Vampire Weekend Tonight.

I just can't wrap my opinion around Vampire Weekend yet. They have got to be so young with their proud attitude of their culturally rich pop music combo. They do have one up on Paul Simon. It's absolutely true. If Paul Simon weren't Paul Simon, quite possibly Graceland would just be an album some little white guy made singing in the shower while listening to the African section of his Hi-Fi collection.

But still. They are youth. The false modesty, genre name dropping, songs about girls on campus...
After my recent Pavement revelation, I'm just not so sure about music that is quick too make me bounce with glee. And they do. Great to get dressed too but so very innocent. Yet so insincerely sincere. Perhaps that's a condition of their seeming affluence? I say seeming but their alignment to ivy league and literary classes is questionable. Rich white guys are just so droll. And hence I am having difficulty.

There's great potential for them to seriously blow up. I hear Hot Hot Heat on the bill and the teens going wild. Coachella. Spin Magazine...

I think I'm mostly having a reaction to the awkward phrasing vocals they use. Anytime there's affectation, I get weary. Affect for effect? That's a cheap shot, a shot in the dark, a crutch. I work at a station that milks these crutches, so I've heard and I see quite a few - and guess what...I believe they just might be coming in for a performance.

But guess what even more - I totally want them to.

And they lyrics to Oxford Comma are pretty great.

See. I can't figure it out.

Back to the vocals. Check out this video: A-Punk Video
Great music. Really dig. But why does he sing this way? Is he from the Congo? However, I do dig. Totally.

But then there's their disingenuous humility. I can't knock it. Try this Fader article. I think I'm just having a case of White Man Mistrust and they really aren't so bad. Like rich boys that kill to have fun with society because regular good times are just too easy.

Sure. I bet that's what it is.

Rainy Day Drive.

KCRW Subscription Drive begins tomorrow. I'm in charge.

No really. I am.

Tuesday we had to shut the entire station down. Shut it down. We almost caught on fire. Major electrical problem that needed to be fixed at 1PM rather than AM. Dig?

Attached photo features, "Singey" - The Fire Culprit.

Fire Marshals are scheduled to visit this week.

It's raining and will continue to through at least Monday, Tuesday of next week. After a past Fire Marshal visit, we have all of our food services outside. And we've got some delicious food. Yum.

We've got tents and we work hard. At least it'll be exciting. Aside from the usual hysteria.

I wonder if my dream last night about my top staffer buying cocaine and hiding a drug problem is reflexive of my concern.

What's really crazy is how uncannily similar Singey is to our latest mascot:

Rattled By The Rush.

Newer Pavement is sort of annoying and I don't know who I am anymore.

Actually, that's not true at all. Firm ground now. Terra firma, c'est moi voila.

After my 40th listen to the new Radar Bros., I realized I really missed Wowee Zowee and Terror Twilight and Brighten the Corners and I really wanted to hear them again. Decided to make them mobile and checked out all the last records from work so I could import them and play with them on the iPod. Understandably, I would want to blast them from the car (like I used to) or enjoy them on the treadmill (like I do now). Et cetera. And I only have the vinyl. And the two Deluxe Re-issues.

Of course.

OhMyGod. Jesus Christ. WTF. Holy Shit.

Those last albums...not 100%...but shit. So freakin' goofy.

I'm sad.

Heartbroken. C'mon Mr. Malkmus. Why couldn't we just play chess and read books together? Why couldn't you just make your crazy word poetry for me and let me look at your pretty, pretty fingers? What happened? When did it happen and how come I didn't notice...until now? I would never say he was affected but - but maybe unnecessarily punctuative.

No wonder I've never been a Jicks fan.

HOWEVER

In a state of panic from me, M(aura) did come through. She's my aural doppelganger. She reminded me, "Frontwards and the album from whence it came," to quote.

Ah...Slanted and Enchanted. Good old Gary Young - I played a show with him too. We're even both listed on the poster. He had alcoholic eyes. Man. And my song! Summer Babe. My birthday is the first day of summer. All of these things that further solidified my belief that Stephen and I would one day be married.

Guitars. Treble Kicker. Indeed. Pentatonic Pop Scale. It's so simple. Crossword Puzzle Lyrics. Screams. So much screaming. I could just eat him alive. Wish I could. New liner notes reference their need for girlfriends. If only I could've been there with my googly eyes...



Regards,

La Shu


P.S. Wowee Zowee and Spit On A Stranger are still pretty cool though. Just sayin'.

Nina Simone, God Damn.

I love Nina Simone. She used a lexicon of her own discovery and it made her a master translator. I would've loved to have seen what she would've done with Borges. I've started reading Wilde. It'd be neat to have seen what she'd do with that fop as well. For whatever reasons, it hasn't been until hearing her sing, "Suzanne," that I even comprehended what Leonard Cohen put down.

Love and spirituality. We dance a little and then remember God. Rhythm. Isn't that just life?

Meet The Chamber Strings. Again.

I first encountered Kevin Jr. on stage at Spaceland. It was my second year off drugs and I was so excited to see someone else, so cool, playing such great music who also didn't use drugs.

My first years of sobriety were very naive in that regard. Via another Chicago transplant, I connected with Jr. and decided to let him sleep on my couch so I could help get The Chamber Strings back together. I instead ended up learning about real drug abuse psychosis. 

After Kevin printed enough material on the Scientologists following him to exhaust my printer cartridges, I asked him to leave. The day Kevin left, I received an eMail from his former bandmate on the social networking site, Friendster. I thought it was a joke. Jason didn't know Kevin was at my house, that I had ever even come into contact with him - nothing. Jason was just eMailing a girl he saw was a fan of The Chamber Strings on Friendster. Just that.

I think it's now been four years. Chamber Strings bass player Jason Walker is a dear friend and I am really happy with how great a new batch of songs from The Chamber Strings are. 

I can detest the victim in anyone. Even more when  you try to make a buck with it. Kevin Jr.'s newest songs are nothing less than this. But committed so thoroughly, the pathos are delicious and witty and with no apologies. Backed by Kevin's great lyricism and a band that plays so well, you can't deny The Chamber Strings are such a great band.

The Chamber Strings

Radar Love.

New Radar Bros. is really good. I think it's very friendly. Like a Pink California Floyd.

They've made some great harmonies. Outstanding production. With sounds similar to Mercury Rev's, Deserter's Songs. The emotional tasking of a musical saw. There's the Ohio River Boat 7" and the album made between Wowee Zowee and Terror Twilight. But like the unreleased sessions of all of these albums. Well...that's using a reference lightly. Sort of. Then the sweetness of Bill Holt's, Dreamies. Rhythm and melody. And Bill Callahan too.

But it's not committal. Perhaps there's too much fine quality to fall in love with. You're kept intact and won't need to ask for more later. It's always on tap. Not like the way Palace Brothers my fail you. But you'll always cry for more Will. The hard truth? The suggestion of abandonment can really make you love someone. But while Auditorium sings stability, it also rises to a lush tease, warranting a little fear in melody. Heightened reality.

All that partnered with a steady kind of love? Radar Bros. are tops then for an indiewhitepicketfence.

Sometimes that isn't so bad. It's really right.

There is just so much warmth in a Pink California Sun.

Radar Bros. on Merge

Thread Count.

I see a thread. But I can't see the start. I wanted to cut it.

It looks like it runs only from my last affections to me. I could cut it. But it really goes through him, from behind him, running away, continuing. Ironically, it's coming from me. Not from him. And before him but going away from me, but really following me, is me and what I put there, continuing all the way down to its Genesis. What was that first source? I want to know. Because I need to tell it something.

It's not him. It's me.

Why did we fall in love? Ideas. Many. Intertwined.

Listening to Nina Simone sing, "Suzanne." Basically everyone's minding their own line. That it's the greatest and frays the most. But the connectivity is impossible to ignore. So I'm just entangled in more of my thread. Fear. A Hobgoblin. What about nervous laughter? A conversation with a friend? In this case, seems I don't get to have that. Of all the lines, for some reason that one was cut. Fear.

The one thing I can't straighten out is it seems he knew what to expect from himself. It seems he knew his behavior. It seems he was willing to drop me before even knowing me. I don't understand. Or rather, I don't want to understand because I really do understand.

No. I don't understand.

If there is a thread, then he and I are both knots on each other's string.

It's us.

Skyscrapers At Night, Moonlit Delight

I think I'm happiest when I'm Downtown at night. It's sweet. A still and woken satiation made for me by the moonlit dichotomy of The Big City L.A. I see my mind stirring behind any group of 64th floor windows. At 3AM these glowing silver plates are bright and reflecting like mercury - my Gemini communicator. I really do think I can see myself in the windows. But it's just my mind. It slows me till I'm stupefied. They look brilliant and I need their humbling to make me dumb.

In the back patio of Downtown L.A.’s La Cita, another edition of dublab’s, “Give Up – A Sad Dance Party,” was happening. Surrounded by friends, hipsters and scenesters, people much cooler than me, people I was much cooler than, my hair not good, my lipstick too light, jeans that should’ve been washed – frumpy young man, comfortable in her new down green jacket with fur-lined hood, sweet tooth tingling…gazed through La Cita’s black and yellow striped awning. It was something like a circus.

I could see the surrounding buildings that dwarfed the tiny Mexican bar. Rich.


La Cita is a dive bar. Was a dive bar. One that was bought by one of the hipsters. I think it’s the Short Stop owner, which is another bar I’ve never been to. I don’t go to bars much. At La Cita you can imagine the Mexican Cowboys that were there way before we were. They still visit during the day. I discussed the possibility of a mechanical bull with a friend. Otherwise, the platform and mirrors just don’t make much sense. Oh La Cita!

Continuing…

Blinking Christmas lights in disco colors. And our friends playing the records. The skyscrapers were perfect. Everyone thinks I should move to Silverlake or Echo Park but I really don’t want to. I crave the solitude the L.A. lofts fake out. I don’t want thin plywood walls. It’s fine that no one minds that you play your music loud in town. It’s more that I don’t want to hear them and, very kind of them, I don’t want them to hear me. Ever.

Continuing…

The skyscrapers at night mirror us. Major commerce going down by day. Lots of activity. The human energy alone probably illuminates these offices. And at night, they’re completely empty. Skeleton workers. Anyone there at midnight is not happy. They’re either cleaning, snorting, fucking, lying, cheating, dying. I have been that and all of the above - there in the Arco Building down the street.

But now I’m not Downtown or East Side. I’m West Side. Freeways help me move fast, but I’m covering a lot of territory when I do and it’s very quickly losing its spice.

So I learn to live on Venice Beach. It’s not surprising that I really only care for it at night. It plays the same trick as the skyscrapers but there are no facades. The Venice Night Crew are homeless, don’t clean, don’t wear suits but do wear their drug use and desperation on their sleeves. However, being at the end of the world, we’ve got the most authentic pitch black. It’s depth seeps into your mind and cushions your frustrations, turning them into glory. North, the mountains feature the Santa Monica Pier and Palisades twinkling red and orange stars. Every time I round the corner towards them, I pronounce, “Aw,” and feel a slap that hits my temple.

Why can’t it always be this way?

I hear the black sea making its world turning sounds.

It’s hard to learn that I trusted so much, to perform so many acts, to learn that I am nothing.

Still, I am moving.

Day Job.

Featuring PB & J and Kitten...

Amazing Dates.

Nice guy asked me out. We both liked The Amazing Race. As any guy does, his first date appeal was for me to come over and to "cuddle" on his couch while we watched the last four episodes he had saved in his Tivo.

I tell you I was tempted. I love that show and I'm just not able to watch it with any regularity.

During coffee I realized there wasn't going to be a second cup. I kept thinking about those last four episodes.

I still don't know what's going on in that series.

EXTRA CREDIT: Fellow that asked for my number last week at Toi with Tracy, when we talked on the phone, he asked if I had any children.

I'm not doing this stuff anymore.

Rufus the Dog. Money Is a Bitch.

A lump was discovered on Rufus. It probably would've gone unnoticed much longer had a foreign hand hadn't rubbed his belly for an introductory, "Hello." Rufus and I mostly focus on head scratching.

Apparently I went into shock. Didn't really notice how much until I was alone with Rufus and I started diagnosing his condition on my own.

"We're up at 4AM every day for food and door. Feisty. Cuddly. Drinking. Eating. So much eating. I'm calling the vet…" There was never any question. We were always going to the vet. That was just to keep me calm in the interim while waiting till we got to the vet.

Rufus has always done everything for me and he runs like an Ever Ready Battery. He doesn't seem to mind any of it. Takes the pills when they come and looks at me funny when he gets hit by a car. The neighbors love him and his demands are made humbly when he visits their homes. He cuddles and he snores.

I decided whatever the deal, I owe him whatever they ask.

But the shock.

It seems so often that I might have a range of three emotions: Love, Joy and Fear. Fear then tapers into anger when fingered inappropriately, which then dovetails into rage. Or rather: Fear irrationally crescendos into rage whenever fucking picked on. But at least it's a crescendo and of course it's irrational. It's fear. And it always feels picked on. It's fear. Yeah, yeah, yeah…it's fear. It was easy to bargain with myself when I got to the vet.

There are dogs there. Rufus is a cat. I walk in and my brain starts up at me, "Fucking DOGS!" " And his BOYCHILD BRAT!" "Don't they have cages for that shit?!" "No crying." So dramatic. And my eyes are welling, so the Aviators stay. "Rufus has a lump…But he seems fine," and I give them the checklist from my Armchair Doctory. Usually I'm just picking up his special cat food. But I feel the ire, "HELLO?! YOU AGREE, RIGHT?! HE'S FINE?!!" And I ignore it.

I look at the photos of gargantuan furry bellies instead.

Relief arrives. Partially feeling welcomed by my own efforts to smile at my patrons rather than scream the bloody murder that was icing its way over my terrain. It's the resident senior citizen with his dutiful cat and wife. They're in today and they've turned Rufus towards them. Thank Fucking God. Me and Rufus really, really needed a little tenderness right, right then. I wanted that sweetness. I was absolutely terrified. The delicacy that protects an event by such selflessness…understanding and compassion. When you're depleted it's pretty grand when the Calvary arrives. And in such cute uniforms. Just smiling and being nice. Just tell me that my old cat's going to be fine and I can take him home and continue to feed him his way too expensive special cat food that he and Myrna eat way too much of which then turns them into the aptly titled, "Dinosaur Cats," that they are.

$533. Whatever.

“Fame!”

1982
The television show, "Fame." I was 11. Myself - I too went to a couple of schools that worked around, "Theatre." One element of what this might represent is I was a young girl enamored with song, show and therefore a hook.

"Fame," had several songs in an episode. I was so stricken by one (or two) of this shows hit TV songs, that I rode my Schwinn to the local library, hoping I'd find a copy of it there. I just had to hear the song again.

Collector Selector that you bitches!

:)

2007
Song in my head in the shower this morning.
Wow. That wasn't just any song. More like one of those "mash-ups" so popular these days. In this case, it was a mash-up if perhaps Michel Gondry were the DJ.

Anyhoo…This morning sounded like a Moondog composition performed by Giorgio Moroder, with lyrics and accompaniment by Laurie Anderson singing, "O Superman."

Yep. All that while I deep conditioned.

That is precisely how it is.

See? Michael Gondry.

So my big news? Of course...

Here it is!!!
Yeah. I have no fucking idea what is so wrong with me either:


"It's not the machine..." Sigh.