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.

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.