Thank You for the Music, 2005
Click the links for more info. In no particular order:
Benjamin Diamond
The Egg
Saint Etienne
DJ Kicks + !K7 Records
My Morning Jacket
King Creosote
Iron and Wine
Antony and the Johnsons
Nortec Collective
Kinky
Los Amigos Invisibles
Tetine
Ojos de Brujo
Juana Molina
Delia Gonzales and Gavin Russsom
Caribou
Royksopp
M83
Andy Votel
Kings of Disco (Pal Joey + Dimitri Paris) / Kings of House (MAW)
The Decemberists
Spoon
Arctic Monkeys
She Wants Revenge
Kings Of Convenience
Ryan Adams
Aqualung
Boozoo Bajou
The Glimmers
Annie
Blossom Dearie
Devendra Banhart
Derrick Carter
Matias Aguayo + Kompakt Records
Madlib + Stones Throw Records
Prefuse 73
Gus Gus
Kill Memory Crash + Ghostly International
Telepopmusik
New Order
Gang of Four
Marianne Faithfull
PJ Harvey
Scott Walker
John Peel
New York, Chicago, Detroit, Berlin, Bergen, Paris, London, Manchester, Barcelona, Monterey, Tijuana
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Save the Children, We’ll be hungry later…
In America, nothing is more sacred than the children. Everything in this country has been child-proofed into banality, including my job.
Yet, when the children are busy birthing babies in dumpsters and shooting each other in school, are they really worth saving? Specially considering our dwindling fuel supply and natural resources.
Unless…
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Save the Children, We’ll be hungry later…
In America, nothing is more sacred than the children. Everything in this country has been child-proofed into banality, including my job.
Yet, when the children are busy birthing babies in dumpsters and shooting each other in school, are they really worth saving? Specially considering our dwindling fuel supply and natural resources.
Unless…
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Under the Minstrel Tow
Is there really a secret society of indignant, humorless, fellow black power brokers, including but not limited to Cosby, Oprah, and Sharpton out to destroy Dave Chappelle’s career and life?
Or is this just the latest round of friendly fire in the guerrilla marketing/viral publicity war for our souls?
Whatever it is, it keeps popping up in my email box – so much, I’ve started second guessing myself, aloud. My jaded instinct suspects propaganda aloft. My bloodthirsty inner Che pines for a coup. Dare I dream of LA style riots?
Either way, it speaks to a finely-media-attuned ear. The vernacular of high-end PR has hijacked the American imagination. The concept of “the spin” has become the assumed, unspoken context in public discourse. We have acquired a love/hate distaste for photo-ops and sound bites. Dee-Lite sang “Convenience is the enemy,” but no one listened. At any moment we could bite the hand that feeds us. But we don’t. We just click “forward” and infect our friends with theories about rumors about conspiracies. That’s entertainment.
http://www.chappelletheory.com
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The Diner on the Corner
Finally ate at Tom’s Diner, after 3 months in the neighborhood. It was an impulse, now or never. A few Japanese tourists snapped photos of the Seinfeld memorabilia on the walls.
The service was quick. The soda flat. 
The price cheap. The lighting bright; the presentation nice. The burger and onion rings less so, but still “diner-good.”
Part of the way home, T + I hummed the Suzanne Vega/DNA tune. I thought of the guys in the mailroom at Motown in Hollywood, junior’s first “industry gig,” via UCLA in 1991. Steve “Silk” Hurley remixing the Pointer Sisters? “Trust me, you’ll love it. The House sound is it.” This was of course, before moving to Chicago two years later.
Tonight was clear, mild, good for sauntering down upper Broadway, stoned, belly-full, happily 36, single, blathering “about nothing…”
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Sluggin fer Jesus
The end is nigh.
At least if the state of American cinema is any indication. At the box office, Miserablism reigns supereme – the two most compelling love stories are the jungle fever between a lusty ape and an ambitious starlet, and the hokey-pokey between two randy, blue-balled outback buddies. Hardly pillars of Chris-tee-un society.
As we slouch toward the Mayan end of linear time in 2012, the leading imperial power in the world is queueing en 
masse, paying the inflated price of admission to behold contradictory projections – one, beastly hubris astride the apex of monumental modernity, futily sluggin’ at the jet-fueled windmills of its over-reaching mind; the other, revolutionary, pioneering spirit broken, seeking down-low comfort in inhospitable environments once thought tamed. In both scenarios we applaud anti-heroes propelled toward the inevitable tragedies of their misguided hearts. “No happy endings/just a message to depress.”
Somewhat anti-heroically misguided ourselves, Terre, Jared and I had an orphan holiday. We packed a few bowls, ate a few mushrooms and packed ourselves into a megaplex on 42nd street (the one with the convenient outdoor smoking balconies) for some blockbuster monkey business.
Over 3 hours, we sat like kings, in plush seats, smack in the middle of the theatre and Peter Jackson’s palm, deep in surround-sound, technicolor reverie - jumping, sighing, gasping, laughing and crying as the monolithic brother from Skull Island tried to have a quiet interborough moment with his colonial blue-eyed honey from Manhattan island. Millions of dollars later, the most enduring, special effect is its reminder of “all those relationships that just won’t work.” In a city of hustlers haunted by 9/11, the ape’s final download spiral is achingly sublime. Where do you go when you’ve gone as far as you can go? “Deny that happiness is open as an option/And disappointment disappears over night.“ 
Longo’s “Men in the Cities” blips in the back of my mind. After the movie, we raced through the fog and rain to a bar on 9th Avenue for a quick drink before splashing and dashing to the subway and back to my place to order Chinese food and dance around to Annie’s DJ Kicks mix.
As a bright, synchronized, electrified antidote to this incoming apocalyptic zeitgeist – consider Dayton, Ohio’s Williams family affirmational Christmas light spectacular. WWJD? Jesus would’ve rocked, that’s what.
In Mexico, a volcano erupts, children tie their Christmas wishes to balloons.
A year ago, the first of a record number of hurricanes sent Xmas sunbathers running for cover. One survivor, a tsunami-stranded baby hippo, warmed up to a century-old male tortoise.
Seasons’ tidings…
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So, this is Xmas?
Xmas Eve. At home, as a kid, this is the big Catholic Latino event. Late dinner, midnight mass, presents. Last time I went home and to a midnight mass, in Hollywood of all places, I wound up having sex with one of the choir singers at an afterhours club. His partner didn’t seem to mind. Ah, men.
These days, meaning the last few years as an adult, I have found myself staring in the mirror, puffy eyed, toxic from obligatory merry-making. Obligatory because by year’s end, the toil having taken its toll on my soul, tempation gets the better of me – pleasure is my due! Consequence be damned. Specially if someone else is picking up the tab – an increasingly recurrent motif of late. What’s an aging party boy to do? Sell out to the highest bidder – until fame comes knocking, of course.
Saturday night in the big, strangely balmy 45 degree city. Windows open, the sounds of the low-key streets in the room. On the tube: 24 hours of Christmas Story.
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Bed Bath + Beyond…
Friday was the third and seemingly final day of the strike. No contract, but workers are returning to the job. Negotiations continue. At question -jail union leaders? Workers lost 2 days for every day missed; the city’s fines probably broke the local’s bank. At least everyone can get back to our last minute Xmas shopping.
I slept through most of it.
Woke up hungover in a juvenile way, vomiting, head spinning.After the free booze fest at the office party and APT, walked up to blinking, barren Times Square, making late night phone calls, pausing to piss in side street phone booths off 9th Ave. At 50th street, gave up and threw my self in a cab, counting the blocks to my own bed, bath and beyond…*******
- MC 900 Foot Jesus
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Everything’s Gone Mean + Green
All I know is, the streets of New York make you strut. Whatever gait got you here, it will soon mutate into a strain, however vague, of that Saturday Night pimp stroll. On mornings like today, walking to work down Broadway, by the Dakota, past the sexy out of town christmas tree vendors, and all the tall women in wrap-around sunglasses that could be models “slash” escorts (a la Chez Brigitte); the temptation and promise of Midtown crowned by sunlight breaking through clouds, New Order chanting “Seems like I’ve been here before,” in my earphones, I am reminded of every cheesy reason from Holly Golightly to Studio 54 that moved me to move here. The hustle never wanes. We are forever, as another Upper West Sider sang, starting over, improvising, adapting.
I walked past LB, the publicist that hired me for the Bacardi gigs that jump-started this whole Ana Carolina cross-over star-making vision quest. I thought about stopping and showing her the cover; then figured she’d already 
seen and had some critique at the ready. So I, safe behind my wrap-around sunglasses, just kept walking.
Today’s the office party. I’m working a Brokeback Mountain look - white cowboy shirt with a red and blue trellis flower print, purple pearlized snap buttons and french cuffs – scored at the Village thrift for $3 before leaving Chicago in 1996; the oval GEORGE copper namesake buckle I got as a farewell present from the psychic at the Crystal Corner in the Sunset Junction when I left Silverlake in 1993; a pair of black, low-rise crushed velvet jeans. Terre came over for our morning coffee “ritual” and approved. In keeping with our queer urban theme, the party is at a swank bistro in the uber-hip Meat Packing District; in the triangle building once home to J’s Hangout and the Hellfire Club. I emailed our office manager – “Er, something about that intersection..” He replied,”LOL! Seems like just yesterday…” I began to write back, “Was that you,” but decided to bite my tongue while I still had one – just in case I need it later, after the open bar.
Tonight, Sal, Adam and Brennan “Mean and Green” are hosting drunken debauchery at APT. Invited Tetine to come down and check it out, meet up, say hi to Sal. Just received their self-released “Lick my Favela” cd, will give it a spin while I wrap things up for the week. Also invited the office to APT after dinner – worlds collide. BYO lampshade.
Happy holidays, y’all.
#
Everything’s Gone Mean + Green
All I know is, the streets of New York make you strut. Whatever gait got you here, it will soon mutate into a strain, however vague, of that Saturday Night pimp stroll. On mornings like today, walking to work down Broadway, by the Dakota, past the sexy out of town christmas tree vendors, and all the tall women in wrap-around sunglasses that could be models “slash” escorts (a la Chez Brigitte); the temptation and promise of Midtown crowned by sunlight breaking through clouds, New Order chanting “Seems like I’ve been here before,” in my earphones, I am reminded of every cheesy reason from Holly Golightly to Studio 54 that moved me to move here. The hustle never wanes. We are forever, as another Upper West Sider sang, starting over, improvising, adapting.
I walked past LB, the publicist that hired me for the Bacardi gigs that jump-started this whole Ana Carolina cross-over star-making vision quest. I thought about stopping and showing her the cover; then figured she’d already seen and had some critique at the ready. So I, safe behind my wrap-around sunglasses, just kept walking.
Today’s the office party. I’m working a Brokeback Mountain look - white cowboy shirt with a red and blue trellis flower print, purple pearlized snap buttons and french cuffs – scored at the Village thrift for $3 before leaving Chicago in 1996; the oval GEORGE copper namesake buckle I got as a farewell present from the psychic at the Crystal Corner in the Sunset Junction when I left Silverlake in 1993; a pair of black, low-rise crushed velvet jeans. Terre came over for our morning coffee “ritual” and approved. In keeping with our queer urban theme, the party is at a swank bistro in the uber-hip Meat Packing District; in the triangle building once home to J’s Hangout and the Hellfire Club. I emailed our office manager – “Er, something about that intersection..” He replied,”LOL! Seems like just yesterday…” I began to write back, “Was that you,” but decided to bite my tongue while I still had one – just in case I need it later, after the open bar.
Tonight, Sal, Adam and Brennan “Mean and Green” are hosting drunken debauchery at APT. Invited Tetine to come down and check it out, meet up, say hi to Sal. Just received their self-released “Lick my Favela” cd, will give it a spin while I wrap things up for the week. Also invited the office to APT after dinner – worlds collide. BYO lampshade.
Happy holidays, y’all.
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Solstice
“No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky,”- EB White, 1948
Winter Solstice. Second day of the strike. Bright, windy, cold, clear. Decided not to walk to work. Shared a cab through Central Park with two other people- one of them a school administrator and lifelong Democrat. Like most New Yorkers after 9/11, she bought Bloomberg’s industrious pitch. Her beloved city was in shambles and she wanted it fixed. 
Billionaire Mayors come, first to mind, then to Gracie Mansion. She was a lithe, sharply-featured Jewish woman in her late-50’s with grey shoulder-length hair pulled back and up into a loose, sporty tail. She and her girlfriends have a tradition: each time one of them turns 60, they all go hiking in a foreign country together. This year, they’re off to India for the holidays, which led her to ask the cab driver his ethnicity – Morrocan. “I could never go there, could I? They don’t like Jews there, do they?” The driver politely protested, insisting his country was as cosmopolitan as the self-proclaimed Center of the World we called home. We disagreed about the strike, with due politesse. I found myself waiting for her to ask about my nationality, but she never did.
I sipped my coffee, eavesdropping and texting the office as the cab curved over the slopes, past people walking to work. 
We exited on 57th then pulled up in front the Ed Sullivan theater under the David Letterman marquee. The other man who didn’t say much and I paid our flat rate – $20, said goodbye then stepped out of the cab and onto Broadway, without receipts.
The cab ride home, I rode shotgun with a husky Senegalese driver. He was playing a CD. “Qui est l’artist? Comment s’apelle ce musique?” I asked. He said things I didn’t even try to remember. We exchanged a few more bon mots, listening to the catchy hybrid of African hip hop. We headed north on 5th Avenue, past the Playboy office in the Crown building on 57th St. where I shared an elevator to a rooftop party with Oscar Dela Hoya. “Nice to see another EasLos person here,” I winked. Even though Silverlake is, like so totally on the West side of the river.
Our third fare, a stocky WASPy 30-something flagged us down from the middle of the avenue, traffic swerving and honking around him as he leaned in the window – “85th/West End?” “$15,” came the reply. As we wound through the park, the driver told us about a maid who spent $40 in transportation to make $80; and a Texas tycoon who tried to bribe him with $300 for a ride to Newark airport and out of Manhattan hell. I asked about receipts. “No more,” he exclaimed “they’re all gone!” He fished through his arm rest and turned up a couple crumpled scraps, one for $45. “Who wants this one?!”
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The Homeboy with a Thorn in his Side
For Fuego Magazine, Spring 2006
So, you’re a fading 80’s British Rock Star. You could retreat into English countryside obscurity and count your shillings. Or, if you’re former Smiths crooner Morrissey, you could pack your pomade and hair-hop the next jet to sunny El Lay. Planting his rusty spanner in Southern California’s fertile Chicano rockabilly underground, El Moz has been embraced, like the lovechild of Juan Gabriel and Chavela Vargas, by introspective homies struggling with catholicism, machismo and assimilation. Making claims like “I wish I was born Mexican,” on his “Oye, Esteban” tour has fanned the flames of aficionados like the Sweet and Tender Hooligans, a tribute/cover band fronted by Mexican American Jose Maldonado.
Playing to frenzied mobs in dive bars and conventions, Maldonado and company blur the lines between star and fan, and narrow the gap between Manchester and Montebello. Unlike El Vez and Culture Clash, however, los Hooligans are not in it for irony, satire or politics. With cojones and humility befitting fanaticos, they’re down for the catharsis the Smiths’ Mariachi-like music allows.
The phenomenon has been steadily gaining momentum and attention including many articles and two movies – Andrew “Spongebob Squarepants” Overtoom’s 2003 reality-based fantasia, My Life with Morrissey; and William Jones’s 2005 documentary, Is it Really So Strange. The latter ends with a haunting
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