ELVIS

It's a regular Tuesday night. I'm at an east village bar where I'm spitting vowels at consonants and convincing myself that I'm arguing that Prince is our generation's Mozart while my friends are making sure I'm keeping myself off the mechanical bull. A little bit later I bring up the point that I hate Elvis Presley, but it's under unusual circumstances.

Why? Because I told it to Matthew Williams, who made his name writing a handful of lyrics for Elvis w/ his songwriting partner, Paul Evans. 'I Gotta Know' sold well over a million copies.

After I convinced Matthew to spend $15 on a pitcher of beer for our table (well, $13--he bitched me out for giving the $2 change to the bartender), I attempted to listen to his stories, ask questions about songwriting, etc. but I was losing focus and interest quickly.

hey, I find beer delicious, and I found some rube willing to gas us up. And tell rock 'n' roll stories. but this guy never met elvis. he ripped off Carl Perkins' 'Don't Be Cruel' to get some b-side published and make his $$, he told me so.

And a sad, sad truth revealed itself. Well several, actually, but I'll just reveal those that aren't about me. The first and foremost is that Elvis still sucks even when you're drinking with a guy who wrote words for him. Second and most jarring: this guy didn't have a bone in his body that was earnest about making music. Even though I've never cared about Elvis Presley, I figure the guy who's been in the business and plops down $13 for a pitcher to tell us his stories dances into this. But he was cold, humorless, or maybe just old. Maybe I have a lesson to learn. Maybe I was starry-eyed.

I had no business arguing with him, I couldn't think or talk straight. He recognized it and made fun of me. If I could do it again? I'd have, uh, eaten dinner before I went out, sat back, listened more to what he was saying. Then I would've taken his $13 and told him how much Elvis sucks.

Oh, and by the way? Prince is the Mozart of our generation.

LIARS

Caught the Liars on my first trip to Avalon, the old Limelight. The Avalon's a pretty cool space, but the sound's not so good. Maybe this is because the soundboard is now at Smoke and Mirrors, using its power for good, not evil.

It's amazing the Liars are as popular as they are (two nights before tonight they played a headlining Saturday at the cacophonic Warsaw.) In a New York music landscape where bands with nice haircuts are all starting to sound alike, they've got a heavily experimental bent, much more so than what Sonic Youth is offering up of late, for example. And they're heavy--they make a lot of noise for three people, and while some of it is just for the sake of making noise, some of it is tribal and primal. There were a couple songs where 2 out of 3 guys were just playing drums, and even though there were drum triggers and loops, it was powerful and loosening. It made me remember that it wasn't melody or McCartney or guitar solos, it was drums that made rock and roll, and it's drums that will keep it interesting (for me anyway).

The Liars offer plenty of content at their site, but for starters watch a snail eat to 'Let's Not Wrestle Mt. Heart Attack', which blew me away. The live drums were much louder, so you'll have to air-drum along, and maybe beatbox.

WHOOPS

There I go again...I lost a month. I have so much to tell. Gotta update more.

For the time being, here's the last post I wrote. I never posted it, but it's pretty inspired.



Tjwre
s lots happening around e, righ tnow, but I never to seem to find the time. Right now the Ambien I took is rotating my head counterclockwise at a glacial, Chia-rate. When I bring the cup to my lips, it loses its shape and becomes more oblong as the liquid hits my limp. I notice the rest of the cup blocks out a lot of light, and everything looks different. I'm competley disoriented.

then I find:

http://www.myspace.com/l3end

'Birthing itself from the burros of New York City, the new rock group Bend loses no ground on launching its new mix of flavor 1 and flavor 2. BIRTHING THEMSELVES? FROM THE BURROS OF NEW YORK CITY?

The last time I was on a burro, we were going down a steep trail. Someone I didn't know was leading me into a canyon. This stranger, a few burros up; he looked like he had talked my dad outta some money. I never saw any of it go to the burrows. Was it the measly ropes I used as reins; he could sense my fear. Or was he nervous be he was pregnant with a rock band, maybe Sisters of Mercy or Gwar or Taco, the guy who sang "Puttin' on the Ritz".

The new rock group Bend named 2 flavors in their mix, hard-driven pop and hammering piano jams. The drummer sounds like he's in a maze, the other band members may get away, I may get away too.

SO what an intro line spurned. Birthing themselves from the burros of New York City, Strikes Again! coughed with the croup of a superstar rock band. Covered in burro parts, they dried in the sun on large sharp rocks, planned their next move and fought sleep with the panicked leg-kicking frustration of someone who thinks they're bleeding to death. During this point, "John writes A Glimpse of Land".

WHen the band recovers enough strength to search for food and a gig, 200 burros stampede from the south and each birth 200 other band members. Interpol's in there. The Strokes, too.

those burros look more like automobiles to you and me, but Strikes again! have no choice but to take them in and nurse them back to their health, after being scarred and haunted.

"this ambien is taking me down", she cried, as she teetered to the edge of the sunlit rock that was shaped like a desk chair. She hadn't eaten in weeks; thrusting her hands under her tunic she felt her ribs; they felt like keys on a keyboard. FWFFFFFFfffffffoooooooo-----ooooooFffffFFFWWWFFFFF. The ambien took her under for a second. It's not supposed to crest, is it? Just take me down? I belong do---WHOOMP! run over by a burro.

And the burro was stampeding where? What's it have in store? Yes it's got the unforeseen gift of birthing rock bands, but they serve no purpose to the burro. Maybe we should slaughter it. ok, i'll stop.