I don’t actually know what the hell went on, but there was a ticket-selling fuckup, they went on sale too early, got snapped up, and a bunch of Boston peeps who dutifully showed up at the appointed hour got rooked out of buying tickets. I’ve been inundated with emails and MySpace messages about it. Hoo man, you guys, I’m so sorry.
These venues are rull small on this tour; that’s kinda the idea of the Question Jar Show thing.
I’ve been watching that Ken Burns The War documentary. Ken Burns docs–my kinda arty-bourgeois diversion. That’s Doughty Country.
The best part is that, before the show, when PBS acknowledges its donors, they open with: “Corporate funding for the war is provided by…”–!!!
And then non-commercial commercials for sponsors Budweiser, General Motors, and Bank of America.
I saw the video for Vanessa Carlton’s “Nolita Fairy Tale.” Nolita is a neighborhood in downtown Manhattan that’s turned upscale in the past ten years or so–the name is a portmanteau for North of Little Italy. It’s an enclave of petit-bourgeois grooviness.
I know I’ve blogged about this before, but I lived there in ’91 or so–wrote “True Dreams” on the roof of my tenement at Elizabeth and Spring streets. It was, at the time, a nameless DMZ between Little Italy, Chinatown, SoHo, and the Lower East Side. My friends and I called it “Laundrytown.” There was a bread factory on Prince street that stacked bundles of loaves on the sidewalk, ready to be trucked, at 4 am when I was walking home from whatever misadventures. There was a crack spot, disguised as a bodega, that kept a hog’s head in its glass butcher’s case as a statement of personality. There were signs, left over from a location shoot for Godfather III, for nonexistent emporiums, hung above empty storefronts.
So its transformation has been hilarious to me. That Vanessa Carlton is rhapsodizing about it–that one could rhapsodize about a place that’s basically a blank canvas onto which a fake neighborhood was painted–identifies her as a rich Californian girl on a temporary urban escapade.
No bad vibe on rich Californian girls–seriously, some of my best friends are rich California girls. Nor Vanessa Carlton–I love that piano riff from “A Thousand Miles.” Nor temporary urban escapades–I’ve been on one since 1989.
I saw the video for Matchbox Twenty’s “How Far We’ve Come” and dug it, dug it, dug it. That frenetic little be-hatted guitar player is the baddest man in rock and roll. I iTunes-ed it and rock it multiple times in a row while riding the B train.
I amuse myself with my musical tastes, which veer from the far left to the far middle-of-the-road, with nothing in between. My other regular listen is WFMU, which devoted itself the other morning to Beatles CDs played with the fast-forward button pressed down, and the weird, noisy fake tracks that Britney’s record company put up on Soulseek and Limewire to fuck up illegal downloaders.