First order of business: I've started a MySpace page to represent the Pitch Music Section online. I pretty much had to. It was either that, or continue using my personal account to contact and be contacted by musicians and promoters. It was all very good and personable, but I also felt vulnerable. I don't need all the musicians in town knowing what kind of music I'm actually in to.
Check the baby Pitch Music space, and communicate with and through it accordingly. But still, the best way is to e-mail me directly. I don't want my job to be consumed by MySpace, thanks. Oh, and the reason I hardly ever answer my phone? Because then my job would be completely consumed with talking on the phone. So, what I'm saying is, e-mail trumps both the phone and MySpace. Write that down, Buffy.
Also, don't expect anything as cool as this motherfuckin' blog to show up there. Also, I'll have you know we're adding more cool shit to Pitch.com, like streaming audio files to accompany music features. We did that here and here. Look for the text link right above the beginning of the story.
Now, for you dedicated readers who don't give a rat's nipple about any of this, here's a quick report on what you missed this weekend:
Friday, I drove to Lawrence to see Jamie Lidell. I went lone wolf out there because nobody in this town realizes how amazing that sumbitch is. That was the first non-local headliner I've personally (as opposed to professionally) been excited about seeing since August. And I wasn't even prepared for how captivating Lidell is. On his latest career-sea-change album Multiply (before that one, he did experimental, nonvocal electronica), his songs range from old school Motown soul to electronic-enhanced funk, the most jaw-dropping aspect being his raging, blue-eyed soul voice, soaring and gritty, versatile and chock-full of emotion. (My Lawrence-based running buddy April compares his style to Stevie Wonder, and I could go with that.) What dazzles live is how he marries his voice to the machinery.
He works alone onstage, twisting knobs at his mysterious console and howling, vamping and beatboxing into the mic. Half or more of his songs were powered by an acapella percussion track that he spit out on the spot. Not surprisingly, only two of the songs he did sounded at all like the recording. Everything else was a hellaciously good remix, many of them veering briefly into some sick take on the euro house music he probably hears around his home base of Berlin. I was too enthralled by Lidell's talent even to dance -- I couldn't take my eyes and ears away for a second.
The next night, Saturday, I pretty much just went out and raged, beginning with tea time at the Brick and ending with Funhouse (local Stooges tribute) at Davey's. At some point between the two, I was dragged by a dear friend to the Beaumont, where I was met with a cavorting mass of sweat, smoke and X-marked hands and the children they belonged to. Good lord it was crowded. The only place to stand without suffocating on the fumes was behind the stage, where there was an underutilized bar, a good back-view of the band but terrible sound. The band I saw was the third on the bill, a top-selling mainstream hardcore band called Thursday. Maybe you've heard of 'em? Me, all I could literally hear at the show was drums and noise produced by guitars, bass and a berserk frontman. The kids loved it. I didn't stick around for Rise Against because I turn a year older in less than a month and would like to see my birthday.
After a shower and a disco nap, I got a call from Dapper Dan (not his real name, but we'll call him that since he uses oldschool pomade -- lots of it) about meeting up in midtown, so we rolled down to Chez Charlie's, aka The Coziest Dive on Earth, threw back a few, picked up a third accomplice in the form of Lord Mayer (again, an alias, but this one completely random), and went to Davey's to catch the end of Funhouse.
I watched in delight as as man in silver bodypaint, with pretty much the same wiry build of Iggy, writhe and twist and yowl into the mic. He's somebody well-known and local whose name escapes me. He was joined onstage by Last of the V8s guitarist and bassist, respectively, Jay Zastoupil and Chico Thunder, and a drummer dude whose name I don't know either. Sue me. The crowd was light for that hour of the night (past 2 a.m.), but those who were there were feelin' it good. I pretty much remember very little that was said or transpired after the last notes of "Search and Destroy," so if you were there and I offended you, like, by saying your face looked like a bulldog that had been made into a purse that had been stuffed full of marshmallows and stuck in the microwave and I really want to make out with you, then, really, it was the Pabst talking. Oh, and the gin. Whiskey? Yeah, that too. And a dash of bitters.