4th of July is one of my favorite holidays, for much the same reasons I really like Halloween and New Year’s Eve. It’s mostly a party for the sake of having a party. While the 4th is ostensibly a day to honor our nation’s Independence, it has long since turned into a celebration of beer, grilled meat and fireworks. There are no religious or cultural affiliations that might keep some people from participating. It’s just a day off at the beginning of summer to do summer things.
Which is why I think it’s kind of cool that we generally call it 4th of July instead of Independence Day. Of course, one refers directly to the other, but still. Just naming the date by the date is, I believe, a subtle way way of calling attention to the good parts while soft-shoeing the whole patriotic aspect - which can get messy if it goes unchecked. Conversely, it’s fun to declare your American pride in an over-zealous, Homer Simpson kind of way. Seriously. Try chanting “USA! USA!” while your dad flips burgers on the 4th. It makes the act of grilling beef patties over an open flame even better.
Obviously I’m one of those people that takes the 4th of July seriously. Like the kooky grandma who starts wearing her Christmas sweaters in October or the school girl who makes Valentines for everyone in her class, I like to go a little overboard for 4th of July. I make sure there are at least three animals on the grill. I buy enough beer to float everybody’s liver and I try to make sure I do something quintessentially American. Usually that has something to do with fireworks and gambling, but this year it’s fishing.
Of course, this means a long drive up to the river with my fellow patriots, which also means we will need a mixtape for the car. And of course, I am in charge of the mixtape. For the record, I am always in charge of the mixtape. Also for the record, I am probably the only person who cares whether or not there is a mixtape.
Since I burn through music at an ungodly rate, I was looking around for some new stuff to put on my “driving up to the river to catch a big ass fish” mix. I threw on some new Handsome Furs, a track by Sleepy Sun and a couple from Vetiver and Sean Bones. Having covered the rock category, I went looking for some hip hop. I found a new track by Drake, some awesome remixes from Dave Wrangler, and then I hit the jack pot.
“I sold my album out and all the haters stared hard/you put your record out for free on fail blog”
That’s jut half a line from a freestyle by Tanya Morgan, which is not a person, but three man rap group hailing from the fictional utopia of Brooklynati. Apparently these guys have already spent some time freaking out rap aficionados around the internet. No doubt this has something to do with their crazy fresh beats, sick flow, and all around hip hop mastery. Their third EP, cleverly entitled “Brooklynati” came out last month and it fucking kills.
Needless to say, this shit is going on the mixtape. It will be played in the car, at the grill and down by the river. I’m not sure what Tanya Morgan think or feel about America or 4th of July, but either way they will be the soundtrack to this year’s tribute to our independence.
God bless the USA and all the fish who taste my steel.
Not to go and break the fourth wall or anything, but I would like to take a moment to talk about the business of writing a music blog. Most of the writers working in this field rely heavily on the PR people whose job it is to engage said writers - or bloggers, to use a term from 2007. The PR people send out press kits full of tour updates, album release info and mp3s. The blogger then sorts through all of these press releases (or has their intern do it), separating the wheat from the chaff. Then, if the writer deems the material worthy, he or she writes about it on their blog/website/facebook page.
We work a little differently here at Tough Customer, only because we focus on smaller, lesser known bands. Needless to say, we are not on the radar of Kanye’s publicist - which is to say that we have to do a lot of our own legwork to find the bands we cover. But our inbox is still inundated with material from managers and PR people trying to get their band heard. A lot of times the bands themselves write to us, hoping we’ll hype their new record or video. Which is cool. We like that. The more options we have to choose from, the better choices we can make.
This is the basic framework for the meritocracy that the world wide web is supposed to represent. If everybody and their dog records an album and posts it online, then naturally the best stuff will get the most attention. That’s the theory anyway, although in practice you’ll still read way more articles about Radiohead than say, The Significant Figures or Thunders. But whatever. It’s one big, happy party and everybody’s invited. All you have to do is play some cool jamz and keep it real.
These rules are pretty easy to follow, and yet so many people can’t help but break them. Mostly they screw up on the cool jamz part. Seriously, the crap to decent music ratio of the submissions we get is hovering around 50:1 right now. There are a lot of people out there trying to be rock stars who really should be accountants instead. We’ve actually talked about rebuilding this site to include a new section covering all the bad Russian metal bands, wimpy singer/songwriters, and über mediocre indie rock bands who have tried to convince us that their new album is the game changer we’ve all been waiting for. Everybody wants to live the dream, I guess.
Fewer in number, but more egregious in their crimes are those that fail to keep it real. These are the fakers that present their music under false pretenses or convinced some poor high school student (aka “member of the street team”) to do it for them. This usually comes in the form of some highly polished promo material that makes it look like the band has toured with Cold Play or written the soundtrack for Transformers 2. Either that, or one of their “fans” writes us a heartfelt letter about their new favorite band that we just have to hear.
Enter Brooklyn’s Courtesy Tier. They’re a pretty cool rock duo that plays guitar rock in the vein of The Black Keys or The White Stripes. Their sound is a little more psychedelic than either of those bands, but they didn’t put much effort into their promo material, so I’m not going to waste too much energy on their review.
What I will tell you is that I received an email from one of their “fans” telling me about this new band that was burning up stages around New York. There were a few other exhortations to check out their music and third person declarations of fandom, including the bold proclamation “I really think they are…taking this two person thing to a whole new kind of level.” The email included a link to their websites and came from the email address of one Omer Leibovitz.
Of course, I clicked the link and checked out the music. It was pretty good, so I flipped over to the bio for more info. Guess who plays guitar and sings lead vocals in this awesome band? None other than Mr. Leibovitz. Come on now Omer. Did you think I wouldn’t look? Did you think I would be tricked into believing you already have legions of devoted fans? Did you think about this at all?
Really I don’t know why this bothers me so much. I guess it’s because the assumption here seems to be that I’m an idiot, and that approaching me with some half-baked con about one of your admirers is the best way to trick me into writing about your music. And what do you know - it worked. Here’s your name in print. With any luck, this will help you score some real life fans (with better grammar) who will send emails to other less discerning blogs and tell them of your prowess. If not, I suggest you get a new email address and some dark glasses before you head back out into the blogosphere.
A lot of the people I hang out with are passionate about traveling. These friends save up for epic months-long trips to exotic parts of the world and they come back telling tales of ancient mountain temples or jungle treks through the rain forest canopy. They convey each one of these destinations like a proud notch on their belts, as though visiting new cultures and eating weird food were essential steps on the path to total enlightenment. As someone who has done a good bit of traveling, I understand this mentality. It stands to reason that the best way to understand the world is to see as much of it as possible with your own eyes.
The thing is, travel is often expensive. It can be exhausting, dangerous, and frustrating - especially when airplanes and airports are involved. Getting anywhere worthwhile takes at least a couple days, and when you finally get there, there’s no guarantee that you won’t immediately get yellow fever, syphilis or food poisoning. And trust me - if you contract any of the above, the only place you’ll want to be is home. I can tell you from personal experience that lying on the floor of a third world bathroom is not where you want to be when you embark on a 72 hour bout of projectile vomiting.
That said, you do what you have to do in the pursuit of adventure, excitement, and funny stories about people living in total seclusion who have never heard of the internet. But what a lot of my friends and fellow globe trekkers don’t realize is that you don’t have to spend $1600 and two days on a plane to experience strange cultures and eat unusual, off-menu items. That experience can be had for the price of a cheap motel room and a few tanks of gas right here in the good old US of A.
“If you want to visit a really strange place, try the middle of the country.” This is a statement I’ve heard my friend make dozens of times. He should know - he owns a travel company that specializes in exotic adventure vacations. And after having driven back and forth across the country a few times, I have to say that I totally agree. I’ve been to Morocco, Cambodia, Turkey, Honduras, Panama, and Hungary, and none of them were half as bizarre as Murdo, South Dakota. I’ve seen backwoods towns in Louisiana that were untouched by time. Parts of Montana made me feel like I was on another planet. And for the record, the entire state of Georgia is so inbred and backwards it might as well be Kafiristan.
There’s also some pretty amazing stuff here too. The High Sierras rival any mountain range anywhere on Earth. The desert canyons of Arizona and Utah are otherworldly. Plus we have New York, San Francisco and New Orleans - probably three of the coolest cities in the world. Somehow we even managed to get our hands on Hawaii. Oh - and we also have fucking crazy ass Alaska.
In Alaska, it’s dark for something like seven months in a row. Everything is covered in snow and most of the time the temperature hovers around -30 degrees. Dog sleds are the most popular form of transportation and the male-to-female ratio in most cities is 25:1. Not only that, but Russia is their closest neighbor and the sky often glows in a psychedelic medley of colors. Also, everyone has a pet grizzly bear and they eat moose burgers at every meal. Or so I’m told.
If you would like to check any of those facts, I suggest you get in touch with The Whipsaws. The band hails from Anchorage and from what I can tell, they spend most of their time in dark bars drinking whiskey and playing loud rock n roll. Their new single “Dr. Please” reminds me of all the ’70s revivalist rock bands I used to listen to in college - Mother Hips, The Black Crowes, etc. It is the kind of music I would want to listen to if I were to spend a snowbound winter at the outer reaches of the US territory with nothing but a bong and an off-duty stripper to keep me company.
Incidentally, this is how a lot of people spend their time in far off places like Thailand, Costa Rica and Prague. If that’s your MO, you should save your money and head up to Alaska instead. When you hit Anchorage, go into the first bar you see, order a moose burger and ask for The Whipsaws. Only then will the adventure truly begin
(Bonus Link : While waiting for this article to upload, I decided to flip through a few sites on StumbleUpon. This is the first thing that came up.)
There’s a program on the History Channel called “Modern Marvels.” It’s what they show in between the Hitler documentaries and all that footage of airplanes from WWII. Generally speaking, episodes of “Modern Marvels” focus on incredible feats of science or engineering - things like the combustion engine or the world’s tallest skyscraper. It’s what you would call edu-tainment ; informative enough that you might watch it in one of your GE history classes, but with the kind of sensationalized footage and booming voice overs that catch the attention of pot heads flipping through the channels late at night.
It’s also great to watch when you’re folding your laundry or doing any other menial task that only requires part of your attention. Which is how I came upon what might be the strangest episode yet. The modern marvel profiled wasn’t radar or the cure for polio. It was ice cream. The channel devoted to momentous achievements in the history of mankind was giving over an hour of its time to a popular frozen dessert, and in doing so was declaring ice cream to be a modern marvel.
The ten minutes of the program that I watched were full of mundane information on subjects ranging from the amount of ice cream eaten by the average American (23 gallons per year) to the disputed origins of the ice cream sundae. Then, right before going to commercial, they threw out an ice cream fact that caught my attention: the most popular ice cream flavor in the whole country is vanilla. Not rocky road, not mint chip, not even cookies and cream (although that did make the top five). Despite the near infinite amount of flavor choices presented by today’s ice cream market, the majority of people prefer the one flavor that is also used as a synonym for boring, soulless and tame. Vanilla.
Which is actually not really a diss to vanilla. What this says to me is that despite all of the other freaky ice cream flavors out there, with their brownie batter swirls and their candy-coated peanut butter filled pretzels, people always come back to the basics. Sure, that other stuff sounds delicious. And for a pint or two it probably is. But if you’re going to be trapped in a bomb shelter or or otherwise locked away with a limited selection of dessert choices, you’re going to go with a time tested member of the ice cream triumvirate: chocolate, strawberry, or good ol’ vanilla.
Now I’m not going to say that Atlanta’s It’s Elephant’s (yes, all those apostrophes are supposed to be there) are the vanilla ice cream of rock n roll. That would be an insult, despite the fact that I just acknowledged vanilla’s enduring quality. Besides, I think the Jonas Brothers are the reigning kings of vanilla rock right now. But It’s Elephant’s are definitely working with some classic flavors, albeit with a little kick. Let’s call it strawberry chocolate, which everybody knows is delicious, cool and sexy - in a Billy Dee Williams sort of way.
It’s Elephant’s works in the new tradition of southern rock, dipping in the same well as bands like The Whigs, Trances Arc and, most directly, Kings Of Leon. The guitars and drums lock together on fuzzy riffs and back porch stompers. Singer Brent Jay’s vocals sound like someone screaming hippie gospel from the back of a crowded bar room. It’s a style that Chris Robinson used when he was trying to sound like Rod Stewart, which often came off as over-wrought and derivative. Fortunately, singers like Jay and KOL’s Caleb Followill have toned it down and hipped it up, adding rhythm and strut in place of the extraneous “oohs” “ahhhs” and “baby baby babys.”
It’s not a game changing sound, but it’s not a flash in the pan either. This is good, solid rock n roll. A classic flavor. A modern marvel, if you will.
Here’s a list of 18 things that are great about summer:
milkshakes
fishing
girls in bikinis
rooftop parties
bar-b-ques
fireworks
strawberries
girls in skirts
cold beer
fireflies
outdoor concerts
the beach
white nectarines
girls in tank tops
tomatoes from the garden
camp fires
short sleeves
the track “Dream City” from the Philly rock band Free Energy
This last one is probably the only item on the list that isn’t already universally recognized as one of the symbols of the summer months. The good people at Music For Robots dug up this track in honor of the warmer weather and the band’s inaugural foray into New York City. Free Energy is fronted by Paul Sprangers, formerly of Hockey Night, and their as-yet-unreleased album is produced by none other than the DFA’s James Murphy. In other words, they have pedigree out the ass.
Everything about their first single evokes a summertime make-out session wrapped in the warm embrace of a beer buzz and a mild sunburn. It’s a teenage love affair circa 1979. It’s skinny-dipping in a backyard suburban pool on a hot August night. It’s a Camaro, a blended margarita and a new tattoo all rolled into one. It’s nearly perfect.
In fact, my only objection is the smooth jazz saxophone that rears its feathered head right at the end of the song. It’s like Kenny G broke into the recording studio and held the band hostage until they agreed to let him make a cameo appearance in the last 30 seconds of the track. What’s up with that?
Maybe this is just Free Energy’s subtle nod to the small flaws of the vacation season; bug bites, traffic, sand in the sheets. Or maybe it’s just their way of acknowledging that great songs, like summer vacation, must eventually come to an end. Autumn passes us gently into winter’s frozen grip, just as Kenny G’s soprano sax riff guides us into what will probably be the fuzzed out guitar work of the album’s next track. Guess we’ll just have to wait until the album comes out to know for sure. Until then, enjoy the weather.
Regional pride is a funny thing. We live in a great big country and whatever corner or coast we are born into seems to imbue us with a certain way of looking at the rest of the country, if not the world. Which makes sense, of course - people tend to share the views of those they live with. But what’s interesting is that we are often extremely proud of this in ways that don’t extend to other similarities that many of us share.
Most people shopping at IKEA have the same taste in furniture. A bunch of people eating in a McDonald’s probably have the same taste in food. But you won’t ever hear anybody asking about it, or hear them boasting about it. Can you imagine someone asking, “So what kind of end tables do you like? Something from a low-cost Scandinavian designer? Me too!” Or “Hey! I also enjoy Big Macs! That’s crazy. Do you ever order off the dollar menu?” Conversely, rappers, sports fanatics, and regular people often invoke their specific place of origin at the slightest provocation. It’s not at all unusual to hear a song about the Dirty South or the Bronx or to hear somebody holler “West Side!” for, well, pretty much any reason.
Where you’re from informs the way you grew up, the way you think, and the way you interact with other people. Asking somebody where they’re from is a quick and efficient way to flesh out your first impression of that person. It’s one of the first things you ask upon meeting someone (unless you care about what their job is) and it’s one of the first things they teach you to say when learning a foreign language - right after your name and whether or not you like ice cream.
Even people who aren’t particularly fond of their city, are usually quick to claim pride in their region or state. Plenty of people from the mid-West proudly refer to themselves as farm boys. People from Oregon hate people anybody who isn’t from Oregon (or “Californians” as they call them). And have you ever talked to anybody from Texas? OMG. They won’t let you forget for one second that they are from the big state where everybody carries a handgun and the streets are lined with medium-rare steaks the size of truck tires.
Speaking of which, there’s something I want you to know: I come from Oakland biotch!
That’s right, I was born and raised in The Town, the city that gave us Too $hort, Gary Payton, the Black Panthers, and the Hyphy movement. And despite Oakland’s ridiculously high murder rate, its corrupt government, and its over-priced real estate, I am still oddly proud of this fact. I’ve lived all over the world, from New York City to Italy and I’ve always made sure to emphasize the fact (to anyone who will listen) that I come from the Other City By The Bay.
(Side note: Italians love this, by the way. For such a small country, Italians have an intense sense of regional pride. It stems from the fact that the country wasn’t really united until somewhat recently. They didn’t even have an official version of the Italian language until the mid-20th century. They will argue endlessly about which accent is more truly Italian, or which region makes the best prosciutto, or who has the most beautiful women.
Here’s my verdict: the Florentine accent is the easiest to understand, Parma has the best prosciutto, and pretty much any Italian woman between the ages of 18 and 45 is trombabile.)
So it is with great pride that I would like to introduce you to Oakland’s very own Raised By Robots. They’re one of the first bands I’ve heard that bridges the gap between post-rock and post-indie rock. The guitars and stutter step drums recall early Tortoise albums, while the floating vocal harmonies have an ethereal Grizzly Bear-meets-Radiohead quality. RBR is also prone to throwing in snippets of xylophone or drum machine ear candy, just for those of us who are listening closely.
It’s kind of like a melting pot sound, which comes as no surprise to those of us from Oaktown. We’ve got all the races, religions, and crazy mixed-up ideologies here in the East Bay. It’s what makes our city simultaneously dangerous, exciting, frustrating, and warm. Kind of like our local sons, Raised By Robots. Biotch!
Anyone who has ever watched even a few minutes of stand-up comedy knows that guys are different than girls. If I have learned anything from the shallow insights of the countless cut-rate comics I have seen on TV over the years, it is this: girls like talking about their feelings, romantic dinners by candle light and shopping for shoes. Guys like sex, football, and fart jokes. There are variations on this theme of course, but that basically sums it up.
By extension, we also know that guys and girls like different kinds of movies. Hollywood producers certainly know this, and their market research has shown them that this universal truth can also be a guiding principle for film making. Males in the coveted 18-34 age bracket need to see explosions, kung-fu and boobs in their movies if they are going to throw the full weight of their demographic behind a film on opening weekend. Girls, on the other hand, need something that falls into either the romantic comedy or sappy melodrama categories to get them into theaters.
Needless to say, this presents a problem when guys and girls go to see a movie together - a pretty common occurrence, not to mention a classic American dating ritual. Sure, every once in a while you get a movie that everyone can agree on, but how many times can you go see Slumdog Millionaire? With most movies skewing toward one sex or the other, a compromise inevitably happens at the box office; either a couple sees the movie he wants (Crank 2) or the movie she wants (Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants) or a movie that nobody really wants to see (Tyler Perry’s Madea Goes to Jail).
Since this is one of the greatest problems plaguing the world today, I decided to put my worn out, over-caffeinated brain to work on a solution. The result is a simple formula that can be applied to all date movies. If enough directors decide to incorporate it into their film making we might just eliminate the need for the romantic comedy genre all together.
The format basically works like a double bill compressed into one conventional length movie. One half of the movie would be for the guys, the other half for the girls. For an example of how this would work, I’ll apply the formula to the movie Felon starring Stephen Dorf and Val Kilmer. In the movie, Stephen Dorf plays a husband and father who is wrongfully sent to prison. He gets strong-armed into covering for the Aryan Brotherhood and ends up in the most hardcore part of the prison, where he shares a cell with a serial killer (Val Kilmer) by night and fights gangbangers in the yard by day.
For those of you keeping score at home, that’s prison + gangs + lots of fighting = guy movie. In order to turn that into one of our new unisex date movies, you would do two things. First, compress all of the fighting, prison gangs and weird Val Kilmer scenes into a trimmed down 45 minute section of the movie. This part is for all the dudes in the audience. Once they get their fill of blood and tattoos, you move onto the second half of the movie which is - you guessed it - for the ladies.
In this half of the movie, we find Stephen Dorf home from prison and working to put his life back in order. He is thrilled to spend time with his son and he finally buys his wife that dress she’s always wanted. He still carries the psychological scars of his time in prison, which initially makes him cold and distant. But eventually, he and his wife work through it, slowly rebuilding their life and their love together. They come through this ordeal exhausted, but happy to find that their relationship is even stronger for the effort. And then maybe Stephen Dorf gets in one last fist fight with a rude neighbor or whatever, just so everybody has something to cheer for right at the end.
In truth, I don’t usually go in for this sort of populism, but every now and then it works. Besides the afore mentioned unisex date movie, ice cream parlors and Jane’s Addiction, a good example of the something-for-everyone approach is Canadian band Beast. The duo has only been together for about a year, but they’ve locked in on a sound that works like a musical survey of the last 20 years. With touches of trip hop, hip hop, punk-funk and guitar rock, Beast plays what singer Betty Bonifassi calls “trip rock.” Bonifassi sing-raps her lyrical indictments of satan and other evil spirits over a booming drumscape that swells with gospel choirs and vicious synthesizers.
The end result may not represent a finely honed singular vision, but you can play it any party, club or biker BBQ and not piss anyone off. It stands to reason that both guys and girls will like the band as well. Pending any new advances in the date movie industry, you might just be better off taking your date to a Beast concert instead.
No, we were not captured by pirates. Hard to say what really happened, but something was not working in one of the dark corners of the internet which, in turn, caused all Tough Customer websites to go dead. For now we’re going to say that it probably had something to do with gremlins.
Anyhoo, we’re up and running again, so be on the look out for more of the strange and obtuse music writing that you know and love us for. We’ll have some new stuff posted for you shortly.
When I was studying Greek and Roman history in college I was frequently bothered by a nagging sensation that I had missed out on human civilization’s most outrageous party era. What could be better than the wine-soaked bacchanalia of ancient Rome or the ritual ecstasy of a Dionysian prayer meeting? Back then, people spent all their free time in a giant naked pile of sex, retsina, and roasted meat. The vomitoriums were always packed and you couldn’t walk 20 feet without stumbling onto an orgy. At least that’s how I understand it.
Then again, rumor has it that the Roaring ’20s were also pretty good, party-wise. America as fat with post-war optimism and a healthy economy. Jazz was booming out of every nightclub and people couldn’t stop doing the Charleston. Add to that short flapper skirts and a ready supply of opium, and you’ve got a decade-long party that begins to rival anything the ancient Greeks might have put together. However, even though it happened in the 20th century, I still missed that party by a good 80 years. The Roaring ’20s might as well have been the Roaring ’20s B.C. as far as I’m concerned.
This knowledge kept me depressed for a little while until I started listening to music and watching movies from the late ’70s and early ’80s. Holy shit! If the movies 54 and Boogie Nights are any indication, those halcyon days were filled with strong drugs and tight pants. The whole thing was set to a funky beat and all it took was some chest hair and a casual understanding of astrology to get even the homeliest guys laid. Sadly, I was born at the end of the ’70s, which makes me a product of the wanton disco era and therefore way too young to have enjoyed any of its perks.
Sigh. Yet another era of decadent, unbridled partying that cruel fate has willed me to miss.
My thinking about my own youthful epoch has gone on like this until recently when I came to a sudden realization. It’s not as though I”m living in an historically conservative or boring time. It would be one thing if I was trying to get buck wild in the Victorian Era or declare my unbridled individualism in the middle of the 1950s. But really, there’s nothing stopping me from busting loose right now - or jumping on MySpace to find 20 or 30 loose women to do it with me. We are in the middle of Spring Break after all; I could leave for Daytona Beach tomorrow morning and be doing body shots with a group of co-eds before sundown.
The fact of the matter is that’s just not my bag. The thought of partying all day on a Florida beach with a bunch of topless frat boys sounds awful. Add in the bad seafood and the inevitable Limp Bizkit CD stuck on repeat and you’re actually pretty close to describing my own personal hell. Don’t get me wrong - I’m all for nudity, loud music and wanton inebriation, but I have to do it on my terms. I would much rather drink my way through a rooftop party or bonfire on a warm beach somewhere. I would be happy to have people taking off their clothes and canoodling in the dark corners, just as long as I get to pick the music.
Assuming that’s the case, one of the things I would probably put on to set the mood is Brooklyn’s Sean Bones. Sean Bones is actually Sean Sullivan, the guitar player for Sam Champion, another fave here at TC//Wire. Under the Sean Bones moniker, Sullivan has created a laid back EP of Specials-esque ska funk. The tunes vibrate with a tropical lo-fi rhythm that works perfectly as the soundtrack to the first beer at the end of a summer day. Chances are you’ll find yourself drunk on the sound before you get drunk from the booze.
A drunken bacchanal it is not, but still a damn fine way to spend an afternoon. Perhaps future generations will look back on these casual springtime romps and envy our leisurely enjoyment of drink and sound. Who knows? Only history can judge us now.
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