Archive for the 'Music' Category

Jenn Gooch w/The Harlan Twins @ Howler’s Cafe

November 6, 2008

What better way to ring in a new month with a new musical discovery or two? Since mastering my iGoogle organizer app, I’ve been all up ons in terms of shows. The Harlan Twins, being at the top of my local list, had a show last Saturday at Howler’s.

Howler’s has come a bit of a way from my first introduction; a Maxipads show well over two years ago. Sadly, that was the most recent show I had been to before Saturday, though I am on a first-name basis with a bartender or two.

The new stage, new tables and splashes of paint make the already intimate venue really come together. I’ll be seeing more than just the bar from now on, especially since the BBT is still out for the count due to water damage from a fire upstairs.

After piecing together my list of potential shows, I decided to figure out who I was seeing alongside the Twins. After a myspace sampling, I was satisfied in the knowledge that I might just be purchasing Jenn Gooch‘s latest release, Gift Horse.

George Neal of The Slow Burners, friend of Gooch and fellow Texan opened with some looong acoustic balladry and stompin’, priming the pump. Gooch joined onstage for “Probably Fine”, which they wrote together.

Shortly after, the petite banjoess ascended the stage and introduced us to a themed setlist; love and loss, isolation and bein lonesome and ‘shit hittin the fan’. The technique worked pretty well, and I was instantly charmed by Gooch’s unassuming nature and between-song humor.

While any cute girl with an instrument will do it for me, the vocals she threw down were terrific. Her southmouth lamentations reminded me of Scout Niblett, while her lyrical skills, especially with songs like “Jonestown Koolaid” evoked a darker version of Joanna Newsom‘s poetics.

She blew through her set; most of her songs are under three minutes. After grabbing another beer, I snagged a copy of her album, already excited to feed it to my iPod. I was even more excited when I got home and discovered her banjo was just a vehicle for her musical alter-ego and that she was primarily an artist, with a site and everything.

The Harlan Twins shambled onto the stage in quick order and turned in another solid performance. James Hart’s guitar work is compelling and thrifty, especially on “Stones in my Passway”. The only self-indulgence you could fault him for is basking in the gravelly brilliance of his voice, but I’m not gonna fault that. As a friend mentioned at their last show, you can tell a good rhythm sections if they look relaxed. At times the bassist looked bored when he wasn’t exchanging grins with the drummer, and that only happened when crazy breakdowns were occurring.

The set was shortened by two songs due to guitarist Carrie Battle’s hearing issue, who has some sort of alien probe in her ear canal that interferes at inappropriate times. Yet again, her mic was nowhere near loud enough, so it may be just as well that the crowd didn’t get to hear “Blue in Bloomfield”, which is not possible without her smokey pipes.

Beyond discovering Jenn Gooch, I found that The Harlan Twins were only one of several formidable alt-country and southern rock outfits. Their next show, at the indomitable Brillobox, is with Lohio, another album release shindig.

I gave Gift Horse several hard listens when I got home, and was overjoyed that the no-frills music I fell for at Howler’s was honestly transcribed in the recording process. It’s not hard to fuck up a solo show or album, there’s plenty of examples of artists doing that, but I was pleased as punch to add the album to my playlist. Given the fact that Gooch is a one-trick pony as far as instrumentation goes, the album is surprisingly lush with exploration and self-examination, which is distinctly reflected in the sounds and language of the album: Slow and melancholy remembrances like “Maybe Tomorrow” are awash in a sea of overt sexuality (“Sealust”), humorous accounts of abortive romance (“Prestidigitation”) and fast burning apocalyptica (“Jonestown Koolaid”).

Show Rating: B+

Album Rating; Gift Horse: A

Thanks to Jenn Gooch for giving me some tongue-in-cheek meditations on love. I’m already cramming the disc down my roommates’ collective throat.

Furthermore, I’ll buy the soundman who can get it right for the Harlans a beer (the keyboards were also too loud at times), honest.


Clap Your Hands Say Yeah @ The Brillobox

October 24, 2008

While it can be argued that life could get better, it doesn’t. that is to say, despite my complaints about and in recent weeks, life is by most accounts pretty swell. It don’t get better than this, and I’m dealing.

The other night (October 21) I went to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah at the Brillobox. It’s always nice to have national acts acknowledge the existence of Pittsburgh. Hopefully the enthusiastic yet stationary (dance, damn you!) crowd meant that we’ll see them again in the future. It was their first time here, but I think we left them with a good impression.

Admittedly, I am not the number one superfan of CYHSY. I dig them ok, but I was not in a position to sing along. I don’t usually jump on Pitchfork’s bandwagons, because I find the lot of them to be insufferable pricks. I just happen to be very enthusiastic about live music, hence, I was there.

Doors opened at 8, which meant I wouldn’t get there until half-past, and that no music would begin until like 9:40. Approximately. My bad mood in the meantime was diminished by the soundman playing “Oh! You Pretty Things” and “Autumn Sweater” over the system. It was not helped by the fact that the ‘box is non-smoking now, and apparently I managed to time my cig breaks so that I was cancering myself all by my lonesome.

Why grouchy? Well, because I was at a show, alone, again. Either I’m too much of an elitist indie fuck for my friends or they have little to no interest in good music. Yes, it’s more complicated than that, and I could prolly help my case by, uh, making friends with someone at these shows, but whatever. I don’t need another friend, I’ve got too many friends.

So I’m 3/4 or something for going to shows alone in the last six months or whatever, I missed out on Ukiah last Saturday. A big bummer, because when I finally got up the nerves to leave the house (and bathe, jesus. I was all kinds of shambles) and go for a walk around midnite, Howler’s was packed. Packed with all sorts of kids just like me, drinking pbr and smoking cigs and enjoying music that sounded great from Liberty Avenue. I don’t know who the headliner was that night, but between them and Ukiah, it would have been well worth the five bucks to get in.

I did have a date for the CYHSY show, but luck has been absent for me recently, so it fell through. I gave someone at the door my extra ticket gratis in the hopes of shoring up my karma.

9:40 and local band Donora came on. Think Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ second album meets the Cardigans. The bassist was having more fun than an amusement park and laying down some perky five-stringed grooves, and singer/guitarist was confidently belting out some solid pop nuggets. I will most definitely stay frosty for future show of theirs. Maybe buy their EP.

It was a long wait for yrs truly, with nary an ear to squawk into. But joy of joys, it did happen. CYHSY treated the crowd to a propulsive set, including four new songs, two of which laid down before the one song I could confidently sing at least some of the words to- “Satan Said Dance“. It didn’t matter, because barely anyone danced. I guess they’re not down with Beelzebub.

Obviously, albums don’t do any great band’s live show justice and this was no exception. I didn’t care much about the yokels around me, I let myself get sucked into the jangly yet danceable wall of sound. Their records sound flat compared to the live act, obviously. Also, CYHSY does that with their production anyway (something I kind of hate), which is why I am not a superfan.

It was a mixed crowd, some well-dressed, some shabby (hiya!), some young, some old. Two such older dudes in front of me were totally into the show, pumping fists and going on about how CYHSY have put out some of the best songs of the last ten years and obscuring my view. I’m kinda short.

After a nice long set:

Space Junk
Is This Love?
Man at the Bar
Satan Said Dance
Details of the War
Strong Man
In This Home on Ice
Trotsky’s Fence
Gimme Some Salt
Let the Cool Goddess Rust Away
Clap Your Hands!
The Skin of my Yellow Country Teeth
Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood

CYHSY departed from the stage to some loud thunderous applause (get it?! ha!). Many in the audience, coincidentally, were demanding that particular song. For our foot-stomping and whistles, we were rewarded with a two-song encore:

Some Loud Thunder
Heavy Metal

While I don’t think that CYHSY can lay claim to towering above their contemporaries, I have a new-found appreciation and interest in them. At the very least, the music is some of the best self-conscious, neurotic dance-rock in this decade that occasionally employs a harmonica. I can safely say they’ve pretty much cornered that market.

Grade: B

And only because I refuse to give such an esoteric outfit anything higher out of principle, and for all the energy in the music itself, the band themselves couldn’t stoke more than a dozen people to move around like their shoes don’t fit.

A Fun Project

June 13, 2008

So, awhile ago, I began assembling a personal mixtape.

[shrinky-dink mixtape necklace, found on craftlog!]

It’s not a full tape, and you’ll understand why I’m excited for that by the time I’m done explaining the context of said mix.

If you’re ever particularly lonesome, drunk, stoned, strung out or otherwise unnatural, creating a tracklist corresponding to each and every love in your life, in chronological order, is both refreshing and distressing.

Also, for the record, I listen to mine a lot.

The method is simple. You pick a song for each love. You keep going. This isn’t something that is expected to end.

The song involved for a particular subject could be the song, a song you put on a mix for them or vice versa. One or two of mine made it because of certain lyrics, or even a single line. In the case of one song, the sound of it alone made it the definitive audio.

To take this further, and in an effort to be honest with the next entry on the tracklist, one might even consider giving a copy up for an ear-session. If said entry isn’t the jealous type.

Then again, it might be better to cuddle away with a fifth and listen to it on repeat until you pass out on your desk.

I’m not advocating obsessing, but like any great moment (and ideally, the song should capture the definitive moment of the relationship….if it was a bad one, then pal, you fucked up. To be fair, I’ve got one real misery of a tune on mine), you want to ride it out ad infinitum.

As a culture that loses its own identity as quickly as it affirms it, I think it’s more than important for the average you to sit down and get happy and sad over this stuff. Assemble a full tape (By all means, find that last track!). Listen to it. Find it when you move and tramp over it again. Remember. Tell your kids. But don’t go as far as to say they could have had a different parent. That’s just crazy.

The point is, live in and love your ID. Each track on this mix is just another factor in the equation. Sometimes it’s easier to explain things to yourself if you can find an icon for a given moment. You put those in a series, and it turns out your life is a little interesting.

Bring your film along with a sixer to your friends’ house, share and share alike; you can have a little festival. Stories like that beat the hell out of anything on the idiot box, in any case.

And since when did anyone need a serious excuse to drink and shoot the shit with pals?


I didn’t want to kiss and tell, but then, the point of the exercise is talking about this…So here’s my tracklist to date:

Major Label Debut (Fast Version)-Broken Social Scene
Nancy of Spades-Tony Fahey (To be fair, this is a friend of mine. Precious few have heard this.)
My Mistake-Smashing Pumpkins
Coffee & TV-Blur
One Line-PJ Harvey
Grass-Animal Collective
23-Blonde Redhead
Between The Bars-Elliott Smith

British (Sea Power) Invasion

May 20, 2008

I had been waiting for weeks, I got my ticket at Paul’s CDs, and had resigned myself to a long and lonely walk to Mr. Small’s in Millvale, because my friends are lame, or play frisbee in these things called tournaments, or insert excuse.

They apparently do not like rock music.

But I do, so, braving the unseasonable chill (and rain) and the 40th street bridge, I trudged five miles or so out to the venue, only to be made to wait in the drizzle for another half hour, though the doors should have been open. A small crowd of scenesters spoke of things like Curiosa, Mogwai and their stratocasters. I smoked several cigarettes, and watched some errant green balloon float into the scattered clouds.

I hadn’t even remembered that there were three performers on the bill, and I groaned inwardly when I saw a dude with a sticker-crusted acoustic on the stage. Then I started enjoying him. Jeffrey Lewis is from the same anti-folk school as The Moldy Peaches, except he stayed after class and did extra credit. He was great, and managed to transcend the novelty quality most of that sound is mired in. I’d listen to this on any given day.

He supplemented his odes to artistic awkwardness with ‘films’. These were, as he explained, low budget. By low budget, he meant something like a Demetri Martin sketch. Fully illustrated, and with his voice as a soundtrack, Lewis spun out two of these in his brief set, and they were disarmingly innocent children’s stories for adults. I was grinning the whole time. One of his better songs was about not letting the record label take you out to lunch.

A friend had told me he had enjoyed his Sea Power experience to such an extent that not even Feist opening up could spoil it. I don’t know if I would’ve been as strong, but apparently, her ubiquitous ass is everywhere. The between-sets DJ played a remix of that damn ipod commerical. It was all I could do to not headbutt someone.

The Rosebuds
were up next, and though I had listened to “Birds Make Good Neighbors” at the behest of another pal, I didn’t get into it. But I was blown away by these guys, and I’m listening to the album right now. The set was smart, loud (much more so than the album), honest and dance-friendly American Rock. My usual complaints about the rust-belt not knowing how to dance were on the boil. But I had a spot at the bar, and was enjoying a tall, cold Yuengling and some quality music- Ivan Howard has a great set of croony pipes.

Plus, there weren’t really any girls to dance with. That would’ve required punching a guy with thick framed glasses and taking his place. But I didn’t feel the drive to involve myself in the inherent paradox of punching some dude who looks like me. Except is taller. And has hair. And is probably more charming, hence, has a skinny pretty girl that likes to talk about bands on his arm. I knew I shouldn’t have worn my glasses.

Some of the Rosebuds’ songs were reminiscent of late 60s rock, at times even some psych rock. It was mostly tight pop songs, played hella loud. This is music I’ll be looking to put on at the bar, sandwiched in between a Toadies song and a Black Rebel Motorcycle Club tune. They played a slower song or two, and segued into a bit of Phil Collins with one. I never thought I would hear “I can feel it in the air of the night” sung at a show.

Then some more waiting, until the intro to Do You Like Rock Music? came on. The more I read about Sea Power the more I love them. They called the album that because they figured it was something the Who would do.

They walk on stage, blessing Pittsburgh for supplying the world with Heinz baked beans, and fell into…a fairly sterile set? No, I’ve heard so much about their shows, I thought. I didn’t pay to see the bloody Wedding Present, as much as I like them. I paid to have my eyes kicked in with a massive concussion of Rock and Roll. I want people jumping about! Yan, foil helmets are not enough! I’m sorry the place is not to capacity!

Then they hit a stride when they played “Waving Flags” and proceeded to get fully into it, reaching climax when guitarist Noble jumped off stage and ran around playing. They joked and talked to the crowd (Yan was mimicking whatever was yowled into the microphone he put in a fan’s face for a bit, like a strange game of simon says) and they were having fun playing. So much fun in fact, that they had a ten-minute plus slab of noisy-freakout at the end, complete with one of the microphones making the rounds thanks to the spry Noble, which unfortunately displayed Pittsburgh’s lack of imagination (or at least quick thinking) with every “woo” fans delivered.

Folks were covering their ears for the bulk of the finale, and I don’t blame them. Someone had put a guitar against an amp, and the violinist was playing with the feedback like a dance partner. My ears were still ringing as I rolled up a promo flyer from the wall into my front pocket and tramped out into the night, only to walk five miles back to my house, err…local bar. Then home to examine my blisters and worry about how much I’m going to hurt the next day. And I do, a day later. I am sore as hell. But I’m sure I’ll be found at Mr. Small’s again in the near future (perchance for the Silver Mount Zion show in late June), and I’ll probably enjoy the walk, if necessary, as much as I did the first time.

But then, I like rock music.

57th Street is my Hell.

May 8, 2008

Pittsburgh, can we talk?

It’s cool you have these paper streets and all, but what the fuck?

I get 3/4 up a giant fucking mountain and the fair city tells me no dice?

Hence, I have to Indiana Jones my way up through the Shrine of the Silver Monkey, nearly breaking my money maker (my face, thank you).

Let’s rewind:

It’s two Saturdays ago. I get word the Philadelphyinz are playing a gig at Remedy.

Recently, I’ve been getting out more, making my presence known, though probably not felt. So I decide to go. I’m antsy all Saturday…looking for excuses not to go, thinking too much. To be fair, going out on my lonesome is a big deal to me, I used to get panicky enough not to leave the apartment for days.

But I go, a cute little triumph. I get there an hour early, because City Paper lies, promptly bump into a scenester chick who unloads, “Excuse me!”

Alright, we’ll do that. I sit down and hit a few gin and tonics, waiting. Finally some heads I recognize roll in, and I slip upstairs, cover not included. There’s some awkward talk with an old friend who’s grown up, some chitchat with Skinny Friedman and Apt One, and suddenly, some cats I haven’t seen for a minute are there. The Harlan Twins were among my favorites.

And the dancing, rapture motherfucker. I’m playing pool, dancing my face off, talking Steelers, film and grad school (shit, I am totally not qualified, but I generally have an opinion about everything) at the same time.

For the record, the Yinzer expats put down a fucking great show. I’m looking forward to hitting up one of their regular joints in Brooklyn or Philly. Smooth and lovin tunes.

An ex is there, which was a surprise. Her forcefield decorum was met by a drunken handshake and an apology for her not liking me. Well. I am classy at times. Not sure if that was one of them.

So last call sounds and I’m gone like the honeybee. Since I walked around one side of the cemetery, I figure I’ll round the other side and come out near home.

For the record, it took 30 minutes from Sonny’s to Remedy.

I walk, realize this part of Lawrenceville has yet to be colonized by art-fags, and turn up 57th street. I’m an eagle scout, I can find my way. But then, disaster! 57th ends in a creepy one light road up a hill or a paper street. I am nothing if not an enthusiast, so up the paper street I go.

I have hiked hellish topography worse than this. Granted, I was sober, but still. The hill went on. And on. Then the stairs, due to some crossed stars, bore a giant “ROAD CLOSED” sign, complete with yellow tape, halfway up the bloody thing. I did what any self-respecting scout would have done, I kept going.

Enter the vines, enter the thorny branches. Enter the stairs that disappear. Yes, every stair meant six that were never put down. So I’m clinging to the rail in the dark, working my way up to some halo at the apex. Then the stairs just stop completely. I’m still only 3/4 up the hill. Suddenly, I’m back in Cub Scouts, swinging on grape vines, rolling town junk heap tires down into gulleys, clawing my way through leaves and mud to the top of something I don’t need to be at the top of.

A backyard, a dog barking, a quick retreat into the welcome of a streetlight. Yes, I arose into a backyard. Some engineer fucked up somewhere. So I wander around, keep walking. By now I’m trying to call someone, just to say hello I am fucking lost what did you do tonight. There were a couple of funny voicemails (read: drunk and frantic) some brief conversations, and then I get ahold of this real cute photographer, we end up talking through to the end.

I skip through Morningside, Garfield and one or two others. I pick up a rock on the way, why not?

Finally, I breach unto the intersection of Baum and Penn, the world has found me. I walk a few blocks, some old black dude on a corner extends his hand with a ‘What’s up.” Without missing a beat, I clutch the phone in my shoulder, keep talking, switch the rock to the free hand and shake.

Later I realize this is completely inappropriate behavior. I also realize that I met this gentleman and his friends at around 3:30 AM.

After this, it’s all eyes on Get-Go, I drop my improv weapon and it’s a cheap sub and Gatorade, it’s a thank you to my cute photographer angel for the nice chat, and then half of Return of the Jedi and some sleep, after a surprisingly eventful evening. The lesson is to get out da hahs.

It’s 4:30 when I get home. I left at 2.

It is now glaringly obvious I made a very stupid call. But I make those every few months, and it almost always results in a drunk stumble through town. And it is always a great time.

Most of these good times would not be possible without the framework of this fair city, incomplete stairways and all.

Bless you, Pittsburgh.

broken social scene and wooden people

November 15, 2007

myself, this one and her man went to carnegie mellon to see broken social scene this past saturday.

at twelve bucks, it beat out my desire to sit around with unapologetic hipsters at a thirty-five dollar decemberists show. i don’t often go to shows (this has been my first one in like a year) so i pick and choose carefully. i am also poor, so i will routinely curse interpol and other bands that roll through here and expect me to toss 40 down the plughole for lousy seats. open admission or no dice.

i also think i need to say that while i fucking love the decemberists (their last album, the crane wife, was totally epic, a B+, even if only for the ‘crane wife’ trilogy and ‘shankill butchers’), people that like them are generally pretentious wankers who seem to fit in with velvety libraries smoking fine tobacco and drinking port. yes, that’s what the decemberists pull from for their amazing songs, but come on people! act a little young!

i was taking drugs at the show. and i wish i had brought alcohol with me, because i wasn’t loaded up enough to deal with this:


those of you who identified this as a multi-layered forest, good job. but this is merely a metaphor for the absolute, cancer-risk level lameness that i have come to expect from shows in the entire rust belt region. i won’t even bother squawking that much about it. nothing will change it, the whole lot should be sterilised.

yes, it was a crowd of trees. wooden people. to be fair, it was cmu (the show was originally going to be at mr. smalls, but hand it to the geek squad at cmu, the sound and vision was hella good, and it was in a gymnasium!) so, no personality. but even the locals, which, judging from a response shout-out (who came in from the city?) to kevin drew outnumbered the dorks 2 to 1, were stock still. so, they’re all dorks, essentially.

so what did we do? fucking danced. indeed, there was a clearing of coolness wherever we strode. there were a few others within our sight dancing, but it was a sad sad fraction. i settled for loud-mouthing about the crowd afterwards. i had important hip movements to make, and wasn’t about to waste time bothering with anything but the music, which was fucking incredible.

the real stand out performance for me was ‘lucky ones’ off of kevin drew’s new solo joint, spirit if…

on the album it isn’t nearly as good….but it’s hard to beat live music, and the effect of the whole band belting out the ‘yeah’ gave me the chills. ‘superconnected’ and ’cause=time’ were also stellar. the band did what they could with such a lame crowd; kevin drew gently needled the college kid crowd by briefly explaining he never went to college because he already knew what he wanted to do. take that, you smug, rich, quasi-geniuses!

the frontman from american analogue set (who was playing keyboards for the set), which i admittedly tried and never got into, sang one of his songs, which was really good. i’ll have to give them another listen.

the opening band had a bit (just a bit) of a galaxie 500 vibe for a bit, but any interest i had quickly faded. cigarettes were more important. i was not into that scene.

all in all, for a band that i’ve long regarded as bedroom music, they rocked real hard live. i was pleasantly surprised, because as you all know, i like my loud guitars and the spiders from mars.

the setlist, which ran about two hours (yeah, i know, fucking awesome. but i still wish i had smuggled some whiskey in), ended with a sing-along- “it will be sad once we reach the end, but don’t forget what you’ve found”

i’d like to say that the kids finally loosened up (or at least swayed) under the hurricane force passion of the music in front of them at this point, but i was too busy howling along with the band to hear or see much of anything else.

if you ever have the chance to catch these guys, take it. i met a friend there during the opener who told me she and her crew had driven to nyc to see them before. i was surprised, but afterwards, i wasn’t about to forget what i had found.

radiohead-in rainbows

October 12, 2007

well, if anyone didn’t know, radiohead has finished their new album, and the shit is not in stores. no, no they decided to open a website, and for a minimum of 90 cents (credit card transaction fee) you can get the album. me, i decided to throw down 5 pounds, about 10 bucks.

there’s some contention around the album though. while i’m not thrilled about this, i can’t say i’m pissed. i was already thinking about ordering the discbox for myself for christmas (for bein such a good boy this year). i would love to have some radiohead on vinyl. plus the added cd, if the live versions are any indicator, makes it worth it. two cds, two LPS, and an art book. and you should all know how much i love stanley donwood, who does all the art for radiohead and is one of my favourite writers.

so, i’ve got a ‘sub-par’ recording (160kbps). yes, i notice. but the fact is, i rarely use my cd player. it’s much easier to use my computer- itunes is by far the best software for large libraries. so, this ‘sub-par’ recording sounds the same as all my other mp3s, and the cds i’ve been burning for years, because i do not buy them anymore.

does that make me a bad person? no, it makes me a pragmatic person. with little exception, bands get about ten percent of the profits from album sales. the real money is in merch and tours. i don’t feel a damn bit of regret when i look at stacks of burned cds, knowing some fat greasy fucks who have been systematically destroying the institutions of music through sloth and greed and sheer stupidity are not getting any of my money.

i do buy records at shows. i do try to go to shows. i may be leeching a bit, but nowhere near as much as the industry does on its artists. if anything, i’ve ended up giving more money to music because i download regularly.

the hard copy of in rainbows is coming out in january, printed by a major label. but when i bought the album online, the money went directly to a band i fucking love.

and this album, it blows hail to the thief out of the water, without a doubt. i can’t wait to hear it on vinyl, and hear the bonus disc tracks, particularly ‘bangers n mash’.

this album is gritty, soaring, and very creepy all at once. the final version of ‘nude’, a song i’ve been covering for years that previously was only available from live recordings is gorgeous. my version isn’t bad either.

in the grand tradition of most radiohead albums, there’s some real weepers on here. the last track will likely make you cry. think ‘motion picture soundtrack’ meets ‘fog’ meets ‘cuttooth’. phil selway’s drums are incredible, and thom yorke’s voice has gotten even more like an abused angel’s.

since it’s only a dollar (if you don’t want to give them your money for a sub-par recording) i recommend picking it up without delay.

it still pains me to know they’re never going to write another album like the bends (fuck off, i’m a bar rat, and bar rats like loud guitars and beer, think-music and wine comes second) i’m really glad they took the time to write a really solid album. hail made me think they had peaked.

radiohead-in rainbows: grade: A

and as a notice, from now on, i’ll be doing music reviews more often, and more in the style of real reviews. i used to do it all the time. just google me, i still show up in places.