For the first time in the history of mankind, more people now live in cities than in rural areas. For an urban planning nerd like myself, this is fascinating for so many reasons. A metropolitan city is like a giant organism itself, constantly growing and changing and adapting to its environment. Of course, the difference between a city and most other organisms, is that it is also an environment that is changed by the organisms living in it. It’s like a giant coral reef made of concrete and steel.
Often times these changes happen very quickly, as the evolutionary wheel of fortune throws a ton of shit at the wall to see what sticks. One of the most obvious ways in which these changes manifests themselves is with new businesses. In big cities like New York and San Francisco, the store fronts can some times change four or five times a year. During the two years I lived on E.5th Street in Manhattan, I watched the tiny retail space across the street from my apartment go from a Tibetan gift shop, to a trendy boutique for womens clothing, to a massage parlor, to a wine shop, to an upscale sneaker store to, eventually, a vacant 120 sq. foot room.
I often wonder what kind of thought goes into these businesses. Most big box retailers and corporate franchises do all kinds of demographic market research before setting up shop in a new location. Home Depot won’t break ground on a new warehouse until they’ve first determined that there are at least five or six mom-and-pop hardware stores that they can put out of business by doing so. I would think that anybody opening any kind of business anywhere would at least put some effort into doing the same.
For example, if you wanted to open, say, a new pizza place, you would first look at the neighboring businesses and residents. If the store front you’re looking at is wedged in between another pizza place and the Center For The Study of Bread and Cheese Allergies, common sense tells you that this is not the best place for your business. But if you find a vacant building next to a college dorm or a shitty dive bar, and nobody else is selling pizza within a 20 mile radius - bingo! You’ve found your niche.
And yet, New York is littered with combination cellphone/headshop/ethnic food stores. And most of them are within half a block of other combination cellphone/headshop/ethnic food stores. From what I can tell, they open up in the middle of the night, sell absolutely nothing to no one for two months, and then have a going out of business sale before closing permanently. Who’s idea was that? Who thought to themselves, “I’m going to spend my life savings opening up a store selling cheap junk that nobody wants in a neighborhood with three other stores doing the exact same thing?” Do people just get drunk and start signing leases?
This also happens a lot with bars and restaurants. Bars and restaurants are highly specialized businesses. They have to have the right combination of location and ambiance to even get people in the door. And to keep those people coming back, you have to have some pretty good food and/or drinks. You can’t just put up some blinking lights, turn on the radio and charge $7 for a Bud Light and expect to stay in business for more than a week. Again, this is just common sense. Anybody who has ever left the house and thought for two seconds about where they want to spend their hard-earned discretionary income could tell you this same thing.
And yet. Every day in New York somebody opens up a new, totally shitty, doomed-to-fail business. One of my favorites was a bar - excuse me, lounge - that used to be on Bowery at 3rd. The place was totally covered in mirrors and televisions. And not televisions playing, like weird nature videos or post-modern art projects or anything. Just TVs turned on to random channels, and then reflected into about a million different mirrors. Just walking by the place made me feel like I had crawled into the schizophrenic brain of my remote control.
Needless to say, nobody ever went in there. They would advertise drink specials (”Shot of Absolut Peach + bottle of Smirnoff Ice just $12!!”) and hire really horrible DJs, and every once in a while some unsuspecting girl from Long Island would have her bachelorette party there, but the place was mostly sad and empty. They were still in business when I moved out of the neighborhood, but I wasn’t holding my breath that they would be there when I came back to visit.
They were not. I don’t know what transpired in the interceding two years, but it is now Bowery Electric, which is where I found myself on the second (third?) night of CMJ. I was in a hurry, so I didn’t really check out the new decor. I can tell you that they have a pretty good venue in the basement, with two levels and a bar tucked into the back. I got there just as Brooklyn band Black Taxi was launching into their set. This is a band I’ve been hearing about for a while, but had never gotten the chance to see. I know it seems like a strange choice of adjective, but their performance left me refreshed.
At a time when everybody is playing some mutated combination of indie rock and electronica, Black Taxi are playing regular rock n roll. At a time when other bands are staring at their shoes and mumbling self-effacing gibberish in between songs, Black Taxi are sharing instruments, flailing about the stage and literally climbing the walls. At a time when everybody else is trying so hard, Black Taxi are simply getting it done.
The music on their new album Things Of That Nature is at once crisp and familiar, new and instantly likeable. This isn’t music that grows on you - it fits perfectly the first time you hear it. Listen to the lead single “Head On A Pike.” From the opening guitar riff you’re instantly won over. It’s a sound that has been missing from the sonic landscape recently, and one that I imagine will be quite popular with anybody who likes music.
In other words, they seem to be filling a need - not just adding to the whine of their already noisy neighborhood (no offense to Brooklyn, of course). I recommend you check out their new album. You can find it online, in select record shops and combination cellphone/headshop/ethnic food stores across the city.
The brand new album from the NYC electro-pop phenoms comes out today on Tough Customer Records. The record is awash in gorgeous synthesizer riffs, dance floor ready drum beats and the band’s trademark cinematic production. The lyrics pay homage to young lust and city life. At times it is catchy pop music. At others it is brooding electro-rock. There are moments of psychedelic beauty and glimpses of haunting dreams.
This album is at once familiar and new. Where other records simply shout in your direction, this album speaks directly to you. This is the sound of a cool autumn wind blowing through the over-heated streets of Brooklyn at the tail end of the first decade of the new millennium. This is something you’ve been waiting to hear.
Check out the first two singles below. RWBW is on tour now. Catch them when they come through your town to drink all your liquor and steal your women.
Let’s talk about the weather. The weather is one of those things that holds universal fascination for almost everyone above the age of ten. Put two strangers in a room and even if they have absolutely nothing else in common, they will be able to discuss the weather for at least a couple of minutes - more if the weather has been especially hot, cold, wet, windy or dry. For whatever reason, the weather is endlessly interesting to everybody (especially old people).
Personally, I can’t even leave the house in the morning without first checking the weather. I go online and get the current temperature, the projected temperature throughout the day and any other accompanying forecasts for rain or sun. When I lived in New York, I would watch NY1 every day, faithfully waiting for their surprisingly accurate “weather on the 1s” report. I used to cross my fingers and hope for snow, lightening or any other extreme condition. I relished the snow in the winter time and the apocalyptic thunder storms that would assault the city throughout the hot, sticky East Coast summers.
The thrill I got from this kind of weather no doubt came from the fact that I grew up in a part of California where the temperature rarely moves outside the comfortable range of 50 to 75 degrees. The most exciting things we have weather-wise are heavy morning fog and the occasional high wind. Which is why I feel it is worth noting that the weather around here has been kind of strange lately. The fog hasn’t really gone away for weeks, and the temperature has been simultaneously cold and muggy.
As a result of this strange weather, it’s been hard to get into the spirit of summer. I don’t really feel like jumping out of bed, putting on my short shorts and racing to the beach. Instead, I want to put an extra shot of whiskey in my coffee and stay home with my books and records.
It was in this state of mind that I first came across the Primary Colors EP from brand new Brooklyn band Cavalier Rose. These kids only just got together this year, but they have a sound that is bluesy and roughed up like an old work horse. The group’s showpiece is undoubtedly singer Heather Christian, a southern belle whose voice sways violently from girlish charm to woman scorned. The guitars match her outbursts with shivers of distortion while a ghostly piano floats underneath her whispered siren calls. The overall sound is heavy and dark, with just a touch of frustration and insouciance.
When I moved from New York City back to San Francisco, I was determined to try and make Bay Area public transportation work as well as the subway does in Manhattan. I had a car, but I left it parked out in front of my apartment. Instead of driving, I walked to the BART station and took the train to work. Both my apartment and the TC offices were really close to BART stations, so it was actually pretty easy.
Yes, I know that BART trains only come every 14 minutes or so and the fares are prohibitively expensive. And the routes and schedules are more geared toward suburban commuters than city kids trying to get from one end of town to the other. And they’re also crowded and unreliable and some times the seats smell like a hobo’s sleeping bag. Still, I wasn’t sitting in traffic every day and I could be self-righteous about helping the environment, which means the pros outweighed the cons.
I also got myself a bike so I would be able to ride to all the places BART doesn’t go (i.e. any neighborhood west of Market Street, most places in Oakland, and anywhere after midnight). Right off the bat my brother said, “So you’re one of those guys who takes his bike on BART now…” like he was describing a leper or a person who’s way too into Burning Man. But I don’t care. I like the bike. It’s faster than walking, so you can actually use it as a viable form of transportation. At the same time, on a bike you also move slow enough to take everything in: sunlight reflecting off the tall buildings, the beautiful girls in the crosswalks downtown, the weird things people watch on their in-dash DVD players - all rolling past you at just under 15 mph. It’s kind of like a surreal music video custom made just for you.
Of course, it’s up to you to provide the soundtrack. If you’re brave enough to put on some headphones and tune out all those drivers who are secretly trying to run you over, then I suggest you listen to Soulo’s third and newest album, Sun Valley. The whole album plays like one long, hazy dreamscape. Sweet melodies and vocal refrains drift in and out of the ether. Listening to it, you can’t help but picture a slow, graceful ride down the sunny side of the street. Whether or not you end up at a warm, gleaming ocean or the edge of a black abyss is a mystery. There’s enough tension buried in the static to keep you guessing.
Come to think of it, this could work on the train as well. When I’m crammed into a crowded commuter car at the end of a long day I often take refuge in my headphones. It’s nice to know that even when I am pressed up against a pile of sad and defeated looking office workers, I can still close my eyes, turn on some music and imagine that I’m somewhere else: on a beach, on the moon or even just on my bike.
* 7/14/09 @ Le Poisson Rouge - NYC (w/ Beautiful Small Machines)
* 7/18/09 @ The Note - West Chester, PA (w/ Jealousy Curve and Fooling April)
* 9/09/09 @ DC 9 - Washington, D.C.
* 9/11/09 @ The Bottleneck - Lawrence, KS
* 9/13/09 @ Monolith Festival - Morrison, CO (w/ Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Of Montreal, Passion Pit)
* 9/16/09 @ The Casbah - San Diego, CA
* 9/17/09 @ 330 Ritch St. - San Francisco, CA (POPSCENE)
* 9/21/09 @ Spaceland - Los Angeles, CA (w/ Saint Motel)
* 9/24/09 @ Kilby Court - Salt Lake City, UT
* 9/27/09 @ Larimer Lounge - Denver, CO
* 9/29/09 @ The Frequency - Madison, WI
* 10/1/09 @ Abbey Pub - Chicago, IL
* 10/2/09 @ Sneaky Dee’s - Toronto, ONT (Canada)
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 convince 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.
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.
We’re now staring into the gaping maw of the Christmas shopping season, which means the selling will soon begin in earnest. Already this week we’re seeing fruitcakes at Walgreens, egg nog at the corner store, and a nationwide increase in the consumption of spiral ham.
Speaking of holiday cheer, the Christmas season is one of the few remaining things that can still give the major labels half a boner. As such, we’re also seeing new albums from some blue chip artists being released today. You probably heard about Chinese Democracy (thanks Dr. Pepper!) and you know Kanye’s got another vanity project hitting the shelves. Oh, and in case anybody is gift shopping for their great-aunt Shirley, you’ll be happy to know that Tom Jones and Barry Manilow have new albums out this week as well.
But what should you get for the special people on your list this year? What about your little sister, who loves melancholy electro-pop? What about your jaded hipster friend who thinks he likes Fuck Buttons, but really just wants to dance? What about that cute chick with the Ratatat t-shirt at the coffee shop you’ve been meaning to talk to? What would make the holidays special for them?
The answer is simple: a copy of the new Compass EP from Brooklyn’s Red Wire Black Wire. It comes out today on Tough Customer Records. It is filled with thumping drum sounds pulled from hip hop’s back catalogue, synthesizers stolen from Brian Eno and enough guitars to please any indie rock fan. It is guaranteed to bring satisfaction to any music lover on your Christmas/Hannukah/Kwanza/Grand High Climax list.
So get your hands on a copy of Red Wire Black Wire’s Compass EP today and then go forth and spread good cheer unto the world.
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