitarist slowly building up the song.

Their latest album, Heaven, is grown-up in all the right ways. I suppose it's not surprising considering that 10 years ago they were already lamenting being past their prime, but of all the entitled millennial WASP New York rockers (Strokes, Interpol, et al) I didn't expect them to be the sole ones still making exciting vibrant music. They are masters of insinuation, creating moods out of a few spare guitar notes and hinted keyboard lines. They leaned heavily on their most recent material while revisiting hits (hits?) from previous efforts.
"Thanks for coming. It's great to see you guys. We're the Walkmen," said singer Hamilton Leithauser before the band tore into Angela and The Rat.

Remember in the 90's, after the Smells Like Teen Spirit video when every fucking dumbass jock would mosh at whatever show they were at? Pits would form at Cranberries or Inspiral Carpets concerts. It was fucking terrible. We've reached a similar stage of evolution with hipsters, who are now just retarded teenagers with awkward haircuts and glasses partying like it's jello shots night at the delta sigma house. Between the stupidity happening next to me and the awesomeness in front of me, I felt ok about being a teacher approaching 40 in khakis. Now get off my lawn!

"Thanks for coming. It's great to see you guys. We're the Walkmen," said singer Hamilton Leithauser when they came out to do a two song encore consisting of an old song and an audience request. He seemed like he meant it.

A Bad Neighbourhood and a Knife

My job is to help ensure the dominance of English across the planet. Every time I show up in an office or home, I'm committing a manager or child to the path of Western-led globalisation. Yesterday, I added cultural hegemony to linguistic hegemony when I cycled out to a government-assisted language school to teach the savages about Halloween. 

It's not a widely celebrated holiday here. Children dress up in February for Carnaval, and there's no set day for a massive candy giveaway. My first Halloween here, I turned heads and stopped conversations dead in their tracks as I walked through the streets painted blue with a Frankenstein bolt through my head. 

It's becoming more known now. Some stores decorate their windows in black and orange with skeletons and such. The kids I teach have learned about it at school. But this is not enough. While the local custom dictates that the 31st be dedicated to roasting chestnuts and eating little cakes, I took it upon myself (for a fee) to explain to a bunch of adults what the day was really about.

I cycled across the river at the edge of the city and into Badalona. The name sounds like a joke; some bizarro-world evil Barcelona where everybody has a goatee. That might not be far off, as I cycled past concrete fields of dilapidated apartment towers with graffiti on their walls. I arrived at the Escuela Oficial de Idiomas where my friend teaches and had hooked me up with this Halloween-themed workshop.

A group of about 40 people assembled in the small conference room. I taught them a little about the history of the holiday, history which I myself had only learned in preparation for the workshop. I can now add it to my ever expanding bank of trivia that makes me really fun to talk to at parties. Did you know that 2 billion dollars are spent on candy every year in the US? Wait, come back. 

This was followed by a pumpkin carving workshop. I hadn't actually done it in years, so I spent the last few of my kids classes practicing. I would show up at the unsuspecting students' home with a pumpkin and  knife, and proceed to make a mess of the kitchen as I hacked away at the hapless vegetable and roasted the seeds. The parents were game and the kids were thrilled, and thus I was ready for yesterday's main event. 

It went well, as it's not actually that difficult, and the students finished with their own jack-o-lanterns. 

The artists and their creations

My final jack-o-lantern

I repeated the whole process for a second group before cycling home to don make-up and blood, and head to a party in the city.