Hi all.

Sometimes you get so busy you forget you submitted album reviews to Performer magazine. Then suddenly, there they are. At least, you do if that you is me.

The latest review is of a band called Stuntditch out of Philly. Check it out in the October issue of Performer or right here on the Review page.

It seems like months ago that I reviewed The Rationales debut The Going And The Gone. Probably because it was, in fact, months ago. While I missed the deadline for the August issue of Performer Northeast, the editor saw fit to publish it in the September Issue.  Check it out at that link. I’m also adding it to the Freelance page at the top of the blog where you can see the review in its entirety — along with the other reviews I’ve written.

I got The Rationales album months ago out of dumb luck: the cover looked cool and the album was short, so, I thought, why not. It’s a little more pop than I usually go for, but the album used its hooks to hook me.

See what I did there? So clever, so clever. 

I still throw it on occasionally when I’m taking a quick ride around town. The song writing is pretty solid, as you’ll see in the review, and overall the album just struck a chord with me. The band is Boston-based, so if you’re nearby and you see them playing, let me know; I’ll meet up with you and buy the first round.

Dear Alexandra,

I was recently informed of your potential decision not to attend Taco-ween this year in favor of some lame ass party in Bumble, MA.

To which I say: What the shit?

I’m now going to go through a list of reasons why you should attend Taco-ween instead.

Reason the first: The theme is Guitar Hero: World Tour. Costumes will be based on band members from across time immemorial. You and Andrew may have started the trend last year with your 80’s rocker themed costume. You could easily reprise your Whitesnake-chick-homage without problem.

2. There will be tacos.

Thirdly, our friends are so much cooler than any of the batshitcrazy people that will be attending a party in where-ever-the-hell-it-is-that-isn’t-JP.

4. Western MA? Honestly? Who the hell lives there anyway? More importantly, who throws a party way the hell out there, forcing friends to drive a long distance in order to attend a party? Lame-ass-ed-ness.

Reason five: JP is T-accessible.

Six: The cab ride home will be a lot cheaper and quicker. Think of poor Jack. Who will, no doubt, be stuck in a crate wishing for nothing more than some attention and love – and possibly to squeeze out a big dookie the second you two walk in the door. Travelling from JP to Newtonville will surely be more expedient than travelling from where ever to Newtonville.

Seven: I’ll be there.

Reason the last: Taco-ween Guitar Hero World Tour Edition could bring world peace. Is a World War something you want pinned on your Bumble-bound shoulders? I should think not.

This recent turn of events seriously endangers our blossoming friendship. Sure, you left a raincoat on your mailbox for me the other day – which was awesome. But what will happen if I need a winter coat in November? After ditching out on, what will undoubtedly be, the Halloween party of the year, I may not consider asking Andrew for a winter coat. In that case, we all loose. Especially the children. That’s right, Al. Think of the children! Those poor, unwashed mashes of weeping children with no food who will greatly benefit from our rock n roll stylins that evening. What will they do if you don’t show up in white pumps with a blond wig? I dare say they will cry. And they will cry enormous pools of blood stained tears yearning for food, education and, eventually, good jobs.

All of that can easily be accomplished with a simple decision: Attend a Halloween party in JP – with tacos. I’ve made my case. The rest is on you, Alex.

The rest is on you.

Yours in Taco-ween unity,

Brian

Dear Hipsters,

I’m too fat to be a hipster. Huge fan of black. Black shirts. Black jeans. Maybe a skinny black tie here and there, you know, if the mood strikes me and I can offset it with the right striped shirt. I can’t fit into American Apparel Clothing. My vintage graphic tees are kitschy instead of edgy. They definitely aren’t one of kind.

Square-framed glasses and a round face just don’t jive. Besides, I have perfect vision and filling frames with clear glass is something Klosterman would do.

Speaking of Chuck, I read his oeuvre cover to cover. When I finished I told anyone in ear shot that I completely disagree with any stance he’s ever taken. Well, except for his essay on Billy Joel – Glass Houses is a fucking masterpiece.

I’m losing a lot of my hair, so I can’t get a unique hair cut to match the undiscovered gems on my iPod that – though you’re all hipsters – even you’ve never heard.

And though my awkward, chubby and Old Navy clad appearance may might not the fit the bill, I’m willing to have a Hipster-off any time you want. I always win because I cheat. You’ve heard of the Republic Tigers? Yeah, I saw them on Conan, too. They did the late night circuit after I bought them all a beer one night. Name your bands. I’ve got more. Ever heard of ‘Internet Browser Tool Bar’ or ‘Orange Water Bottle’ or ‘Black Moth Super Rainbow’? You know why? I just made all of those band names up. Except for Black Moth. I saw them play after the Republic Tigers, natch.

Natch, incidentally, is a phrase I coined a while ago back stage at a rock show. I said it to the lead singer of a band you’ve played for someone to show them how deep you are. He took it as his own and used it on stage that night. It spread. Later, we drank Colt .45s and smoked a pack of American Spirits.

Even though I’m busy hanging out at all the same shows you’re at — and a bunch of shows you’ve never even heard of — I’m always the odd man out. Girl jeans always give me wedgies and skinny ties look ridiculous on a big body.

Have you even seen me in American Apparel? No, obviously you haven’t, because if you did, I’d be sixty pounds skinnier and you’d be propping me up as your totally independent minded, wildly well coiffed and blessed-with-the-ability-to-herd-hipsters-like-retarded-cats leader. But such dreams infrequently come true, and that makes me long for things in life that are far out of my reach. Like red headed Punk Rock Girls.

That longing, paired with my solidly white, middle class upbringing make us a perfect match, even though the jeans will never fit quite right.

But, come on, I’ve got the semi underground Chuck Taylors that you all still wear. They always look good with my Polo shirt.

Ironic, isn’t it?

There’s one other potential problem that I’ve been loath to mention until now, but it’s got to be said: Death Cab For Cutie still sucks.

See you at the next secret underground show. I’ll be the guy with my hands in my pockets who outwardly appears to be even less into the music than you.

Brian

Surf on over to Performer Magazine’s Website and check out the recently released July issue. If you’re feeling really charitable, go to the recorded reviews section and check out the two albums I wrote about, Ben Pilgrim and We’re All Gonna Die.

I didn’t really care for either album this time around, but I was less harsh on them than some.

If you’d like to read the full review here, check out my Reviews and Freelance Work section.

Performer Magazine strikes again, feeling fit to publish some of my writing for some reason.

Check out my review of Chris Evil and the Taints Wanna Kill Kill Kill.

The Telegraph is finally reporting that the Manchester, UK band The Get Out Clause couldn’t afford to put together a music video, but it didn’t stop them.

No director, cameras, lighting, make-up or production? No problem.

These rockers decided to record themselves for free on local CCTV cameras. Then, in a stroke of brilliance, requested the video from operators using the Freedom of Information act. They weaved it all together and, ta-da, they had a music video.

I remember seeing this video a while back and thinking it was a really cool gimmick. I never got the full story of how the band brought this all together, but it does add something to the video. Say what you will about the music or the lead singers mustache, the video they created is pretty cool.

Check it out:

I surfed over to the All Points West site this morning to send the link to a friend when I noticed they posted a fresh news announcement yesterday:

“The only metropolitan NY-NJ area appearances for Radiohead and Jack Johnson this year are at All Points West, with each act playing a full 2 hour set!

Radiohead is headlining the festival on both Friday, August 8th & Saturday, August 9th, and will have unique performances each night, much like their past two-night shows over the years in NYC.”

The announcement goes on to note that APW is Underworld’s first announced American performance in the US.

Take the Jack Johnson news however you want. Two hours of Johnson’s brand of surf music is at least one hour, 56 minutes and 30 seconds too long for me.   Four hours of Radiohead over two days is another story altogether. I’ll be bailing early Sunday morning to head back to Boston in order to catch the lads from Oxfordshire again Wednesday the 13th.

August 8th and 9th. Then again the following Wednesday, the 13th.

This is the story of three editors and a vendor. See what happens when writers stop being sober and start being: drunk.

Mark, Jay, Matt and I got an invite from Marilyn Monroe on the Las Vegas Convention Center floor to attend an open bar at the Hooters Hotel and Casino. This screamed class to me. Of course we were going. Marilyn Monroe + Hooters girls + Open bar = Mandatory attendance.

The liquor was provided by a company called ShowRack which Matt kept calling ‘the RackShow.’ Classy AND appropriate.  I started the evening off by ordering a Bud Light then changed my mind to a Jack and Coke. I got both anyway. I’d been at the party 45 seconds and I was already double fisting. Yup. That’s just the way we roll.

Three shots of whiskey and three glasses of Jack and coke later — I was chasing shots of Jim Beam with Jack and coke, which is always wise — the open bar closed an hour early. Daunted, but determined, the four of us wandered downstairs to the Hooters bar to keep imbibing what I like to call ‘adult soda pops.’ Which we did. For a long time.

Eventually, Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ start blaring over the PA. We’d been loudly drunk for a while now, but hadn’t reached abnoxious quite yet. That all changed with one word: Meow. Jay, a non-journalist, but all around great guy had been kind of quiet while we were at the bar. I thought he was just hammered, but I now realize he was simply biding his time. Waiting for the right moment to make his move.

“I see a little silloutte-o of a man/meow meow MEOW/meow meow MEOW/Can you do the fandango?”

You know that surprised look that you sometimes get on your face when someone drops some knowledge on you after drinking for a while? He got it from the three of us in spades. And thus began the long and magnificent decline that lead to the videos you see here.

We must have sat at the bar and meowed for a solid two and a half hours. We drove patrons away. Bartenders tried to ignore us. Hookers looked for easier pray. And still, we meowed. No song was untouchable. Eddie Money? Journey?Alice in Chains? Barry Manillow? Meow.

Finally, Tom Petty slithered down from the speakers to where we sat at the elbow of the bar. I remembered my phone and its video capabilities. I started filming.  I don’t fancy myself much of a documentarian, but had I actually been doing a study of the affect of the word ‘Meow’ on drunk reporters in concert with music that is easily parroted, I’d be booking a flight to Cannes. As it is, cell phone video. 15 second clips. I hope you enjoy.