So which of your favorites are your favorites?

And speaking of high school redux ...

While I was out for drinks with a couple of friends last week, I was asked to name my three favorite bands. Actually, I started it by asking them to name their favorites. I should do a better job of following that rule about not asking questions that you wouldn't want to answer yourself.

I surprised myself with my first nominee: New Order. I mean, I rarely listen to New Order anymore. (The reason is the subject of a should-have-been-written-long-ago entry.) But I also hedged by saying that it's a "historical" selection. Kinda like a lifetime achievement award.

We moved on to another bar before I had to round out my nominations. Good thing. The fretting about what bands to choose may have caused more psychic harm than the beer. But I wonder. Who should get the other two spots? That'll have to be the subject of a should-be-written-soon entry. (As will the answer to one of the questions posed by one of those friends: If you were stuck on a desert island and could have access to only five albums, which would they be?)

I love Saturday, too.

While writing that last entry, I had I Say, I Say, I Say playing in the background. Definitely my favorite Erasure album. And "I Love Saturday" is definitely my favorite Erasure song. Haven't listened to Erasure in ages. Must be something about the wee hours that puts me in a nostalgic mood. (And now, I'm listening to The Smiths. Talk about high school redux ...)

A cutie pie and a tasty pie.

I spent the day hanging out in Brooklyn today (Saturday). I was out in Park Slope visiting friends and their 11-month-old daughter. Quite the cute little ... Hmm, I was about to say "booger," but I don't think my friends would appreciate that. (It's a term of affection! That's what I call my niece and nephews. And I guess that's what I've just called my friends' daughter in a roundabout way.)

I can definitely see the appeal of Brooklyn. And I can definitely see the appeal of Park Slope for those who have kids. I got out there just in time to head over to the playground at Prospect Park. The little one began her fun in the park on the swings, but she soon grew bored with the the sitting. She'd had enough sitting in the stroller, I guess. So, it was off to the slide, where she perked up. And after some debate between mom and dad, she was shuttled to the sand box -- her inaugural trip. There, she perked up even more. Funny what little it takes to amuse kids sometimes.

We scooted back to my friends' (very spacious) apartment before heading out for ... lunner? (It was 4:15.) This was my third dining experience in Brooklyn, and, like the other two, this one was wonderful. (Ooh ... I forgot about the rather crappy meal I had as part of a summer associate function in Brooklyn Heights last year. Okay ... all my meals in Park Slope have been wonderful. Let's keep the Brooklyn Heights episode in the dark corner of the memory bank.) We had pizza at Franny's ... and, oh wow! That was a tasty clam pie! Whole clams, parsley and chilies on top of a crunchy thin crust. Simple, but flavorful. It was so good that I can't decide whether I like it better than the clam pie at Lombardi's. (And I love the clam pie at Lombardi's.)

While eating, I observed aloud how cheerful the little one was. Her mother enthusiastically advised, "You should get one!" I chuckled. First, because she said it as if I could swing by Target on my way home and pick one up. Second, well ... here's what I quipped in return: "Um ... there are some intermediate steps that need to be taken care of first."

Ah, Brooklyn. The more I go out there, the more I like it.

Taking a Stand for Tapas

A friend suggested last week that I write about the restaurants where I've eaten. I'd thought about doing that on occasion. After all, eating lies just behind music among my passions. But I resisted for various reasons, the most significant of which is that I'm not the sort who snaps pictures of food at a restaurant -- not in NYC anyway. Reading about food without being able to get a taste or whiff is frustrating enough. But without even a freakin' picture so that you can take an imagined taste or whiff?

And then I remembered the primary reasons I started this blog. I write not so much to build an audience (although I do sincerely thank all two of you who visit this site on a semi-regular basis). Rather, I write primarily to record my thoughts for my own perusal, especially in the years ahead when the passage of time will surely mount an even more debilitating attack on my memories. So ... on with my first official entry about a dining experience in NYC.

I finally made my way over to El Quinto Pino on Friday night. It's been on my list of restaurants to try since it opened a few months ago. I had more reason to have been derelict than my Chelsea-residing companion: El Quinto Pino is in Chelsea, which is not my typical haunts.

It's a sliver of a space, even by NYC standards. No tables. Just a bar and a counter that lines the perimeter. We weren't able to find seats, but it was just fine to eat standing by the counter. Everything was bite-sized, so it was kinda like having a beer and munching on pretzels.

As usual, we got carried away with the ordering (especially since I had a rather heavy lunch at Lever House, which was quite the treat as well). Always seems to happen when I eat with this friend. We started with sandwiches of the uni and braised meat variety, cracklins, garlic shrimp and fried salt cod, which were all delicious. The Times called the uni sandwich -- warm uni spread like butter inside a toasty baguette -- the "Sandwich of the Year," and I certainly won't quarrel. I'm not even a big fan of uni, but that was a damn tasty sandwich. The second of the sandwiches reminded me of a Vietnamese barbecued pork sandwich, but with a more subtle flavor and bits of meat that are more tender. And the cracklins ... oh man. Like gourmet pork rinds. As best as I could tell, they were basically chunks of deep fried pork fat. (Recoil in disgust as you read, but roll your eyes toward the heavens when you taste.)

That wasn't quite enough for my friend, so we looked for more to order, which was a bit of a challenge. We'd basically exhausted the options on the short menu except for anchovies and vegetables. But we settled on Catalan head cheese. Not bad, but not really my thing. I prefer to eat my mystery brain parts warm.

And he was still hungry. So we asked the waitress to suggest something. She brought over an off-the-menu item -- a dish of broken noodles with bits of squid. After eating it, I could understand why that dish wasn't on the menu. Extremely salty and equally forgettable.

Overall, it was a very enjoyable dining experience (except for the silly noodles). I'd definitely go back.

Good to see you again, Balmy Breeze.

Oh, wow. Could it be? Why yes, it could! It's the first night of the year on which opening the window is a sensible idea! Woohoo!

Please Stay Out of My Way

I almost got run over by a cab on my way home today. I know that the range of "almost" in this context can stretch from a couple of inches to a couple of blocks depending on the hyperbolic tendencies of its employer. In this case, I use "almost" in the sense that I left my palm print on the hood as the bumper was about to knock my legs out.

A typical reaction would've been to give a digital gesture and drop an expletive or two. But I just glared at the cabbie, who was likely more startled than I was. The first thought that ran through my mind after I regained my balance wasn't that I'd just dodged a close one but that I almost dropped my iPod. I suffered less from fright than annoyance that he'd disrupted my routine. (A trip to the hospitable would've been a real hassle.)

I can be so robotic during my commute.

Washing Away the Drone at the Bowery

Just got in from seeing The Raveonettes at Bowery Ballroom. For a show that I had thought about skipping -- as recently as today -- it was surprisingly enjoyable. Even after I decided to go, I'd expected to leave well before the encore. Figured I'd just stay long enough to add them to my "seen live" list. But they were so good that I stayed for the whole thing.

So why the hesitation? I committed to the show after seeing the video for "Dead Sound" but before their new album Lust Lust Lust came out.

It's not that Lust Lust Lust turned out to be a disappointing album. Well, actually ... it is. Quite difficult to listen to. Not because it's bad, but because there's little variation from track to track. The uninitiated would likely complain that all the songs sound the same, and they'd have a point. At times, it can seem as if The Raveonettes simply play different arrangements of the same song.

But that's not altogether a bad thing, because they definitely have a unique sound. Sort of like 60's surfer rock tossed into a heavy spin cycle of reverb and distortion followed by a slow tumble in psychedelia. But that same sound over and over again, especially when supported by metronomic rhythms, has a tendency to drone. As a live act, though, that sound washes over you and puts you in a forgiving mood. They may actually sound better on stage than in the studio.

Bushwhacked in Texas

I'm watching Frontline's definitive episode on the Iraq War -- what it call's "Bush's War." And it's infuriating. Downright infuriating. I'm not so much upset because I'm learning things I didn't already know. Rather, this has the feel of watching a video recording of someone slapping you. You lived it. You felt it. But seeing it on film pisses you off that much more.

How could reasonable people not have the same reaction? Of course, I ask that in a rhetorical manner. I'm from Texas, after all.

I've always had a difficult relationship with Texas. It's like family. You think they're crazy, and they often get on your nerves. But if anyone were ever to say something bad about them, you wouldn't hesitate to say, "Whoa, whoa, whoa." That's my crazy family.

Crazy as it is, and as much as it gets on my nerves, Texas has always been home ... until 2004. I'd never felt out of place in Texas until I went home for Thanksgiving that year. You see, GWB was re-elected president earlier that month, which was a devastating turn of events. But I was severely more dejected when I became aware that everyone in my family who was eligible to vote voted for Bush. For the first time, I felt like an outsider when I went home. Home was home no more.

Titles Are Really Hard

I just sent a message to a friend. Took much longer to come up with the subject line than the body. And that happens a lot here, too. I'd feel a burst of inspiration and fire off a quick entry, only to be stymied by that blank line for the title. I wonder if others suffer from the same neurosis? Sure, a simple "Hey" or "Titles Are Hard" would do, but that just seems such an affront to creative integrity.

Kylie? That's not my name.

It's interesting to see how long it takes for "the next big thing" to become the next big thing. I've just discovered The Ting Tings, who have apparently been cast as the "the next big" thing in the U.K. since last summer. They seem to be on the cusp of a breakthrough there, but they're probably still a ways off here in the States. My suspicion is that they won't catch on here. And I say that not because I find their talent lacking, but because I find American pop sensibilities lacking.

If all their songs were like "Great DJ" (above), then maybe they'd have a shot. The track has such a polished dance floor thump that I may have guessed it was a Kylie Minogue number (especially because of the "ah ah ah ah") had I not known any better. But most of their other songs are decidedly more lo-fi -- in a "we're young, and we're here to have fun" sort of way. Lots of exuberant yelps and vocals that seem more rapped than sung, like on "That's Not My Name."

Their album won't be out in the U.K. until May. That's going to be a trying wait.

Let's See Some ID

Someone who works for the company that manages the building in which I work asked me in the elevator today what my title is at the firm. Struck me as a rather strange question. When I told her that I'm a lawyer, her head dipped and her hand waived, as if to say, "Never mind." She explained that she had assumed I was something other than a lawyer because she's seen me going up and down the elevators a lot and I look young.

Not sure whether I should feel insulted or complimented. Probably a bit of both. Maybe it's time to dust off the suit.

The Ugly Duckling of Marks

Caught an amusing article in the Times today about -- of all things -- the semicolon. So tickled I was that I sent a message to the writer. I've got a love for words and (dopey as it may sound) punctuation marks -- except the semicolon.

Sam,

Very amusing story about the subway semicolon sighting. That ad caught my attention yesterday, although what got me thinking wasn't the semicolon. Instead, I was puzzled as to why the ad didn't encourage riders to place their papers in recycling bins; seems the more advisable thing to do.

As for the semicolon ... it's just such an ugly, asymmetrical punctuation mark. A lack of aesthetic appeal is a much bigger impediment to its use than any other attributes ascribed to it. Text should flow, and it should be pretty. Pretty and semicolon just don't go together.

BTW -- I would have posted this as a comment to the story, but comment posting seems to have been disabled for that article.

Regards,
Steven

Holy Bloody Crap!

Holy crap!

http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/article/news/47152-
my-bloody-valentine-add-reunion-gigs

So that was what I fired off to a few friends upon learning that My Bloody Valentine is reuniting for a series of shows in the U.K. next summer. And then I read that they've got a couple of albums slated for release, including one later this year. (Yeah ... this entry was started a couple of months ago and then neglected, like quite a few others. The talk of a new MBV album by the close of 2007 turned out to be nothing more than wishful thinking.)

It felt as if I'd stumbled upon a Christmas present one month early. It's been a rather crummy few days, but reading those snippets of news put a quick smile on my face.

MBV holds a very special place in the pantheon of my memories. I can remember many a somber night during college and law school when the sounds of Loveless in a darkened room nurtured me from restlessness into a peaceful slumber.

When I fired off that e-mail, I was hopeful that MBV would extend their tour to the U.S. But quickly thereafter, the inspired me shoved aside the practical me. Why sit around and hope when you can make things happen? After all, London is but a six hour flight from thought to reality. So I hopped online and bought a pair of tickets to see MBV at The Roundhouse on June 23, 2008.

It's good to have moments such as those to remind you that you're alive.

Looking Like You Sound

And speaking of stylish ... here's a tasty nugget of beautiful kookiness from a singer named Jihae.


If the song serves up a dollop of erotic tension, then the video whips that dollop into a plateful. I've read that Michel Gondry (of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind fame) is a fan, so perhaps he had something to do with the video. Then again, from the looks of her website, Jihae seems to be quite the visual artist herself. So maybe she didn't need the assistance of Gondry's imagination.

A co-worker who walked into my office as I had Jihae's album playing remarked that Jihae sounds like Cat Power. I'm pretty sure she didn't walk in while I was listening to "Black Pearl" (the subject of the video above), because "sultry" doesn't come to mind when I think Cat Power. But her observation is a sensible one with regard to the acoustic tracks on the album.

Of Danes and Happiness

What led me to Dri and Virb was The Fashion, a stylish (naturally) band from Copenhagen. Could there be any other sort of band from Denmark? (Completely off topic, but I saw an amusing, insightful piece on 60 Minutes about how the Danes are apparently the happiest people around, mostly because they set attainable/realistic expectations. I'd venture a guess that the Swedes are not far behind.)

Can't quite figure out why I find the Scandinavian aesthetic so appealing. Then again, what's the point, right? I mean, it's like trying to convince someone that a monochromatic Rothko painting looks interesting. Either you see it or you don't. More to the point: either you feel it or you don't.

The young folks from Scandinavia (and even the not-so-young) have a way of oozing an unconscious air of coolness. Take a look at the video for "Solo Impala," which is an impressive display of creativity. These kids from Copenhagen do "Lower East Side" better than the Lower East Siders.

An Occasional Dose of Saccharine

I've been on quite the musical roll lately. Probably why there's been such a profusion of posts in the past couple of weeks. I've already written about a good number of new discoveries, but there are several others to write about -- if for no other reason than to remind myself years later how I came to know them.


First up is Dri, a/k/a Adrianne Verhoeven -- an indie pop songstress from, of all places, Lawrence, Kansas. (Not so strange, I suppose, given the Saddle Creek crowd from Omaha and her connection to it.) I'm particularly proud of this find, because it ain't easy finding much about her online. I stumbled upon her after being directed to Virb while searching for information about another band. (Virb's quite the discovery in itself. It's like a more aesthetically pleasing version of MySpace.)

Dri is definitely more poppy than I typically go for, especially these days. But she fits nicely with some of my all-time favorites, such as Saint Etienne and Mono. Like Sarah Cracknell (of Saint Etienne) and Siobhan de Maré (of Mono), her voice conjures up memories of Dusty Springfield, as do her doo-woppy rhythms.

Yes, I Like Rock Music

I don't quite get it. British Sea Power's third album, Do You Like Rock Music?, was released stateside Tuesday to much fanfare but also some criticism -- some very pointed criticism. A perusal of the capsule reviews at Metacritic suggests that most critics give DYLRM? high marks. But there are also a number of critics -- most notably, the one from Pitchfork -- who mock BSP for what they perceive to be a misguided grappling for grandeur. It seems Pitchfork guy sees a band reaching for stadium rock when it's barely capable of parents' basement rock. On a scale of 1-10, he gave DYLRM? a U.2, whatever the hell that means. (Cheeky commentary on DYLRM? being derivative of U2, I suppose.) Methinks Pitchfork guy doth focus too much on the whimsical album title.

How could anyone who hears BSP think U2, whether in a literal or conceptual sense? When I listen to BSP, I hear more shoegazer pop than MTV pomp. (Okay, I have nothing against U2. "Pomp" just seems to flow well after "pop.") I think I finally understand the rampant hostility in the indie rock world toward Pitchfork.

Just as puzzling are the comparisons to Arcade Fire. While at Youtube pulling up the video above, I came upon the following comment: "God, tey [sic] are so ripping off Arcade [F]ire using like instruments and sounds." (I have a sneaking suspicion that this commentary emanated from the depths of the San Fernando Valley.) The comment would be nonsensical even if it were given the most generous of interpretations. Surely she doesn't mean that BSP has pilfered the Arcade craft by using two guitars, a bass and a drum set to make sounds. My guess is that she finds similarity between the wah wah infused sounds of BSP and the falsetto swirls created by Arcade Fire on songs like "No Cars Go." And, you know, I suppose there is similarity. Such keen ears she has. But that's as meaningful as saying Italian pasta is a ripoff of Chinese noodles because they both use flour. (Um, wait a second ...) Actually, it'd be more like saying Chinese noodles are a ripoff of Italian pasta. (BSP, after all, released its first album before Arcade Fire.)

All beside the point, really, because I love DYLRM? I must confess, though, that I was rather disappointed upon my first listen because none of the songs grabbed me. But upon a second listen in a darkened room, the waves of soaring melodies came alive and swept me under.

Make It Plain

Saw another thought-provoking episode of American Experience on PBS, which is definitely one of my favorite shows. The episode was about Malcolm X.

I can't quite remember why, but I chose to write about Malcolm for my 7th grade research project. Pretty sure there's still a copy of By Any Means Necessary lying around at my parents' place.

I wonder why it is that I'm drawn to "tier 2" icons more so than "tier 1" icons? I find Malcom more interesting than MLK. RFK more so than JFK. And, sure enough, in this election cycle, I favor Obama over Clinton.

Just as I wondered a couple of entries earlier whether I'd be a Feist fan had she already been a pop phenomenon when I discovered her, I wonder whether my preference for "tier 2" over "tier 1" icons would remain the same in a vacuum? Or is my preference merely reactionary -- a necessary byproduct of my aversion to the mainstream and the obvious?

Liking something because others hate it is perhaps just as pitiful, if not more so, than liking something because others love it.

Pronographic, yet cute

And speaking of the French ...

My new favorite band of the moment is The Teenagers -- a scraggly, potty-mouthed trio of Frenchmen who do camp with style. Who would've thought that a song -- "Homecoming" -- about pseudo-incestuous love between high school step cousins could be so amusing? And danceable? I mean, how can I find a song with this as the chorus to be so endearing?

[boy] I fucked my American cunt
[girl] I loved my English romance
[boy] I fucked my American cunt
[girl] I loved my English romance
[boy] It was dirty, a dream came true
Just like I like it, she's got nice tits
[girl] It was perfect, a dream came true
Just like a song by Blink-182

But my favorite track is "Starlett Johansson." It's a song about ... well, it's obvious, no? So obvious, yet so clever.


Thanks to The Teenagers, I now know that Scarlett is half Polish, half Danish. Born in 1984. Got her start on Broadway at 8. Don't even have to read her Wikipedia entry anymore.

Maybe I'll Be at the Grammys Next Year

Speaking of Apple-feueled celebrity ...

The moment I heard the soundtrack to the MacBook Air commercial, I knew I'd be making a new music purchase. The song is "New Soul" by Yael Naïm, a French-Israeli singer/songwriter. Damn catchy. Makes you wanna grab a trumpet and go skipping along the sidewalk.

People Like Me. People Really Like Me.

So Feist is apparently performing on the Grammys tonight. After all, she's up for:

• Best Female Pop Vocal for "1234"
• Best New Artist
• Best Pop Vocal Album for The Reminder
• Best Short Form Music video for "1234"

I'm quite happy that she's become so popular, even though popularity is typically a quality in music to which I have an allergic reaction. Given the indie nature of the music that I tend to enjoy, commercial success is often a tricky matter. But I feel no discomfort with Feist's success -- although the ubiquity of "1234" is a bit annoying. (Definitely not my favorite track on The Reminder. That would be "I Feel It All.")


She's done it with integrity. The Reminder is a natural progression from Let It Die, her relatively obscure first album. Fans of Let It Die don't listen to The Reminder and think, "Huh? What happened?" (Unlike, say, when a fan of Nelly Furtado's "I'm Like a Bird" listens to "Promiscuous Girl." Talk about selling your soul. But I'm sure the millions help her sleep easy.)

I do wonder, though, whether I'd be a Feist fan now had I not discovered her well before the catalytic iPod commercial turned her into a pop phenomenon? Good thing I caught her at the rinky dink Knitting Factory way back when and don't have to deal with that hypothetical.

I live with mum but I have a potty mouth

Finagled my way into Bowery Ballroom to catch Kate Nash tonight. The show coincided with the stateside release of her debut album, which had already hit No. 1 in the U.K. And it got a glowing review from Jon Pareles in the NYT yesterday. Last time I saw that sort of enthusiasm from Pareles, it was directed at Feist. So maybe Kate's on her way to an iPod commercial and really big things in the U.S.

The show was fun. Super peppy, super simple. One dittie after another about adolescent fawning and love lost. Every now and then, seeing Kate banging away on her keyboard reminded me of Schroeder and the Peanuts gang.

Her youthful exuberance was generally endearing, but at times grating. The live act could definitely use some polish. But she's all of 20, so there's plenty of time for her to find her groove on stage.

Sidebar: What's the deal with couples who talk during shows? It's bad enough when the chatter comes from a gaggle of friends, but it's even worse from a couple. If you're still just getting to know each other, it would seem that a concert isn't a good venue for your "oh, you like that, too" babble. What can you really learn about each other while trying to talk over the performer other than that you're both incredibly annoying? And if you're a couple that has moved beyond the "oh, you like that, too" babble, what do you really need to say to each other that you didn't already or couldn't wait to say during the 12 hours of the day that you spend together away from the show?

Gratitude as the Answer to Tragedy

I wish it weren't so, but it is. I've just discovered that Robert C. Solomon, my favorite professor, died earlier this year. I don't often curse, because I don't want to devalue the expressive effect of curse words; I save them for those special occasions when I care to communicate something visceral. Upon reading the news of Professor Solomon's passing, I bellowed a "fuck" or two -- even though no one but I could hear.

A bit strange how I came to discover the news. Earlier tonight, a friend who's preparing for a philosophy exam asked me whether existentialists are metaphysicists. I couldn't answer. Even had she asked while I was immersed in existentialism during my undergraduate days, I likely still couldn't have answered because metaphysics, epistemology, ontology and other such placeholders for rigid, ordered theories never much mattered to me. What attracts me to existentialism, and Camus in particular, is its embrace of the emotions in a philosophical sense.

That was the first time someone had asked me a question about existentialism in a long while. When I got home, an article in the NYT caught my attention. It's about an MIT professor who has become something of an Internet phenomenon because videos of his quirky lectures are available online. The article introduced me to iTunes U, which is an online distribution center for podcasts of lectures from academia. I took a look and saw that "Phil 7: Existentialism in Literature and Film," a course taught at U.C. Berkley, is at the top of the charts.

Just then, nostalgia kicked in, and I wondered whether Professor Solomon's lectures were available online. So I started searching. And that's when news of his death at the much too young age of 64 left my mouth gaping.

During my second semester of college, I had doubts as to whether I had chosen the right major. But Professor Solomon's ethereal lectures on existentialism displaced those doubts. He had such a gift for wowing without trying, all while making light shine through the opaque.

It saddened me tremendously to learn of his passing. But as I read the various tributes to his life, I felt a sense of joy and gratitude for having encountered him in mine.

Gratitude, I want to suggest, is not only the best answer to the tragedies of life. It is the best approach to life itself. This is not to say, as I keep insisting, an excuse for quietism or resignation. It is no reason to see ourselves simply as passive recipients and not as active participants full of responsibilities. On the contrary, as Kant and Nietzsche among many others insisted, being born with talents and having opportunities imposes a heavy duty on us to exercise those talents and make good use of those opportunities. It is also odd and unfortunate that we take the blessings of life for granted -- or insist that we deserve them -- but then take special offense at the bad things in life, as if we could not possibly deserve those. The proper recognition of tragedy and the tragic sense of life is not shaking one's fist at the gods or the universe "in scorn and defiance" but rather, as Kierkegaard writes in a religious context, "going down on one's knees" and giving thanks. Whether or not there is a God or there are gods to be thanked, however, seems not the issue to me. It is the importance and the significance of being thankful, to whomever or whatever, for life itself.

- Robert C. Solomon, Spirituality for the Skeptic (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 105.


- Robert C. Solomon in Richard Linklater's Waking Life