Sunday, September 28, 2003
Here’s another thing that’s perfect about Basement Jaxx’s new Kish Kash: You can leave an East Village bar drunk at 3:30 a.m., make a brief stop on the sidewalk to slip the disc in, walk eight or so minutes to the 2nd Avenue F stop in rain that barely registers because you’re too busy mind-gawking at “Good Luck” and “Right Here’s The Spot,” overhear somebody yelling “taxi! taxi!” through headphone slits and realize that though it’s not part of the album it might as well be, stand on the platform for-fucking-ever mulling once again the many pros and all-but-nonexistent cons of getting that cover art tattooed somewhere on your left arm, finally step on the F realizing that while talk of his being better than Justin is arbitrary at best J.C.’s actually hotter and more singular vocally than you’d given him credit for, get on the A at Jay Street and be forced to de-train at Hoyt due to more ubiquitous “track work,” get snapped to blissful distraction by the distracting bliss-snap of “Cish Cash” as you board the long-in-coming G, roll through “Living Room” and, having made it to Fulton Street, wonder how a friend with an assignment to will go about pairing the Jaxx with The Rapture considering how great Echoes is but how Kish Kash raises the bar almost unreasonably high for all things especially rock, walk a few blocks apartmentward, check your mailbox and find a badly needed freelance check sitting there with the new Entertainment Weekly, walk up a flight of stairs just-right saturated in MeShell simpering “it feels like…home,” and open your door with key clack jangling and shaking and coming to a rest at the exact, precise second the album fades off, waiting to be heard and lived in, full and forthright, tomorrow just the same.
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Here's a piece on Herbert I wrote for Seattle Weekly.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Tonight at APT’s grand reopening gala, on the fire escape between ace sets by Metro Area, Chairman Mao, Citizen Kane, and Trevor Jackson, a must-be model turning and grousing a ruthlessly elegant summation of the New York scene, for better and worse, right now:
“Damn these fucking stilettos.”
“Damn these fucking stilettos.”
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
Saw Lightning Bolt and Wolf Eyes last night and it was all very … insectoid. Started with this weird-looking guy taking video on stage via a camera with antennae-like extensions and an explorer’s hat and shades that made him weird-looking. The Wolf Eyes guy’s camouflage shirt played right into it, as did all of their stringy long hair (what a hippiesh crypto-noise scene those guys command!) Then, as clamor started up in the stage-side crowd, the vision of a hand reaching up more than head-high and pulling down a drum that would get set up and played right there on the floor, by a Lightning Bolt drummer whose live rep preceded him but only hinted at his hypnotic bash. Then, the same drummer standing up on his stool to offer the night’s only proper band view and reveal a bug mask from behind which he ranted against George Bush, to set up an LB “song” that got the crowd grinding and swaying in a way I haven’t been so close to since, like, seeing The Jesus Lizard at their annual Thanksgiving shows in Atlanta. So was Lightning Bolt good? Yeah.