The rain hits against the windshield and the world is cast in an orange industrial glow. Could this seemingly mundane setting unleash a metal monster?
Fittingly i was listening to the Nassau Community College radio's metal show when the news struck: Frank Franzetta had died. Now i know Lena Horne died not a day before, but to anyone who's ever been a slightly to more than slightly dorky adolescent male Franzetta basically painted precisely what your eternally thirteen-year old hear held dearest. Namely barbarians and scantily clad women.
There was something almost elegiac to hearing a grown man sing in his best falsetto about smashing a crystal ball in the light of this man's death. So let's all pop in some Burzum, gnash our our collective teeth and mourn in that way that only a nerd can.
Now, I had a discussion with a friend who tended to disagree. That was chocked up mostly to the fact she was a female and perhaps breasts, dragons and swords did not hold such a high place in her malformed childhood. She had the ill-informed audacity to think that Lena Horne was more pertinent. But i ask you this dear reader: did Lena Horne produce photo-realistic paintings of Conan? I feel as though I can rest my case there.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Really?
In an unprecedented move I present a blog on my day off, written from the dubious comfort of my apartment. I know, all the novelty is gone with that curtain pulled aside.
I'm a nerd. I make no secret of this. I have d-20's tattooed on my arms for chrissakes. As part and parcel of this I do nerdy things. This includes following sci-fi and videogame blogs. As you all recoil in horror over that admission I'll make another: I don't know what the hell is going on with this interest in the Tron remake.
I grew up with videogames. I grew up with Star Wars and things like that, and I'll admit I have a dim memory of Tron. But what could I really tell you about it? Uh... some guys in glowy costumes playing snake? Yeah that pretty much sums up my vast store of knowledge on it. That pretty much covers the depth of knowledge that anyone needs to devote to Tron, and yet we see coverage on the remake. http://io9.com/search/tron/
Yes I know to certain people who've spent more than fifteen years in their mom's basement have devoted their life to nerd esoterica, but this one just seems unhealthy:
http://dailycostume.com/images/troncosplay.jpg
Yes, this is an easy internet punching bag. More so, this is what I can only imagine to be the ideal core sample of people actually interested in the remake of laughable 70's sci-fi. Yet there's hype. And for there to be hype there has to be an audience waiting with some degree of anticipation. This man doesn't necessarily make me ashamed to be a nerd so much as he makes me apprehensive that anyone I talk to about anything dorky is in fact hiding such a suit in their closet awaiting the day they can emerge as a glorious spandex and neon butterfly.
I'm a nerd. I make no secret of this. I have d-20's tattooed on my arms for chrissakes. As part and parcel of this I do nerdy things. This includes following sci-fi and videogame blogs. As you all recoil in horror over that admission I'll make another: I don't know what the hell is going on with this interest in the Tron remake.
I grew up with videogames. I grew up with Star Wars and things like that, and I'll admit I have a dim memory of Tron. But what could I really tell you about it? Uh... some guys in glowy costumes playing snake? Yeah that pretty much sums up my vast store of knowledge on it. That pretty much covers the depth of knowledge that anyone needs to devote to Tron, and yet we see coverage on the remake. http://io9.com/search/tron/
Yes I know to certain people who've spent more than fifteen years in their mom's basement have devoted their life to nerd esoterica, but this one just seems unhealthy:
http://dailycostume.com/images/troncosplay.jpg
Yes, this is an easy internet punching bag. More so, this is what I can only imagine to be the ideal core sample of people actually interested in the remake of laughable 70's sci-fi. Yet there's hype. And for there to be hype there has to be an audience waiting with some degree of anticipation. This man doesn't necessarily make me ashamed to be a nerd so much as he makes me apprehensive that anyone I talk to about anything dorky is in fact hiding such a suit in their closet awaiting the day they can emerge as a glorious spandex and neon butterfly.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
An Object Lesson
It's been a long night and I've not really moved. The creeping paralysis of cabbie necrosis is starting to spread. I need to get my head out of the building exhaust-fuel cloud, so here it is.
Tonight's blog will serve as an object lesson. Wednesday night I happened to stumble across the town in the pursuit inebriation. And now you might think that alcohol was the central focus of my night, and you'd be right, but what I found instead was indignation.
I found myself in a bar called Zebulon. The name alone was reason enough to stop in. How often do you get a chance to get trashed at the last minute bullshittery of a hack sci-fi writer? This is not about the bar, but instead about the band inside the bar. What I saw was not for the faint of heart. No sir, what I saw was pure, unadulterated suffering made music and loosed upon the stage like the scat of some disaffected beast. All it took was two keyboards and a guitar, some mousse too.
Now this wasn't the resurrection of new wave. This was unidentifiable. I'm sure there were genre conventions in play that could have aided me in my musical nomenclature; but I didn't care. This band in the span of one song managed to alienate the one audience member who counted: me. This is not to say that I'm of any particular import, no. In this case I'm just the common man off the street, perhaps a little better versed than some, but nothing special.
Now I wasn't alone in being nonplussed by the music, most of the bar seemed more engrossed in their own conversations, and the band seemed fine with it. Did I mention that this song seemed to their encore? They ended their set and simply walked off to talk to some friends as though they just arrived. A few words overheard were spoken about the set, complimentary in only the way that a friend awkwardly pressured to give a glowing review of a terrible demo can give. But this here is the central issue. The band didn't set out to out play the ambiance of the room, they set out to be background. They were in essence elevator music.
Live performance is about the interplay between the band and the audience. Even a half-way bad show can be saved if the audience simply responds. Why go out, why play if the band has no intention of present? This band was there, they played their instruments what what I can only assume to be a certain proficiency and they left no impression.
Tonight's blog will serve as an object lesson. Wednesday night I happened to stumble across the town in the pursuit inebriation. And now you might think that alcohol was the central focus of my night, and you'd be right, but what I found instead was indignation.
I found myself in a bar called Zebulon. The name alone was reason enough to stop in. How often do you get a chance to get trashed at the last minute bullshittery of a hack sci-fi writer? This is not about the bar, but instead about the band inside the bar. What I saw was not for the faint of heart. No sir, what I saw was pure, unadulterated suffering made music and loosed upon the stage like the scat of some disaffected beast. All it took was two keyboards and a guitar, some mousse too.
Now this wasn't the resurrection of new wave. This was unidentifiable. I'm sure there were genre conventions in play that could have aided me in my musical nomenclature; but I didn't care. This band in the span of one song managed to alienate the one audience member who counted: me. This is not to say that I'm of any particular import, no. In this case I'm just the common man off the street, perhaps a little better versed than some, but nothing special.
Now I wasn't alone in being nonplussed by the music, most of the bar seemed more engrossed in their own conversations, and the band seemed fine with it. Did I mention that this song seemed to their encore? They ended their set and simply walked off to talk to some friends as though they just arrived. A few words overheard were spoken about the set, complimentary in only the way that a friend awkwardly pressured to give a glowing review of a terrible demo can give. But this here is the central issue. The band didn't set out to out play the ambiance of the room, they set out to be background. They were in essence elevator music.
Live performance is about the interplay between the band and the audience. Even a half-way bad show can be saved if the audience simply responds. Why go out, why play if the band has no intention of present? This band was there, they played their instruments what what I can only assume to be a certain proficiency and they left no impression.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Belated musical follow-up.
Believe it or not trying to type in a cab is less than comfortable, and while that may not have been the chief reason I'm not updating it does contribute. When last we left our hero I was going to give a review of the shows I was going to that weekend.
Now you see that weekend came and went and I marked it with relative silence on the blog side, so here's my move to remedy that.
First up: Ted Leo and the Pharmacists at Irving Plaza.
Now I've been a fan for years, albeit a fan who owns maybe two albums and has never bothered to actually go out and catch one of this shows. Still his reputation as a performer was not lost on me. The show its self seemed to have everything I was looking for, but the room leeched the impact of the experience away. Maybe it was my sobriety, maybe the venue size, maybe an off night but I just wasn't floored by the experience. It was entertaining, but I lost out on some of the live-show exhiliration . Going to shows for me has always been about the experience rather than the music it's self.
First time I saw the Goddamn Gallows I was let's say fed whiskey until I had trouble standing. And though my memories of the show were little more than sensory impressions, the experience, though half remembered was remarkable. There was this bit about not remembering Avery blowing a fireball over the crowd until it came back to me as a flashback of orange and heat, but that's more my addled brain.
Though as a side note on my Ted Leo experience I may have made the call too early. I have spent two weeks listening to an ungodly amount of his music. It's coiled around around certain areas of my brain and cocooned it's self in there, and I think I'm fine with that.
Now you see that weekend came and went and I marked it with relative silence on the blog side, so here's my move to remedy that.
First up: Ted Leo and the Pharmacists at Irving Plaza.
Now I've been a fan for years, albeit a fan who owns maybe two albums and has never bothered to actually go out and catch one of this shows. Still his reputation as a performer was not lost on me. The show its self seemed to have everything I was looking for, but the room leeched the impact of the experience away. Maybe it was my sobriety, maybe the venue size, maybe an off night but I just wasn't floored by the experience. It was entertaining, but I lost out on some of the live-show exhiliration . Going to shows for me has always been about the experience rather than the music it's self.
First time I saw the Goddamn Gallows I was let's say fed whiskey until I had trouble standing. And though my memories of the show were little more than sensory impressions, the experience, though half remembered was remarkable. There was this bit about not remembering Avery blowing a fireball over the crowd until it came back to me as a flashback of orange and heat, but that's more my addled brain.
Though as a side note on my Ted Leo experience I may have made the call too early. I have spent two weeks listening to an ungodly amount of his music. It's coiled around around certain areas of my brain and cocooned it's self in there, and I think I'm fine with that.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Introductions
A dark parking lot somewhere in New York.
Here lurks the diseased brain born of a post-American dream world. Nah, this isn't meant to be as dramatic as that first bit set up for. Instead I bring you drippings from the seething brain-pan of a mind damaged by comic books, alcohol and punk rock. This panacea mixed with the tonic of sleep deprived paranoia coming to you from the cramped interior of a cab.
Witness: the vile insights of a man raised by slasher flicks .
Marvel: at the bombast thrown around by this shabby figure as he reports live from a secret location, or ventures out of his mobile lair.
Cower: at the unmitigated horror of of an English degree let loose upon an unsuspecting world.
Shriek: well, no you probably won't have anything to shriek about really. After all I'm really doing this to entertain myself.
As you might have noticed with that whole "post-American dream" bit I have my head part way up my ass, and I won't deny that. It may be a wee bit much. Yeah, it may be a little hyperbolic to declaim the end of the American Dream, but given my experience I'm inclined to. We now live in a place where hard work and perseverance only seem to be enough to get you to the next day. I'm not arguing for a new economic model just yet, just acknowledging my place in a group of people for which this present one doesn't seem to be working.
Hopefully I'll actually come back to this, maybe even write a few things worth reading in here.
Coming up: Weekend concerts, play by play on whatever fares strike me as interesting, comic books, beer, and likely some whining.
Here lurks the diseased brain born of a post-American dream world. Nah, this isn't meant to be as dramatic as that first bit set up for. Instead I bring you drippings from the seething brain-pan of a mind damaged by comic books, alcohol and punk rock. This panacea mixed with the tonic of sleep deprived paranoia coming to you from the cramped interior of a cab.
Witness: the vile insights of a man raised by slasher flicks .
Marvel: at the bombast thrown around by this shabby figure as he reports live from a secret location, or ventures out of his mobile lair.
Cower: at the unmitigated horror of of an English degree let loose upon an unsuspecting world.
Shriek: well, no you probably won't have anything to shriek about really. After all I'm really doing this to entertain myself.
As you might have noticed with that whole "post-American dream" bit I have my head part way up my ass, and I won't deny that. It may be a wee bit much. Yeah, it may be a little hyperbolic to declaim the end of the American Dream, but given my experience I'm inclined to. We now live in a place where hard work and perseverance only seem to be enough to get you to the next day. I'm not arguing for a new economic model just yet, just acknowledging my place in a group of people for which this present one doesn't seem to be working.
Hopefully I'll actually come back to this, maybe even write a few things worth reading in here.
Coming up: Weekend concerts, play by play on whatever fares strike me as interesting, comic books, beer, and likely some whining.
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