D-O’Clock

Before I get into talking about the Bon Iver show, let me state plainly the poor decisions I made on the journey to the experience of the show that can only lead to the simple conclusion that I am a moron. Decisions that not only left me unnecessarily light in the wallet, but more broadly, further perpetuate my skepticism in the rational choice assumption behind capitalism. First, I had been eying up this show for some time. If I were a rational economic being, I likely would have explored my purchasing options to find the most cost-friendly way to get a ticket. Instead, I waited for the show to sell out. Forlorn and dejected, I was extended a helping hand… by ticketmaster. A few clicks later, a few squiggly incomprehensible words confirmed, and I was a proud honor of a 17 dollar ticket to see Bon Iver and The Tallest Man on Earth… purchased for $29.95/M. Jerkass Adam 1 Homo Economicus 0.

Now I’m in the car Monday evening (this is after failing to yet again successfully burn a pre-show road mix on my iTunes, dropping my success rate on iTunes CD burns below the 50% threshold), and I’m prepared to hit the road. I have my laptop riding shotgun, armed with an ear bud headphone through which Tom Ashbrook will then proceed to lead discussions with distinguished guest on the topics of Arthur Rimbaud and Hunger in America for the next hour and a half. My laptop rides shotgun of course, but my iPod remains dead and burned. It takes an hour and a half to get there because Eagles fans are packing the roads to watch their team build hopes for another week. I am now late, my floor position I had mentally staked out being phased out by slim-jeaned jokesters and blue-hooded jackets straight from the goodwill rack. I now become rushed. I seek to park to the closest, most visible lot, guided by the trustworthy Garmin navigator… an arrow leads me to my spot, at the Hilton convention center. Press button, ticket… gate, lift… sign, 3 hours, $25.00. Jerkass Adam 2 Homo Economicus 0.

I am in. Now, beer… downed quick. Off to the floor to see who I would learn to be The Tallest Man on Earth.

Nick Drake guitar stylings and, of course, the Dylanesque vocals and lyrics. Two equally unfair and blasphemous comparisons, but fuck it, this guy is good, and a very entertaining performer.

Very impressed, yet I’m here for Bon Iver, and I now have plans to further alter my state to get to where I want to be for the main performance. Upstairs, scurry the beer, and straight for the whiskey. I’m gonna treat myself. I scan the shelf, my mind is made up, and I eye-fuck the bartender to get her attention. I smile……. Knob Creek…. double….. neat. I’m James Bonds with a blue-hooded jacket. Bartender returns, drops a plastic cup in front of me with what looks to be a shot, a pathetic shot. Somehow manages to look right in my eyes and say, “16 dollars”. I point to the flaccid thing and repeat, “16 dollars?” She quickly responds affirmatively with some bullshit about the ounce count. Listen, troll, I’m not in your mixology class, and this is not a fucking double. (These words, or something in the same vein, are what classically come to me only as I walk down to the floor 15 minutes later). Instead, completely thrown off my footing, I clutch the cup, eye-kill the bartender, and still… STILL! throw down a dollar tip for the heartless thief. I am a broken robot. Jerkass 3 Homo Economicus 0.

If an Ivy-educated man such as myself can fail so miserably, so regularly, and so quickly, and if there are so many systematic structures in place to unflinchingly take advantage of my irrational decision-making, then is there really any surprise that the entire system can crumble as it has?

Buzz now established, on to the music. There is no better example right now than Bon Iver of what I have recently been talking about with Seasick Steve and Jackson C. Frank, and that is the everyman potential to share a song. Musically, they do some interesting and unique things, but nothing considerably difficult or extraordinary. I’m beginning to discover that many of my most admired artists, like Nick Drake or Jeff Magnum of Neutral Milk Hotel, are stripped of all flash to the human elemental core. One man, one guitar, one song. Having written his entire groundbreaking debut in a retreat in a log cabin in the Wisconsin woods, this is Bon Iver. And Justin Vernon writes some beautiful, soul-reaching, introspective, pure, honest music… and performs it with humility, with ease, lighthearted, good-humored, deeply touching each person that is crammed into the warm theater to share in something true, comforting, cathartic.

Leaving the parking garage, I learned the parking fee would have been $5.25 had I validated my ticket. Instead, another $25.00 gone. The total approaches $50 that have been squandered for this event. The feeling, however, the experience. The chills… are priceless.

Next time I bring a flask.

While removing all the spam comments in my inbox, I accidentally deleted all (3) of the real comments. Just when I start to develop a legion of fans, I throw it all away. Thank you for your visits though and your comments, they are very highly encouraged!

And what’s the deal with spam anyway huh? My gmail is loaded with male enhancement ads, I retreat to the sanctuary of the blog, and bam! more male enhancement ads. Yes, I get it, internet, I have a tiny penis, why don’t you back off? I mean, come on, whaaaat’s the deeeal???

Kashiwa Daisuke performs “Stella” from Program Music I. 35+ minute track that I wonder if anyone will actually listen to, but I’m going to share it anyway, because it’s masterful and you should trust me. Remember what I told you about slowing down? Yeah. Close your facebook, go ahead. People don’t really need to know that you are studying for a test, nor do they need to know how excited you are for the upcoming season of Lost. I don’t watch Lost, what a waste of time. I’m a Frank TV guy, and a Bill Engvall show guy, House of Payne, the modern classics. So sit back, click through the youtube waterfall of Japanese bliss. Or screw that, skip over that meaningless gimmick, put on some headphones, dim the lights, relax, click the download link provided below, and enjoy. If you fall asleep, don’t worry, your brain will keep listening, synapses collaborating to whisk you away to a magical land without bailouts, melting icecaps, and Frank Caliendo interruptions.

Stella

Well one of the Tony/i/e’s has done it at least… Toni! maybe? That’s right, this next artist is from that 80’s-90’s R&B group, and he’s responsible for one of my favorite albums of 2008, Raphael Saadiq’s The Way I See It. Personally, I don’t think 2008 was a great year for music. There’s a lot of good stuff out there, some great bits here and there, some fantastic debuts from the Fleet Foxes and Bon Iver, but there were few albums that really gripped me all the way through, including an unfortunate handful of much-anticipated, but less than inspiring efforts from bands like Kings of Leon’s Only By The Night, My Morning Jacket’s Evil Urges, and to a lesser degree, TV on the Radio’s Dear Science. But this Raphael Saadiq grabbed me. It grabbed me I think, largely because I haven’t heard anything of its kind in so long.

You hear these soulful ballads, funky production, female group backup singers, and you would be fooled to think that this emerged straight from the heart of Motown.

If you can hear songs like that and fail to nod a head, tap a foot, shake in your chair, then for your sake and your family’s sake, call 911, because you’re having a stroke.

If you can hear songs like that with your girl by your side, and you don’t grab her, kiss her, dance her, and love her good, then you’re probably Clay Aiken.

I mean, come on. Seriously?

Saadiq is immensely talented and is one of the few deeply soulful acts that I know existing today. He produced D’Angelo’s quality work years ago, as well. Speaking of which, this one’s for the ladies:

Careful dudes, don’t Aiken yourself.

Continuing on the theme of everyone’s potential to create and to express, we come to Jackson C. Frank. Largely forgotten, he is responsible for the fantastic self-titled 1965 album, produced by Paul Simon, that released such classics like “Blues Run the Game,” “Here Come the Blues,” and “Milk Honey,” among other great songs that have been covered over the years by the likes of Simon and Garfunkel, Counting Crowes, Colin Meloy of The Decemberists, and of course, Nick Drake. Like Drake, Frank was completely incapacitated socially, so petrified to perform his music in front of others that during the recording of this album, he requested screens to be set up so that those in studio (Simon, Garfunkel, and Al Stewart), could not see him.

Blues Run the Game
Yellow Walls
Here Come the Blues
Milk and Honey

Everyone has their song. It lives at each person’s core. Humanity’s a great thing if you can reach it, if you can strip back all the superficiality, the systematically manipulated, and socially molded layers to allow yourself that pure honest expression.

Check out Seasick Steve, a wandering migrant to Paris in the 70’s, homeless and penniless for much of his life, with few possessions, including one ragged beat up guitar with only 3 strings. Having nothing, already stripped to his core, alone in the streets, just him and his tattered guitar. Perfect recipe for a bluesman!

Amazing. All those years of struggle have cultivated one fine sound. More from La Blogotheque.

Seasick Steve - A Take Away Show - Part 2 from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

2 very different versions of the same song, “Heartbeats,” first, the original electronica version by The Knife, followed by the acoustic cover by Jose Gonazlez. Outstanding song in each form.

I love both of these songs.

I wish he didn’t forget the lyrics at the crucial moment in “Postcard to Nina,” but priceless performance nonetheless.

“Opposite of Hallelujah”

Both songs off the album>

Pablo is the band, comprised of Paul Schalda on vocals and guitar, and presumably an adopted 3rd cousin Will Schalda on keyboard. “Loser Crew” is the first video, off the 2006 album “Half the Time”.

It’s a song (and video) I think that if it were in the mainstream, it would be poppy enough I’d label it a guilty pleasure (btw, if someone can tell me who the voice reminds me of, likely a 90s band, blind melon?, i will be very happy. it’s like a critical stage 5 tip of the tongue.) But due to the complete and utter obscurity of “Pablo” - I can enjoy this one guilt free, and can include among the other obscure freaks like Scott Walker.

And what is it about obscurity that is so appealing? This aspect of obscurity gets touched on in NPR’s latest On Point episode, The Next Americana. I don’t think it’s just for the sake of being obscure or one-upping your peers in bands you know. I think it’s mere utilization of all that the information age has to offer. We are no longer limited by what the mainstream commercial labels feed us - the power is in the consumer’s hands now to choose. You can discover bands as obscure as Pablo anywhere, on websites, blogs, podcasts… after doing some research, you can discover other similar bands… and depending on your moral restrictions, you can even go download complete albums and discographies for free. It’s like the whole Long Tail business model, selling less of more. It’s a great time - great time to discover a wide range of musicians, to see them live, to be exposed to different styles… yet like everything that comes so easy, it’s problematic. Problematic with the compromised sound quality the listener now gleefully accepts on their downloads, and even worse, the desire to appreciate music could become transformed into just another insatiable form of consumerism. Listening to MORE, discovering MORE, and FAST, without perhaps slowing down, sitting down, tuning out, and actually LISTEN to the music. Slowing down, an essential reminder from your friends here at Dark Comedy Hour.