Coke Talk of the Day

Remember when you were a kid, no impulse control whatsoever, unable to resist even the slightest temptation to fuck shit up?

Remember the first time in your life you got your grubby little hands on the volume knob of a gut-thumping stereo as it blasted your favorite dance song?

Remember how you thought that by jerking that volume knob along with the beat you were somehow imparting your own whomping thrust into the rhythm of the music?

Yeah. That’s dubstep.



So I’ve been loving this song for a few days now, and I thought I’d share it. I heard Mellencamp sing it the other weekend, and it got me. I’m kind of a sucker for ballads that manage to turn a rear view mirror on life without being drippingly sentimental.

Besides, this shit was so good live. Seriously, it was gorgeous. That’s no surprise, really. A man doesn’t make twenty-five albums without having something worth saying about the human condition, and Radio City Music Hall was the perfect room to hear a legend like John Mellencamp hurl out every last ounce of his soul.

In all my trips to New York, I’d never been to Radio City. Lemme tell ya, that joint was a candy store for an architecture whore like me. Art Deco was dripping out of every nook and cranny. My friends think I’m crazy, but I still haven’t stopped talking about the original foot pedal hand dryers in the woman’s lounge.

It was a New York crowd, a lot of industry types and hipsters pretending to be there ironically. There were only a few hardcore fans scattered throughout the hall, and to their credit, they were the ones doing their level best to swill beer like it was a fairground in Bloomington.

There wasn’t an opening act. Instead, they screened “It’s About You,” a documentary about John shot entirely on Super 8 film that set the gritty, foot-tapping tone for the music we were about to hear.

The band was a well-greased machine. Bacon grease, with a side of hot damn. You could tell they’ve been jamming together for decades, and it was hard not to be impressed by the general badassery of Miriam Sturm, the fiddle playing Tinkerbell who zigged and zagged around the stage rocking the fuck out.

Naturally, Mellencamp owned the room. Dude sang with perfect pitch, and even though his voice sounded like he gargles with charcoal briquettes, it all still came out sounding like honey.

Some things are just timeless, ya know?


The Three Thoms



In the center is the original version of Thom Yorke from a high resolution publicity shot I pulled off the internet. On the left is a composite version of Thom using just the left side of his face, (his right.) On the right is a composite version of Thom using just the right side of his face, (his left.)

Yeah, I’ve always wanted to do this, and my curiosity finally got the better of me.


All My Friends


You don’t notice at first, but this is only one shot, and it’s filled with glitter and rain and smoke and mirrors, and it all ends in a shower of sparks. Just like life, I suppose.

Fuck me. Until yesterday at the Hollywood Bowl, I’d forgotten how much I loved, loved, loved LCD Soundsystem deep down in that burning core of a place where I thought there weren’t any more tears left to cry for that last beautiful summer in 2007 when none of us were dead, divorced, or doing time.

God damn, the last few years have been rough.

Where are my friends tonight, indeed?

Coke Talk Of The Day

So yeah. I went to the Chicago concert last night. Some friends had all-access passes, and I had enough morbid curiosity to check it out.

From an anthropological perspective, it was a fascinating evening. The backstage experience felt like a wax museum dedicated to mid-eighties FM radio, and the show itself was like watching my dad’s rotary club perform the world’s greatest karaoke to a room full of five thousand people who voted yes on Prop 8.

I can’t say that the band rocked, because that’s not what they do. Nevertheless, out of respect for my elders, I will say that they played the shit out of their instruments.

They destroyed the room with those soft rock love ballads, no doubt inspiring a wave of viagra-assisted missionary position sex throughout most of Burbank and parts of Pasadena.

It was the very definition of “so bad, it’s good.”

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