(Yes—this is the album cover for “La Radiolina.”)
Wayne told us to “relish the motherfucking moment” last night because the treatment he’d received from police and security made it unlikely he’d feel like coming back. (I am paraphrasing after the quote.)
I hope we relished. (Three gold stars to the two women dancing in front of us during DJ Self’s ADD warm-up set. They did the Aunt Jackie, the Pop, Lock and Drop, the Lean Back, the Two-Step, you name it—all in sync with each other, the moment the song started, without pause.)
Ja Rule caught fire again, somehow.
Wayne eats more than rappers.
Whitney Houston—punch line M.C.
Digital sound will wear a motherfucker out.
And yes—Small Wayne is unfuckwithable. He brought a bonafide show, despite prison-style security cockblocking. Doubters will need to bring their sweetest sophistry to talk the people out of this one. Three girls said it with homemade flags, three black wife-beaters bearing the same words written out three times in silver ink: Greatest Rapper Alive (BACK); Weezy F. Baby (FRONT).
Good with SP, not so good with the abacus: David Banner, fresh off a song that requires numeracy, if not math skills, get totes blinded by his own science and takes the wrong number of kids to the wrong amusement park. Crooked Letter! One more goddamn kid and you'd have eighty-one! That would be NINE NINES. (Six Flags is three-friendly, at least.) This is an example of co-branding LOST 4EVER.
Earlier this week, the Boston Phoenix published a “list of 10 landmark albums that made indie rock.” There are excellent albums among these ten (and the twenty-five appended as Honorable Mentions), several undeniably great ones and a few that I would not be willing to listen to unless paid by someone in Dubai, instantly, while I slept.
The organizing principle doesn’t seem to be the one announced, though: these are albums made in the 1980s by people who mostly don’t sing so good. (No, I am not including Michael Stipe.) That’s a fine category, just as valid as self-similar R&B sung by geniuses. But aren’t there other albums that did more to set off the series of aesthetic jacks that led to the current sound of indie rock? “Pet Sounds” continues to seed new records, as do Gang of Four’s “Entertainment!” and Blondie’s “Parallel Lines.” (That list goes on—enjoy!)
In the other direction, is there a single band with a set of skills and preferences similar to those of The Minutemen (especially as heard on “Double Nickels”)? If so, I missed it. And beyond some of Paul Banks’s vocal tics, there is little trace of Joy Division in the indie rocks. (I often think people mean The Cure [included here] or New Order [not] when they say Joy Division.) Not surprising—JD were an idiosyncratic and sometimes difficult band whose influence is minor compared to say, that of Depeche Mode, who rank near Sonic Youth if we are counting spawn. The Smiths wrought much so we can’t gainsay their place, and they had that cool juju song about the bicycle seat.
Only several tax quarters later, I found the last word on “no homo.” Homohomohomohomo.
But do we know this Scott Boogie? Is it Storch? If so, the beat justifies his swagger. At least for July.
The website for Miranda July's new collection of stories, "No One Belongs Here More Than You."
(Photograph by Joel Fildes)
Mark E. Smith’s performance:
Keyboard amp: up.
Guitar amp: up.
Bass amp: down.
Jacket: back on.
Bass amp: up.
Keyboard amp: up.
Bass amp: up.
[Mouth: all directions, passim.]