Audio Crush #3: Freddy Todd

I'm pretty picky about my electronic music these days, and by that I mean I actually listen to some of it now.  I've always been a rock n' roll kinda gal and electronic music makes me think of robots - so not rock n' roll.  HOWEVER I've been trying to pry open my narrow perspective of what's good and with the assistance of some very enthusiastic and patient friends, I think I've come a long way from being Carl Fredricksen from UP when it comes to whatever it is that the kids are listening to nowadays.

It started a couple years ago when Mimosa played at a friend's birthday party...THAT was fun.  Then it was Lazer Sword...same venue, same mind-blowing night of dancing - p.s. thank you to friends at Electric Whommp for putting on both shows.  Now, hailing from Detroit is the electrifying Freddy Todd, glitch-hop producer and prodigy.  He's been putting out some interesting EPs for the past couple years and has also cemented my conversion into a bona fide glitch lover.

Now get something for your face to melt into:




Hustle Buster - Neon Spectacle Operator (Out Late This Fall on Run Riot Records) by FreddyTodd

Audio Crush #2: Any offshoot of Vivian Girls

The Babies, Cassie Ramone's side project with members from Woods, should be a modern Bonnie and Clyde soundtrack. Badass garage rock with an americana vibe - time to go rob a bank in Kansas.




and La Sera, Katy Goodman's side project, just released this video in time for Halloween. I love the Marianne Faithfull meets Charles Manson vibe going on. Thanks a lot Katy, not only do you look like a hot librarian, but you've got 70s gore DOWN...and it's making me feel like raging loser.

Loose Limbs and Caulfield Sisters 10/7 Brooklyn

You had me at antique book library/bocce ball court. That being said; the restaurant, bar, and music stage, which also constitute Brooklyn bar/venue, Union Hall, are icing on the cake. I went there to see local bands, Caulfield Sisters and Loose Limbs, and got a vacillation between old and new world experiences.

FADE IN:

Ext. BROOKLYN, NEW YORK 2010 – NIGHT

Int. COZY NEIGHBORHOOD PUB

GIRL perches atop a leather tufted lounger with brass nailhead trim, legs tucked under her, engrossed in an antiquarian collection of Virginia Wolfe’s Letters. A fire crackles beside her, casting a warm and dynamic glow in the dim bar. A motley crew of young professor look-alikes, supposed working class, and musicians comprise its patronage. Flannel, vintage corduroy blazers, and skinny jeans abound. Classic hipster bar. The wall behind her hosts an oversize library of faded vintage books, and crouched in it’s shadow, she gazes intently at her own text resting in one hand, and fondles a half glass of wine in the other.

The steady beat of a base drum seeps in low and slowly amplifies. GIRL rests book atop the antique chest before her, serving as a makeshift coffee table, and walks out of the frame.

Camera follows her as she saunters through the shadowy tavern, past the ruddy dandies and hipsters, the dust filled bocce ball court, and down a sturdy wooden stairwell. Base drum intensifies as she descends the staircase.

Int. DARK, BARE BASEMENT.

Beer-sipping musicphiles scatter across a dark den. Their hazy eyes peering eagerly at a stage surrounded by half paneled Victorian walls. Dim ceiling lights illuminate THE CAULFIELD SISTERS, who have just begun their set. The stage is crude, but the accented walls somehow create a time machine back to the days of high-school, when the cool kids threw that huge party at their parents’ house while they were away that one summer. The feeling is intimate, youthful, and exclusive. Very punk rock.

Cindy Wheeler, lead singer and guitarist of the trio, dons an egg-shell blue Epiphone Casino (a la John Lennon) which hangs fashionably from her lean neck via a sparkly black guitar strap. Her style is impeccable, which isn’t too shocking considering she co-owns Beacon’s Closet, supplier of offbeat fashion to Brooklyn’s hip and edgy. Her stage presence is a mixture of charming humility and witty bite, but despite her candor with the audience, there is still a slightly demure and mysterious way about her. The leggy anti-rockstar’s reserved confidence is indicative of the band’s musical style, which I would describe as more composed girl rock, a New England version of Hole, very much my cup of tea. She certainly has a way with the audience, who appeared to have come especially for her. Considering that Caulfield Sisters dates back to 2000 (two of the members go back even further as member of Pee Shy) and have been playing semi frequent gigs in Manhattan and Brooklyn ever since, I’m sure most of them are. This band should be bigger than it is; they’re quite good, but they give off the impression that they’re either too busy or too down to earth to pursue fame. They appear completely content playing small Brooklyn venues for their dedicated fans and friends, which is great unless you live anywhere else.

While Wheeler’s dreamy voice does lend that signature subdued sweetness to the Caulfield Sisters sound, the unexpected bit of edge they bring to their brand of indie pop is the only point of commonality between them and the headliner. Loose Limbs is a two-year-old band that bowled me over with their style of simplistic balls-out rock n’ roll. Percussion heavy, and fast and steady, they take you for a phonic ride. Michael Petersen’s stripped down drum set (i.e., a snare, a floor tom, and a crash cymbal) renders their sound perfectly punchy and gritty, while Corrine Caouette’s vocals pierce you like a pissed off Cyndi Lauper. I’d liken them to a less abrasive Marnie Stern, but with a spirit and soul that is hands down no-frills rock n’ roll. They just don’t make ‘em like that anymore. On stage, they appear so city chic and imposingly cool that you get the feeling the trio probably constituted that very exclusive group of kids who skipped class to smoke pot and listen to records – and they probably did. But their image is somewhat deceiving. Their smiley dispositions and down-to-earth off-stage demeanor, seemingly attributed to their Midwestern roots, make them all the more charming and likable a band. Their songs play with tension masterfully, and the each member adds a distinctively “badass” element to their sound, which is what makes their music so captivating and dynamic. “Red Hands” delivers so much attitude that it should be the soundtrack to any break-up with an asshole guy. The chorus is a genius tirade that everyone has wanted to hurl at an unsuspecting ex at least once: "I caught you red handed, now you'll be out in the cold/ I bet the next time that you're tempted, you'll be a little less bold/ Gonna call up your mother, make her wish she never bothered/ Gonna tell everybody, you're gonna die alone." Everything about the delivery of these lines, from its cadence to its powerfully feminine tone, is perfection. Meanwhile, the instrumentation creates a menacing urgency that is just cocky and audacious enough to carry the vocals. They finished their impressive set with the slightly ghoulish “Tomcat,” a grating cross between hardcore garage punk and noise rock, and a pleasantly surprising way to end the night. I have to say, I love this band. It’s difficult to hypothesize where they will go, but I’m hoping they don’t stop what they are doing.

GIRL slowly ascends the sturdy wooden stairwell. The basement is still teeming with young bodies housing old souls. With each step, she abandons that verboten high school memory and enters back into the 19th century, but she’s had enough of the past. As quickly as it takes to exit a time machine disguised as an intimate neighborhood pub, she’s back to the present.

Traces of Altitude

It takes so long to understand people.

They will never be able to show you their entirety.

I think a large part of knowing someone is to dream them, to hypothesize them, to hold them up or tear them down. 

And then you can say. Very matter of factly. “Hey… I know you”

But now I stand here, begging YOU, the glorious phantasm,

YOU, from the top of a razor sharp, ice riddled, wind knock me into the abyss, end of the world mountaintop,

Please take ME

Give ME an existence.

Give me your bubble and I’ll give you mine. 

And I’ll be anything that you want me to be. 

Close my eyes, bottom out

Egress and swallow it down.

O Dionysus!

How it withers me to part with thee!

It crinkles me down….

And all of the sudden

I’m a tiny crumpled piece of tin foil!

Packed away neatly into an indiscriminate shiny object

Original shape and size now inconsequential and lost forever.

And I am flicked from that peak with those rose-colored fingernails

I sparkle all the way down

Until even I am unsure of my own existence

But then…

Joy! I am found!

By a wayward traveler, incited by a sparkle in the sun.

I am caressed by his pudgy grime caked fingertips.

Dusted off slowly, unwrapped with raptured curiosity,

Yes! It’s me!

Slightly damaged but still shining for you in the sun.

I wish it was good all the time

There’s something really harmonious about gliding through the golden rolling California hills on a Greyhound bus, listening to the sonorous harmonies of Best Coast.  I couldn’t fathom a better soundtrack.  Even the old man behind me who is relentlessly roping the mother next to him into an interminable conversation that is broadcasting into my eardrum isn’t irritating me as much as it should.  Cows, country, a smelly bus, and leather boots and jacket in tow.  This is home to me.  Man, I miss home.  Traveling by car or plane certainly has its perks; isolation and speed, to name a couple, but the poetry of the journey is lost.  As I ponder what exactly it is that inspires my lasting devotion to buses despite their chronic ability to disappoint me, I notice that 80% of the passengers on this particular bus look Hispanic.  And I prefer it that way.  Is this an accurate cross section of where I live, but am too deracinated to realize it?  Each passenger sinking drearily into one of the two streams of blue seats… each one with a different story, their clothes mismatched and worn out for the most part, with each item carrying a rich history of it’s own.  The crinkled reddish skin of the man’s face resting atop one worn knuckle, the dust covered jean jacket that has paid for itself a million times over, all of these things I internalize.  To me, they represent real life, authenticity, struggle, honesty, sacrifice…but maybe I romanticize too much.

It’s mostly about seeing myself in each person, and consequently, seeing myself on the move.  Creating a new history for myself through the people around me, and escaping a little more into that history with each palm tree now swooshing by my window.  Maybe we’re all escaping, each person creating a new history for themselves in reaction to those around them.  A symbiotic network of traveling bugs, relying on this dirty and disappointing moving entity to give us new identities, and conversely, it relying on us to give it purpose and life.  Each person I observe reflects a version of me, things I loathe and love.  I project and assume whatever narratives and characteristics I please.  Meanwhile, my sense of space grows larger and larger while my sense of self grows smaller and smaller.  The lines between space and self, and you and me, grow dubious, and all that is certain is that we’re all going somewhere.     

Jack White + Vinyl = Awesome

As if I needed a reason to love Jack White anymore than I already do...


This triple decker record idea is badfuckinass.

FYF 9/4: Festival of Eternal Lines

I’ve never been to a music fest in LA before FYF, and so far, I’ve definitely got issues. I’ll concede that FYF can orchestrate a fucking kickass lineup. No questions about that, but holy shit I was not prepared for the seemingly blasé attitude this festival was conducted with. It’s like while planning it, everyone suddenly had a stroke and died. I mean, is this a music festival or a bunch of bands playing in a DMV in N. Korea?? I can only compare this to the festivals I’ve been to in SF, such as Outside Lands and Treasure Island, where they not only let you bring your own water, but also alcoholic bevs and food! Ass-kicking awesomness, right? Contrarily, FYF banned everything from bringing water to open cig packs and then decided to financially rape everyone with $4 bottles of water on the hottest day ever with not a square ft of shade and like 5 water vendors for the whole festival. On top of that, the will call line was, from what I heard, upwards of two hours long and the lines for everything else (i.e. bathrooms, food, water, beer, etc.) were pretty ridiculous as well. To add insult to injury, the beer garden and VIP lines made you scan your license EVERYTIME you went in so…please stab me while I’m waiting in yet again, another epic line. It was basically a festival of lines.

Photo: Edward John Castillion

As for the music, I pretty much loved every band I saw – major points for that. I got there right as Best Coast started…commence me creaming my pants for the consecutive half hour. I don’t care what anyone says, Bethany Cosentino, front woman for my current life obsession, is the coolest chick ever. I pretty much love everything about her and our babies would rule. I mean who else can make singing about cats and missing your ex boyfriend sound hip and fresh again? Also, hell fucking yes, Bobb Bruno, for being just a total G in giving me a sound that I want to wake up to, and go to sleep to, everyday. It was the perfect antidote to the shitshow entry fiasco: good ol’ ultra pop-y, lo-fi, happy, surf rock. Add sun and a healthy buzz and say hello to me being in heaven.

I managed to catch the end of Thee Oh Sees, an SF band that I actually love, but alas, it’s just not possible to see every band’s complete set at a festival (unless you’re at Treasure Island) but at least I got to see them rock out for a few songs. Titus Andronicus was a total revelation. For some reason I was not expecting to like them as much as I did, but they’re much better live in my opinion. Scratch that, they’re amazing live. And Washed Out created the perfect chill sesh for everyone to light up whatever joints, bowls, etc. they managed to smuggle in, in spite of the Nazi-like security force.

Photo: Michele McManmon

A major highlight was Dead Man’s Bones, who are quite possibly the cutest band ever. When I heard the name Ryan Gosling, I was slightly confused, and then slightly skeptical. Queue the adorable little dead historical figures, who I’m assuming were disguised members of the Silverlake Conservatory Children’s Choir (who recorded with Gosling and Zach Shields on the self titled record), piling up on stage with their bright smiley faces and whimsical costumes, resulting in my heart melting into a puddle on one of the few patches of grass. While I tend to consider the combo of little kids and indie rock as a tinge gimmicky, Dead Man’s Bones directed the choir in interesting and unique ways to really elevate them into the stars of the show. Plus, who can resist cute little kids singing catchy indie hooks and partaking in awesome dead historical figure costume contests? I thought Kimya Dawson might have killed it for me after she invaded the world with her brand of cutesy preschool sing-along sounding folk but apparently not. And if that wasn’t enough, they evidently travel with a vaudevillian paper cutter who presented the audience with a piece of paper shredded with the name of the band before commencing the musical portion of the show.

photo: Michele McManmon

Unfortunately, I didn’t get to see the headliners due to me not wanting to limp the hour and a half pilgrimage back to my fucking car parked downtown, so I got a ride with some early abandoners. Thank you, lifesavers! Sidenote: am I a grandma now? No food (on principal, because I refuse to pay like $10 for a hotdog), no water, walking around all day in the sun with no shade, being vertical for 12 hours…because I swear this sounds like a hardcore marathon in the Gobi desert rather than a music fest. Do I need to, like, start training for this shit next time?

Audio Crush #1: Tornados

MY NEW FAVORITE BAND. What boulder have i been living under?? This UK outfit was the brainchild of producer Joe Meek, TONE DEAF raging house tenant, and Britain's first independent producer. He pioneered experimental production techniques to create what paved the way for geniuses such as Brian Eno. A gay producer in the 50s in a country where it was illegal to be gay? A pill popping homicidal lunatic? Umm, color me obsessed.

Hunx and his Punx and Dum Dum Girls 6/29,6/30 in SF: Weekend of Dreamboats

So I basically had my dream show double feature this weekend. Hunx and his Punx and Dum Dum Girls, back to back. I was pretty skeptical of going to an SF show after my last disappointing experience with A Place to Bury Strangers, where everyone in the crowd looked like a stranger who, in fact, needed to be buried. But I had gotten the Hunx and his Punx ticket months in advance, when I first discovered the band, so I decided to give SF another chance.

He was playing at the Independent, site of many a fantabulous show, so I was hopeful. My cheap $2 beer buzz from across the street abruptly turned into a nightmare when I walked in. The SF band Bridez was playing and god were they and are they awful! I’m not even going to try and put this any other way. I really wanted to like them because they had the whole “fuck it” attitude down real good and Liza Thorn, the singer and tambourine dabbler, had a sort of Courtney Love in her heyday thing going on and man do I love Love, but I just couldn’t. She wasn’t giving me anything to work with and every time she opened that gorgeous mouth of hers, suicide came out. I literally HAD to leave. The music wasn’t half bad, and I found myself actually rocking out to it during the instrumental parts. Not super complex or impressive but not bad at all. It was really the singer that did it for me. The stumbling glam rock junkie stage persona only works if you are good. When you’re not, you look like a drunk asshole at a party that everyone wants to make shut up and leave. Please someone put me out of my misery. The entire time they were playing, Seth Bogart (lead singer from Hunx and his Punx), who was, to my utter excitement, full throttle rocking Brando circa The Wild One, was leaning over the stage and staring Thorn down. I couldn’t tell whether he was into it or not. He seemed to be attempting to give them a chance but when he performed “You Don’t Like Rock and Roll” during his set, I could have sworn he substituted Bridez for Morrissey. Or maybe that was my subconscious desire for them to be called out on their suckage?

Conversely, Hunx and his Punx were incredible, in a word. I am a sucker for costumes when done right and the Punkettes definitely had the leather biker gang uniform down, but over the top doesn’t look so over the top when you’re the fucking coolest chicks on the planet. It was perfectly done. This band was definitely born to wear black leather and rock peoples’ worlds. I completely fell in love with every single girl and would totally have been perving on them, jaw to the floor, the whole time if it weren’t for Hunx prancing around the stage in his shiny black latex tights and motorcycle jacket, shoving his crotch into frightened little boys’ faces in the front row, and generally just being a kickass showman. At one point he swiped a swig of a beer sitting on the stage in front of him and then accidentally kicked it into the owner’s face that was standing mute in front of the stage. You’ll never guess what happened. The guy DID NOT move a muscle! He just stood there soaking with beer, either mesmerized by Hunx’s onstage cock power or was simply too scared to respond. I can see how the front row of a Hunx show would be a little intimidating if you have a penis. The audience participation level, AKA getting groped by Seth, is pretty high. When you’re seeing Hunx and his Punx, there are gay dudes, and then there’s everyone else. Honestly, I’ve never felt so square for not being a gay man in my whole life. The John Waters meets motorcycle gang image coupled with Seth’s Iggy Pop like stage presence was positively captivating. I’m pretty sure everyone in the audience, gay, straight, boy, or girl wanted him. About half their set was songs from their release, Gay Singles, but he didn’t play his commercial hit, “Gimme Gimme Back Your Love” for obvious reasons. I guess the whole Lens Crafters fame kinda spoiled it for everyone. The new stuff is equally as delicious as the stuff you can hear on Gay Singles, not an aberration from their signature 60s girl group/garage punk sound. I really can’t wait for a follow up album.

The following night I convinced a friend to accompany me to see the Dum Dum Girls at Bottom of the Hill. Bad idea. She just lost her wallet the week before which meant that she was sans a current license (she had her expired one) and the bouncer was not fucking around. Right before the Dum Dum Girls came on, he actually charged to the back of the club, a full fifty or so feet of jam packed hipsters and kicked her out for drinking a beer. Be warned. I was left to watch my girls solo, which is usually the case anyway. Dressed in their typical gothic/60s mod uniform, the girls came and just rocked it out. There was no introduction, no banter, no jokes, just straight up song after song after song, a ballsy move I might say. Honestly, they didn’t even need to build a rapport with the audience, the venue was packed and they sounded amazing. The sound guy actually managed to achieve that garagy lo-fi sound that Richard Gottehrer, who has also worked with groups such Blondie and the Go Go’s, and “Dee Dee,” front woman and group founder, so perfectly created. Bright red lips harmonizing perfectly, those leggy punk femme-bots delivered each song with not much more movement than consistent head bob. Usually, I scorn this type of automatron stage behavior but it worked really well for them. They delivered more edge and rock n’ roll energy than is available from the recordings and none of it had to do with flailing guitars or rolling around the stage. If they were robots sent from planet Hip to make us fall in love with that lo-fi, 60s girl group sound again, but with an injection of garage rock and still uniquely hip, I would not think twice. Mission accomplished.

APTBS in fresno/SF: Damn, Fresno!

One thing I will say about Fresno is you guys know how to party. On the night of 6/19/10, I got my world rocked and my eardrums annihilated at Audie’s Olympic by A Place to Bury Strangers. That show was fucking fantastic. The anticipation and excitement from the crowd was palpable, and the bands definitely delivered. Anyone in the crowd that night could testify to creaming their pants in delight, but I must disclose my exceptional authority on the subject because I went to see them the very next day in San Francisco. I should have known this was going to happen because I’m from San Francisco, and I’m a total whore for live music, but I was so blissed out on the intensity of the night before that my memory of the notoriously paralytic SF crowds had completely escaped me.

The opening band in Fresno, Quiet Americans, I actually loved. Being relatively new to the area, I quickly learned that Eli Reyes is the Jack White of drumming here, being on the roster for what seems like 24251435 bands (more specifically, Rademacher, Fay Wrays, Quiet Americans, PA Harper, Love Pollution, and probably more). If my memory serves me correctly (which is extremely debatable) this was my first show in Fresno, and it definitely was my first time seeing this guy in action. I have to admit that I was completely astounded by his demonstration of prowess as well as his stage presence – quite the feat for a drummer. Even Jay Space (drummer for A Place to Bury Strangers) couldn’t achieve that kind of bearing. The Quiet Americans were so impressive that they actually up-staged the following band, Light Pollution.

At first listen, Light Pollution, a Chicago based band, sounded noticeably inferior to Quiet Americans in terms of song composition and sound in general. I actually spent the most of their set outside giving myself cancer. Contrarily, in SF they actually killed it. Talking to band member, Jed Robertson, (total DILF, btw) outside of the Rickshaw Stop where they played on Sunday with APTBS and Weekend (listened to one song and left to get cigarettes and food – sound was so awful I didn’t care to stay), he theorized that the sound guy at Audies “wasn’t on their side.” Totally plausible, seeing as they sounded almost like a different band at the Rickshaw, and a much better one for that matter. I gotta say, they charmed the shit out of me that night. And their wall-of-sound/shoegaze vibe even managed to breach the skepticism spurred by the night before.

And then, what can I say about A Place to Bury Stangers? Hailing from New York to kick everyone in America's asses, they started the set fucking my ears up in the best way possible and ended it with some good ol’ guitar bashing and general debauchery. The setlists were mostly the same between SF and Fresno, and honestly, they put on an equally amazing performance in both places as well. They are an undeniably good band and their sound (I’ll go with Joy Division meets My Bloody Valentine) is a recipe for a great live show. Couple that with consistently good sound quality (they tour with their own sound guy), and you should get the same fucking phenomenal experience, right? Nope. The one distinction was the crowd. I can’t even tell you how much trying to be cool will fuck up a show. It was like night and day. I’m not sure if concert goers in SF arbitrarily stumble into shows without knowing who the band is, resulting in this stunned look of bewilderment; and if so, why wouldn’t they be moving, at least a bit, when listening to live rock n’ roll, for fucks sake? I mean it was baffling. Everyone there was like a perfectly put together indie mannequin. I felt robbed of a legitimate rock show. If you were at Audies, you couldn’t deny the energy circulating in that tiny club. I was drenched by the end and my neck hurt for days afterward from the head-banging and jumping. The Rickshaw stop isn’t all that much bigger but damn, it felt completely void of that excitement and spirit that live music is supposed to induce. Jay Space mentioned to me afterward that it’s always the random little places where the shows are fucking rockin. While most people may not agree that Fresno is all that random, I think we can all agree that at least Fresno knows how to fucking have a good time.