Excuses, excuses
My deepest apologies to my thousands of loyal fans for the recent lack of activity on this blog. Recent days have seen most of my blogging efforts defect to
Runnyeggs, a blog three high school buddies and I cooked up a week or two ago.
But, in a thinly veiled attempt to remain thematic, here's a list of upcoming shows I'm going to. And this one's gonna be syndicated, baby!
Tool - Sept 3 - Oakland Arena
Apollo Sunshine - Sept 7/8 - The Independent (the best venue in San Francisco)
Dr. Dog and Cold War Kids - Sept 9 - Cafe Du Nord
Roger Waters - Oct 10 - Shoreline
The Decembrists - Oct 19 - The Warfield
Excuses, excuses
My deepest apologies to my thousands of loyal fans for the recent lack of activity on this blog. Recent days have seen most of my blogging efforts defect to
Runnyeggs, a blog three high school buddies and I cooked up a week or two ago.
But, in a thinly veiled attempt to remain thematic, here's a list of upcoming shows I'm going to. And this one's gonna be syndicated, baby!
Tool - Sept 3 - Oakland Arena
Apollo Sunshine - Sept 7/8 - The Independent (the best venue in San Francisco)
Dr. Dog and Cold War Kids - Sept 9 - Cafe Du Nord
Roger Waters - Oct 10 - Shoreline
The Decembrists - Oct 19 - The Warfield
Excuses, excuses
My deepest apologies to my thousands of loyal fans for the recent lack of activity on this blog. Recent days have seen most of my blogging efforts defect to
Runnyeggs, a blog three high school buddies and I cooked up a week or two ago.
But, in a thinly veiled attempt to remain thematic, here's a list of upcoming shows I'm going to. And this one's gonna be syndicated, baby!
Tool - Sept 3 - Oakland Arena
Apollo Sunshine - Sept 7/8 - The Independent (the best venue in San Francisco)
Dr. Dog and Cold War Kids - Sept 9 - Cafe Du Nord
Roger Waters - Oct 10 - Shoreline
The Decembrists - Oct 19 - The Warfield
The shortest post
This one will be short. REAL short.
Only one quip. Why does every bus have its troublemaker? Someone's always getting into it with the driver and the poor drivers are getting more and more defensive. It can catalyze psychological ruin, really. You know what it is? People are jealous of the bus driver. He's got a job, and it's one of those jobs you could whistle during. I mean, no one does, but they could. You know? If they didn't have to deal with douchebags all the time?
The Giants feel so small right now
And so do their fans. I write on the heels of a walk-off home run that sealed the Dodgers' sweep of the Giants down in LA. I think they've now lost 16 of their last 19. Fucking pathetic. I could cry, but I would rather blog, because at least the blogosphere will hear my moans (and taste the salt of my proverbial tears via computer screen).
I mean last year it was easy, because I was traveling for most of their season, so when the Giants gave us hope and then dropped the ball as the playoff race was heating up like they usually do, I didn't really give a shit and I hardly knew what was going on. But now that I'm not stumbling around obscure Bulgarian villages and taking efficient Slovenian public transit to beautiful rainy hill towns, it hurts more. I'm right here in the city, all the time, and I'm paying attention, dammit! Can't the Giants find a way not to suck?
Reggae on the River
It's taken me a while to get around to writing about it, but this was a festival like nothing I'd ever seen before. I've never been to High Sierra or Burning Man, so just to see tens of thousands of people flooding a common camp and loving it was pretty remarkable.
I'll move from the personal to the practical. The four of us excavated a small rectangle of rock-littered riverside land on which to pitch our tent and began working on the coolerful of BevMo products we'd brought along. We were strategic about our alcohol purchases: a 750 of Herrador and one of Jim Beam, a 30-case of Keystone (for volume's sake) and 30 bottled brews we believed to be tasty, including a 6-pack of Hemp Ale in the name of Northern Cali and in the spirit of reggae.
The days consisted much less of live music and much more of floating down the river ... than we had expected. Chiefly because it took 5 hours or so to float down to our home base from the lagoon out by Cook's Camp, we were too busy to get to the ring of music until nighttime.
Floating down the river is a meditative experience that lets you take in the whole festival as the deep green fluffy forests, the lush colors and the beautiful people slowly pass you by. It's also a wet and drunken task that takes longer than you expect.
Also noteworthy is the fact that I bought a Ghanean djembe on the last day of the festival. It's beautiful. It lives in my room. It needs a name.
I wish I could chronicle why this was such an amazing weekend, but I'm groggy and seem to be missing some wisdom teeth, so I just might continue this later.
Woot.
What is & what should probably continue to be
North beach is one place I haven't spent nearly enough time in since the city-era of my geographical plight began back in March.
And re-reading that sentence, I can't justify why it's written the way it is, try as I might.
But let's move on with our lives, and our sentences. The North Beach Jazz Festival was a buzzing, sunny little scene that livelied up Washington Square Park and spilled over onto Union St. to accomodate those of us who occasionally spill beer (but mostly drink it). The upside of the festival's being split up into a wet and a no-alcohol zone was that, if you wanted to be right up in front of the stage, all you had to do was hit up the non-alcohol side and there was all the space in the world.
New Monsoon played a pretty sweet set -- I dig the tabla player, though he doesn't get enough spotlight (reminded me of a two-man tabla and sax act I saw on the beach in Goa back in December) -- and today I went back for an hour or so to catch ALO.
I'd never seen or heard ALO before, but I'd heard
of them and was curious. They were actually really good, though not necessarily a show I'd go out of my way to see -- but that's easy to say once you see an act for free in the park (case in point: Cake).
These guys were super solid as far as jambands go. They were just like Phish. And before you get all up in arms about that comment (scenesters of the jamband variety are turning over in their RVs), really think about what the difference might be. The guitar solos, while they're not played by Tre, are surely inspired by him. And the prominence of the keyboard, and the style of songwriting, and the instrumental bits that are held together by little more than 'coming back around' to a rehearsed riff that obviously turned into a rippin' garage session and, in turn, made it onto the stage.
Anyway, part of the fun of the festival for me was figuring out the best way to bike to North Beach from my place. I think I can now make it in a half hour, if, say, a friend called me from North Beach and said, "Dude, you have to come over here RIGHT NOW. Trust me. You will thank me for this for the rest of your life." Or, you know, something less dramatic. Whatever.
Chugging over Russian Hill was a challenge, and I have to be honest that I found the final uphill block of Pacific completely un-bikeable, but other than that, it was a great tour of the city. On the way there I made a mental note to have dinner in that ambigious 'Fillmore' zone of Pac Heights' no man's land. And I got to stop by Rogue Brewery yesterday for a beer and a burger -- although Rogue really deserves at least three pints to count as a visit. But I'll take it. So on the ride back I went through Chinatown (what have we done with all the elderly Chinese people and rowdy markets? ah, yes. here they are) and managed to get into a race with a cable car.
I mean it. We started on Pacific a few blocks short of Van Ness, where the operator yelled, "Wanna race me?" I suppose by beginning to climb the hill right then, I had (inadvertently?) acquiesced. I didn't 'win,' per se, but give me a fucking break. This was a bitch of a hill. One of the worst in the city. Is there literary significance to the fact that I raced a bunch of tourists in a trolley up Russian Hill? You know, in the ... novel of my life, or whatever?
Probably. I bet it's HUGE. I'm missing something if I don't reflect on it for a while.
Anyway, I was doing pretty well for the first leg of the race, because I still had a little energy to burn, and because cable cars are slow to accelerate. But as they slowly plowed by me the chorus of the trolley's passengers chanted "GO! GO! GO!" ... which was awesome, and also slightly condescending, considering they were just fucking standing there while some mechanical bullshit was doing all the work of pulling them up the goddamn hill, but you know, whatever, I'm not bitter or anything.
By the time the cable car made it across the intersection, though, I had caught up with it and we were ready for round two. This time the results were... the same. I think I was a pretty good sport. I didn't fall, or stop riding and walk my bike, or cry, or flip off the tourists, or get my front tire hilariously stuck in the tram track and reap the rewards. Although I thought about it.
Once we made it over the hill and were headed toward Van Ness, I was actually going to show those cable-hoisting motherfuckers who's boss, but the cable car was hogging the whole right side of the road! That's cheating! I told them so, too. Tomatoes were thrown; tempers flared. But anyhow, we all know the little man wins in the end.
So my goal of riding a friggin' cable car like a tourist remains unattained thus far, six months into living here, but I've managed to race one, which, let's face it, is not something just any goon who's willing to wait in a queue the length of a Russian bread line in 1936 can pull off.
The Poop Deck
By the way,
this is a pretty clever little site about
Web 2.0 companies likely to go the way of the, uh, the ... you know, some idea that never quite took off. The horse and carriage? I guess that had a good run. WebTV, perhaps.
Anyway, when this ship gets flip-turned upside down, I suppose you wouldn't want to find yourself on the poop deck.
In the throes of live shows and dot com woes
Well, not woes, really. But I do have some sarcastic remarks to make -- coming later.
Bloggings have become fewer and further between, which is too bad, because I want to keep up on this mf'in blog game, yo.
Stern Grove is a phenomenal venue, even if it's frequented by a bunch of textbook San Franciscans. And I don't mean to call it out like it's a bad thing. But it's certainly a thing.
Anyway, I saw Jackie Greene and Mavis Staples there, and I didn't stay for more than 5 or 6 songs of Mavis, but she is a fiesty aging but youthful gospel singer with a soul 'o gold. What I did see of her was great. She even covered The Band.
Jackie Greene, on the other hand, was a disappointment. He and his three cronies cranked out one "hit" after another and played almost exclusively new songs, with the exception of "Mexican Girl" and maybe two other songs from his other three albums. This kid is incredibly talented. He could be one of the best vocalists in contemporary folk and blues. He writes fantastic tunes. But now he's got three dudes to play behind him and each one makes him sound more and more hackneyed and uninteresting and 'rockstar' just like everybody else.
I'm a huge fan of "Sweet Somewhere Bound" and "Gone Wanderin'" and though my familiarity with his first album, "Rusty Nail," is more limited, it's pretty bloody good too. But now... well, now I don't know.
At least the show was free, guy. You'd have had hell to pay, selling out like that.
From music to the Internet: not a quantum leap anymore. Check out this startup,
Jangl.com. It's dating for people who are uneasy about giving out their phone numbers. So if I meet a girl, and she's cute, and I want to maybe see her again, but I'm hesitant about sharing personal information with a stranger, I can use Jangl to communicate with her until we decide to ... you know, move things forward.
That's a great idea.
Or actually, I think it isn't. Sure, the scenario is usually the opposite. It's the girl who isn't so sure about handing out her number, which is understandable.
But who needs the cell phone equivalent of a Craigslist-anonymous email address in order to communicate with someone we might want to date? Are we really thinking about going out with people who are so mysterious, so potentially shady, that we can't offer them the very digits we indiscriminately punch into online purchase forms and scribble on napkins to please friends of friends and fleeting acquaintances?
Who knows, maybe there's a niche out there for everything. But to me, it just seems like another brilliant idea brought to you by Web 2.0, for which there is no realistic demand or utility.
Then again, I'm just another blogger. What the hell do I know.
If you've got a Jangl ID, though, post it as a comment. Please, I encourage you. It's not like you're giving out your phone number or anything.
Live music is so hard
Man, I have a lot of catching up to do.
Bloggage has been lacking. So this will be an exercise in terse writing.
Sleepytime Gorilla Museum performed in a tiny, grungy cellar in Oakland called The Metro. They played two nights. I only saw one. The openers included a bass clarinet quartet (reminiscent of Apocalyptica) and a band that, lord knows why, fake-played their instruments to a poor-quality tape recording of bad music in the background.
But Sleepytime was dark, cryptic and well orchestrated. Those painted boys and girls can certainly play some rock music, especially the drummer on the kit and the lead guitarist and singer. Their timing makes no sense, so they've gotta be good.
I saw
Mason Jennings at the Fillmore last week, and I didn't know a single song he played until an hour and a half into the show. It was my first time at the Fillmore -- and I've been there before, but never inside, because of my staunch membership in the 'miracle ticket' school of concertgoing (which, I should add, was extremely effective for many years until I got a full-time job and stopped caring). Great venue.
Mason is a much better guitar player than his records can tell you. One or two bluesy solos, short, sweet and punctuated, and he had me at F sharp. But his show was only excellent if you are his biggest fan. Otherwise, he sang a lot of good songs and performed with a smile. It doesn't matter, though: my opinion of the show as a concert, versus other concerts out there. I enjoyed it. And I happened upon a not-so-long lost college buddy who now works at Google.
Friday night there was quite a bit topping the bill. After work I went down to the
Irish Bank for Bastille Day -- don't ask me any questions about history here. I know it doesn't make sense. But it was drunken, loud, full of Frenchy Le Freak and young girls looking as if they'd recently left a professional environment for
this.
Luckily, the only one that hit on
me was thirty-six and wanted me to Google some Mexican movie star she thought I looked like. Fan-friggin'-tastic.
Anyway, Lee's birthday party was next on the agenda and I had to yank my co-workers out of the bar to join me because they were having -- I won't say
even less luck with girls than I was -- but anyway, sticking around was far from necessary. So we went to Lee's and did the thing where we act like three wierd dudes who are sort of funny and impersonate Borat a lot. It was a pretty good time, no doubt.
By the time I was pretty well inebriated and the
B-Side Players show had already started, it seemed like a good idea to stop by
Fly Bar for a pitcher of sangria.
And perhaps it was.
All I know is, when we got to the show and the opener had finished, I had swapped my coworkers for
Ashwin,
Jen and Hayes. B-Side put on an awesome show. I'm not going to pretend I was sober enough to absorb its complexities, but the singer is a phenomenal frontman, the percussionists are genuine virtuosos and their guitarist quietly glues the gang together with solid groove that we only got to see in the closing minutes of the show when the mics freed up.
I should mention these guys didn't play a damn song I knew either (I'm only familiar with Movement) aside from "Spill the Wine" and a pair of Bob Marley covers that were, as Katchafire might have said (in a Kiwi accent), "sweet arse!"
By Saturday, I was worn out enough from going to shows and bouncing around town that I pawned off my Pearl Jam ticket and took it easy (which equated to a game of trivial pursuit and a short stint at a random Nob Hill house party).
Tonight, I'm going to do nothing, and I hope it's everything I dream it can be and more.
