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.