Feeling stale with my music lately. I shouldn't be; in the past two weeks I've seen Radiohead (even the holy ones couldn't redeem arena concerts), Andrew Bird and First Aid Kit, which was easily the best of the three. So good, in fact, that I only want to listen to them live from now on. Rhye is offering some reprieve from this funk. Reminds you of Sade doesn't it?
Craving other stimuli, I'm eager to attend my roommate's modern dance performance tomorrow and Smuin Ballet Company's spring program the day after that. I'm also still reeling from watching this
AMAZING film, which pays homage to famed choreographer Pina Bausch. I
couldn't recommend it more.
Has a piece of music ever given you chills? I experience it often it seems. Usually an indicator that you're experiencing some serious earlightenment, amiright? Apparently this phenomenon has a name: musical frission. I read browsed through an article on it while I was working on some really important work-related work things.
Seabear member Sóley Stefánsdóttir released a solo album in 2011 and it appears to have taken a full year for it to float over from Iceland into my California ears. We Sink was worth the wait; I can only describe it as a boozy Ray Bradbury nightmare. But in a good way... Sit with that.
I love the simplicity of Theater Island, the last song on the album
Grimes is slaughtering the music scene with her latest album, Visions. Mostly because the music is totally radical, but also because the little lady who is Grimes, Claire Boucher from Montreal, is just so goddamn cool.
Exhibit A: As legend has it, Claire and a companion once built a 20 foot houseboat with plans to sail down the Mississippi River to New Orleans, a la Huckleberry Finn. A faulty motor and the Minnesota PD prevented them from getting too far, but what a weirdly wonderful adventure! Full story here.
Today you're apparently supposed to do something wild and fun, something you wouldn't do on a normal day. Supposedly, today doesn't really count; once midnight hits, this day will vanish, swallowed up in the calendar pages. While wild and fun sounds, well, wild and fun, the laundry situation at Casa de Bean is in dire straits. It's to the point where I'm considering just buying more underwear. So Leap Day will likely be had at the laundromat, where knitwear goes to die.
Slim's kicked off the SF Bluegrass Festival (though I'm fairly certain there is a perpetual bluegrass festival in this city, as there are for just about everything else; home brewing, punk swap meets, queer hip hop, oysters, vintage paper, fungi; really any niche activity that merits boozin and cruisin in the streets) with a foot-stomping old-timey show last Friday. I know next to nothing about bluegrass and definitely knew nothing about the band I went to see. But when a friend suggests you come out to hear his old high school buddies wail on the banjo, it's best to say "sure, why not?"
I had an incredibly good time - the Brothers Comatose are wildly talented. They seem to thrive in a live performance environment and the fact that they were clearly having an absolute ball made it all that much more fun for the audience. I've been singing their songs for the past four days and have no plans to stop. Sorry, coworkers. Helps that the guitarist is easy on the eyes. And check out his neat tambourine shoe!
Does it count as wanderlust if I just want to spend the rest of winter in this sweet, secluded cabin, reading books and breathing fresh air? It would be so much more enjoyable than waiting out the weather from a cubicle. This site will have to satiate me in the meantime.
Six more weeks of winter! The Marmota monax would never lie. Six weeks ain't so bad. Better than twenty years of snow......SEGUE!
I loves me some Regina Spektor. I can always come back to her music and get excited about it all over again. She's unapologetically adorable and relentlessly talented. And she has a genuine interest in the art of sound, which sounds obvious but is often rare. Take a day to get to know her. She doesn't disappoint.
I missed David Bowie's birthday. Forgot to send him a card, forgot to bake him a cake, forgot to steal a lock of his hair. Wait, what? Anyways, I'm five days late and now we'll never be best friends and he'll never write and perform a personalized rendition of Moonage Daydream at my funeral. Great, JUST GREAT.
This is what Bowie will call me if I forget his 66th next year.