Notable Noise column: Downtown Pour + Grandma Party Bazaar + Dayglo Abortions = me feeling old and comparing wine to jazz like an old person (Orlando Weekly)

Man, I am old.

It’s a reality that I’ve wrestled with for a while, but this past weekend, I realized it’s true. However, what brought this epiphany on was not what you might expect.

I was old-man achy after a Saturday morning workout, and I ended up falling asleep in front of a movie on Friday night, standing up a friend who was waiting for me downtown. My Saturday afternoon was spent at the DOWNTOWN POUR, listening to music so smooth it was shiny while walking around trying to find a good glass of wine among people who either looked like my parents or slightly older versions of the assholes who tormented me in high school. (I did find a great wine. I just forgot which one it was.)

There was the late-night discussion about jazz with one of my friends (more on that later) and the incredibly out-of-place feeling I had at the GRANDMA PARTY BAZAAR. (I ascribed that sensation to the blistering heat in the Stardust parking lot and the realization that all the Funbalaya “indie” kids are just hippies with good taste in music.) Did these things bring on that elderly sensation? Nope.

What made me feel old was the DAYGLO ABORTIONS. There I was, transferring my vinyl into iTunes (old guy!) and as I’m rocking out to “Wake Up America,” it suddenly hit me that this 20-year-old punk record (Feed Us a Fetus) is actually confrontational. It’s not just the baitingly offensive title or the grotesque, reductionist cover art (a fanged Ronald Reagan about to feast on a jellybean-and-aborted-fetus chili); the whole attitude is so different from what’s being peddled as punk rock these days — which is usually about how heartbroken and vaguely disenfranchised the youth of today are.

The Abortions were disenfranchised, but instead of espousing inchoate unhappiness, bands like them took an unequivocal (if rudimentary) stance against what they saw was wrong in the world, and then CALLED IT BY NAME. Hawthorne Heights have songs about bad breakups. The Dayglo Abortions had songs about how the Canadian Prime Minister “sucks dogshit through his nose.”

They weren’t alone. Suicidal Tendencies proudly proclaimed “I SHOT REAGAN.” The Dead Kennedys ranted about “Hellnation’s when the president asks for four more fucking years/Hellnation’s when he gets it.” Now? A convoluted concept album by Green Day that’s certainly grandiose, but far from Agnostic Front coming out screaming: “Our country has sold the Constitution.” Everything else is EYELINER AND SELF-PITY.

With but a few, still-low-profile exceptions, punk bands refuse to get pissed off about a President whose abominations certainly exceed those of Reagan and Thatcher. When PUTATIVE PUNKS talk about revolution, it’s usually in the terms preferred by the likes of Tony Brummel, who thinks that having a Victory band in the Billboard charts somehow makes the world a better place.

INEFFABLE COMPLEXITY

So, there I was muttering to myself about “kids these days” and “when I was a dirty punk” and so on. And it made me feel old. SO I WENT DRINKING. The Downtown Pour was pleasant: great weather, good company, excellent people-watching opportunities and plenty of different vintners pimping their products. But why on earth does every wine event feature soft rock/smooth jazz, while every beer event features Black Oak Arkansas? Wine can produce just as much debauchery as beer, and a good beer can be just as subtle as a good wine.

This question was answered about FIVE BOTTLES LATER at a friend’s house, when the discussion turned to jazz and I realized that people tend to have similar feelings about jazz and wine. (Like I said, we’d been drinking for a while.) My brilliant, philosophical realization was that many people are intimidated by both of them. While there are some who indulge in either (or both) casually, knowledgeably and without pretense, there’s a small, noisy contingent who insist on subcategorizing, using arcane terminology and complicating the actual process of consumption. Vintages, sidemen, cork-sniffing, alternate takes. Jesus, no wonder so many people drink Corbett Canyon and listen to Kenny G.

My realization turned into some brilliant, philosophical advice: JUST START. Go to Park Wine Merchants and buy a $15 bottle you’ve never heard of, then slip over to Park Ave CDs and buy any jazz CD from between 1955 and 1965 by someone you’ve kinda sorta heard of but who isn’t Miles Davis or John Coltrane. Crack open that bottle, put on that CD and use the senses God gave you to enjoy ’em. Figure out what you like about ’em, go back to the stores and repeat ad infinitum. It’s that simple.

First appeared in the April 26, 2006 issue of Orlando Weekly.

Notable Noise column: Editors, Stellastarr, Gotan Project, Tango Saloon (Orlando Weekly)

Three things surprised me about the Editors/Stellastarr* show at The Social April 7. One, I was stunned to see that it sold out. I figured that Stellastarr* had worn out their welcome here in town, and didn’t know that enough Orlandoans read Fader to draw in a crowd for Editors. There you have it: proof that I’m the dumbest guy in town. Because not only was the venue packed, it was packed with people singing along to Editors’ surprisingly energetic set.

Surprise No. 2: Editors have a pulse. From the sound of The Back Room, I figured ‘em to be another good-clothes-bad-stage-presence ball of post-Joy Division melodrama. And though the lead singer was locking into some sort of cyborg Ian Curtis vibe – as a friend pointed out, the entire band moved like robots – there was nonetheless a palpable energy coming from the stage. Plus, they were loud as fuck, which makes anything great.

Third surprise? A paucity of those awful poofy-on-top-long-in-the-back haircuts that someone has deemed acceptable. These girly-man mullets have become far too omnipresent lately, especially among struggling scenesters with fat asses and man-tits. I am the last person to be handing out clothing or hair tips, but I know a dork when I see one, and I know that having a birds’ nest atop your head does not distract people from the fact that your XXL Interpol shirt is tight around the midsection and your studded pink belt is having a tough time holding up those $150 jeans. Anyway, at such a hipster-friendly show I was shocked to see so few of these tonsorial monstrosities. Instead, there was an overabundance of soccer jerseys. Go figure: a bunch of Brits at a Britpop show.

DANCING MACHINES

The new disc by Gotan Project (Lunático) is just about perfect. I was a big fan of the Paris combo’s 2002 debut, La Revancha del Tango, but Lunático is a far more sophisticated and complex album. The future-lounge vibe has been muted and instead there’s a renewed emphasis on the rugged sway of the Argentinean cowboys these cats so clearly wish to be. It’s still thick with sequences and glossy production, but it’s also got Calexico!

Despite its excellence, though, Lunático has been vying for airtime with another recent tango-oriented release, the stupefyingly strange debut of a project called The Tango Saloon by one Julian Curwin. Mixing his musical metaphors – Argentinean cowboys, Dodge City cowboys … what’s the diff? – Curwin’s crew (a 15-strong collective of Australian experimentalists) spits up a weird, prog/psych take on “tango” that’s as much Sabata as it is Piazzolla. Pick Lunático if you’re feeling urbane, sophisticated and slightly shallow; go for Tango Saloon if you’re in the mood for some substantial surprises.

NOTABLE NOTES

It was surprising enough that someone e-mailed me a rundown of the set list from the recent Go-Go’s show. (Is anyone besides Billy Manes that concerned with what they played?) However, it was downright shocking that said e-mail came not from some degenerate nostalgist, a fan-club president or Billy Manes himself; no, this info was courtesy of a well-regarded member of the local jam-rock scene. Huh? … Jacksonville hip-hop juggernaut Asamov got some high praise in URB magazine’s April issue, as 1 percent of the mag’s annual “Next 100″ feature … Local emo cute-boy Dave Melillo is gearing up for the June release of his Drive-Thru Records debut by making it available as a download on the www.mtvU.com site starting April 17, in addition to some other online-only activities involving the video for “Knights of the Island Counter.” If you thought Orlando was done churning out trend-hopping pretty boys making music for pre-adolescent girls, think again … Last month (March 14, to be exact) marked the 75th anniversary of the release of the first Indian movie with music, Alam Ara. Not surprisingly, it only took about a year for Indian musicals to go completely over the top; 1932’s Indrasabha had no less than 71 songs stuffed into it … The first house Elvis Presley ever bought – 1034 Audubon Drive in Memphis – is going up for auction on eBay; the bidding starts April 14 and continues through May 14 … Registration closes April 15 for bands interested in competing for a spot on the 2006 Zippo Hot Tour. Go to www.zippohottour.com for a chance to be as successful as last year’s winners, Jealousy Curve. Oh, that’s right, you’ve never heard of Jealousy Curve, have you?

First appeared April 13, 2006 in Orlando Weekly.

Notable Noise column: The Sword, Torche, New Roman Times, Little Steven’s Underground Garage, Plain Jane Autombile hates me, Jackie McLean and Nikki Sudden R.I.P. (Orlando Weekly)

Contrary to rumor, I was not “two-fisting PBRs” at The Sword show on Friday night (March 31). Granted, there was a guy there who looked an awful lot like me and, yes, this person was holding two deliciously cold Pabst Blue Ribbon bottles in his hands, while screaming at the top of his lungs and – what’s this? – bobbing his head in a way that approached “banging.” That was not me. I was the sober individual in the corner, studiously analyzing each of the acts and coming up with elegant ways to describe the night’s entertainment.

And, like, the show rocked, dude. While The Sword was predictably awesome, I was equally impressed by the thunderous attack of Miami’s Torche, a monstrously heavy band that could teach fellow Florida metallians a thing or three about smart riffage. (I offered them $5 to move to Orlando. They declined.) I thought this barrage would destroy Back Booth’s PA, but a recent upgrade meant that my ears were ringing until The Sopranos came on Sunday.

IN OTHER NEWS

New Roman Times was excellent in their opening slot for Centro-Matic at Will’s last Monday (March 27); a new lineup and some sonic recalibration has yielded a beefier approach to their moody indie rock. Great Lake Swimmers (on the same bill) is great on album but boring as hell live, despite the insistence of various of my friends that they were “captivating” or a thing of “ghostly beauty.” Fuck that, I said. It was 11 p.m. and I wanted to get my rock on. So I headed down to The Social to catch putative revolution-rockers The Living Things. Despite having given away tickets for a buck apiece, the place was half-empty. The St. Louis combo’s blustery, monochromatic rock makes Kings of Leon sound progressive and did little to make me feel like the crowd got their money’s worth. Simple possession of Kick Out the Jams does not a revolution make.

Speaking of poorly attended rock shows, Little Steven’s Underground Garage pulled into the Hard Rock last Wednesday (March 29), only to find about 100 people in attendance. Born from the success of the amazing radio show (and Sirius channel) curated by Silvio himself, the idea of a rolling garage-rock revue was great in conception, flawed in execution. Go-go dancers? Yikes! It was a phenomenally weird show, made more bizarre by Van Zandt’s between-set ramblings, the general incompatibility of the acts (The Shazam clearly own more Cheap Trick records than Cramps discs, while The Fleshtones are, well, The Fleshtones) and, not least, all the kids running around.

I GET LETTERS

I received a particularly vituperative letter from the members of Plain Jane Automobile in response to the two sentences I wrote about them in last week’s paper. (See Letters.) Being such Anglophiles, I would hope they’d have a more sophisticated sense of sarcasm and irony, but it appears they do not, as they seem to actually believe that I am of the opinion that Orlando is a shithole. I think they need to read their NME a little closer. Then they’ll understand that the big trick is to start a fight in the media, not start a fight with the media.

They still don’t seem to get that “influenced by” is different from “imitating,” which makes their sub-Coldplay approach that much more disappointing. They’re all enormously talented players who certainly know their way around a pop song, and I’d bet a cover story in this newspaper that if they stopped their seven-year run of chasing marketability and started focusing on being creative, they’d be a lot more successful, not to mention a lot less sensitive to mild criticisms.

As it is, they’re looking more and more like Blue Meridian every day, an analysis that, sadly, they would probably take as a compliment.

HYPOCRISY R ME

OK, you know how I’ve gone on and on about how stupid battles of the bands are? Well, here’s one that’s so stupid, it’s great: Online poker site Bodog.com is sponsoring a national contest, with a grand prize of a million bucks. You’re right, that is an assload of money. It’s so much money that it doesn’t matter that winning a battle of the bands does nothing for your career. Forget a music career, you’re a millionaire.

DEAD PEOPLE

As further proof that this world is getting worse and worse, saxophonist Jackie McLean and alt-rock icon Nikki Sudden both died in the last couple of weeks. McLean’s ’60s work on Blue Note is – along with Sam Rivers, Andrew Hill and Don Cherry – the apotheosis of elegant freedom; if you don’t own New and Old Gospel, go and buy it now. Sudden was the leader of the Swell Maps, the brother of Epic Soundtracks and one of the most idiosyncratic songwriters of the post-punk movement. Underappreciated giants both.

First appeared in the April 6, 2006 issue of Orlando Weekly.