Fucking Dan Bejar.
I was all prepared for this week's post to be a bilious rant about how much his show sucked, what a giant turd farmer he is and how sandwich-eating Cannucks are a blight on the music industry.
I was pretty excited about it. I've been carrying around a lot of hate following his shameful performance with the New Pornographers the last time through town and I was very keen on a little character assassination. So what does that unshaven, curly haired fuckstick do on Friday night? He takes the stage at the Black Cat and puts on a tremendous show, during which he appears to actually care about every song.
Vexing.
I like slagging douchebags more than anyone, but I find it real, real hard when they're talented. And Dan Bejar is one talented douchebag.
So in lieu of bashing Bejar, I guess I'll just have to comment on one of the odder phenomena facing the indie hipster concert goer. If there was a dark stain on last night's show, aside from an air conditioner that could have frozen mercury, it was a phalanx of sorority girls and their thick-necked, date-raping fraternity counterparts clustered directly in front of us.
The guys were distinctly uninterested, mercifully leaving to go take Jaeger shots and share uncomfortable homo-erotic silences after just a few songs, but the sorority girls persisted for the bulk of the show, throwing the devil horns, shouting woo, and taking an unending supply of Myspace photos -- not of the band mind you -- but of each other ... pretending to listen to the band. One of their number, a willowy blond, dressed in a short skirt and hooker boots, didn't look at the stage once.
This whole display was more curious than it was annoying. Other than their relentless commitment to flash photography, they weren't actually disruptive, but I couldn't stop thinking of how they managed to stumble into the Black Cat to see a famously persnickety Canadian art rocker sing about literature.
You will never convince me that any of them owned a Destroyer record, or, in fact that they could properly describe what a "record" was. And its not like the week before the Black Cat hosted Toby Keith or whoever the milquetoast kids are listening to these days. The Black Cat is an unstintingly snooty hipster venue, far from the part of town where they trade in $4 mojitos and rohypnol. So what the hell were they doing there? I spent much of the show writing mental scripts for how they managed to show up there (dare? pledge initiation?) but none of the explanations satisfied.
And the truth is, this happens all the time at indie/punky/off-the-beaten-path kind of shows. One of the realities of listening to non-mainstream music is that, depending on the band, you can usually predict the concert demographic with stunning accuracy. And then the sorority shows up and throws off all your calculations. Perplexing.
I'd like to propose an ambitious new program to fix what's wrong with music today. My plan calls for rounding up all the wan, sickly, post-ironic indie douchebags (Carl Newman's ears must be burning) and packing them off to re-education camps to learn the art of showmanship. In between hourly canings, the lads would be treated to lectures and demonstrations by artists who have mastered the fine art of giving a shit on stage. Classes could include Finding Your Inner Comb - The Fine Art of Stage Preparation; Singing the Hits People Paid to Hear; and Acting Like You Have a Clue How Fucking Lucky You Are.
I propose that the commandant of the inaugural camp be Frederick "Toots" Hibbert.
I saw Toots and his Maytals for the first time last night at the State Theater in lovely Falls Church, Virginia. As a general rule I: a) don't go out to late shows on school nights and b) don't go to Falls Church, ever. But the chance to see a reggae and rock steady legend at a tiny venue overrode those guidelines, so my girlfriend and I schlepped out to the suburban wasteland and the surprisingly accommodating State Theater.
The State is like a miniature version of the Warfield in San Francisco, with a small, sunken standing area down front, cocktail tables and bars behind that, and a balcony overhead. There was a pretty good crowd on hand, but none of the nuts-to-butts claustrophobia typical of most DC venues. The night started inauspiciously enough, as the crack team at the State seemed to have a little difficulty getting all the microphones working. By the time everything got unfucked and Toots took the stage, it was past 10:30, and I was starting to wonder if this show had been such a hot idea.
It took about .5 seconds of hearing Toots singing "Do the Reggay" to erase my concerns. The 62-year-old Toots took the stage wearing a sleeveless leather and wool pinstriped suit that might seem ridiculous on somebody else. He's been at it for so long that many of the Maytals are his actual offspring, including the bass player and one of the backup singers. From a technical standpoint, the band sounded amazing, and Toots' voice is unbelievably strong. His energy was outrageous and infectious. With a few shouted exhortations he had the whole crowd skanking along (mostly) in time (this is Virginia, after all).
Toots played all but one song I wanted to hear (She's My Scorcher) including Pressure Drop, Monkey Man and Sweet and Dandy (above). He closed his set with a raucous, 10-minute rendition of the amazing 54-46, his signature track (and former prison number, if the story is to be believed). He didn't leave the stage until he had shaken every hand that he could reach in the audience. Just stunning. He'll whip Carl into shape in no time.
You know I like Hotrod, but it'd be nice if he could shut up about himself for five minutes. For the past two months he's been telling anyone who'd listen about his upcoming birthday, the exact flavor of brownie he wanted, what color streamers were appropriate for a newly minted 46-year-old and the exact key we should use in singing Happy Birthday. At least I wasn't there for his tiara fitting. Dreadful.
Anyway, we all got together earlier tonight for the fist of several Hotrod's birthday-related outings. The whole DC Vox crew was there -- Emma, Midwest Gal, Akai, Aussie Bob, Eileen and the Mysterious Dan. The venue was one of those newfangled bowling joints where they dim the lights, flash Rorschach images above the pins and charge $9 for watered down vodka gimlets (what, people don't drink those anymore? Sorry, it's been awhile). Still, for all the mood lighting, pricey drinks, and Hotrod's constant preening, we had a pretty good time. Lucky Strike's major contribution to world cuisine is a ball of macaroni and cheese, rolled in batter and deep fried. I'd like to be able to tell you that I find these gross, and opted instead for a salad, but I think they might be the best thing ever. I ate 50 or so.
It was probably the macaroni bites that propelled me to my awesome bowling performance. By the fifth frame, I had already topped Hotrod's score for the whole game. I think I ended up with a 274 or something, though I never keep track, because I play more for the fun of the game, than out of any desire to compete with my brothers and sisters.
Good times all around.
(Oh and I realize that I'm cutting it a wee bit close in with this week's entry in the 52 Posts in 52 Weeks challenge, but don't take it as weakness on my part. All part of my master plan. The pie will be mine.)
