Still can’t get over watching Echo and The Bunnymen at Mercury Lounge. Nights like this just don’t happen.
Brian, Lille, and I are feeling a bit on the emo side as of late, perhaps because, sadly, as much as this season has sparkled with euphoric, for-the-record-book moments, the summer of death has billowed above the entire time. So rather than wait to feel even more depressed on Valentine’s Day, we’re going retrograde with these next series of posts with a list of our favorite love songs.
Four nostalgic love tunes, three from the past and one current track. I suppose in doing this top love songs post, we’ll find some comfort in the ongoing search for treasure at the end of the rainbow. It is there. Bear with the mush, it’s comfy.
Let’s get started.
Instead of mulling over quasi-horrific “love” tunes like “I Wanna Sex You Up,” “Is This Love,” or “Glory of Love,” that seriously engulfed my childhood-tween years, I’d rather fast-forward to the moment in which love really entered my consciousness.
Although the Cure’s “Pictures of You” wasn’t timely during the ‘97 school year at San Francisco State, it made a significant impact on my freshman, undefiled heart with a particular comic book artist who loved the Cure. Our relationship which was construed as obsessed and drama-laced, was actually the most raw, I think, I have ever been, you know, a solid “Dawson’s Creek” sort of thing. And I was in it. He played this song for me one morning. Instantly I knew the song summed up our entire time together, and foreshadowed his departure at the end of the year.
During the next phase of my adult life (er, like a year or two later), my heart melted at any sound that was brought forth by a Latino musician from Los Angeles, who willingly opened my musical realm to bands from South America, specifically Argentina. Los Enanitos Verdes and Soda Stereo have some of the most lyrically passionate songs. One in particular track, “Luz De Dia,” is completely enchanting and sensual. It’s mainly about giving in to a lover and forgetting about everyone else. I wish I could translate it all now, but the leg-work will do you good. I honestly thought this tune would be our wedding song. Funny now, but still an amazing song.
There’s no possible way I could do a love song post without mentioning Pearl Jam. They consoled every crush that I endured through my junior and high school years, whether it was with “Black,” “Yellow Ledbetter,” “Release,” or “Breathe.” Regardless if these earlier tracks from their catalog were about love or not, they comforted me and that’s all I really needed.
“Come Back” off their self-titled album released in 2006 was especially poignant. It was the year that I said goodbye (sort of) to a writer who encompassed every particular trait I could ever imagine in a man. We had so many things in common (we even shared a love for Pearl Jam) and at times I saw him as a mentor, which in many ways twisted my vision of who he really was. Nevertheless it was probably the only time I had ever really loved selflessly. I remember listening to that song as I drove away from our job site (yes, we worked together), sobbing endlessly probably because I was leaving my old self, and him, never to return.
As for the current track that makes me feel all gooey about a particularly hard man that I fancy is from Ray LaMontagne’s debut album, Trouble. “Shelter” makes me want to soften him up. Goodnight.
What: Woodstock Photo Exhibition: Commemorating the 40th Anniversary of Woodstock
When: August 13 through November
Where: Morrison Hotel Gallery, 313 Bowery, New York
Why: Because I wasn’t at Woodstock and they had free beer
We’re not sure if you noticed, but Woodstock is back (and not in the ‘99 revival sort of way). You didn’t hear about the Heroes of Woodstock concert at Madison Square Garden that went down last week, or Ang Lee’s new film, Taking Woodstock, that is scheduled to be released this year?
These happenings aren’t a coincidence but all in commemoration of the iconic musical concert, hippie-fest, will-never-be-replicated, 40th anniversary of Woodstock.
The Morrison Hotel Gallery is playing host to an exhibition featuring the photographs by Woodstock photographer Henry Diltz, among others. I encountered more than a few original hippies, along with Woodstock organizer Michael Lang while I drank something called Black Acid Beer. I didn’t ask questions, I just drank it.
(Witness magic below, at least through YouTube)
My ideals about men and love practically reside solely on the collaborations between John Hughes and Molly Ringwald.
I was conditioned by the age of six to know that unrequited love was a way of life. And throughout all of my adolescence it seemed the only way I was content when a boy liked me, is only after some big build up, because a kiss without a dramatic back-story is simply just a kiss.
Here are my favorite Molly Ringwald/Mary Stuart Masterson built-up moments courtesy of Mr. Hughes.
Sixteen Candles: (This Spanish dubbed version makes it even better)
Some Kind of Wonderful: Tears + walking in the street at night +kiss + Lick the Tins cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” = Perfect
Pretty In Pink: Poor, new wave girl confronts her rich, preppy (but down to earth) boyfriend in the hallway. This qualifies as the epitome of high school drama.
What: The Horror Show
When: Opens August 7 through September 2nd
Where: Dorsky Gallery, 11-03 45th Avenue, Long Island City, 718-937-6317
Why: Because I like scary things.
So in this lengthy interview with married curators of the Horrow Show, Deb and Dave Tolchinsky, whom also work as professors at Northwestern University’s Department of Radio-TV-Film, conversed about the crazy shit that frightens us, and why. It got me thinking about the one thing that will haunt me for the rest of my life. View at your own discretion.
Riding home on the G-Train tonight from Stories in High Fidelity, a reading series at Union Hall in Brooklyn, I was completely enthralled by the book I purchased there.
Dean Wareham read from his novel Black Postcards––as did other music aficionados /writers Dan Kennedy (McSweeney’s contributor, Rock On: An Office Power Ballad and Loser Goes First) and the extraordinarily charming Rob Harvilla (Village Voice music editor)––I was quite taken by the excerpt he read, in which he did so in a softly manner. Something about playing a gig in Spain and being awestruck by a dark-haired, big-breasted, olive-skinned beauty in the front row, who he ended up having an amazing night with, and then sort of felt guilty thinking about his son back home.
Sure he idealized the entire evening affair, but he did so quite brilliantly. So much in fact that I wondered why I had never heard of his bands–– Galaxie 500, Luna, and Dean & Britta.
Presumably since some of these former outfits bloomed in the early 90s, while I was just barely crawling out of my New Kids On The Block phase. I mostly blame my older siblings for not getting me into Luna, as their sole responsibility was to expose my eager ears to new music as they did with the Ocean Blue and the Sundays.
I suppose since Rolling Stone even penned Luna as “the best band you’ve never heard of”, I don’t feel entirely bad. I will just slowly get my feet wet with Wareham’s words and music through this read. So far, so good.
Earlier this week I stood about two feet from a real-life genius and I almost passed out. OK, well not really, but seeing the incredible Tim Burton walk into the screening room at the Museum of Modern Art felt like Christmas morning.
Burton, who is tons more handsome in person and quite healthy-looking, was there to discuss his retrospective exhibition at the MoMa opening in November. The show will have an extensive look at Burton’s sketches, photographs, puppets, movie clips, etc, including one that we screened titled Hansel and Gretel that aired only once on the Disney Chanel due to its graphic nature, and another black and white film starring Burton himself in Doctor Doom.
The press briefing began with a clip of Mars Attack. As soon as I heard the score (Burton’s films are always done by the masterful lead singer of Oingo Boingo, Danny Elfman), I remembered when I first fell in love with the work of Mr. Burton. Press play below. P.S. I was too shy to ask him a Johnny Depp-related question 
As a little intro, we thought it’d be cool for the three of us to talk about what song we feel best fits our little towns. Read Brian’s here and Lille’s here.
In the coldest of days, here in New York, walking through slush, trying not to slip and fall, I can easily transport my brainwaves to a warm and sunny place: specifically, Los Angeles.
By scrolling the tunes on my iPod to The Cure, or Morrissey or Depeche Mode, I’m instantly back, driving down the 101 in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and listening to KROQ, because in 1996 that’s all you had, and that was quite great, actually.
I haven’t been in New York long enough for me to acquire a taste of a particular scene like I did with New Wave in L.A. All I have to get me in a New York state of mind is a handful of songs by bands that were “in” when I moved here a couple of years ago on my iTunes rotation like Peter Bjorn and John, Kings of Leon, and MGMT.
There is one song, however, that made me feeling like a New Yorker long before I arrived here on a one-way ticket and suitcase in hand. Frank Sinatra’s timeless song “New York, New York” had me, at the age of 13, daydreaming of walking the streets of Manhattan with a million aspirations inside of me, and a smile on my face. This song gets me every time.
As it was, at four years old I was in a complete body cast, left leg held up by metal rods, the whole shebang. The only actual pain or suffering I can recall is the frustrating urge of not being able scratch every itch.
My family and hospital staff went above and beyond trying to please me. Getting me whatever meal I wanted, keeping me company, making me laugh (I often blame them now for my selfishness and spoiled behavior).
There was only one thing that really brought me back to life, they say. And so the story goes: As soon as anyone played “Billie Jean,” I’d try to shake around in the bed, but I couldn’t move! So I’d just wiggle my toes!
My family became fascinated by how this one song constantly put a smile on my face and made me utterly happy. They’d play it over and over again so visitors could see me in good spirits. My father even joked that perhaps during my blood transfusion, the doctors must have given me some of Michael’s DNA. Being completely gullible and always believing whatever my father said, I thought this notion was true. For years afterward, if anyone made racist jokes about African Americans, I would remind them that I was partially black.
Time passed, yet anytime I’d hear negative news about Michael Jackson I’d brush it off as hearsay. Instead, I’d recall the time when he made me want to move again.
Let’s get one thing straight. I’m a city girl: always have been, always will be. I like electricity and I like to shower. However, I’m very spontaneous. So when the idea of going to Bonnaroo came about less than a week before the event, there was little to think about. All I really needed was gas money, bug spray, shades, sunscreen, toiletries, and a man that would take care of the rest.
Case in point: Justin Reynolds, a former boy-scout, camping expert and driver was the key to my happiness. Yes, we drove (well, he did). The only way to get through a 15-hour trip (each way) from New York to Manchester, Tennessee was something called 5-hour energy drinks, playing six degrees of Kevin Bacon, and making up lyrics to whatever was on the radio.
Dude didnt want to leave his seats during Phish. The result? Pee in a bag.
Although the enthusiasm sank mid-way through the trip, we perked up when we arrived at Manchester and drove the opposite direction from the scores of people in stalled traffic waiting to enter the festival grounds. Certain guests (i.e., guests with press passes–Lille) had access to a different route; that’s just how I roll. But I was aghast at the never-ending miles of cars and even more startled at them.
By them, I mean those people that I really thought was just a myth. How could hippies still exist? I’m quite aware of the folks who are passionate about Burning Man and Phish, but how could hippies shell out $300 for a music festival? That, I’ll never know. But they were there, thousands of them, in pajama-like clothing, some with no shoes, some with hardly any clothes at all.
Horseman at Bon Iver
Coachella did spoil me. That was its own wonderland of celebrities, trendy clothes, grass and palm trees galore, lavish hotel suites, goody bags and on and on. Bonnaroo was a different kind of oasis. Tucked away on rural grounds with slight patches of grass, surrounded by mud, was this spacious festival. It was to be our home for the next four days. Here’s the gist straight and simple:
The bad news: I was bit by a tick (I had forgotten to apply the bug spray) and was freaked out for approximately 24 hours; it rained a ton; I thought we were going to drown in our tents on the first night; I wore rain boots 90 percent of the time; I was quite perplexed by the hippies that at times varied between my own breed of Williamsburg hipsters and the token drunken homeless person; mud everywhere; I missed Phoenix (too embarrassed to say why); the Beastie Boys, sadly, sucked; morning shower lines; the only people worth hooking up with were either on stage or too close for comfort; Gomez is good for only drunk types, got sunburned, almost lost the car keys at 2 a.m., missed Springsteen doing “Glory Days”; the reggae loving couple/neighbors who looked more like father and daughter; wished desperately that the “Which Tent” wasn’t so close to our camp especially when Jimmy Buffet was singing “Brown Eyed-Girl,” Kristen Schaal blocked my Wilco view for a mere second until I regulated her ass; Phish; Trent Reznor said it was the last U.S. NIN show ever.
Jimmy Fallon kissed Al Gore and he liked it.
The good news: Bonnaroo was great!; the hippies were freakishly too nice; I didn’t hear one Phish song (or covered my ears when I almost did); Jeff Tweedy made me believe in music again; Chairlift has the chops to back up their shit; I was hit by Jimmy Fallon’s charm; Passion Pit front-man is not a douche; Justin hooked up our camp/home in every way possible (he cooked everyday!); learned a ton about Pete Seeger; Grizzly Bear saved me; Bon Iver melted my heart; fell asleep to the sounds of thunderstorms and Delta Spirit; TV On the Radio didn’t suck; my tick bite wasn’t the end of me; can finally say that I’ve seen the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at every music festival in the United States; found the car keys at 3 a.m., loved that the “Which Tent” was so close to our camp especially during David Byrne; watched David Byrne perform with the Dirty Projectors; The Dirty Projectors; St. Vincent rocked; woke up to MGMT; heard a real-life Kennedy speech; was offered weed by grandparents; heard Springsteen do “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town”; saw NIN once last time; arriving back in New York City.