Last Exit

Ah, envy. That wonderful slightly flushed and slightly bilious feeling that you wish you didn't get when your friends have off and done something wonderful. So, without much prologue, I present the latest effort from Keach Hagey, who is putting together the very interesting Last Exit Magazine. The material ranges from truly compelling and strange adventures from far flung lands that are becoming simultaneously more foreign and more similar to our own to the slightly precious Brooklyn-indulgent adventures of strange and sometimes compelling hipsters. And sometimes, the twain shall meet.

I can only endorse wasting your time reading this piece by another friend (yeah, it gets kept in the family, it seems) NW. And the joy of this piece is that it reads like she lives. Manic. To wit:

This is the story of three jackings, numerous near-death experiences and the good fun had by everyone in Southeast Asia but me. I needed to break out of New York a few years ago. I had been trying to dig a hole out of the city for months, but had only gotten grave depth; so the options were drop in or leave town. A friend had just backpacked around the Golden Triangle and returned raving about the magical time she had there: cooking classes in Chiang Mai, oil rubs on the beach, incense stick dipping with locals. It sounded like the opportunity I needed to clear my mind, meditate on the minutia. What’s more, it fit snug into my limited travel budget. A simple Internet search would have spared me the now cirrhotic liver, however. Turns out, S.E.A. is more like S.A.E. than I imagined. You will run into the same English or Australian frat boy while he’s body-surfing an elephant in Thailand, carving his initials into Angkor Wat ruins, posing as tank gunner in Vietnam, or firing old Khmer Rouge rifles at Cambodian chickens. And each time he spots you he’ll scream “Shots!” The entire well-trod tourist loop might as well be paved in Tsingtao labels, debauched as it is. But I neglected to type “bender” into the search engine, and bought the ticket with vague thoughts of better days ahead.

My boyfriend, Michael, decided to travel with me for the first week, and then I would go it alone for the next two months. He is something of a delicate flower when it comes to sunlight. We’ve worked entire travel itineraries around the fact that he’s awfully pale and burns badly. The one time we visited Brazil’s famed Ipanema beach we caused quite the commotion. I lay on the shore while he went for a swim. A few minutes passed before I heard the incredulous calls and laughter. I looked up in time to see a throng of people gathered and pointing at the water. And what emerged from the sea but my boyfriend incandescent—like a mighty florescent office light (he prefers “god”) bobbing to the surface. I flipped over and tried to look local. Needless to say, his pallor would also affect our trip to Thailand in a few significant ways, which I will shortly describe (mainly in an attempt to blame him for the first mugging, though I handled the second and third fine all by myself).

Bangkok is blazing in the dry season, and in a move to exacerbate this situation the temples are embroidered lovingly with gold leaf and pieces of embedded mirror. An ant in the desert under a magnifying glass comes to mind. All told, this made sightseeing a little less full of sights for us. We had to take unorthodox pathways to avoid the bright buildings. We clung to walls under eaves, biked at night, and visited the Patpong district’s seedy nightclubs, where middle-aged white men and Thai sex workers meet over a few ping-pong balls. For those curious, the act is less athletic and acrobatic than you’d think. After puffing some cigs with her precancerous vag, the bored woman in a glowing bikini stands up, shoves the lubed ball in, squats like she’s going to crap, and out it slowly drops into a waiting cup. By the time it’s over, a 45-year-old Australian club patron next to you will have already managed to get his erect dollar-wrapped penis out without your notice, then turn from the performer to you with a “See, you never know what you could do.” “Yes, dreams do come true,” you might tell him, and then go to the filthy bathroom to pad your clothes with baby wipes. This is to say, for all you ladies out there planning a little Bangkok getaway, either prepare to check your righteous indignation at customs, or waste your time arguing with a bunch of throbbing dicks.

Thus, the trip was off to a promising start! After spending a few days in this fashion we left the city for less reflective climes. On a sweaty windowless northbound train we met an English girl who promptly told us her tale of traveler woe. She had only been in Thailand for three days when she’d been bitten by a stray dog. She broke a cardinal rule—never pet a pooch, no matter how innocent his wag. The night before the assault she sat with a local proprietor and his dog. She was assured the animal was friendly and healthy, and pet him without incident. Catastrophe struck when a dog she mistook for the owner’s sidled over the following eve, and she extended a hand to him. He lashed out snapping and drew blood. I gasped. South East Asia accounts for sixty percent of worldwide rabies deaths per year. And now here she was bit by a feral dog in her first week. She had neglected to get the rabies vaccine before traveling, as had we, but given the recent turn of events she decided that she didn’t like that statistic. Thus, she returned to Bangkok for emergency treatment consisting of five long needle injections straight in the stomach. After enduring four she was told by the nurse that they didn’t have the fifth, but that it was probably fine. Probably fine? Rabies has been known to gestate for up to two years, she anxiously told us. She was terrified that at any moment she would manifest the initial symptoms, which like many a plague begin benignly: cough, achy feeling, sniffles, and then bam, within days of developing the common cold you die the most wretched death imaginable, frothing at the chomp. We offered meager assurances, “don’t worry,” “the nurse knows what she’s doing,” etc. But needless to say, we didn’t french her.

After hearing her tale, Michael and I couldn’t help but feel pretty good about our own abilities, nourished by a steady diet of NYC streets smarts and a natural disinclination for canines. Five days into it, so far so good. We parted ways with the English girl, with promises to meet up again if she remained rabies-free. And on we went to Ayutthaya, where everything began to go horribly wrong. At this point, a number of factors conspired to make me lose my passport, $200, some beloved earrings, my credit card, and a bunch of those mesmerizing t-shirts, with mistranslated textual gems like “Enjoy With Profitable Drip” or “Unique Nut Elsewhere.” Had any link in this disastrous chain been different I might be wearing those shirts or flashing that passport. But no, I was trapped in a Rube Goldberg-like robbery of soggy seats, full purses, bike chases, sudden ambush, and foul, foul luck.

Please, continue...

Rave: Bahn Mi, Point Judith Seafood Shacks, Brickley's and Del's

Vietnamese sandwiches, Vietnamese street food. Until this summer, I had no idea that this was a specific thing (which isn't to say that I hadn't eaten them before). What can I say? They are absolutely delicious. I can unequivocally recommend Silent h on North 9th and Berry in Brooklyn and Banh Mi Saigon Bakery at Mott below Grand. Check out this Gridskipper post for more (and this Time Out New York "Cheap Eats" article for a wider variety of cheap sandwiches...)

While we're on the subject of eating, let's not forget Aunt Carrie's in Narragansett, RI, where clam cakes, lobster rolls, clam strip rolls, and chowder were the order of the night on Saturday evening, followed by rich, homemade ice cream at Brickley's on 1A, and preceded by a refreshing Del's on the beach. Who says you can't eat like a king in South County?

The Hold Steady @ Prospect Park, plus August Reading

The rain held off just enough last Thursday night to allow me to schlep my unfortunately and accidentally hungover self out to Park Slope to see the Hold Steady in Prospect Park. Having taken Boys and Girls in America and Separation Sunday out of regular rotation since packing up my CDs in San Jose in February, my enthusiasm for the Hold Steady has waned slightly. Nevertheless, I still think Craig Finn is one of the most ambitious lyricists working in rock and roll these days, and a couple of tracks from either album still bubble into my consciousness. And following a transcendent show last year at the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco last year, where the band turned a three-quarters full and half-excited weeknight crowd into a frenzied, raving mess, I was excited to see the band again.

The legion of Hold Steady fans have grown larger in the intervening year, as evidenced by the many teeny-somethings crowding the bandshell, happily singing along to the sing along parts of the Hold Steady's recent anthems. The show, in all, was quite good, and even OES, who joined me was relatively impressed. While I prefer seeing the band in a slightly smaller setting, where Finn's spastic energy and the band's songs translate a little better, it was another enjoyable, relatively free outdoor performance in Brooklyn. Worth mention, also are the Big Sleep, who opened, and sounded like Led Zeppelin had been forced to listen to a lot of Galaxie 500 (or perhaps, Smog, given the odd, half-cover of "Teenage Spaceship" that kicked off the band's set), and decided they felt like sounding mostly like Zeppelin. A band that I am excited to see in a smaller venue, where their walls of sound and rhythmic interplay will be even better, I'm sure.

Since August isn't made for working, read these if you are bored at work:

- A PitchforkMedia "Guest List" feature with Patton Oswalt. I had a friend out in LA who used to work on the King of Queens TV show and was sort of friends with Patton. OE, my friend, always spoke highly of Patton as being both very funny and a genuinely nice person. Both come across in this guest list, along with an enthusiasm and a sort of outside-in perspective on hipsterism that I enjoy and sort-of share;
- An interesting interview excerpt of Lee Hazlewood by Dean Wareham, over at Dust Congress;
- A couple of dated Craig Finn interviews worth skimming. Given how energetic his stage presence is, it is sort of re-assuring that he comes across as a pretty normal guy in conversation.

Photos from Flickr user ezwal

Sonic Redemption

God save CD and NG! I hate to profit off of someone else's misfortune, and the fella whose ticket I was lucky enough to get apparently went head first over his handlebars and is pretty messed up, replacement teeth necessary and all. So, my friend, my thoughts are with you -- and this isn't meant as salt in your wounds, but Sonic Youth was awesome!

The hipsters were out in force, young and old alike, and the night turned out to be perfect - warm, but not hot. For old rockers, SY looks great and sounds better. To echo CD, I thoroughly am enjoying this new rock gimmick, of playing albums in their entirety - and Daydream Nation is a pretty good record to rock out on. Sonic Youth did just that, with the twin guitar attack of Thurston and Lee in as fine form as I've ever seen them. Add to that an extended encore featuring a handful of tracks of the last two records, and it made for a thoroughly enjoyable rock and roll show...

Photos from Flickr user forklift

Hipster Weekend: Siren & McCarren

Matt and Kim at Siren Festival
Photo by Flickr user Steve and Sara

Summer in New York. The Yuppies head for beaches and the hills. The Hipsters hit the streets. And me with them. The unprecedented amount of free, good music in New York makes spending the weekends in Brooklyn bearable, if not downright fun. Skinny boys in their best t-shirts. Mop-haired girls in their sun-dresses and oversized sunglasses. Bands that you might not pay to see, but will see for free. The crowds and all the people touching people. Tall boys making their way to the front, the small girls on tip-toes just trying to see the stage. The occasional too-hip child with the too-hip parents. Ah, the festival show.

Saturday, I got a late start heading out to the final Siren Music Festival at Coney Island, missing both White Rabbits and Dr. Dog, the two bands I was most interested in seeing. Somehow, amid the crowds of ever-younger hipster kids, I found CD by the Stillwell Stage. We flitted back and forth between the two stages, allowing me to catch most of We Are Scientists and Voxtrot (the first straight ahead indie rock coming out of the folds of mid-90s Merge and Matador, the latter an Austin, TX based sextet channeling Ted Leo playing the Smiths, both bands acquitting themselves well), and a few songs each by the Black Lips and the incredibly excitable Matt and Kim.

It's a bit of a shame that the festival won't re-up next year (will the fin-de-siecle feeling in New York ever end?) While the sound isn't great, and the blocked off streets where the Stillwell and Main stages sit get crowded, the masses of summertime-attired hipsters descending into the carnival atmosphere of Coney Island, mixing with the odd Bangladeshi family, the young inner city kids, the body builders, and the Russian locals makes for an eclectic afternoon. Twin guitar attacks emoting under the rickety shadow of the Cyclone doesn't hurt, either. I guess it's a shame, mostly, that Coney Island is going to change.

Sunday, I took a study break to stroll back down to McCarren Pool Park to catch a set by Band of Horses. It was a little disappointing that the pool was twice as crowded today for three mid-tier indie rock bands compared to last weekend's Ponderosa Stomp, but I guess I'm as guilty as any other hipster on that front. While I'm not a huge Band of Horses fan, they were pretty good today. The mic-ing of the vocals could have used some evening out, but the open air venue served the loud-soft-loud walls of sound dynamics of the band well. While I'm never overwhelmed, I'm never really disappointed, either, by bands like Band of Horses and My Morning Jacket, that occupy the country-flecked high-register wailing between Mr. Young and Skynyrd. I wonder if they knew what they would produce?

Rave: The Good Fork

Twice I've had dinner at Red Hook's The Good Fork, and twice I've had incredible meals. My first visit, last summer, was with a large crew, headed by SR, AF and friends. We took over the large table in the back garden towards the end of the night, around 10.30, after watching a festive Western play at a local playhouse. While we may not have thoroughly charmed our waitresses (I'd like to think we did OK), we managed to sample the better part of the menu and cruise through a couple bottles of wine. Between good company and good food, it was an outstanding night.

So when KP suggested dinner out on Saturday, I leapt at it. Our fivesome showed up for our 8.15 table and happily weathered a slight delay with an opening round of cocktails. I dove right in with the house special "Red Hook Cooler:" gin, lime juice, and mint - delicious and dangerous. Riding the tide (for better or for worse) of this GQ profile, we took a nice table in the garden and proceeded to feast. Highlights include the manchego-stuffed-zucchini florets (the night's special), the grilled peach salad, the cornmeal-encrusted oysters, the crab cake, the pappardelle with pork ragout, and the salmon and trout specials were glowingly devoured. All this, and a couple more Red Hook Coolers, as well. I won't go on and on, but if you're looking for a great night out in Brooklyn, make the trek out to The Good Fork. I had another excellent evening there.

I would be amiss if I didn't mention that after dinner, we crossed the street to LeNell's to pick up some digestif's (well, more gin). What an incredible liquor store!

Finally, we ended the evening back at OES' place, where I had yet to visit. Wow, incredible!

I'm making a public outcry for a BBQ, my friend!

New York Mag's review of The Good Fork.

Spoon Live plus Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga

A tough week at work, but was able to catch the Spoon show down at Rockefeller Park thanks to a rain delay. The skies opened up around 4 o'clock in the afternoon, and it didn't look like I would make it home dry, much less get to see one of my favorite bands, and a band that I have somehow managed never to see live. By 7.30, when I left the office, the rain had let up enough for me to make the cross-town just-in-case trek to the lower west side, to see if I could catch the tail end of the Spoon show. Arriving at Rockefeller Park, I found a wet but game audience and Spoon just taking the stage. They played a relatively short fifty minute set, covering a lot of new material and some old favorites. Rockefeller Park was a beautiful outdoor venue in which to see a show, and despite the weather and the delay, Spoon were able to warm up a crowd that had waited out the rain for an hour. Worth the schlep.

I bought the new record, unfortunately titled Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, and can echo the sentiment of most of the reviews I've seen - it's a consistent record, taut and rhythmic, and living well within the framework laid out in previous efforts, particularly the most recent Gimme Fiction. Maybe they have gotten to popular, but I would kill to see Spoon in a smallish venue sometime soon.

One of the benefits of living in Williamsburg during the summer is the ability to take a quick walk down to McCarren Pool Park on a Sunday afternoon to catch one of the weekly free shows, which include a pretty good line-up of bands. Having spent most of the afternoon working, I snuck out to grab a diet Coke and catch the last few songs by Tommy McClain at the "Ponderosa Stomp." Admittedly, part of the draw was the "backed by Yo La Tengo" claim, but the funk, soul, and blues of Mr. McClain, his working of the not-jam packed but sweaty and grooving hipster crowd, and the general bliss of a hot Sunday afternoon where everybody was out made the trip well worth my while. Looking forward to more shows so close at hand.

Oh, This Heat

Murderous hot in New York City. Sweat dripping off every surface, the minute I setp out of my room. Not much to say, just four frome Weegee... and more if you like what you see!

How I Got Bored

Saturday started late, but well. Around 3.30 pm, I rolled into DUMBO for the Boredoms performance/spectacle/extravaganza, only to find a line snaking six or eight city blocks - certainly more than I expected to turn out for the more avant end of the indie rock spectrum. Needless to say, the queue of big-haired Japanese rockers, tattooed-indie chicks, and aging, bicycle and dark-rimmed glasses hipsters made for quite a scene. My favorites were easily the getting older, frazzled, and somewhat whiny ex-hipster mother who asked to cut us in line, after we waited for two hours, but whose precious children, probably four and six, one clutching a Harry Potter hardback to his chest, refused to cut until we gave them explicit permission and promised no hard feelings.

As it was, thank god to NG for showing up early and fixing me a place in the queue.

The show itself was good - transcendent in the enormity of its conception (77 drum kits laid out in a spiral, and 77 drummers playing in orchestration), all under the backdrop of Empire Ferry state park, between the Manhattan and Brooklyn bridges at sunset. The 77 minute performance was about what I expected - intensely, even tribally rhytmic, awash in the Boredoms' hallmark pitch-shifting waves of sound, and loud. Some people have been lavish in their praise. I'll rank the performance as the sort of thing they should do in Brooklyn every Saturday at sunset, as it was both rocking and beautiful, but not so profound as to make you change the way you live your life - other than going to Dumbo every Saturday at sunset.

I did wish that they were able to add a few dimensions given the uniqueness of their set-up - specifically, that (at least sitting ten yards from the edge of the spiral), the physical dynamism of the arrangement was not compelling until the last movement of the act, and also, that while the "one drum" aspect of seventy seven drummers playing in unison was overwhelming in some respects, adding elements of rhythmic interplay - frankly, a backbeat and some funk, would have gotten the hipsters off their asses. But small complaints of an otherwise very cool performance.

If you're unfamiliar with the Boredoms, a quick perusal of the crazy metaphysics underlying the performance is worth your time. Also, Pitchfork has some photos and videos worth checking out, if you are interested. Photos above from Flickr user TomVu.