Nothing to Say, Nothing to See, Nothing to Do

Christopher took me to see Belle & Sebastian Saturday night at the Paramount. I hadn't seen them since 2001 at the Capitol Theater in Oly, a couple of weeks after 9/11, when their fog machines set off the smoke alarms and a lot of people (myself included) thought the city might be under attack.

This was less fraught with sociopolitical angst, but still an excellent show. I mean, basically, B&S is a vocal group now, rather than an indie rock band; their songs are frequently marvelous (though really, Sinister is still the peak they keep descending from), but basically an excuse for the singers to harmonize in tight, perfect little banks. There's no "show" to speak of. They just walk out, start playing and then stop. Nothing more to see here, but it doesn't matter. I remember thinking how strange it was last time to learn that they traveled in a bus. It's much more apt to imagine them sailing from show to show on kites or something. But for pete's sake: they're veterans, they're a huge menagerie, and they're fookin' Brits! Of course they have a couple of buses and a couple of semis, and why the eff shouldn't they?

Murdoch has the gentlest, prettiest voice I can think of (similar in tone and character to Matthew Caws, actually, though the respective means and ends are as diff as diff can be), and the degree to which he does not project as a means of communicating vocal power is staggering. The whisper that hushes the room, innit? Such a pleasure to be greeted with reasonable volume levels and dexterous vocalizations. I only wish the Paramount had left the seats in. The experience would've been made all the more pleasurable if it had been treated like the concert it was. It's not like anyone was dancing, anyway.

And speaking of excellent harmonies, the other thing was that they brough the New Pornographers on at the encore and did an all-star jam cover of "No Matter What," that really rocked. However, it was my perception that I was the only person in the room who had ever heard of Badfinger, much less worship them.

Signed,
The World's Oldest Man

Sad and True on So Many Levels

Songs are, like, Tattoos

Meanwhile, in what I presume to be a first, a human being has paid to have words I wrote inscribed on her flesh with a needle and ink. I'm flattered, obviously, and maybe a tiny bit troubled, but ultimately grateful that she chose this phrase (which I've always been pretty proud of) and not one from, oh, some other song I could mention... Name that tune!

But It Was Saturday Night. I Guess That Makes It All Right

Name drop alert, Volume MCLXIV:

Shortly after midnight on Saturday night/Sunday morning, I found myself in a van with Beth Orton, Martha Wainwright, Ed Harcourt, Romeo from the Magic Numbers, and two other musician types, en route to an address in suburban Austin. The house's owner had told Romeo to make himself at home even though she wouldn't be there for a while. After about 20 minutes, we arrived at what can only be called a mansion (or perhaps a McMansion, given that it was fairly new) filled with beautiful photos, Restoration Hardware vintage furnishings, a grand piano, a few bottles of Veuve Cliquot on ice, a grand piano, and a very chill 14-year-old boy, who was apparently accustomed to receiving his mother's musician guests. Before long, people were trading songs around the piano, passing guitars back and forth, drinking champagne, and having an incredibly mellow, beautiful, impromptu party that served as both climax and denouement to SXSW. The only bummer (I think) came when I played piano to accompany a group singalong to "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down." I should not play piano in front of people. It was the first time in a long time--maybe ever--that I felt completely outclassed in a roomful of singers. MW in particular was unbelievable. She laid waste to us all. Romeo and his sister were no slouches, either, but Martha was like a being of pure light when she sang. More people came later and the night became more raucous, but the first couple of hours were as magical as any I've spent. La la la.

Ladies and Gentlemen... The S.O.V.!

(This is from Saturday Afternoon, 3/18/06)
In the past three days, I have met and interviewed the following personnages and/or bands:

Lady Sovereign
Ramblin' Jack Elliott (for an hour, amazing!)
The Guillemots
Brazilian Girls
Martha Wainwright (incl. private performance of two songs!!!)
Bobby Bare SENIOR
Rhett Miller
Animal Collective
John Vanderslice (quote: "I like to have sex with children." He was totes kidding!)
Mates of State
Celebration
Emil of Serena Maneesh
Metric
Ultragrrrl
Ben from Band of Horses
Smoosh
Tim Burgess from The Charlatans U.K.

I also interviewed The Lashes and Nada Surf, but that almost doesn't count.

Celebrity encounters: Carl Newman from New Pornographers (mutual acknowledgement with eyes and hands), Britt Daniel from Spoon (handshake, brief, warm conversation), Harry Shearer (eye contact at airport), Neko Case (confession that she is my favorite singer, followed by brief conversation about our mutual friends), Ray Davies (firm handshake in hotel lobby, awkward recounting of our one prior encounter, 10 years ago, followed by his hasty exit).

And there's still one more night of SXSW to go!

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Nilsson

There's a documentary about Harry Nilsson that just premiered at the Santa Barbara Film Festival (it ain't Cannes, but hey, man, it's better than no film festival at all).

I heard about this from a co-worker, who mentioned that Nilsson was basically his all-time favorite artist. This was the third time HN had come up in the past week.

Things like this (which is to say totally random coincidences that have absolutely naught to do with me) never fail to inspire. So Nelson Sings Nilsson is on again. I've hired a producer and a band. The schedule remains to be determined but it's going to have to be soon, because people have better things to do.

Not that you asked, obviously, but here are a couple of the old demos, featuring Rob Knop on piano.
Miss Butter's Lament.mp3

Daddy's Song.mp3

I Truly Believe in Bugs

This song has been really haunting me (in the best possible way) for the past few days. I heard it on an MP3 blog (can't recall which one, but man, do I plunder those babies) and soon found out a few things about its author, the late Ivor Cutler (pictured here):


He seems like a benevolent Edward Lear-type fellow. I'm in the process of immersing myself in his corpus. It sounds a bit like Noel Coward, a bit like Robyn Hitchcock (more like a proto- or ur- version), and a bit like Herbert Bergel.

In other words, perfect music.

Hey, maybe I'll start posting some other songs up in this piece. We'll see how it goes.

Speaking of Mr. H. I just spent a few lovely days in his orbit (along with the Minus Three and Kurt Bloch at the knobs), at Chroma Sound studios, singing harmonies on a bunch of songs for his in-progress new record. It's going to be a VERY GOOD RH RECORD. From what I can tell, the closest comparison in his canon is probably Jewels For Sophia. Good to the times. Looks like I'll be doing some singing with the M5 at SXSW, too.

Let's see, what else? Still (studio) apartment hunting, alas, but things are stable. I've dusted off the Mortal Enemies record, Misanthropology, and am going to try and get r done before the year is over. Maybe I'll put up some rough mixes here, just to see if they can withstand being heard by humans. The Nilsson record is also showing signs of life, but still in a hazy way.

And of course there's the Little By Little v.2 news, TBA over at www.harveydanger.com in a few days.

If I weren't so incredibly sad, I'd probably be incredibly happy.

Bonne soiree, mes enfants.

Silent Lucidity

To say nothing of these guys, whom I'm interviewing today at the Crocodile:

...but I'll be interviewing one Mr. Toby Keith on Friday of this week.


He's no Alison Goldfrapp (whom I interviewed this past Friday), but he'll do.


also, just because it's always nice to look at something cute, here is a picture I can only call "Kitten Nuzzling Bunny":

It's Not All Bad

I got a great haircut yesterday, possibly the best haircut of my life, courtesy of Carly at Vain.

Everything else is bad, though.

There was a time in my life when news that Kill Rock Stars was going to reissue the last Harvey Danger record would have been all I needed to be thrilled beyond words.

Ah, fecund youth.