Handmade Harmonies

I've always considered myself as a lover of art, but even more as a talented waster of time.  Staring at items I have no intentions of purchasing is my nearly perfected hobby.  (Alas, if only I never needed to take bathroom breaks.)  With the discovery of Etsy, my "place to buy and sell all things homemade," my skills are being refined, sharpened, and tested in ways that other websites could never inspire.  I visit Etsy to stare at things, but also to support independent artisans who make stuff purely for creation's sake.  Etsy’s more questionable craftspeople refuse to be deterred by lack of talent or, in some cases, probable blindness, and this determined artistic spirit thrives in all categories of Etsy’s community.

Though the taxidermy section is most enchanting, the music section of Etsy is worth perusing. True, many items for sale are nothing more than poorly Photoshopped fan art. However, if you happen to have a few hundred dollars lying around, cluttering your cabinets and causing slips on stairways, a trip to the instrument section will easily remedy the problem. No room for that baby grand in your studio apartment? Then check out this thumb piano! OK, maybe it won’t suffice as a piano replacement, but I’m sure it sounds cool, and check out that sublime splattered paint job on top.

Maybe you’re longing for a Vegemite-flavored adventure. Summon the Outback with this hand carved didgeridoo. Beware; the warranty will not cover any damage caused by captivated marsupials.

Of course, your life may already be filled with instruments, and you certainly don’t want to cause any instrument-sibling rivalry. In this case, why not outfit one of your guitars with a hideously hippie-ish guitar case cover? Even if your gig gets pretty rowdy, the vomit stains will never show!

Don’t get me wrong: some of these products may be hideous, but I’m grateful to those who craft them. After all, where would music be (and all art, really) without desperate attempts at innovation?

Concert Review: Heavy Trash at the Summit 11/13/09

I went to this concert with my friend Roman in celebration of my birthday. I had never heard of 'Heavy Trash' before, but he assured me that the show would be marvelous; he had seen 'The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion' upwards of five times in France, in very large clubs where he was far away from the stage.

Jon Spencer is quite the musician. Originally fronting the band 'Pussy Galore,' he later switched his musical scope entirely, going from a noise rock band to the bluesy punk of the 'Blues Explosion.' After that, he formed 'Heavy Trash' with a friend - Matt Verta-Ray - which marked a transition from 'White Stripes'-esque garage rock to '50's style rock and roll with punk rock freakouts for good flavor.

'Cheater Slicks' and the 'Unholy Two' opened up for Heavy Trash. Our cadre of people missed the 'Unholy Two' because we ended up going to 'Extreme Wieners,' a proletariat gourmand's dream; hot dogs topped with anything from pineapple to sauerkraut. Hit this place up if you are at a show at 'The Summit' and are starving; it will not disappoint!

After hot dogs, we got to see 'Cheater Slicks,' who were loud to the point of incomprehensibility. Unfortunately for them and the audience, the sidestage monitors were not working at all during the show, so they had no other recourse but to crank everything past eleven. Halfway through the show I put my earplugs in, but that did nothing to eliminate the strain on my eardrums (I would have tinnitus for two days afterwards).

Eventually, 'Heavy Trash' took the stage, and we were struck by the audacity of their attire. Spencer and his men were wearing extremely well-crafted suits which were emblazoned with Nudie-esque patterns and ostentatious baubles and bangles. Spencer took his SM-57 in hand (a mainstay for all burgeoning garage rockers) and began to croon some songs, over a Roy Orbison-esque guitar figure. The double bassist slapped his way through several numbers without breaking a sweat, and the drummer was suited perfectly for the style and was, for lack of any better adjectives, beastly.

Throughout the night, Spencer stuck to playing rhythm guitar on his acoustic, while Verta-Ray handled all of the theatrics. It seemed that Heavy Trash was cultivating a clearly vintage aesthetic until Spencer took his hands off the guitar and belted one of the most soul-shattering screams I had ever heard over a three cord rhythm at 140bpm. I had arrived in some sort of strange universe where the Sex Pistols and Elvis coexisted, and both of them were angry! As if a button had been pressed, people began thrashing and a mosh pit formed. Naturally, since my crowd was right at the center, we contemplated as a group whether or not to partake in the violent activities; it was at this point that Roman jumped on stage.

After the show, the band was gracious enough to take a bit of time to talk to the fans. Roman went up to Spencer and told him how much he admired his music, and then got a picture with him. I had been admiring the bassist's slap technique and bass (a 1950's upright from Germany with a solid carved back), and talked shop with him about fifteen minutes on the way out.

Overall, this concert made me feel as if I was a child of a different time period, and the kindness of the band and care for their fans definitely cemented a desire within me to see 'Heavy Trash' again, or at least Jon Spencer in some other project.

Check out the video for 'Dark Haired Rider' below:

Power of Love

Let's get one thing straight.

I love Ohio State. Tradition is awesome. OH-IO and all that jazz.

I jumped in Mirror Lake when I was an unsuspecting Freshman and it was sweeeeeet, dudebro.

But I'm old now and I would much rather watch the Office and eat ice cream out of the carton on Thursday nights. The fact that I have early morning classes on Friday doesn't really help my cause. Yeah, it's only one night and yeah tonight's episode of the Office was disappointing, but drunk, frat dudebros are not my cup of tea. So here I am, at my apartment, relaxing.

Oh wait. No I'm not.

I'm pretty sure my apartment building will collapse if one more person sings an out of key rendition of "We Don't Give a Darn (keepin' it PG, Folks!) For The Whole State Of Michigan". "Little" Wayne apparently lives under my bedroom and drunk girls are so graciously Drunk Caroling just in time for this weekends festivities.

pleaseshootme.

However, my roommate and I have found the greatest artillery for this friendly fire: Celine Dion.

Yes, another secret indulgence. But my Canadian diva has amazingly shut the goons up. After relentlessly trying to soundproof our apartment for a little peace and quiet, we eventually gave up and decided to have a song-off with "Little" Wayne below us. Nothing says school spirit like blasting a little "My Heart Will Go On" in response to an O-H. Yeah. Suck on that, Michigan. This weekend we will be Beauty and you will be the Beast. (But not the good beast. If Gaston was a beast, that's who you would be. Yeah. I'm not making sense.) But no seriously, we haven't heard a peep out of our neighbors since "It's All Coming Back To Me Now".

You know what else is coming back to me? Peace and quiet.

I'm so at peace with our Celine marathon that I didn't even hear that kid fall down three flights of stairs.

Go Bucks.

Are your neighbors obnoxious?

Watch this. People's ears will bleed and hearts will burst with happiness. Trust me.

Meet Joe Pug

It isn't very often that a person has the opportunity to see the sum of some of his favorite musicians and historical figures; Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, to name a few. Fortunately for me, on November 7, I experienced a near transcendent display of folksy country blues payed by none other than Joe Pug.

Joe's been living a pretty fast-paced lifestyle, touring for the better part of two years in support of a pair of EPs: "Nation of Heat" and "In The Meantime." His music was recorded in the dead of night in unoccupied recording studios, between jobs working construction. You see, Joe was formerly studying to be a playwright at the University of Maryland but, before the start of his senior year, he dropped out. He noted to my friend Nick that "it just wasn't where [he] belonged; [he] needed to get away."

Being a person who doesn't believe in safety nets, Joe packed up his possessions, and drove to Chicago. He had no intention of doing music when he first arrived, but his first collection of songs were quickly pieced together around narrative ideas from a play he was writing called "Austin Fish." Joe's first EP "Nation of Heat" is a collection of barnstorming tracks lauded by most people who have given them a chance listen. NPR praised Pug for his mature voice and lyrics which are wise beyond their years.

This past summer, Pug has played Bonnaroo, Lollapalooza, the Newport Jazz Festival, and has opened for M. Ward and Josh Ritter. Fortunately, I got to see him at Ann Arbor's "The Ark," rather than at some sort of massive festival where intimacy is forsaken for cheap drugs and dolts who shout over songs.

My friend and I missed Pug's first song, being stuck in traffic for the night's hockey game, but managed to catch every subsequent performance. Pug thrashed his way though his originals and managed to work in a few covers, including Tom Waits's "Ol' 55." Later on, enthralled by the spotlight and taken over by the art of his performance, Pug was putting on a hardened bluesman's facade and cursing up a storm, when he noticed a man with his daughters in the front row. Every time Pug swore afterwards, he would apologize profusely to the man; if that isn't respect for the audience, I don't know what is.

Afterwards, Joe invited the entire auditorium (approximately 200 or 300 people) out into the lobby to chat and exchange pleasantries, sign autographs, take pictures, or whatever else. I managed to talk to him about his taping policy (record everything, but send him a copy) and about his magnificent performance. He was very appreciative and humbled by the fact that so many people thought well enough of him to see him perform live.

Joe Pug is currently on tour in Europe, but you can download his EP "In The Meantime" for free a selection of his songs for free on Daytrotter or watch his music video for "Hymn 101" here:

Joe Pug - Hymn 101 from Sam Molleur on Vimeo.

My Music

If anybody would like to hear a few recordings that I have made, here is the link:
myspace.com/brendantrenner

I play guitar and sing every Monday and Thursday from 12-1:30 p.m. at Potbelly's Sandwich Works on the corner of High and 11th. Come grab a tasty sandwich and check it out. I play covers and originals.

Disney Desperation

Just one quick thought for the day:  how is Miley Cyrus so beloved by such a wide audience?  I can sort of forgive the female audience, ages 6-14, but why is it that I hear strains of "Party in the USA" drifting from the row of frat houses every weekend?  How is it that the dudes living a floor above me, the fifth-year seniors who like to "get sh**ty" in their free time, spend their Saturday nights drinking to Miley's latest hit?*  Do their testicles sling shot back into their bodies or what?  Is the American public so desperate for fun, danceable songs, and so musically illiterate, that Billy Ray Cyrus's 15-year-old, Disney-manufactured daughter is sufficient pop entertainment for legal adults?

I bring this up without bitterness or hatred for the young performer.  However, the only time I want to see or hear Miley Cyrus is when she's being mocked on The Soup.

More posting on actual music to come soon.



*Though the booze would help.

I'll Let You In On Something Secret

Don't let the title fool you. This was definitely not a secret.

In fact, I became the most envied person in Columbus last night.

(And had to fight off dozens of creepers trying to invite themselves to my apartment.)

Why, you ask? Oh, I'll tell you why.

Justin Pierre, lead singer of the band Motion City Soundtrack came to my apartment bearing goodies in the form of new tracks from their forthcoming album, My Dinosaur Life.

Wait... what?

HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?!

Justin is/was on/currently taking medical leave from The Dino Trail, a little promotional tour for their aforementioned album. He has played really random spots all over and you can really only find out about it through his Twitter. Thank God I finally caved and made one last week... (follow me! twitter.com/HollyWiller ...I have no idea how to work it, so it's good for a laugh.) But anyhoo... He played on the People Mover platform in Detroit on Wednesday and of course my very Detroiter boyfriend and huuuuuge MCS fan (No seriously, I think likes them more than he likes me.) was in attendance. He talked to Justin who said their next stop was our dear C-Bus. Being the dutiful boyfriend he is, he informed him that I lived here. Long story short: Justin told him to have me email him for a listening party. I did. Then Justin contacted me via twitter (totally favorited these tweets) and voila! A rockstar comes to my door!

Now we are best friends. (Not really, but a girl can dream.)

Unfortunately for Mr. Pierre, he was sick as a dog (and allergic to our cat, Esther aka Cat Benatar). No seriously, he was super sick. Like right-after-the party-he-went-straight-to-the-hospital-and-has-had-to-postpone-the-Dino-Trial-for-flu-like-symptoms-sick. But he was an absolute trooper and drank orange juice like a champ. I taught him my sweet show choir moves and he shared new tracks such as "Beekeeper" and "Her Words Destroyed My Planet". My personal favorite was "A Lifeless Ordinary." This is going to be an epic album, folks. No seriously, it sounds delicious.

And thus concludes the most random and awwweeeessssooommmmmee night ever.

Keep your ears open for My Dinosaur Life on January 19, 2010.

Rawr.

For more info on the glory that is Motion City Soundtrack, go to mydinosaurlife.com or motioncitysoundtrack.com

Concert Review: 10/19/09, Andrew Bird & St. Vincent

For those people who were not aware, October 19th was a good day for whistling. I spent the entire morning (and afternoon) trying to follow the sonorous, tuneful melodies of my favorite Andrew Bird songs as they lilted through my head in anticipation of the night's concert at the Southern Theater.

Andrew Bird is a native Chicago multi-instrumentalist who mixes the incredibly baroque melodies from his classical violin training with delta blues, pre-war jazz, and anthemic indie rock. He came to Columbus for promotion of his newest release “Noble Beast,” a song cycle noted to be inspired by everything from a crying child on an airplane to episodes of Planet Earth.

St. Vincent (fronted by guitarist/songwriter Annie Clark) started the night off right. The orchestration and guitar theatrics of her band echoed “Hot Rats”-era Frank Zappa, while her clever wordplay and vocal style suggested the raw power and beauty of Edith Piaf or Nina Simone. One of the highlights of her set was ‘Jesus Saves, I Spend;’ a comical tune referencing romance rather than religion. Ultimately, I was floored by her presence on stage. If you have a chance, see her: she will not disappoint!

Mr. Bird took the stage to an ambient violin loop, immediately segueing into ‘The Water Jet Cilice,’ a song that could have just as easily been found in an Ennio Morricone score as on the stage that night. He reached very far back into his catalogue, performing songs penned when he was just beginning his solo career. One such tune was ‘Sweetbreads,’ which referenced mad cow disease in the same breath as blinking neurons.

After Bird had finished with the majority of his solo set, Annie Clark came out to duet on a few songs. The atmosphere was so homey, it seemed as if the performers were singing in their living room, the audience curious voyeurs peering in through the window. The pair sang a new song of Bird’s about the sinking of the Lusitania.

Then St. Vincent’s band came out, and things got very heavy. The massive rocked its way through some of Bird’s more rousing songs; ‘Tables and Chairs’ and ‘Scythian Empires.’

For a final encore, Mr. Bird and Miss Clark took the stage once again, sharing a microphone and performing Bob Dylan’s ‘Oh Sister.’ The closer was certainly beautiful, but it was a very eerie way to end the evening. You could cut the sexual tension with a fork or a bride’s knife (to reference some of Bird’s own lyrics).

Photos courtesy of the Wexner Center's Flickr photostream.

Hi. I'm New.

Hi. I'm new. And really awkward. Um... musically, I mean.

Ok. I'm socially awkward as well... blame it on being an only child with nothing but a cornfield to play with.

But that's not the point.

All of my friends listen to "skinny-white-dude-so-hip-it-hurts" indie rock. Don't get me wrong, that is a majority of what I listen to too. But lately I've noticed that it's been a game to see who can find the most obscure, gritty, tragically hip band and claim it as their own.

I suck at games.

I've traversed through the rugged terrain of Pitchfork and Day Trotter trying to reign victorious, but the coolest thing I can find is Arcade Fire and apparently they've been around for a while. (That was a joke... get it? 'Cause they're... Ugh. I told you I was awkward.) So this is me giving up. My white flag is waving sheepishly and I am finally embracing how uncool my musical tastes really are.

I love Barbra Streisand.

Wow, it feels really good to say that.

I own my fair share of Babs' albums. (Color Me Barbra is my favorite) I know every word to every song in Funny Girl and yes, I sing it in the shower. There is really not much else to say about my obsession, except zomgiloveyoubarbra! But no seriously. She's like butta.

Why did that have to be so embarrassing? Is it any worse than admitting you love auto tune and Kenny Chesney? No, not really. In fact, admitting you like a raisin in a cowboy hat is a little harder to explain than Barbra. (Let me tell you, my entire high school woulda had lots of esplainin' to do! (Because I lived in the country and that's what everyone listens to. Sad, I know.))

So what if my 50 year old aunt owns the same albums as me. It's not going to "Rain On My Parade!" (It's a popular Streisand song, you wouldn't understand.)

More on my awkward musical obsessions to come.

But first, I must find my collector's addition of My Name Is Barbra.

I'm going to blast it with my windows open.

Reluctant Ambition

You may be astonished to learn that I am not always the straightlaced, button down wearing go-getter whose image I certainly project.*  Sometimes I get distracted from homework because of the toys (ex:  Yo Gabba Gabba) in my room, and sometimes, very occasionally, I watch television.  How could I stay away from a show titled "Killing for a Living?"**

In order to better sustain this beloved blog and protect its vitality from my lapses in productivity, I hereby assign myself a sort-of-project.  In addition to weekly posts on whatever musical thing strikes my fancy, I'll be posting regularly about two or three listening experiences.  These expeditions into music history will be randomly selected from my new book, 1,000 Recordings To Hear Before You Die.  If all goes well and dilligence prevails, this should be a fun way to, sigh, better myself. 

Wish me luck, or do me one better and cut my cable connection.

* I hope this is correctly interpreted as somewhat sarcastic.
**Don't get too excited; it's about lizards and tigers and other bitey creatures.  

Serenade Me, Mr. Cox

Wexner’s black box, the area behind Mershon’s thick curtain, was filled once again by indie music devotees of all ages on Sunday night. The masses were drawn this time by the lanky and amiable presence of Bradford Cox, the frontman of four-piece group Deerhunter. However, Cox is currently touring as his solo act, Atlas Sound, which recently released its second LP, Logos.

At our show, Cox was not dressed like this...too bad.

The Selmanaires opened with a less than inspiring and almost less than listenable set. Their whiny electronic (i.e., they had a keyboard) rock and the singer’s spontaneous arm flailing failed to please anyone in the audience; the Atlanta based band probably hopped the train that was carrying Cox out of Georgia and used the time to lazily write one song they could repeat for half an hour when “performing.”

No sitting for us!

Electronic, pseudo-psychedelic pop duo Broadcast came next. I must give them credit for persistence; there was time on stage to fill, and dagnabit, they were going to make noise the entire time! They never stopped playing, and Trish’s eerie monotone vocals were evenly matched by the video projected over and behind her. Although a disgustingly artsy video, a mixture of black & white tree limbs competing with neon color patterns, I believe that no concept is more acceptable than a bad, pretentious concept.

Broadcast's spooky Trish Keenan and compliant James Cargill.

Unfortunately for the eager audience and for Bradford, The Selmanaires were his backing band. Their paltry talent prevented Bradford from completely bringing his pieces to life. I can’t say I ever completely lost myself in the music. Regardless, it was pacifying to hear Logo’s more upbeat pieces, like Sheila and Walkabout, played hesitantly with a reassuring serenity. Bradford himself was utterly charming, the kind of guy you’d want at your parties or with you at the laundromat, and the show was redeemed by his enchanting solo encore. With a harmonica resting around his neck, and an acoustic guitar comfortable under his elongated fingers, he played a haunting but warm version of Quarantined, showcasing the fantastic voice he buries under production on records.

Though it wasn’t a mind-blowing show, I walked away from the Wexner as I almost always do: contented.

Bradford, you're a card.

The Flaming Lips and Cannabis Culture

The opening band Stardeath and White Dwarfs were about a minute into Black Sabbath's 'Sweet Leaf' when the pungent odor of marijuana wafted to me from across the LC Pavilion. It was the night of September 18, and all of the fearless freaks, punk rock acid casualties, and psychedelic-costumed fruits and body parts in Columbus were gathered in one place for a pivotal end-of-summer event. The Flaming Lips were in town to celebrate New Years in their special way; with confetti, laser pointers, giant hamster balls, and complete disregard for the fact that the New Year occurs between December 31 and January 1.

'Stardeath' played some very entertaining vaguely electronic rock and roll, ending with a cover of Madonna's 'Borderline,' a crowd favorite. I would definitely recommend picking up their album. Ultimately, though, everyone was there to see the Flaming Lips, and with reason. The Lips proceeded to get the entire place quaking under a bacchanalian sea of love and good vibes reminiscent of the Age of Aquarius, from their birth through a pulsing technicolor vagina on a projection screen to the opener 'Race for the Prize.'

Frontman Wayne Coyne professed the importance of pot several times throughout the concert, though it seemed to me that the proper way to enjoy the Lips would be a few micrograms of some lysergic bliss. Indeed, with bananas in the crowd and yetis flanking the band on stage, it seems that the Lips' live show may be the trippiest one around.

The band was on tour in support for their new LP 'Embryonic,' a rhythmic affair heavily influenced by krautrock bands CAN and Faust, as well as the psychedelic rock of Syd Barrett-era Pink Floyd. The Lips performed several new songs; the standout tracks were 'Silver Trembling Hands' and 'Convinced of the Hex.'

Of course, most of the concert were old favorites; the Lips aim to please. 'Pompeii am Götterdämmerung,' 'Enthusiasm for Life Defeats Existential Fear,' and 'Fight Test' (a new stop/start version which I had never heard before) were all in the setlist.

For this tour, the Flaming Lips were providing a special service to the fans. If you purchased a ticket, you were given a code which would give you access to a live bootleg of your concert. Unfortunately, Kliph Scurlock - the drummer - had a migraine and the band was wary of recording the show because their performance could have suffered. Lucky for all of us concert-goers, there are several devoted Lips fans which took the matter of recording the show into their own hands. See below:

"Enthusiasm For Life Defeats Existential Fear" The Flaming Lips HD 09/18/2009 from Jeremy Sewell on Vimeo.

Pitchfork, Please!

Lost, drowning, flailing in a sea of gently worn plaid, and separated from your friends who possess your hotel key. Do you whip out your phone and desperately text your vanished comrades? Do you find a festival authority to tattle on the 16-year-olds smoking the pot they pulled from day-glo orange fannypacks? Or do you plug your nose and gallantly climb to the top of the line of Porta-Potties for a better vantage point?

Tall trees: alternative to toilets

If you answered C (*see footnote*), you have the skills to survive Pitchfork Music Festival. Or, you might have an unhealthy fixation with public toilets.

The Dutchess & The Duke... fun for 15 minutes or so.

Being a first-time attendee this summer, I imagined Pitchfork’s gathering of Midwest music snobs as a magical melee bursting with heavenly noise and radiating an aura of pure coolness. Pretty quickly, though, the irritating truths heavily sank in, anchoring my cognitions to reality. The overdose of plaid shirts and those annoying, little-kid, tiny caps paired with oversized black sunglasses pushed my peaceful tolerance of stereotypes to its limit. Beer came in tiny plastic cups and your ensuing tab cost more than what you paid for your ticket; fortunately, staying away from beer meant avoiding the huge, amorphous lines for what was not enough toilet but way too much smell.

Feral children of Union Park

Really though, I was pleasantly surprised with Pitchfork’s smooth operation. Getting in was quick – and though you’ll never sneak in your Dasani with the cracked seal, have no fear if you want to bring some herbal inspiration. Except for a few standouts, the crowds win the anonymity contest, but were easygoing, generally polite, and appropriately sized for Union Park. Also, shows actually started on time. Except for some bigger names toward the end of the days – i.e. Grizzly Bear and the headliners – my locations on the lawn weren’t overly claustrophobic and came with pretty good views.

Go vision, go!

The food. The food, the food, the food. It was delicious. It doesn’t matter that I ate off my chest and the shoulders of my compatriots, standing in a tiny circle with food balanced precariously on paper plates. The fried vegetables were my favorite, but the fritters and spicy chicken cube things) were pretty mindblowing.

Of course, it’s all about the music. The way the stages were scheduled, I never had a problem choosing who to see. I was a little disappointed with the headliners: The National was anticlimactic, and the testosterone fueled aggressiveness toward balloons dampened my enjoyment of The Flaming Lips. However, the Lips played lots of their famous standards and won points for entering the stage through a giant vagina. Women’s droning guitar work was a major highlight, along with Ponytail’s spastic energy and Grizzly Bear’s haunting selections from Veckatimest. Seeing Doom (or at least, his mask) was a biggie as well.

Besides a few really obnoxious performances (though I’m not surprised I’m not crazy about a band called “F***ed Up”), Pitchfork was a blast. And with the money you save on the cheap tickets, you can maybe even afford a hotel room instead of sleeping in your friend’s apartment crawlspace.

Oh, yeah – and Chicago is really cool. Observe:




***I really did see a smelly man running across the Porta-Potties.***

Hope You Didn't Cheat...

...because this has all been a test. We haven't been...not posting, we've been testing the bounds of your loyalty. And since you've checked back today, like the faithful followers you are, you get the complete forecast for tonight's meeting (Aviation Building, room 201, 7:30). I predict music trivia based on The Daily Chord, with a 100% chance of prizes. Also watch out for blistering music industry discussion winds in the controversial topic area. Finally, don't forget your umbrella, because it's raining project meetings!

It's a twister, it's a twister!

If you show up tonight, I promise to drop all annoying weather metaphors.

At last week's meeting, we were graced by the presence of the MME program's newest addition, Mark Rubinstein. The friendships he made as a professional musician has led to a lengthy and varied career, and his advice is obviously given from the viewpoint of a real musician. Though to be successful in the music industry, you might have to move to a big city and grudgingly make "some money to throw" at your product, Mark believes you should and can create a product that reflects your true artistic intentions.

Mark (rubenstein.11@osu.edu) is obviously a great go-to guy for recording, performance, and industry questions. And if you drop by his office in 307 Mershon, or take one of his audio courses, remember to ask him about his time as 14-year-old drummer for The Rejects. I'm sure he's got some stories.

Picture of Mark nabbed from cool write-up at http://www.sacurrent.com/special/story.asp?id=68436

Regularity: It's What's For Dinner

Just one of the fabulous bands you'll learn about this year.

Well, hello there! I apologize for the current condition of our woozy little blog, on which posting is about as regular as the digestive tracts at Shady Lane Retirement Village. Coming out of hibernation, it is yawning and sputtering as it awakens for a sparkling new year. I assure you, soon the posting will as predictable as the line at the Shady Lane bathrooms after oatmeal night.

Don’t worry, we MEISAnites (MEISAnians? MEISA-mates? MEISAmanics? whatever) are equipped with plenty of witty observations on the music scene and an infinite list of stellar recommendations; we just didn’t want to shock your systems with too much at once. I’ve melted some brains before with overloads of tremendous music, and I just can’t handle the guilt. Or the cleaning afterward.

I hope there isn’t a real Shady Lane Retirement Village, or I’m going to receive a lot of shakily written, oatmeal smudged letters addressed to “the whipper snapper on that consarned intra-web.”

Anyway, look out this evening for my impressions of Pitchfork Music Festival as a long-time follower, first-time attendee.

Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot...

...and never brought to mind? Not if that acquaintance owes you money, or if he or she is a member of MEISA. It's a new year, and new opportunities abound at the Music Entertainment Industry Student Association.

Check out the info session tomorrow (Tues. 29) at 7:30 in room 201 of the Aviation Building. Drop by to see the people you missed over the summer - or didn't miss, but keep your mouth shut - and to meet the fresh faces that I assure you, will be absolutely flooding our meeting and bursting (not literally) with excitement. We'll go over the slightly different project structures and the very slightly new requirements for writing on the MEISA blog.

Pre-reqs: 1) Have a computer? 2) Speak a living language? 3) Like music?

Congratulations, you qualify. More details to follow on what you get to do.

Remember, the Aviation Building, on W. 19th, is not where we met last year. It is fairly near by, though. And don't get excited; the Aviation Building does not actually fly, hover, or float.

Hope to see everyone from last year as well as some new people!

Lucky New Year Dragon And Dragon Guy Say, "Happy New Year!"

P.S. If you're bored, you can hear the song that's been stuck in my head for obvious reasons - listen to "Un Dia." http://www.juanamolina.com/inicio.php?idioma=ENG

Girls in the eighties

http://www.mediafire.com/?mmx5dzmjith

its free on their myspace, so its free here

also from their myspace...."Sounds Like: high school bedrooms"
that's all that really needs to be said.. a bunch of teenagey exuberance and melodies that won't leave you alone

better than wavves

Artist Workshop

Thanks to both the professional speakers and those who attended MEISA’s artist workshop. The message was clear: if you have a passion for music, you will find a way to work with it.

Our brilliant speakers were:

Mark Himmel of Relay Recording, who explained the basics and answered technical questions about home recording. Mark discussed both the possibilities and the limitations of home recording, and got all sound engineer-ish when he whipped up this graph:

Look at Mark go!

Max Lewis and Ben Miller of Central City Recording, who outlined what professional recording involves, how to set expectations and fully prepare for a session (i.e., have everything written and practiced, and not expecting too much), how to be most productive during a session, and explained that singing into Central City’s answering machine will NOT get you professionally recorded for free.

Max Lewis, looking thoughtful.

Jacob Wooten of Motion Productions, who strongly emphasized the basic principles of organization, politeness, accomplishing what you say you will (which can be pretty creative, like his impressive fliers), and always whipping up a quick contract just in case. Also, make sure you know your audience and choose a venue accordingly. It’s all to create the best show possible - listen to this guy; he has been promoting shows and managing performances since he was fourteen.

Jake has organized everything, from tribute concerts to a fetish party.

Chris DeVille of Columbus paper alive!, who recommends getting to know music journalists, asking their preferences, and giving them plenty of lead time before you need to be written amount. He also says it’s helpful to label your music with names of other artists to which your music is similar. Also, don’t clutter their inboxes with attachments, and don’t hover over them at concerts and events while you’re networking…it’s annoying.

Chris, maybe in the process of telling us which are huge dicks of the musicians he's interviewed.

A huge thanks to Bassel, who organized the workshop. Thanks, Bassel! I'm sure that next year MEISA will present more speakers, more information, and maybe some food...

Look, there he is!

Brazillian Music Up YOUR )(!!

There are two Brazillian bands I'd like to share today. I can listen to them even though I don't know enough Portuguese for the lyrics to make sense. I've only heard what's available on Grooveshark, but I dig enough songs, and appreciate their style. So if you're tired of hearing songs in English check these out.

Os Mutantes.
Or the Mutants. They were the most notable 60's psychedilic act in Brazil. Active from 1966 to 1978 the trio consisted of brothers Sérgio Dias Baptista and Arnaldo Baptista with frontgirl Rita Lee. In that time, they've come out with 8 albums, only six of which were released in their time. I think their greatest sucesses were their first two records, and the rest slowly waned in spirit. Now the band is active again, but in name only - Sérgio is the only original member present.

Back in their day though, they have wonderfully mixed the psychedelic sound of the US and UK with Brazilian tropicalia. Tropicalia itself was beyond music. A mix of art, political messages, rock'n'roll, and various Brazilian styles (samba, Portuguese fado...). You can call it the Brazilian hippie movement against the millitary rule present at the time.
Os Mutantes offer the transition of psychedilic tunes into the unfamiliar Brazilian tropics. And that's why they're cool. Highly regarded by figures like Kurt Cobain and Beck too. And pitchfork said of them, "when done right, weird sounds really good."
Just listen.



Cachorro Grande.
That means Big Dog, and I can sort of I see why. These guys are a bit more modern. But they draw straight from the classics: Beatles, Stones, The Who and you guessed it... Os Mutantes. After the mutants, they don't seem as pompous and epic, but they have their style and do what they do well. The shabby singer Beto Bruno in his John Lennon style cap can sure whine, howl, scream to the rhythmic riffs. I guess he's the dog. But that varies from song to song. They've won awards for Best New Artist and Best Live performance on Brazilian MTV, and their music is far what's pop in Brazil, so can tell that means something.



It's harder to appreciate either of these bands if you don't speak Portuguese, but at least now you now about them.

The Heliocentric Worlds of Sun Ra

Since today or tomorrow is Sun Ra's earth arrival day (his birth certificate was destroyed in a fire), I figured that there should be a post providing a synopsis of the life and times of this great man. He was born Herman Poole Blount, later changed his name to Le Sony'r Ra, and essentially redefined jazz and created his own philosophy which was equal parts afrofuturism and egyptian mythology.

Ra went to school for music education, so he could ostensibly become a band director. However, somewhere in the midst of his schooling, he had an epiphany; beings from Saturn communicated with him and told him that he would "speak and the world would listen." From then on, he devoted himself to becoming a bandleader, using his formidable skills at the piano. He began composing ragtime and swing music. He attempted to become an übermensch, not sleeping and transforming the first floor of his family home into a venerable orchestral hall.

In the 1940 and 1950ss, he began gigging around Chicago, and playing his own originals. His personal philosophies grew from his time in Chicago, encompassing various pre-biblicical literature and the occult. He founded a book club to discuss the strage ideas that interested him, and began to dress in inane ostentatious costumes - vaguely egyptian styled in order to reflect his new ethos. His entire group - the Sun Ra Arkestra - would soon wear them. He founded his own label El Saturn Records, which would go on to press a majority of Sun Ra's records (as an aside, some of the El Saturn records are made with hand painted album covers and hand labeled records; if you manage to find one of these for sale cheap, jump on it because they are very hard to come by).

In the 1960 and 1970s, Sun Ra began experimenting with free jazz (think Ornette Coleman, Albert Ayler, Anthony Braxton, and so on) and was one of the first jazz musicians to embrace synthesizers and keyboards. Sun Ra and the Arkestra moved to Philadelphia and were well-liked by their neighbors. They toured the West Coast for the first time and two films were made about the Arkestra and philosophies of Sun Ra. One was called "Space is the Place," and was a blaxploitation film - very good, very funny; excellent soundtrack. The other, more esoteric and harder to wrap one's head around, "A Joyful Noise" was released in 1980, and was more of a dossier about Ra's ideals.

Sun Ra and his Arkestra worked relentlessly, practicing and composing daily until 1993, when Ra contracted a fatal case of pneumonia, eventually succumbing on May 30, 1993. Fortunately, though the Arkestra continues to tour with new and old musicians, so people can learn about the wonderful music of Ra even today.

Sun Ra's entire career marked an incredibly stylistic progression, from ragtime and swing to bebop to free jazz to ambient music with free improvisation. In addition, he embraced a DIY attitude before any of the punk rockers adapted it for their own devices. Ra himself booked shows, set up tours, recorded his band, made album art, and released the records. He's really just a phenomenon!

Major Works:

If you want to start listening to Sun Ra, get the album with the longest songs you can find. That, or a live recording. "Live at Montreaux" is particularly good, as is "Jazz in Silhouette," or "Space is the Place (The Soundtrack to the Film)."

If you like films, go see "Space is the Place," or "A Joyful Noise."

If you want to learn more about the impact of Sun Ra on history, check out John F. Szwed's book "Space is the Place: The Lives and Times of Sun Ra"

Travel the space ways!

The Meat Puppets are Coming?

My Goodness

Sh*t You Kids Should Check Out: Harlem

While they finally did get their Pitchfork review the other day, Harlem, and last year's "Free Drugs ;)" didn't get nearly enough attention. It's hard not to be smitten by Harlem (who are from Austin, Texas), with their sweet garagey riffs, and "cooler-than-you" attitude. Sure this is recycling; Harlem aren't doing anything new.. but they have a song called "Psychedelic Tits", and "South of France" was one of the best tracks of 2008. Harlem waste absolutely no time, and come straight at you with hooks like "I hate every book I ever read", and "I'm into sh*t that you don't even knoooooow" For a band that fits nicely into the current fuzzy scene that's starting to overtake independent music, I don't understand why people aren't pissing themselves over Harlem.

Myspace

I Really Shouldn't...But I Will.

Here is a list of songs that, for whatever reason, I probably shouldn't listen to, but do anyway. There are annoying relics of the past that have weaseled their way into my heart, a few songs that sound bad on paper but good on my stereo, and also a few quality songs that unfortunately provoke certain bothersome personal reactions.

“Toxic” by Britney Spears – Once upon a pop star: Britney’s gone through her ups and downs, and she’s never been known for virtuosic qualities as a singer. Although she proves herself a terrible stewardess in the music video (did those passengers ever get their peanuts and plastic cups of diet coke?), she nonetheless succeeds in making the perfect guilty pleasure song.

“The First Time We Fall In Love” by The Kinks – Anyone who has ever fallen love understands the devastating force of falling out of love, outlined by The Kinks as the inevitable follow-up. You’d expect such subject matter to crush you once again, but The Kinks' playfully melodramatic delivery only warms an icy heart.


“Bumble Bees” by Aqua – Danish-Norwegian and shamelessly radiating the 1990’s, Aqua made dance-pop that cemented my youth. Unwilling to completely abandon a piece of my past, I inexplicably revel in the fact that the dirtiness of lyrics like “Bumble bee, bump into me/ I am in for pollination…I’m in need for your donation” is masked by cutesy Eurodance electronic pop and entomological analogies.


“Spread” by Outkast – Outkast isn’t talking about buttering toast. Not literally, anyway. Ideas like “Don’t want to come on too strong/ But I’ll play in you all day long” could theoretically send every classy, self-respecting girl running to the nearest chastity belt outlet store, or at least provoke an ethically based scoff. Luckily, the clever cheekiness of the lyrics overshadows grody undertones. Plus, no one could blend a more effective mixture of electric organ, trumpet, and unzipping noises than Andre 3000 and the gang.

“Bad Touch” by Bloodhound Gang – Not surprisingly, another song on this list is both from my youth and blatantly sexual. “Bad Touch” doesn’t quite make the iPod cut anymore, but I still have a fondness for the four and half minutes of clever sex-related puns and metaphors.


“Eyeball Skeleton” by Eyeball Skeleton – Two little kids and their dad start a band at home, singing the material written by said children: the very idea holds the potential to release an audio plague upon the land’s innocent listeners. Unfortunately, I have been infected ever since hearing it on the radio, and I love to yell obnoxiously along with the kids and to draw my interpretation of the Eyeball Skeleton. I must admit that the cheap drum machine and the quirky little guitar riffs provide a background for yelling that’s almost as cute as the home-drawn cover art.

“Mama Look A Boo Boo” by Harry Belafonte – This song is proof that anything cushioned by a calypso beat is mercilessly pleasant. Utterly despairing lyrics like “I wonder why nobody don’t like me/ Or is it because I’m ugly?” seem almost inspirational when sung by Harry Belafonte, best known for "Jump In the Line" as featured in Beetlejuice.


“At Last” by Etta James – Etta James is a whole lotta woman, and there is nothing wrong with her earthy, sensuous performance of this classic love song. However, there is something wrong with me: after listening once, I can’t prevent myself from singing my own painful interpretation over the next few weeks every time I feel womanly.

“Tiger Phone Card” by Dengue Fever – Dengue Fever makes music that is both catchy and melodically rich, with a Cambodian twist. The only negative aspect of this song is the power it holds over me. Whenever I listen to it, I get the dangerous urge to do psychedelic dances on my bed wearing panties and a t-shirt, imagining my room with shag carpeting and paisley wallpaper.


“Funky Town” by Lipps, Inc. – OK, so this song has no musical motivation. Someone ordered a watered-down two minutes of disco, perhaps to motivate dancers to leave the club at closing time. Or the frustrating repetition of the meaningless lyrics was designed for teaching English to glamorous pet parakeets. Regardless, it still makes me dance, and it also reminds the comatose blonde in the hilarious movie Brain Candy. Someday I will make it to Funky Town, and my days will be spent in funky, funky bliss.



That's enough for this week. Enjoy, but use these songs with extreme caution.