insomnia haiku

I am kind of super in love with this video

I miss music videos. I mean, music videos that I enjoy watching.

But here's one. It makes me happy.

New Orleans Jazz Fest 2010 in Pictures, Music, and Pictures of Music and Food

I have a long post(s) forthcoming about my trip to New Orleans for Jazz Fest. No time to post until the weekend, alas, but if you simply cannot wait, I've uploaded my pictures onto Flickr. And, by the miracle of magic, here they are!

Sadly, we did not get any pictures of the greatest celebrity sighting I have ever had and will ever have for the rest of my life. Brace yourself, OK? Eddie Vedder (fresh off the Pearl Jam show), Tim Robbins, Nicolas Cage, Michael Stipe, and Peter Buck. All. At. One. Table!

Well, more on that later. Just mull on it for a while. And look at some pretty pictures in the meantime. (Don't worry, if you don't like slideshows, I'll throw some of these into the recap individually as well.)

The slideshow doesn't display the titles and occasionally pithy captions I wrote, so if you'd rather see those, go here.

SXSW Report, Wednesday to Thursday: Okkervil River, Drive-By Truckers, and a Bill Murray near-miss

All right then. Sorry I didn't have time to update whilst I was away (I mean, not that anyone noticed), but here's my South by Southwest (SXSW) recap, as condensed as I can make it.

(First, a couple pictures from the great Broken Bells show that I already mentioned. One is of the band itself -- made up of the lead singer of the Shins, Danger Mouse, and a few other folks -- and one is of people outside the parking garage who couldn't get in, mwahahahaha.)

 

Wednesday afternoon we stuck around Galaxy Room and got to watch Roky Erickson and Okkervil River, which was pretty exciting. I'd seen Okkervil River earlier this year in New York but didn't know much about Roky Erickson; my friend Andrea filled me in on how he was the lead singer for the '60s band 13th Floor Elevators, then was diagnosed with schizophrenia and was finally, over the course of decades, brought back to health with the help of his brother. (Just like The Soloist! Except he wasn't homeless, or black, or a cellist. OK, so, not that much like The Soloist.)

I love Okkervil River, and seeing them so clearly delighted to be the backing band for Roky Erickson was a treat. Roky himself was in fine form, even if he did have to ask the Okkervil River lead singer to cue him with the lyrics every few lines.

That evening we headed out to Gruene, where Andrea's brother's band Drive-By Truckers was playing. Gruene is a town about 45 minutes southeast of Austin; its website gives the town's slogan as "Gently resisting change since 1872." It is, indeed, an adorable place, best known for Gruene Hall, which is purportedly Texas's oldest dance hall.

We checked into the Gruene Mansion Inn, which was right next door to the hall -- everything is next door to everything in Gruene, more or less -- and went to dinner at the Gristmill (also next door). Since we hadn't eaten anything all day, we were starving, and therefore made the rookie error of getting a large order of onion rings. We forgot that we were in Texas, and and that "large" does not mean what it means in other states. But we know now.

Completely stuffed, we headed over to the Drive-By Truckers show. Andrea's brother had put us on the list. I know it's shallow, but man, I love being on the list.

It was quite a change to go from the indie-rock crowd of SXSW in Austin to the country-rock crowd of Gruene. THIS was Texas: good ol' boys in cowboy hats, baseball caps, and plaid; a roughly 70-30 ratio of men to women; fists, beer bottles, and even "hook 'em Horns" signs raised up in the air. Yeeeaaaah!!

I'd never been in a crowd like this before, and it wasn't just the demographic. Since the place was packed, we started out pretty far back in the room and couldn't see much of anything. But Andrea and I persisted. Whenever someone in front of us would leave, we'd scoot up.

Then the weird thing happened. Every once in a while, some big dude would turn, see us standing there behind him, and then move us in front of him and/or other people. And when I say "move," I mean physically grab hold of our shoulders and steer us up closer to the stage. The first time this happened, I thought it was strange -- but it happened at least three times. The last guy moved us up several rows, planting us right at the foot of the stage, in front of other people. And no one complained! Later, I ran into a coworker who assured me that this is, indeed, a Southern thing. It's considered gentlemanly courtesy. (I'm not sure whether that last guy's grabbing my camera from me, leaning over and taking several pictures of the band for me was part of that standard courtesy ... let's just say it was.) Frankly, I'm much more used to people shoving me aside to get to the front of the stage; if this is the true South, then I'm all for it.

Oh, and the show was fantastic. Of course, I say that having watched it from the front row of a packed house.

 

 

After the show, we retired to the inn and had a few beers with Andrea's brother, who told us stories about what it's like being in a rock band. (He's only been in the band for a couple years, so he's still the "new guy.") I will not share details, but suffice it to say that after this conversation, my new band name will be Jimmy the Cheese Pot Guy.

Oh -- and sometime that night, finally feeling like I was actually in Texas, I resolved to buy cowboy boots.

Thursday

After a gut-busting buffet breakfast at the inn (the baked goods were to die for, and naturally I can't ever pass up breakfast sausage), we hit the road again, and landed back in Austin in time to see Miles Kurosky, former lead singer of the now-defunct Beulah. He does this thing where he pretends to forget the lyrics to a Beulah song, and brings an audience member up on stage to sing it for him. It's a total gimmick, but it was cute watching these fans get all geeked out about it. (In the second picture below, the fans are the ones in the yellow t-shirt and the brown hoodie.) The set itself: fab.

 

After retiring to the apartment for a while, we went back downtown to the MySpace/Spin loft, where I had secured RSVPs from a MySpace friend of mine. Metric was playing an acoustic set, and we were all looking forward to  it -- unfortunately, as it turned out, that set was only two songs long. Oh well. Sounded great, though. Greg's video from the performance

 

We tried and failed to get into Lustre Pearl for tacos and a show, so instead went to Clive Bar for margaritas, and had Indian food delivered. Not Tex-Mex, but yummy nonetheless. All the night shows require badges, wristbands and VIP invites -- none of which we had -- so we gave up on music altogether and hit the east side for one more drink at Rio Rita. And then we went home early, since we were all beat and our hosts had to work the next day. Alas, we later heard that Bill Murray had been bartending just down the street at Shangri-La. I missed Bill Murray bartending? Nooooo!!!! Next time, sleep is not an option.

But speaking of sleep, it's time for bed and I didn't finish my report. So tomorrow, I'll continue with Friday (Smokey Robinson!) and Saturday (cowboy boots!).

Report from SXSW, Day 0.5

On the flight over, I don't think i've seen so much dirty hair outside Williamsburg. Hipster boy next to me tried to chat me up. I'm like, any boy wearing green pants will never get into mine.

First show of SXSW for me was Broken Bells, in a parking garage, sponsored by my corporate overlord. Great show. Who knew acoustics in a parking garage were so great? Saw a bunch of my AOL music friends there, who wondered why I'd waited in line like everyone else. "Flash your AOL badge!" my friend Kurt said. Well, I am on vacation, but... OK, maybe I will.

Currently sitting in the sun in the back yard of Galaxy Room at the Paste party, waiting for Freelance Whales to come on. I haven't eaten anything, and it's hot. Super hot. But that is all right with the world.

Thank you for the music

Last year, I didn't go on vacation until October. It damn near killed me. I don't think I'd ever realized before what kind of impact going on vacation -- or not going on vacation -- had on a person's well-being.

This year I vowed, like George Costanza on Seinfeld, to do the opposite of almost everything I did last year. At work, for example, I've been making a conscious effort not to take care of every single little thing that needs fixing. Believe it or not, this isn't all that easy for me. I like fixing things. I like it when people come to me and ask for help. It's some kind of viciously masochistic, messianic streak I have. But taking on everything was part of what burned me out last year, and it created some bad habits in that everyone just automatically expected me to do it. So this year, I'm doing the opposite, and asking the people (whose job it actually is) to handle things themselves. It's unnatural. But I'm trying.

I also vowed that I would go on vacation earlier than I did last year. Such things aren't always under your control -- timing and opportunity are everything -- but I was determined to make it a priority. And then what do you know? When I asked my brother and sister-in-law if they wanted to go to Jazz Fest in New Orleans this year, they said "yes."

I hadn't been since 2001, when I went for the first and only time, and it was one of the best times of my life. The food, the music, the people ... running across the lawn with my sister-in-law to take pictures of Jakob Dylan, using the Port-a-Potties barefoot (yes, ick), drinking since 10 in the morning every day, eating meat pies and beignets and the most intense bread pudding, falling in love with the gospel tent, waiting until 2 am to catch Kermit Ruffins and Irvin Mayfield's electrifying trumpet battle at the House of Blues ... I've dreamed of going back ever since.

And so, despite being broke as a joke at the end of 2009, I signed on for Jazz Fest 2010, with much excitement. I figured, I'll just live like a monk between now and April, in order to be able to afford it -- and I've been doing so.

And then last week, my friend Greg emailed to say that he and his girlfriend Andrea are going to South by Southwest this year, and did I want to come?

Didn't I say timing is everything? I've wanted to go to SXSW for years. I've wanted to go to Austin for even longer than that. (If I had a nickel for every time someone told me how awesome Austin is and how I need to go, I'd have enough nickels to pay for the trip.) We'd all talked about going to SXSW sometime, but nothing had ever happened ... until now, the year I already have a vacation booked, also in the spring, no less.

I fretted. I wailed. Why does it never rain, but it pours? I have a new boss, who does not know that I never take vacation -- how would it look if, right off the bat, I asked to take two vacations in two months? What about those projects that I'll be working on right around then? How on Earth could I ever afford this? WHYYYYY???

A responsible person would say no. I really, bottom-line, cannot afford to take two vacations right now. Heck, I can't afford to take one.

But then I remembered my mantra, and thought about how, if my friends went to SXSW and I didn't, I would seethe with jealousy. And I would regret it. I thought, am I going to spend the next five or ten years still in that same place, wanting to go to Austin and SXSW, when right now I have the opportunity to go? And I thought about how I spent last year bemoaning things that I thought were beyond my control, and sometimes they were, but sometimes they didn't have to be. 

So I tentatively requested the time off from work, and then I secured a place to crash -- and then I booked my ticket. I am going. 

Did some travel fairy wave her magic wand so that suddenly I can afford this? No. I am suddenly living paycheck-to-paycheck, and in order to buy festival passes for both SXSW and Jazz Fest I will have to break out my credit card and then not pay it off in full, for the first time in years. Suze Orman would not approve. But let's face facts: I do not have kids, or a mortgage, or loans to pay off, or (knock on wood) really any other financial obligations except to myself. I don't want to spend this year wishing my life were going some other way. I want to live it.

Therefore: If 2009 was the year that all my technology failed, I didn't go on vacation until October and I nearly quit my job, then let 2010 be the year of living like a monk, traveling like a rock star.

To music, to travel, to life! And if you have any Austin or SXSW suggestions, please send them my way. Here is the first (via Facebook):

Try to find the Mighty Cone! It's fried avocado, chicken, and cole slaw in a tortilla. Line up early for the free day shows. And start preparing your liver now!

Now that I've gotten the penitence and self-flagellation out of the way, can I just say, OH MY GOD I CAN'T WAIT. (But my liver is terrified.)

Let's hear it for Stephen Colbert ... there's nothing he can't do

The episode was in December, but I just saw this -- Alicia Keys singing "New York State of Mind" on The Colbert Report while Stephen Colbert does the rap part, using his own lyrics. Daaaamn, son, Colbert got GAME. (Am I sick of this song yet? Nope. Not yet.)

High apple pie in the sky hopes for 2010

I am suddenly obsessed with Frank Sinatra's song "High Hopes." I have no idea why. I thought my nephew might enjoy it, and though he seemed totally disinterested, I now can't get it out of my head.

Apparently, when I was a kid, we had it on an album of songs covered by the Mike Curb Congregation (what an interesting career that man has had, right? Musician, lieutenant governor of California, AND race car driver? Eat your heart out, Paul Newman). But here's the original, from the movie A Hole in the Head:

My brother said he thought that a recent candidate for president had used it as his theme song, and though I can't remember who that might have been (Huckabee?), it makes sense. "Anyone knows an ant, can't, move a rubber tree plant -- but he's got HIIIIGH HOPES ..." Little guy! Against all odds! Moving the rubber tree plant! (In the Amazon? We'll just go with it.)

I couldn't figure out what recent candidate used it as his song, but on YouTube I unearthed the following, from JFK's campaign. I think it's pretty great. Musicians don't really do this sort of thing anymore, do they? (No, Obama Girl doesn't count.)

Here's to 2010! Any time you're feeling bad, 'stead of feeling sad, just remember that ram.

Coldplay is somewhat less loathsome when sung by little kids

I am overcome by adorableness.

Third-generation iPod, represent!

It's hard, when a loved one dies. And by "loved one," I mean... umm... my iPod.

This isn't just any iPod, mind you. I happen to be one of the few, the proud, the defiant third-generation iPod owners. I've recently discovered that we form sort of a club. We spot each other with one glance, like we're pinned with identifying badges, except ours are white and rectangular and smooth, with rounded corrners. And immediately we speak the same language, tumbling over each other's sentences. "Had mine forever..." "Starting to die on me..." "Collector's item..." "Could never give up the buttons above the..." "I KNOW!" "Why would anyone want buttons on the wheel?" "I KNOW!"

If you don't know what I'm talking about, here's a picture of a third-generation iPod:

And here's what the current model (generation 5.5) looks like:

See the major difference? It's only the third-generation iPod that has buttons above the scroll wheel -- and why anybody would mess with this little boon of perfection is beyond me. Buttons should be all in a row, there in little indented circles just the right size for your thumb tip. They should not... be... on... the scroll wheel! Scroll wheels should be smooth! Nothing should interfere with the blissful smoothness of your scrolling -- the infinite circular motion, like Daniel waxing cars in The Karate Kid, like the gleaming whiteness of a newly washed sink, like... oh, you know what I'm saying. Like a round, smooth stairway to heaven.

And yet. I saw the signs, and I tried to ignore them. Denial, that's the first step, right? So when my iPod started running out of juice after a subway ride and a half, I figured it was my fault somehow. (Too many podcasts, maybe?) When my computer stopped recognizing my iPod, and I had to take it into the Genius Bar (where my assigned Genius nodded approvingly at my beloved 3G) and buy a USB cable -- so that my Firewire cable charged the iPod, and the USB cable let me sync it -- I figured it was just something I could live with. I knew it was dying. But I thought, if I lavish all my loving care on it, my iPod would pull through just for me, right?

Well, we've reached the end. Today, just as it was about to play Pavement's "Grave Architecture," my iPod's tiny battery stopped working for good. (Too bad it wasn't about to play Pavement's "Stop Breathing" instead, because how fitting would that be?) I tried resetting it, and all I got was a folder with an exclamation point on it. At some point, when I tried connecting it to my computer via the Firewire cable, I got a big checkmark. So many icons I never knew existed! Meanwhile, the poor thing kept making these sad, despairing clicking noises. If it were an animal, it'd be whimpering. I knew this day would come; I just can't believe it's finally here.

And so, dear iPod, I bid you adieu. You've served me well, through subway rides and long walks and road trips, dance mixes and fantasy baseball podcasts, strange periods where you wanted me to listen only to Christmas music and Rufus Wainwright. I've dropped you (thirty seconds after I got you!), shared you, thought I lost you, got sand in your case, fell asleep listening to you, changed your headphones five times. You've been good to me, old friend. You are irreplaceable.

Now, ahem, about that iPhone...

The kids round here look just like shadows

Here's the thing about the subway.

When you get on the F train, maybe late-ish at night, maybe after you've had a couple drinks, there's the typical subway crowd. Girl in sweatsuit. Guy in chains. Couple attached at the upper lip. And you step on the train, and it's a normal night, and of course they don't know what's playing on your iPod, which in this case happens to be Bruce Springsteen's "Jungleland," which comes on strong and clear and reminds you of the summer of 1989 when you went to Europe with a bunch of other high school graduates and bonded with this guy you kind of liked named Terry (now married) who loved Springsteen as much as you did. He didn't even mind when you you would insist on singing "Backstreets" to him, a song that started off, "One soft infested summer me and Terry became friends." He thought it was funny, the way you embraced that part. Like a coincidence.

But you and he were both of a kind, and you knew every word to "Jungleland" by heart, and the song was so beautiful it very nearly made your eyes roll up into the backs of your heads, or at least it did yours; and when you got on the bus for five-hour long rides to distant castles and the song came on you would look at each other and fall into some kind of trance and sing at the top of your lungs, "From the churches to the jails, tonight all is silence in the world," and think that you were the only two people in the world who understood each other and that song, right at that very moment.

Almost 20 years later you're on the subway in New York, and the song plays in your ears, and you think about the boy, and Europe, and the way you used to feel about music, the way it used to get you. And even though the people in the subway are all around you, indifferent and mundane, concerned only with their own iPods and their paperback books and their conversations, you are lost in some world you'd forgotten existed. "In the tunnels uptown," you hear, "the Rat's own dream guns him down," and you grieve. Not for a person really, but you grieve. For the Rat. For the dream. For the boy. For the teenager you used to be, when this one perfect song made you forget, for a few short minutes, about anything except a Rat, and a barefoot girl, and something else bigger than any of us.

Then the song ends, and since your iPod's on shuffle you hear Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline," and the moment's over. The spell is broken. The boy doesn't know you anymore. And all you can think of is: I used to love.