Parking lot lights, busy gray bodies, and those polyester shoulders can’t mean anything to me anymore. It was a first, sure, but he didn’t know your name. He called you something else. So it shouldn’t mean anything. Not those shoulders, not that feeling. 

So what if it felt nice? So what if it made you so happy your heart could have danced with the stars? You have to put that picture down, or burn it so you won’t be tempted to put it up again. That way you can’t ever think that way again. 

He’s with her, she’s with him. They’re as happy as can be. And if I had only known that when it happened, I wouldn’t have leaned in that far, or let myself get too happy. If I had paid attention to how he had drawn me in closer, with my name–not my name, not my name–I wouldn’t have thought it to be that great. Not if I knew why he had been so happy. 

And if  I had paid any attention to his face, the other drummer. The way he reminded the first that my name was Rachel, the way he kept looking at me anxiously. If I had heeded any of his warnings, the memory wouldn’t have been soured. There wouldn’t have been a memory to begin with.

I can’t listen to it anymore, the song. And it was all yellow. Look at the stars, look how they shine for you. Not again. I just think of it when I hear it. The book is still open on my piano, waiting for me to finish the song. It’s over. I don’t want to play it ever again. My limbs just grow weary and sick and deceived. I have to get up. I can’t ever finish it. Such a shame. It was a beautiful song.

And the wristband that I tossed away in a box, a time capsule. Twenty years from now, I told myself that night, I’ll look back on this. I didn’t think about what a disaster it could turn out to be. Didn’t think it was anything but genuine. The wristband still sits there, alone, gathering dust. At least I won’t see it for a while. Until I’ve moved fully past it. Until I’ve reached another milestone.

You don’t care, you don’t care, I tell myself. And I know that much is true. I just care about how much of myself I put into that one memory, only to slam it against the wall. I just care about how happy I was and how I can’t remember it anymore without wanting to get sick. That is why I care.

I know that much to be true.

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My music binge continues at Piano’s, in the Lower East Side of Manhattan (LES in text speak), where I checked out a band called El Ten Eleven. Comprised of only two members (though you would never know it from just listening to them), this band will seriously blow your mind. Similar to Ratatat, this duo is an instrumental dance-rock group based out of Los Angeles. Here’s the catch. It’s a drummer, and a guy with a double neck guitar (one neck 6-string guitar, one neck 4-string bass). Through the use of looping technology, they are able to create a full band sound, and an awesome concert experience.

Here is just a taste of what they are like.

It is understandable to be wary of an instrumental band, but for a live show, this is what a band like this is made for. What they lack in vocals, they make up for in talent. The guitarist is looping himself playing both bass and guitar, and at times is actually doing both at the same time.

Additionally, and to their credit, they did all concert goers justice by snuffing out some jack ass in the crowd who yelled “Freebird” at the end of their set. The fat man in front of me, did in fact commit this egregious error, and the guitarist swiftly responded with, “man, most morons yell for ‘Freebird’ at the beginning of the set, at least think of something clever to yell out,” to which the fat man yelled back sarcastically, “oh, guy with the microphone always wins”  and like the Bill Murray surrogate from my previous post about Terra Blues, this man most likely ended up floating in the East River.

Anyway, if you are frustrated by instrumental rock, this may not be a band for you, but if you have any interest in being mesmerized by musical talent, you may want to consider seeing these guys while they are still relatively un-famous. They have been working on some film scores (they worked on Helvetica, if anyone saw it), so watch out. They head to California in a few weeks for my west coast readers (are there any non-west coast readers? reveal yourselves if you exist).

After El Ten Eleven, the late night band, Wolff, comes on. They are the regulars at Piano’s, and if you stumble in after 1am, the show is free. Another looping Duo, Wolff, is comprised of a drummer, and a Tuba player, who has a microphone mounted onto his Tuba, which is connected to a DJ table and loop station. It is the same effect as El Ten Eleven, except the guys sings through his Tuba. If that isn’t trippy enough, they usually play with a projector screen which is playing either obscure movies, or Planet Earth.

Invented by Geoff Smith, the fluid piano offers microtonal tuning on every note. The performer is able to change the tuning on each individual note and is no longer limited to the intervals of the Western scale. It’s possible for this piano to be used in the performance of  classical Indian music as well as new music by contemporary composers. It took ten years for this project to come to fruition, but will it take another ten years for it to become mainstream? Watch the video here.

Native Instruments now provides the 4 pianos from Akoustik Piano separately (79$ each, and about 3 Gb each). The whole can be purchased for 189$.

We can also download Kontakt Player 4 (the installer now requires an Intel mac).

Today Mr. Apron wrote about the piano we are hopefully about to acquire, a relic from the days when people just had pianos as pieces of furniture.  Did they have them in hopes someone in the family would play, or because someone inevitably already did?  Were piano lessons a given, a rite of passage much as SAT tutoring is today?  Did Mr. Apron’s grandfather really buy the piano to match the window treatments?  We began to discuss these pressing issues after Mr. Apron let me read his blogpost.  I recalled an interview I heard on NPR about a singer-songwriter named Alice Peacock who has begun rescuing old pianos from Craiglist and homes where they are unwanted and housing them in her barn.  Where did this spate of unwanted pianos come from?  Well, we reasoned, people of our grandparents’ generation, if not already dead (as our 8 collective grandparents are), have downsized into condos and townhomes and have decidedly not taken their pianos with them, either into Shady Acres or to the grave.  And their children no longer view having a piano, or playing a piano, as a necessity, as they’re saving their money for SAT tutoring, or spending it on unlimited data plans for their family’s smartphones.  Those who do want pianos, and want a smaller, or cheaper alternative to the $50K it costs for a gently used living-room-sized 7′ Steinway, aren’t buying the spinet/upright/console pianos that Mr. Apron’s grandfather, and my paternal grandmother bought back in the heyday of such pianos.  The spinet we’re hopefully acquiring is from then as well.  No one wants to play the tinny sound that comes from a spinet piano, nor to move the 300lb weight, nor to tune the cramped innards.  People these days who want an affordable option for a child to learn on choose electronic keyboards. 

A few years ago, living on my own for the first time, I discovered I missed being able to sit down and play piano recreationally.  My brother had long surpassed me in technical ability, and I had no designs on going anywhere with it, but I found that, when I would go visit my family, I spent downtime between insanities in the living room, playing the familiar keys.  And so I made the mistake of asking for a keyboard.  I was, I think, specific.  I knew I wanted 88 keys, the same number as a real piano, and that I wanted the keys to be touch-sensitive, so that when you banged harder, you’d get a louder note, as on a real piano.  I forget what this feature is called in the world of keyboards, but it’s not important. 

I referenced in my last post (“OMG”) the gifts my family often lavishes upon us.  I have also mentioned in my birthday posts the danger of asking for gifts from my family.  This was no exception.  What arrived (with beaming smiles on my father’s and brother’s faces [for it was the latter's idea]) can be accurately described as a MIDI-input device.  What arrived, in my mind is an ivory elephant.  This is a keyboard which must be plugged into a computer to work.  It is only keys, same as the keyboard I’m typing on now, and requires a computer to process and generate output from the information.  The computer of course needs software (something called Cakewalk, which they generously provided), a sound card, and speakers, to play.  The computer I had did not have the ability to make the monstrosity play.  So my parents bought me a brand-spanking new computer, from which I now type, which also did not possess the necessary requirements in the way of sound cards, patches, and all the other bullshit.  So they then delivered a computer hailing from circa 1995 which had succeeded at home in the initial test-run of the keyboard.  And left me, with 2 computers (my former computer had just bitten the dust), and a gigantic piece of inert plastic with black and white keys.  Mute.  For I, too, was speechless. 

We set it up in our last apartment, and all I needed to do to play my new keyboard was boot up the dinosaur, turn on the minute speakers, open the Cakewalk program, fiddle around to tell it I wanted piano, not violin, drum kit, or full orchestra.  And then play.  Why, oh why?  Why couldn’t I have a self-contained machine?   I assume the idea was that, with Cakewalk, I could compose music, play any instrument I wanted, save and playback my creations.  Ideally, I’d upgrade the sound with bigger speakers, and have a hoedown on my MIDI toy.  Whose dream do you suppose that was?  I’ll give you 3 guesses, the first 2 don’t count.  My brother is a born tinkerer, one who soups up cars, stereos, skateboards, even trashcans.  Once he fitted a shoebox to the top of his trashcan so it was at the same height as his bed and he could pitch his Mountain Dew cans and Dorito wrappers with minimal effort. 

His dream, my white elephant.  I’ve tried to sell it on Craigslist, but all I got for the keyboard were offers from the usual Craiglist whackos offering half of what I asked for, pressuring me into selling that night in a back-alley, paying in “genuwine” gems in exchange for my toy.  My $200 (retail) toy, which is now useless to us, as we donated the computer it used to work with when we moved.  I hadn’t played it in months anyway, having cannibalized the mouse from that computer when the optical mouse on our functional computer rolled over and died one day. 

Does anyone want a MIDI input keyboard?  Retail value $200.  Worked perfectly last time it was plugged into the only computer on the planet it’s compatible with.  I’ll even throw in the stool and a free music stand.  And if you act now, I’ll throw in a fresh plate of hot brownies to sweeten the deal.  Please?!?

11/6/09 at Pianos – Cock Lorge release- The Leading Role
Special Guests, Shayna Ferm, Uzimon, and Alex Castle

Special Guests:

Shayna Ferm

Uzimon

Alex Castle

To see complete gallery click here.

BEALE UP118M Acoustic Pianos
Sale end 14 Sep 09. Call 3889 7499 for the current prices.

Arties Music Max
3/424 Gympie Rd, Strathpine, QLD 4500 Australia
07 3889 7499
artiesmusicmax@gmail.com
www.artiesstrathpine.com.au

Full galleries are on Prefix but I wanted a record here of all the CMJ ‘09 performances that I attended. This is pretty much in chronological order.

Greycoats

Home Video

Javelin

Motel Motel

Fanfarlo

Milagres

Blood Warrior

Casxio

Small Black

Autodrone

Highlife

Psychic Paramount

Sian Alice Group

Change The Station

Whisperians

Stricken City

Zaza

Lia Ices

Javelin

The xx

Mumford and Sons

Dinowalrus

The New Collections

Screaming Females

Coyote Eyes

Helado Negro

Sure Juror

The Loom

Peasant

Blood Warrior

Emmanuel and The Fear

Choir of Young Believers

Tony Castles

Bottle Up and Go

The Answering Machine

Kittens Ablaze

Drink Up Buttercup

La Strada

Kria Brekken

Exceptor

Tickley Feathers

Headlights

Japandroids

Drink Up Buttercup

Alice and the Beekeeper

Cale Parks

Elizabeth & The Catapult

Mama Bear

Locket

Marie Stella

The Postmarks

Au Revoir Simone

Best fucking halloween ever.
And it was followed by the worst nightmare sort of imaginable.
So not only was my day fantastic, I even got some sweet scares out of it.

Yesterday was a huge turning point in a lot of ways… today will be interesting.

I’m still thinking about Anti Christ.

Here are two quotes I can’t get out of my head:

Am I gonna get milk for my starving kids or that boss ass tshirt?
We give up sometimes, but I guess that should be enough for me.

Here’s to the take-out fried rice I got specifically for home last night that’s sitting in my fridge.  That was a great call.  Oh, and here’s to showing up at a party to find the ONE girl whose name you don’t know from high school.

Love,
Me

MidnightsDreams :: Gothic Halloween Piano

Happy Halloween! This dollhouse piano comes from Midnights Dreams, an Etsy artisan who specializes in spooky miniatures.  You can find more of her work here and read her blog here.

And click the thumbnails below to view our November newsletter.

Uppers: Check
Downers: Check
Big bag of crack made with the help of Master P: Check
Having to keister stash all this for 5 hours: So worth it!!

Gram Parsons once sang “Las Vegas, Ain’t no place for a poor boy like me.” This is not the case for CMJ. I chose the best time to visit New York City for the first time. I went with with an empty wallet and an ass full of drugs. That’s all you need for a good time. I saw more music and drank more whiskey and beer in the 5 days I was in New York than I ever have in my life. This was all possible with the help of beer sponsors, open bars, and free shows. A wise hipster told me that CMJ is like “Christmas for hipsters.” She couldn’t have been more right. This trip was my deciding factor on whether or not I was going to move to NYC and I’ve never been more convinced in my life. In the following posts I’m going to do my best to describe my experience as well as the shows I saw in detail. I guess I should get to doing that!

Day 1, 10/20/09:
I was met at the airport by Tim and a friend, they had just downed a bottle of vodka on the way to pick me up. Within 5 minutes of meeting up Tim puked outside the airport and they convinced me to pay for a cab. After finding a place to stash all my belongings and shit out the lump of drugs in my ass, we finally headed out for some fun. On our way to meeting up with some friends I noticed a lot of hipsters gathered in an open window area holding small glasses of wine, I knew what that meant. Free alcohol!! I convinced Tim to walk in with me and we discovered it was a magazine launch party. Which magazine? That really doesn’t matter now does it? All that mattered is that they had free wine and Magic Hat. So we stayed there for a while then headed to our friend’s place.

We had planned to go to the Woods and Beach Fossils show at Webster Hall, but by the time we got everyone ready to head out it was already 2 hours past the start of the show. We ended up going to The Levee and another bar. Tim and I ended the night by passing out on a twin size air mattress that leaked more than someone with OAB. If you expected to read about music, then I guess consider yourself fooled. I actually didn’t see any shows during CMJ, I just spent all my time looking for free alcohol, or at The Levee, which I’ve decided is my favorite bar in Brooklyn.

Day 2, 10/21/09:
So remember when I said I didn’t see any shows at CMJ? I lied! Tim and I started the day with cheap whiskey and the Forcefield Day Party at Pianos. The first band we saw was Surfer Blood. They sounded like kids raised on Graceland who also dig Rock N’ Roll. Which is way better than Vampire Weekend or The Givers who just sound like Graceland rip offs who only listen to whatever shitty indie pop is popular. They had great energy that didn’t seem forced. Nothing really stood out to me though.

After drinking some more whiskey in the park, we headed back to Pianos just in time to catch Brooklyn’s own Grooms. They had a post-rock sound which I usually frown upon, but their tones were so great. They had a Mustang bass and a Jaguar guitar that created sounds that not even Jesus Christ could get. Their bassist was busy but not too busy, and they were capable of creating catchy chord changes. This is generally not the case for most post-rock bands these days.

Up next we have Stricken City all the way from London, England. I wish they would have stayed there! The 2 songs I heard from them sounded like noisy generic brit-pop from the 80’s. The singer’s stage presence and voice resembled Patti Smith. That’s never a good thing! So I took it to be a good time to take a smoke break and drink some more of the whiskey drink I had mixed in a 20 ounce bottle.

I went back inside to catch a group of Jersey boys who call themselves Real Estate. Right away I realized I had made a mistake. I took the wrong kind of smoke break, Shit!! Within the first minute I was thinking to myself, “I really wish I was stoned.” They were the only band I had listened to previously out of all the bands at the showcase. I should have known better, but all I had done that day was some uppers and I was already pretty drunk. Oh well, they were still entertaining. They are a great lo-fi psych band with good guitar interaction between the 2 guitarists. They were able to achieve a great sound with few pedals, and were one of my favorite acts of CMJ. Real Estate was the last band of the showcase.

After the showcase Tim and I decided to meet up with some friends from Baton Rouge who had just gotten into town. We ended up getting kicked out of McDonald’s for mixing drinks and drinking them there. We mentioned to them that we were going to see some “kick ass bands” at Monster Island Basement. In typical Baton Rouge fashion though, they decided they were going to go support a local band. Isn’t that why you go to CMJ anyways?

Tim and I were wrong when we said “kick ass bands,” it was more like “a kick ass band.” That band was Fluffy Lumbers. They made my ears ring with their piercing guitar tones. The mix couldn’t have been better. Their singer was also their drummer, like the Eagles, except they didn’t totally blow balls. They were a fuzzy noisy rock band and they were turned up. Just the way I like it!

The other band that I remember is Ducktails. When I say band, I mean some fucking dude on his knees playing around with pedals and loop machines. The only way this would have been fun is if he did what The Dead used to do and dosed the whole crowd. I really like his music, but this shit barely resembled music. Tim and I decided to drunkenly talk 2 different peoples ear’s off for about 30 minutes and then left. I forget where we slept that night, but I’m sure it wasn’t comfortable.

Naiad and Walter Einsel’s illustrations graced the pages of several prominent magazines during the 1950s and 60s. Whether in black and white or in vivid color, the designs never cease to entertain and leave you wanting more.

Just check out that cheddar ad (below). Cheese AND plaid AND awesome illustration?!? You’ll want more. Trust me.

Thanks to Today’s Inspiration blog for clueing me in about this beautiful husband-and-wife design team:

All images from LeifPeng’s Einsel Flickr set:

A few lessons learned about CMJ:

1. Bands never start on time
2. Bands can’t believe they are there either
3. New Yorkers of LES are one of the most passive audiences.
4. Use the earplugs they give you in the CMJ Bag.

Amazingly enough, all the bands I saw were amazing.  AMAZING amazing.  Listen to them now – after you finish looking at these pictures.

1. Terry Poison – Accidentally saw them rehersing in DROM.  This was before the Brooklyn Bodega showcase and I was def the only young white female there. “Gloriously sleazy, outlandishly dressed quintet mix electro beats with rock guitars.” (CMJ)
2. Bodega Girls – Pianos was nowhere near large enough for the proper dancing required.  “These guys make everyone dance with their funky, hedonistic electrotrash.” (CMJ)  Face painting always wins as well.
3. Drink Up Buttercup – You have to love Philly bands with balls.  The guitarist broke is string halfway through and while waiting for a new guitar, the group took their maracas and trash can lid and finished the song acapella + stomping.  “Psychedelic without being cheesy, this bands sound like a sinister carnival.” (CMJ) They’ll be doing an acoustic set at the CMJ Happy Hour at Brooklyn Brewery tomorrow. 
4. BEAST – I was a little early when I went to Arlene’s Grocery, but though I only caught 1.5 songs I was intrigued.  “Punk rock swagger, trip-hop beats, and vocals delivered with the sting of slam poetry.” (CMJ)
5. Think About Life – AHH! I can’t get over how good they were!  When first looking at this motley crew you wonder how they all were introduced.  What you get is a unique blend of retro sounding vocals mixed in with awkward/awesome dancing and electronic hooks. “The kind of lo-fi, funky dance party that occurs when a punk band learns how to use a synth.” (CMJ)  Listen to them, love them, feel young again.  
6. Mumford & Sons – Fleetwood Foxes can suck it.  This band fromthe UK…..(sigh)…too wonderful.  The lead vocalist had me welling up with tears during “White Blank Page” – for serious, I can’t pretend to be pretentiously apathetic.  “Rural-sounding stripped down acoustic folk inspired rock” (CMJ) – from the UK…that’s what I can’t get over. 
7. Bear Hands - The lead singer looks like a grimier version of my friend Anthony.  That alone is a BIG win.  “Maniplated guitars create a solid wall behind aggressive, yelped vocals.” (CMJ)

As I sit here and type, I look longingly at my hand with all the admission stamps…and wish I was back there now.  Curses for being a college student.  More posts to follow about the “Being Your Own Label” panel and more glorious aritsts.  If I’m brave enough I will share my stories of the random ppl you come across at a music industry festival with 1,200 bands and many thousands coming from all over the world.

Avec le sourire…

Piano Pleyel en cours de restauration

Petit ou grand piano, il faut toujours dorer…

Piano PLEYEL en cours de restauration

Cadre retourné, il faut chasser les anciens tourillons. Ce sont de petits bouts de bois percés qui permettent aux chevilles en métal de traverser la fonte du cadre qui recouvre le sommier des chevilles.

Sur ce petit piano il y a 217 tourillons, mine de rien…

“I write because it’s my way of expressing the words that I am unable to say out loud some times.  There has always been music with in me and at the age of 16 I started writing songs.  It’s been my way to tell the world about who I am and to say that I am going to be somebody with a strong message created through my own life experiences.”  Nanyana said to me when we met up in Washington Square park on the first brisk autumn afternoon by the chess section.  As the kids flocked around us seeking clues to their next treasure hunt Nanyana and I sat across from each other with the sun beaming down and the distant sounds of folk singers, a Jazz Quartet, laughter, and a few grunts from some of the chess players who may have lost their pants as their Kings were laid down in defeat.

“I put everything I knew and loved into my lyrics and even went as far as to mail music artists my lryics in hopes of getting a response back to validate with in me, that I could write music.  I was preoccupied as a teen with the life around me and that explains why I overlooked a postcard from one of the members of 311 who wrote me back and invited me backstage to attend a concert.  I remember walking backstage with my friend and the butterflies that gathered inside.  There I was with the band in the back and they knew who I was.  It was that moment I knew I could do something amazing.  I knew I could be a song writer.”

Nanyana has a look to her.  It goes beyond the appearance which, in my book, is a perfect ten, but because I’m friends with her husband I will keep this very PC.  Yes, Nanyana is married and to an incredible musician who has paid his dues and achieved success in his own rights.  Jason “JJ Boogie” Reichert of the much acclaimed band “Arrested Development.”  Arrested Development (AD) hit the billboard top 100 in the 1990’s with such hits as “Mr. Wendall,” “Tennessee,” and a very beautiful cover of “Everyday People.”  Jason has always been a supporter of Nanyana’s years before his induction into Arrested Development and this clearly explains how the power couple managed to succeed as well as they have.  Now that Jason has reached his star you can bet Nanyana isn’t too far behind her husband of reaching her own.

She continued to open up to me in regards to how the couple began their life journey together and how colorful their world has become thanks to their common passion and appreciation of creating music.   When he isn’t on tour or recording for Arrested Development, Jason plays a vital role in Nanyana’s music career on the road and in the studio.  “Don’t get me wrong.  There’s a little competition and while Jason was auditioning for AD (Arrested Development in cool lingo) I put my music on hold to some degree to support him and to work outside of music.  Now it’s my turn to taste the success of my music dreams.  Of course we get into arguments because he travels a lot and I miss him.  It’s hard sometimes especially when I have a gig and want him with me to play, but I know how important his career is and I support him unconditionally.”  Nanyana has played continuously throughout Atlanta and areas near to the Atlanta area, but on a whimm and the luxury of free sky miles, decided to come up to New York City to visit a friend.  That is how I came to meet up with this young starlit in the park.

“My friend said that I should look into booking myself a show while I was in town and I figured I would give it a shot.”  After a few emails, a few phone calls, and a mailing of a demo cd, Nanyana landed her first ever New York City gig.  All on her own, with no label, no management company, and no support from an investor.  Nanyana is the true definition of an Independent Music Artist .  She is one woman with a vision who, since she was sixteen, made it her life goal to succeed as a music artist.  Nanyana made her debut at New York City’s Pianos, lavishly located in the bohemian area of the lower east side.  “I didn’t know what to expect and of course I know people will think about here’s another girl riding on the coat tails of her husband success, but they don’t know my history with my husband and how much we have both given ourselves to each other as supporters and providers.  They will probably only see it as JJ Boogie’s wife from AD is trying to be a singer songwriter through her husband’s success.  It’s ok if they want to see it that way, but I know the truth and now you do as well.”   I did know the truth and I knew Nanyana had much to say, much to express, and benefited one gift via JJ’s success.   A rich and amber sounding Gibson Hummingbird Guitar.  Oh, it’s really pretty and it sounds much better then it looks.

Our interview wound down and Nanyana went off to prepare for the performance.  I walked away with a new insight to my new friend and truly excited to see if she would receive a New York welcome from the patrons of Pianos and if she would be able to prove herself in the toughest town to prove yourself in.  I think I was more nervous, but I had hours to kill and went off to discover new insights to me and my dreams of succeeding as a live concert photojournalist.  I walked around and listened to the interview with Nanyana and started to piece more pieces of her puzzle together.  Ideas started to pour out of my mind how and when she would be discovered by the industry.  As I wondered around Soho, the village and with a negative balance in my checking account, I came across a $20 bill.  Lucky was I because I needed to fill up the gas tank and I was starving.

Time flew by and it was time to head over to Pianos for the debut performance.  Ok, Pianos scares me a little because when you play upstairs you are playing Russian Roulette.  People may show or they may not.  I wasn’t sure what to think.  I arrived to an empty room with three people sitting on a bench and Nanyana dragging her own equipment across the darkened room.  Her set up was simple and if her choice of dress, combined with her fresh new green kicks, was anything to foreshadow the evening I was in for a real treat.  The New York welcome I was hoping for came a few minutes before show time.  Nanyana looked sensational in a long green dress, her hair perfectly placed and a the Humingbird guitar belted safely like a holy grail in a guitar strap.  People trickled in before her performance and slowly the room started to fill itself with curious music connoisseurs.

Nanyana’s set connected with the guests and, like a VH-1 Storyteller Show, the meaning behind her songs were spoken about.  Because of my own relationship with the couple I found one story in particular very entertaining and how it came to be.  A lovers quarrel over being away from each other and not listening to the meaning behind her words.  I do believe I have heard that song before many times with many women who think men, like me, don’t listen.  Oh we listen, but our attention span only allows us to pay attention until we are distracted by the television, the smell of food, or high heals.  It happens.

The crowd embraced Nanyana with a wonderful applause at the end of her set followed by the sale of her CDs.  Overall her performance was enriching to the music she writes and validates her credibility as a singer-songwriter.  With the support of JJ, her family, and friends Nanyana is going to continue to climb her ladder towards her success.  The sky is the limit and with her New York debut in the can she will begin to expand her touring to more cities with proof that she can be what she always wanted to be.  A songwriter.  After the show was over and the guests congratulated Nanyana on her performance she exited Pianos.  I had just snuffed out my last cigarette when she spotted me.  “So what did you think overall?”  I looked at her and smiled and said, “Welcome to the big leagues kid.  Today you hit a home run.”  After a hug goodbye Nanyana turned down the dark damp sidewalk with her guitar in case and walked into the New York City night.  She turned the corner of Katz’s Deli on Houston Street and as soon as my time with Nanyana began, so it ended.  What will happen next we will all just have to watch and wait.

Piano 1/4 PLEYEL en cours de restauration

Encore un sommier à remplacer.
Celui ci est archi simple : une simple planche avec un angle simple sur la tranche du cadre puisque c’est un piano d’un modèle avec cadre en fonte pleine tourillonné.
Reste à remplacer les tourillons.

Two pianos go head to head to see who can collect the most tips and get their side of the room to sing louder. This isn’t the place to be shy, this nightly event is located is a Bar in Downtown San Francisco, brings some friends and drink some booze and get ready to stomp your feet, clap your hands and sing along to a wide variety of songs. SF Weekly named MicX the Best Dueling Piano Bar. The two pianist mix in improve, interactive activities and fowl language in this a laugh out loud (LOL) performance.

Outside Johnny Foley's Pub in Downtown San Francisco. Photo Credit: Devery Sheffer

From Baby Got Back by Sir Mix-A-Lot to Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond, the two pianist on stage will play almost any song you can think of, as long as you are the highest bidder. So this is how it works, on the piano are little pieces of paper, you take a piece of paper and write down the name and artist of the song you want played, similar to karaoke. Give the paper to the pianist on your side of the room along with some cash, the more you give the more likely your song will play. Some songs played for $20, and one person even payed $11 dollars to stop Johnny Cash’s Burning Ring of Fire because they hated country. If your on a budget like me, save your money for the drinks because they are more on the pricy side. Let others do the song bidding, I knew at least the chorus to almost every song that was played so I just sang along to the other’s choices.

The two pianos back to back, the flat screen above them gives the audience a view at the nimble fingers of the pianists. Photo Credit: Devery Sheffer

The show occurs Monday-Sunday 9PM and Friday and Saturday at 9:30 PM at MicX in the basement of Johnny Foley’s Irish Pub and Restaurant in down town San Francisco.

The night was cold for September; early-morning drizzle had blanketed the sky in a haze of grey and white, ominously perched high above the cityscape. By then, the sun had set, a distant, glowing orb, whose face was cloaked before in cloud.

Awake, it rises only to sleep again.

Sundays are the laziest of days, where people often sit and lie comatose, white-faced and sober from some reminiscent Saturday-binge. They lie strewn about the place, idle figures of permanence in an impermanent world. Tonight, all is dark and wearisome, week anew.

Heidelberg Station has never felt so empty, even with some company, conversation remains confined to three syllables or less:

“… So, tell me about the party last night?” I wonder.

A distant memory ebbs in and out of focus, albeit uneventful. His face tells all, grey and tired.

“… Everyone was out by eight,” Michael Hodder sighs, hand drawn across his stubble, “but by then, she was already out cold.”

“So much for the birthday girl’s eighteenth, then, eh?”

A glance, a nod.

The train arrives.

The city is strangely alive, the hustle-and-bustle of commuters evident. Flinders Street becomes an immaculate stage full of dancing shadows and their human partners. Students linger here and there, eyes cast above or below. Some stragglers wander aimlessly about, hands buried deep between their pockets. Largely, the station is amiss, traffic of any kind languid, uncongested. Trains pull in and out of platforms; passengers trudge in between each other, single file. By now, the rays of light are bent between the metal pickets of the cityscape, enveloped in the eerie orange-haze of artificiality. Lights blink on and off, the buildings suddenly have eyes.

I feel cold underneath my jacket, the tips of my fingers ache slightly as they nestle themselves comfortably beside my body. We loiter by the sidelines, surrounded by the general hum of mindless banter. A couple complain ahead of us, unsettlingly close and vulgar.

We strike up the usual topics, football and the likes, to kill some time before the next train – but it’s empty, and our hearts are set on The Middle East.

'The Middle East' Live at The Corner Hotel

Some months before, Michael Hodder had mentioned their tour of Melbourne. All the way from Townsville, they were here to play as leads at a shady little joint called The Corner Hotel; evidently sited on a corner, burrowed beside an overpass and a stretch of commercial-buildings with only a few ordinary ones amidst the usual Melbourne-architecture. The gig was set to start at 7:30, with the first of two side-acts. But by then, we were already late by half an hour.

We had imagined a long cue tailing from one side of the street to some distant, half-kilometre-away corner. I’d seen a few before, lined up against the panes of shop windows, up and over the curb, like snakes, making only exceptions for diligent drivers and other followers to join its lengthening tale. That was at Brunswick, though, other side of town.

To our surprise, we arrived to only a few groups huddled by the front, eagerly through the door without a fuss. We cued – but the door itself remained in clear sight.

Nothing like my wild imagination.

A fleeting glimpse from face to ID, and the bouncer – no more the stereotype than expected – thrust the card back into my hands and let me pass. With the gatekeeper satisfied, it was a clumsy movement in between juggling my wallet and getting my wrist stamped before I was immersed in the dark, surrealistic environment that was The Corner Hotel.

The place itself was utterly dead.

“I thought you said the tickets were sold out?”

“… I did, that’s what it said on the site,” Michael Hodder replied.

“Oh, hey Tom.”

By the bar, we met Tom Clare, another fellow whom we had decided to invite along.

“Hey guys.”

A somewhat small, yet unusually acoustic hall-like room, with a stage less than an eighth of its size, barely consisted of the joint. Inside, we found mostly empty walls, a stage with half-prepared instruments, chiefly percussion, with a band-less audience of perhaps twenty or thirty, and half a bar in operation. Speakers two-thirds my size sat mounted at either side of the stage, and quietly, music emanated from the forward region. A few drinks lay about, half-empty: beer, I supposed, not much room for cocktails.

The belly growled – hungry, I suspected. Not a scrap of food in sight, though.

“… But they only just went on sale, didn’t they?” I asked childishly.

“Yeah, all the Big Day Out Tickets have been sold-out in Melbourne,” Tom Clare rushed.

“Already?”

“Yeah – they should have put a lower limit on ticket-sales,” Michael Hodder spoke, somewhat disappointedly, “four was obviously too high.”

By then, Tom Clare’s plans had become apparent: Big Day Out – Adelaide, some side-acts, a few mains perhaps, with hopefully enough money to spare for transportation, the “camp-site”, and some other bare-necessities. Three-hundred-dollars sounded optimistic.

Backs against the side-exit door, we found ourselves comfortably ahead the stage, with the crowd slowly mounting. By eight, a few backstage movements, a couple of member’s finetuning instruments and the likes, acoustic, electric, among others, sounded someone’s imminent arrival. These haphazard, cautionary movements continued for some while, before the first side-act appeared. With the house half-full by now, partners sat cross-legged, childlike in gaze.

Dragging Pianos, the opening act, appeared sluggishly. As was usual, the band proceeded towards their instruments of choice, and four fellows appeared. A tall, lanky man, jeans and a turtle-neck, with a faded complexion, headed out with an acoustic.

Obviously their lead.

'Dragging Pianos' Live at The Corner Hotel

A long, fair-haired woman followed and delicately placed herself in front of a keyboard. I remember quite vividly, the subtle movement of her wrist, the unveiling of four long, nimble fingers sprawl across the keyboard; adroit in these movements, her playing was much the same – elegant and purposeful, yet faraway. All of them, in fact, eyes fixated on their finger movements, rehearsing: the plucking of strings, the tapping of bells, the shifting of notes, or the strumming of chords.

Their bassist moved in and out of the sidelines, and finally assumed a relaxed and half-enthusiastic posture, while the percussionist quickly darted to-and-fro from various electric/acoustic apparatus’. Though unbeknownst to me, these members would intermingle with The Middle East in the following hours to come.

Headlining their self-produced EP, “The Food Chain”, uncannily deceptive with a homey-touch, border-lining on some elements of ‘elegant simplicity’, the music itself was of some strikingly wonderful quality. Five-to-six songs in total, their appearance was an ice breaker. A mix of acoustic and electric, a fresh perspective on relatively overused musical principles.

And a fantastically original set of wine bottles which would feature predominantly in their finale. Crescendos born and bred with a mixture of acoustic/electric instrumentation, with soft-spoken vocals, and deep, heart-felt lyrics. Despite the somewhat overly loud quality of the music itself, it managed to captivate the growing audience for some forty-five minutes or so, mellow in the mists of spirits and likewise. Like kids abated in a sea of expectation, some seemed satisfied, whilst others shrugged them off, pre-occupied with face-munching.

“… Do you do gin-and-tonics?” I had to ask.

“Of course we do gin-and-tonics!” the tender replied happily, a smile on her face, “you ‘round from these parts?”

I looked at her awkwardly, “sure, I’m local.”

“Oh, it’s just the way you say ‘gin’, like, ‘g-g-hin’, very French. You’ve got a really interesting accent.”

I laughed it off and smiled – damn American television, “oh, no, no, I’m local – I’m from Melbourne.”

Dah – idiot…

She blushes behind the faded light, throws her head and hair back as the other tender jokes fondly, and cackles wildly beneath the bar for a moment. My drink is mixed, eyes meet briefly – I walk off, glass in hand, less-so embarrassed, more-so intrigued. The gin is dry, the tonic bitter. The night wears off slowly, I relax a little, chat a bit, and we wait.

It’s now about nine.

Oliver Mann features as the second act, but by now, we’re all unreachable. The drinks make us lighter, bouncier, people flock from side to side, conversation now a must.

'Oliver Mann' Live Soloist at The Corner Hotel

A soloist, Mann himself struggles to maintain the previous raptness his predecessors marvelled in. A quiet, almost unheard voice appears, the titles of some inaudible songs float about the room. I remember he asks for silence, but the innumerable crowd by now is lost in a wave of fantasy brought on by excitement. Much the same, his lyrics are swallowed up in a monstrous cloud of un-enthusiasm.

Quite rudely, the act continues despite any change, mired in a hundred voices. The louder the music, the softer the Mann, the louder the Mann, the louder the voices. By now people are screaming, throats are sore, eyes strain to see anything in the disco-light. I keep my words to myself, but the music is lost forever, and unfortunately, we are left with an empty stage unknowingly as he finishes.

It is now about ten.

The eyes are heavy, my thoughts linger on the Monday following – nothing special, just some study, just some essays, I tell myself. Exams are nearing, but it’s alright. Everything’s going to be fine.

[Ignorance is bliss]

By now, the gin is long gone, we’re finished drinking, and I’m starving. People motion closer towards the stage; we’re caught up in a current of isolated bodies positioned evenly away from one and other. Closer and closer still, towards the speakers which hang just in front, I can see everything and everyone so clearly, now.

We’ve stood most of the night already. It’s only now that we begin to feel the burning in our feet, the warmth so alien to us in the cold and rainy atmosphere outside. We are sheathed in people, we are lost so suddenly, slowly but surely assimilated until only our eyes can see the beaming lights which fix themselves upon the stage.

We stand.

We stand motionless.

We stand so quiet, now.

They have arrived.

It is now half-past-ten. We are eager, so very eager. Seven, perhaps eight band members appear, mostly from the original opening acts, besides Mann. They pile on the cramped and bursting stage, intermingling with wire, with machine, until they too are merely instruments waiting to be played.

A final tune.

Everything appears to be in order, more hush follows, the silence has become deafening. And when the first strum of guitar explodes from just beyond, my ears begin ringing. The sound, so piercingly loud, booms in all directions, and the music itself is lost in an excess of decibels. These songs become unintelligible, all quality, all distinction, lost in the opening minutes as I adjust from sombre, softer sounds to blaringly incessant overtures. Instruments disappear for brief interludes, but residual sounds still layer over wave after wave of musical ambience. Nothing is lost, everything and everyone is trapped inside this perfect bubble of timelessness – it is just you, and the sound, there are no bodies and there are no minds.

We are one.

Empty claps and wolf-whistles sound distantly with the finish of the opening song, and with the arrival of “The Darkest Side”, more follow, the crowd already exceedingly happy. When the opening tickle of acoustic guitar flows on emotionally from wielder to speaker, we are entranced.

'The Middle East' Live at The Corner Hotel

They have us eating out of the palms of their hands.

Stranger still, they know it too!

A few new tracks follow, but they are lost in a daze of confusion.

With the arrival of “Blood”, the band indirectly signals their finale, some gasps exhale loudly, wide-eyed and fearful. The pitter-patter of xylophone is demolished, the voices so emphatic, so hypnotic. We haven’t blinked, either. One hopelessly whistles in the solo, but even then, percussion now reigns supreme. With the approach of the final chorus, all instruments rally together to reach octaves I thought were physically impossible.

People start humming, heads start moving, and when the song comes to an end, we are utterly shattered.

They leave.

The crowd screams, claps, a few disgruntled voices beg for more. Minutes stretch on; we are unsettled, restless, demanding. Now only three members return on stage. Reluctantly, they smile.

Hoo-ray!

We’ve won, we think.

Again, this is their last song.

And as they finish, we demand more.

Two leave.

“… First of all, I’d like to thank all of you, tonight,” he motions, the crowd grins ecstatically, “you’ve all been a really great audience.”

Silence.

He screws up once.

The crowd giggles mawkishly.

He screws up twice.

The crowd giggles playfully.

He screws up thrice.

The crowd giggles persistently.

Finally, we are witness to a fine, adamant solo. It is hauntingly deep; we are lulled to sleep, we are content, we are blissful, and with its end, somewhat sad. The final song is full of soulful lyrics and Bobby-reminiscent harmonica.

We leave in a commotion, people huddle together, bottled by the door. We three fellows sit by the curb; it is now about half-past-eleven. Cabs rock-up idly, people line the sidewalks and the streets.

“Hey guys, how’s it going? How are you?” a brash, young man asks us as we sit patiently.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

“Not too bad.”

“Fine.”

“Fuck it’s cold, it’s really fucking cold in Melbourne,” he points to his chest, “I come from Brisbane, and it’s bloody cold down here.”

We look at each other gleefully, “not really – it’s actually kind of nice. It’s been colder,’ Tom Clare replies.

The young, brash man seems distracted.

“Yeah, and it’s only Spring here, you should have seen it in Winter,” I add jokingly.

His eyes wander helplessly behind us – he comments on another person’s attire acceptingly, curses to himself, and walks by, under the overpass and into a cab.

I notice: it is cold.

[Special thanks to Tom Clare for all the photos - albeit small, they are much appreciated. Michael Hodder, without him I wouldn't have know about the gig itself or come into possession of a ticket. The bands, most especially, for such a great night out. Would have loved to hear more, but such is life!]

Until when,

The Enantiomorphic God