Consequence of Sound

Oh, hey there.

So, turns out all this writing did me some good, eh?  I got a little gig writing for Consequence of Sound as a news writer.  I'll still be writing in here, but I'll be posting my articles here as well.

First news article drops tomorrow...

The National Archetype Expo

Tom Hashford works for the city, splits wood in his backyard, drinks only Budweiser from a can.  Friends and acquaintances always refer to him as “a real man’s man”. Fortunately he will have the opportunity to prove it at this year’s 8th Annual Archetype Expo held in the expanse of the entire Western Kentucky Valley this weekend.  

Launched in 2002 by 40-year old Ortho Chiltern and his company Eponymous Solutions LLC, The Archetype Expo as grown exponentially in the past years, incorporating over 4,000 categories and attendees from all over the world.  It is one of the most attended expos in the US, donning the official title A Real Expo’s Expo.

 Coming from humble beginnings, Ortho held the inaugural expo on his porch in his hometown of Search River, KY.  Awards handed out at the first expo were mostly given to girlfriend Vera, (A Real Neck Massager’s Neck Massager, A Real Know It All’s Know It All), his neighbor Lidell, (A Real Sonuvabitch’s Sonuvabitch) Duchess, (A Real Dog’s Dog), and Ortho himself, as he rattled off a list 40 categories long including Man, Dude, Bro, Volleyball Spiker, Chamois Utilizer, On-And-Off Boyfriend, and redacted Lidell’s Sonuvabitch award at the end, claiming famously “that’s what A Real Sonuvabitch’s Sonuvabitch would do.”

As word spread of this aggrandizing festival, more and more people wanted a shot at archetypal fame.  Chiltern removed himself from eligibility and set up a rigorous application process that included every applicant to provide corroborating essays, pictures, videos, and court documents proclaiming his/her eligibility, and organizing the information to fit on a sturdy card table, also to be provided by the applicant.

Now its 2010, card tables are replaced by 4,000 Eponymous Solutions sanctioned A Real Stage’s Stages®, Ortho’s porch replaced by an acreage the size of 40,000 football fields, and categories have been expanded to include: inanimate objects of all kinds, deities, historical figures, concepts mathematical, concepts philosophical, concepts unattainable, and new this year is the meta category, taking the Expo to new heights by allowing each category to have a supra category (e.g. A Real Dad’s Dad’s Dad).   This 4-month marathon of unanimous defining kicks off this Saturday.

Will Tom Hashford have the pluck to be awarded the coveted Man ribbon this year?  Competition is always stiff for that category, but Hashford returns this year with two ribbons pinned to his lapel from the 2009 competition: “A Real Hands At Ten And Two Guy’s Hands At Ten And Two Guy” and the much lauded “A Real Knows Exactly When To Stop A Hug Guy’s Knows Exactly When To Stop A Hug Guy”.   His dreams and many others now lay in the hands of sole judge Ortho Chiltern in what’s sure to be the best Archetype Expo yet.

by Jeremy Larson

A Funny Thing Happened To Me On The Way To The Local Record Store

Admittedly, I don't buy a lot of CDs anymore.  I used to, back before I could, well, press a button and in three minutes I'd own a cd.  I remember going to this dingy old record store (*edit* The Powerstation, thanks to Cody Rutter)  in my hometown of Whitewater, WI, which sadly I know doesn't exist anymore.  This owner, who looked like Dimebag Darrell on quaaludes, was in there with his giant dog (a requisite to own an independent record store, I assume) and I'd finger through the albums.  My first Metallica CDs were purchased there including  Kill 'em All, Metallica's first.  (The title of the album was an off-hand indictment of the record company who refused to use the snappier original title 'Metal Up Your Ass').  It's a no-remorse, galloping speed freak of an album, and certainly a far cry from what Metallica would become, what with the haircuts, the Napster debacle, the 'Re-Load', the live album with a symphony, and a litany of other inexcusable offenses to their fans (e.g. most words that have ever come out of Lars Ulrich's mouth).  Not a single metal-head in '83 could presage that bullshit. 

SO.   It would please me for you to imagine my excitement when I actually go a record store now.   I love the feeling, even though I come off like a poser.  I'm sniffed out instantly by not only dogs but the staff.  Any offhand comment about the not-so-recent Pavement reunion or J. Mascis' hair or how underwhelming the new Apples In Stereo album was is always met with minimum interest and maximum boredom.  My clothes are too thought out, my attitude anxious and not at all nonchalant.  I am an imposter.

SO. In all the post-coital glow and infatuation of seeing Foxy Shazam live the other week, I spent my hour break from work rushing across town to Shake-It Records for to purchase their new CD.  I had called Monday to ask if they had it in stock, just to be sure my deliberate circumventing of usual music acquisition methods were all for not not.  They guy who answered gave a confusing response, something about a "shipping order" and "released tomorrow but we don't have an order placed".  He put the phone down, talked to some other guys at the shop, and but then he said, "I assure you we'll probably have it in this week." 

SO. I'm in the store, looking at the new releases behind the counter.  When you go to any store looking for a certain item, there's an invisible halo that appears around it upon sighting, like those pencil-thin gold nimbi around saints in Italian Renaissance paintings.  I did not see that halo. 

'You guys got that new Foxy Shazam album in?’  Very casual but very weighted, like a suspicious boyfriend asking his girlfriend who that last text was from.

'Naw, we don't have it.  They have an exclusive arrangement with Hot Topic, and the record is only available there.'

I breathed and winced.

'Really? You're kidding me.'

'Nope.  Hot Topic.'

Hot Topic is the nadir of fashion, music, cultural aesthetic, and the apex of a commercialized cross-section of youth culture that, agreeably, we should attach an atomic bomb to and salute it off this plane of existence.  This mall-ready pre-fab shit-stain of a store feeds the pop-goth crowd morsels of tacky garbage too chintzy and and cringe-worthy to even be looked at ironically (e.g. spiked accessories, neon piercing insertions, graphic tees with Spongebob or Thrice (or quite possibly both) on them, still more trucker hats, etc...) 

SO.  This band that got its start in Cincinnati due in no small part to the local papers, local fans, and local record stores has now turned a cold shoulder to its roots in favor of a marketing strategy suited for the scientific opposite of at the very least my and record store guy's ethos.   It was no small stroke of bathos,  I’ll tell you that much, dear reader. 


Now,  I’m sure this is the workings of their record contract with The WB.  Metallica would have had some choice words to say about Warner Brothers.  Well, they would have until they sold-out too.  I usually don’t bandy that phrase about, the old cliche "sold-out",  because it’s often a too too toxic phrase that serves as an easy dismissal for an artist changing their sound, or exploring the gilded streets of pop music, or, indeed, signing to a major label. **(see footnote below).   But I use it with no small amount of reservation here.  This band sold directly out, and coming from someone who just recently fell in love with the band, to liking the fact that they were local, to seeing a thrilling live show, to actually wanting to go out and buy a record, to then realize that they sold their exclusive CD rights to Hot @(*&# Topic?  Its use is warranted. 


Usually when an indie band sells out you have time to reflect on their journey, their damn-the-man style or raw sound or their pluck and perseverance at getting “this far” and after you've come to the sad realization that they've succumbed to the machine they've raged so hard against, you hold up a framed photograph of the band from the hay day(sepia tone preferred) and dramatically turn it over on your bureau.  I barely had time to tell three people about this band before I realized they were no longer a part of an aesthetic that I enjoyed.  I look inward,  then, and wonder if I’m so immersed in the idea of acts staying plucky and independent that I can’t abide bands that all of a sudden grow to a point where they’re catching all the sun and casting a shadow over their former peers.

There was a great feature over a Pitchfork a month ago that really struck me.  It compared Lady Gaga and Joanna Newsom (!) and the way we view both acts.  I recommend reading the whole thing if that’s up your alley, but here’s a quote:

So whenever I hear complaints about new indie acts being predictable, bland, overly tasteful, or unambitious, I can't help thinking this might be part of the reason: That this scene may have started producing music the way some adolescents get dressed, corrosively self-conscious about any sign of unfashionable difference that opens them up to be mocked. At worst, you can wind up with a whole genre where the acts and the audience are both armoring themselves against standing out or embracing risks. You wind up reaching that weird provincial point where you're always cutting down the plant that grows higher than the others-- where the way you call for the music to be more interesting (or try to express what makes you more interesting) actually has the effect of making it tamer, less interesting.

Allow me to corrupt that metaphor a bit. 
SO.  Am I cutting down the good plant Foxy Shazam?  Yes.  Absolutely, the same way sports fans cut down Barry Bonds.  FZ mainlined steroids, booted up with a record deal, and all of a sudden is performing way out of its league.  It’s fun to watch Foxy Shazam go yard on every song of their new album, but inside I know I’m rooting for the drug that got them there.  Kill ‘em All, indeed.

Jeremy Larson, amateur writer and actor, searched around the store for another CD and instead bought a book. Feeling betrayed and bemused, he then went home, and purchased the new Foxy Shazam album from iTunes, wrote this write up, and is currently planning on taking a fishing trip to Lake Tahoe.   

**Lars Ulrich once said of Metallica, "Of course we sold-out.  We sold out every show on our tour."  One of many shreds of evidence to back up my aforementioned claim about Mr. Ulrich.

REVIEW: Chris Pureka - How I Learned To See In The Dark

Chris Pureka's had it with your bull.   You think you're so clever, don't you?  With your phones and pods and pads, and your clear expensive drinks, and your tweets and blogs [...] .    She does not have the patience to put up with your modern sensibility or your middle-class 'issues' because life is too full of itself far too short to cover everything up with glib sardonicism.  Get your heart on your sleeve and get earnest.  Ok.  I'm listening.

Northampton MA lets-have-a-seat-and-listen-closely singer Chris Pureka's third LP How I Learned To See In The Dark paws gently at the substance of  your melancholy until you're ready to acquiesce.  Pureka should be a welcome voice in playlists everywhere, for it is one without pretense, a growing commodity these days.  There's not much to think about, and more often than not, that is a wonderful thing.

"Wrecking Ball" out of the gate is an immediately catchy slice out of the americana singer/songwriter pie. Hints of blues, hints of alt-country, and beautiful orchestration (the dissonant electric guitar stings are choice) all make for a stand-out song a la Calexico.  Pureka is at her best here when she turns up the amps and lets the band play a little louder.  Her energy on "Broken Clocks" brings about the album's highlight.  Again, the orchestration and collaboration of the ensemble allows Pureka to be boosted by the energy of her backing band.  It works in spades.  "Broken Clocks" adds a welcome up-beat nature to an often down-trodden collection of minor-key torch songs, laments about expanse, distance, and the unfortunate fact that she's been running around and waiting in this void for a while.

Pureka's voice is rather innocuous, but its her economic melodies that breathe over her guitar playing that are worth remarking.  If there is a stand-out quality about Pureka, it is her subtle touch and ease on the guitar.  Her riffs are dynamic and gentle and fit precisely with the groove of the album.   Nothing is ever forced, nothing feels out of place, nothing jars your ears, no eyebrows get crooked.  There are very few surprises throughout the album, and when they come, they shine, but otherwise by about half-way through, you get Pureka's number and a sad feeling akin to "didn't we hear this song already?" By the time "Time Is An Anchor"'s maudlin and tired pre-chorus comes in crooning "you just don't know me at all",  I couldn't help but thinking that I actually kind of do.

It's not until "Damage Control" do we get a sense of her full potential as a solo artist without a drum kit holding her up.  Here she transcends mere sincerity and becomes vulnerable.  Guitar and voice come together and groove and connect with lyrics that balance passion and poetry.

Like many other right-minded individuals, I've lain in my bed, drank nameless booze, and listened to Ryan Adams' Heartbreaker and thought about life-choices and felt an amazing catharsis at the simplicity and sadness of it all.  Sometimes a cliche is not just a useless aphorism, but rather the core of something real.  Pureka writes and plays from her core and if you can put down your phone and stop checking facebook for a second and give her some time lying in your bed, you'll understand.   How I Learned To See In The Dark is an honest and direct record that sidles up to you, puts its arm around you, and leads away from whatever you think is important, walks you into a private, pastoral place, sits you down, and looks you in the eye for 50 straight minutes.  Adams analogy notwithstanding, this album doesn't need booze to succeed where Heartbreaker does.   How mature.  How peaceful.


How I Learned To See In The Dark is out now and can be purchased here
http://www.chrispureka.com

REVIEW: MGMT - Congratulations

Arguably (but not really), there are two very exciting days in the Spring.  The First is the miraculous first day of warm weather.  You wake up and holy shit! it's 60 degrees!  Basketball gets pumped up, socks get ignored, beer gets cracked at noon, and there is an immediate elation and Electric Feel and a feeling of invincibility and myopic optimism.  You're Fated to Pretend that this Weekend there aren't any Wars and the Kids and Youth in you will live at the forefront, without any Future Reflections to burst your temporary bubble or warmth and comfort.

Unfortunately this doesn't not last.  The frost the next morning makes you but angry.  Fool me once, once bitten, etc...

The Second, after you've grappled with shame and shyness, and you peak outside to find it is 70 degrees.  It actually has been 70 for few days now, and it's going to be 70 for the whole rest of the week.  This is it.  The beginning of the summer to come, pregnant with possibilities. It is daunting.  It is expansive and intimidating. The infinity of it is almost scary.  Don't close your eyes. You've made it:  "Congratulations."

Normally, you're first step sets the gait for your second step. MGMT's "Oracular Spectacular" just blew the hell up after a long fuse that sparked from 2008 well into 2009.  "Electric Feel" was blasted at the college bars, "Time To Pretend" made its way to Top 40 radio, and "Kids" found its way into Karaoke books, even.  Did I mention the Grammys?  Andrew VanWyngarden and Ben Goldwasser championed their super sweet synth pop across the world with no modicum of success, toured with sonic cousins Of Montreal, and fell directly in to the hearts of bugaloo-happy indippys.  Clad in a tie-dyed cape that he possibly found in the mud in a farm in New York state sometime in 1969, VanWyngarden hopped around stages and sang to the kids moving and grooving to support his debut.

"Congratulations" confounds and expands on their debut, making their second step more of a diagonal leap towards organic narcotic naturalism.  The lyrics spiral with involuted imagery that at times make Cream's Disraeli Gears seem entirely pedestrian and grounded.   "Flash Delirum", a chameleon prog-rocker comes replete with copious reverb and even an occasional flute riff. It is MGMT's lament on the general State of Things viewed through the lens of a seriously addled mind boasting lyrics like "the mirror ball is throwing mold/you can't get a grip if there's nothing to hold/see the flash catch a white lilly and wilt/but if you must smash a glass first fill it to the hilt."  It's pretty rad.

It's also no coincidence that this album has overt titular shout-outs to "Brian Eno" and the lesser known "(Song for) Dan Treacy" (just wikipedia him. I did).  The former describes an encounter with an etherial Eno in a Transylvanian cathedral and brings about the most up-tempo punky song on the album.  One can't help but grin at the deifying and lionization of Eno, titling him after the Return To Forever-esque breakdown, "Brian Peter George St John le Baptiste De La Salle Eno".

Tongue in cheekiness aside, "Congratulations" also sports a handful of breezy psych-pop tunes with which you can inhale the good, and exhale the bad.   The zen waltz ballad "I've Found A Whistle" sways with the essence of escapism from a nightmare.  "Siberian Brakes", the twelve minute cycle meanders a bit and gets lost in its own grandiosity, but coalesces eventually as most epic twelve minute cycles do.  You should time your high to peak right about here much in the same way you would "Within You, Without You" or "I Want You (She's So Heavy)"

The title track at the close of the album might be MGMT's best song yet.  Did I mention these guys know how to write a got-am song?  Their musical craftsmanship is the overwhelming positive note that will carry you through the album.  Their maturity and inventiveness is what makes "Congratulations" (song and album now) like stepping out and realizing there's so much to be had.  It's daunting, it's scary, but it's delightful.  The sun is shining on MGMT, and this album will make you want to take in the rays and lay in the grass and ponder about everything that is, was, and will be.  This album ain't a trick, it's the real deal.

Review: Foxy Shazam @ Mad Hatter 4/9/10

Close at the heels of national recognition due in no small part to their new record deal with big dog Warner Brothers and an growing penchant for sleeker style glam-pomp, Foxy Shazam returns (well, close enough) to their home-town Covington, KY to play the Mad Hatter. After some pleasant but rather innocuous openers the mustachioed lead singer Eric Nally and the rest of Foxy Shazam (all seeming to sport equally eccentric coiffures) took the stage, poised to command and conquer.

FZ is a favorite in the Cincinnati area, having molded a local fan-base here who seem (regrettably?) eager on bidding them bon voyage to the small clubs and corner stages and up to the midsize venues, and it seemed all too obvious that Nally & Co. have outgrown these venues.  Opening with “Yes, Yes, Yes,” and “Rocketeer” fusing both into a five minute rip-your-fucking-shirt-off artillery fire, this reviewer was flung with no apologies into a feral mosh pit in seconds.   Their sound was tight, well-rehearsed, musical; shifting seamlessly from histrionic screaming to a soulful croon not unlike Supertramp or say F. Mercury. Shout choruses and fist pumping abounded through FZ’s set as they plowed through their greatest numbers off of Introducing and their forthcoming self-titled album due out this Tuesday.  Anecdotal introductions preceded each song as mezzo-soprano voiced Nally would perch on top of a monitor, with a sort of anti-truth narrative that was neither sluggish nor pretentious.

And. It’s hard to not talk about FZ’s ethos without mentioning the concept of pretense.  It would be easy to lump FZ into the oeuvre of affected, packaged, irony-laden bands favoring pastiche like The Darkness or Andrew W.K.,  and no doubt some will do so with good cause.  But there is an acute sincerity to FZ’s theatrics, born from a little self-aggrandizement, and but a lot of passion and love. Easily noticed was the fact that Foxy loved the hell out of performing especially their newer songs “Unstoppable” and “Bye Bye Symphony”.  During these for the most part unheard tunes, the crowed allowed for the fracas to cease a bit and listen and enjoy on a civil level, or what passes for civil at a rock concert in northern Kentucky.  They sounded polished and professional and ready for something bigger.

The closer, crowd favorite from their debut album “No Don’t Shoot” re-ignited the powder keg of the audience, filled with crowd-surfing from both fans and the band which tore this tiny club apart (literally. The ceiling half collapsed and anonymous pipes swung down from the ceiling as Eric was hoisted in the air by the sweaty mass).  It’s clear they’ve conquered this stage.   It’s on to the next one, and the next one, and the next one.

Retooling

With gum on the shoe and a dream in my bindle, I'm going to start to put up some reviews of concerts and albums on this blog.   I want to try to branch out into the music scene, and soon possibly find a way for both theatre and music to coalesce the two.   All I've to go on are the things that keep me afloat and alive and alove: theatre, music, writing.

Really?
'Yes I'm actually going to do it.  I think there's a place for me in yet another saturated market full of unique voices and talent.  I've been writing consistently for years now and want to turn a few tricks as an author.  As I stated in posts sub,  writing is complimentary to my stage career:  a symbiosis.'

Yeah, ok no but, really?
'...'

Why should I care about what you have to say about music? You got a B.A. in Clout or something?
'Taking the subjective and making it objective (and sometimes quantitative (e.g. Pitchfork)) and boiling something down to a yea vote or a nay vote may grind one's gears, but to do this gives me peace of mind.  Yeah, Kant argued that critic and genius have an inverse relationship, so again: symbiosis.'

You're on some sort of "try-to-fill-a-gaping-void-so-you-can-have-inner-harmony" kinda thing, aren't you?
It doesn't matter.  Shut up.

Are your reviews going to be as (over)wrought as your other entries?
Well, I haven't really found a voice for anything yet.  This *wicka wicka* golB *wicka* is just sort of an outlet to write, to flex my syntactic tropes , to press text deftly with hopes the opposite sex will answer the beck and notes of my lexical sets.

Fucking what?  And why are you ripping this self-referential, self-effacing, ironic interface straight from Dave Eggers?  
I'll stop.

Look, point is, prepare for some cool music to which I've formulated opinions to appear on here in the near future.  I'm going to try to narrow the focus of this here golB.

Abide in the present.   Much love.