cat power


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"Shut up about Cat Power already!"

 image courtesy of stuffonmycat.com 

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ChairmanMeow

For those of you who are more indoor cats, there is this annual outdoor music festival called Coachella. It’s generally a piss poor American attempt to replicate some of the awesome British festivals that have made festivaling very festive. Anyway, it’s much better than Lollapaloozers and Woodstock (side note: why were there no cats in Peanuts? Charles M. Schultz – sounds German. Germans are racists. Fuck you Chuck, rot in hell!). However, it’s still not a festival as one would hope. I mean, there will still be frat boys and it’s really fucking hot. And I ain’t shaving my fur, my penis has barbs. BARBS!

However, being the oh-so fucking connected cat I am, I may get a chance for a free ride down there. If that happens, I’ll be going. Which means I get to bad mouth every fucking band there because I’m a pseudo-intellectual asshole who thinks that music can be described with big words and off-topic ramblings about my formative college years. Sorry, I thought I was Pitchfork for a second. Hopefully it will just mean pictures.

So now I set forth the task of figuring out which of the acts I see and which I don’t. It’s much trickier than one would expect. I went to The Reading fucking Festival in 1997, and I have to say there was a lot to see there, and some preeny wussy bands that I don’t like to admit I listen to fucking blew the non-existent roof off the stage. It’s shocking really. I recently had a conversation with another person down at the old watering hole about seeing bands live, and I took the position that it’s pretty easy to tell which bands are good live before you even see them. And while I believe that for the most part, I also know first-hand that it’s bullshit. So while she took the part of “You won’t know unless you see them” I said “Fuck you, I’m going to need three kinds of crystal meth to keep me awake while Clap Your Hands Say Yeah plays.”

Now, I’m more pretentious than that cunt on the Fancy Feast commercials, but thankfully I was only a kitten back in 1997 and didn’t know shit about shit. I was the kind of cat that would scratch the sand first then poop. I had it all backwards. I mean, I still had enough sense to ditch the third day entirely when Metallica and Marilyn Manson were headlining a Sunday metal day, but I still saw some bands I would never have seen.

Take for example James. You remember James. Best known for the line “She only comes when she’s on top” followed by some yodeling where Tim Booth sounds like he has testicles in his mouth, which he likely did. Anyway, they came on to the stage and pretty much were the highlight of the festival for me. Showmanship, I believe they call it. And by showmanship, I mean sequined shirts, each a different color (all the colors of the rainbow, hint hint) and energy that can only come from feeling comfortable in a sequined shirt. I’m a longtime closet James fan, back when I could listen to “Gold Mother” front-to-back, so I knew most of the songs. It wasn’t even that magic hour of dusk or night when lights enhance the experiment, they just came on, all seven or eight of them, and did it. One of the other bands that smashed it? Suede! Who woulda thunk it!? Although if I did as much blow and hot models as Bret Anderson was doing, I’d feel obligated to put on a show for the fans, too.

So now, citing those two instances, I admit I was wrong. But I would never admit that to her face.

Obviously, times haven’t been set for Coachella(they have, but they don’t want to advertise them because the sensitive types won’t buy tickets because Ladytron and TV on the Radio are playing at the same time), so this is all just stabs in the proverbial dark. Without further ado, my projected 2006 Coachella path:

Saturday, April 29

Early: Sleep in after biting scruff the night before.

Afternoon: The Zutons. They seem like a fun band live. Plus, 19-year old kids from the UK are always good for an entertaining show. However, they had better be absolutely shitcanned. Ever wonder if young British rockers have to adhere to the drinking age limit here in the US? They don’t. I once went backstage with my friend Nicoletta after a Supergrass show in Albany, NY, when the kids were like 12-years old or something, and Gaz Coombs and company were pounding Budweisers and smoking joints. Their chicks were disappointingly disappointing, however. I guess the premium poon comes with age and experience. At that time, their big claim to fame was that “Alright” was in Clueless. Side rant: I had no idea that I would end up wanting to bang Brittany Murphy so much more than Stacy Dash and the other chicks when i saw that film the first time. But it was only some heroin and a slutty makeover away. Thanks Brittany!

Others: Lyrics Born (I know I know…), Eagles of Death Metal, Deerhoof (just because for some reason I KNOW I’m supposed to like them even though I don’t get them)

Early Evening: The Walkmen. I want to see them play “Thinking of a Dream” really really badly. And plus I don’t think they’ll attract as many people as other bands. I’m not sure why, but they really should be much more popular than they are. I guess indie bands that actually rock have a harder time selling to the crowd, which makes no sense. Just look at the Wrens. Mmmmm… Wrens.

Others: Just the Walkmen.

Dusk: Animal Collective. This is arguably the most important slot of the night. Scratch that, it IS unarguably the most important slot of the night. And this one is going to be tricky, cuz who knows when Coachella will set times, and who knows when the sun will set? That kind of info can only be attained through voodoo and black magic. There’s no doubt that NO other band in the two-day lineup, with the exception of My Morning Jacket and Sigur Ros, deserves this spot more than AC. I’m biting my tongue on this a bit, because I haven’t even seen them live. But I’ll see them in 2 weeks, so I will probably run out of the show and yell “Told you so!” to all of you reading this right now. I don’t like to be wrong. If I’m ever “wrong,” it’s because I’m hustling you. You have been warned. But back to topic, there’s only one time of the day that’s better to listen to AC–Sunrise.

Others: Tosca

Night: My Morning Jacket. Did you see photos of the stage of their last tour?? That’s enough to know that the show will be good, even though the only plants left on stage will be whatever marijuana remains in their hippy beards. The problem is they could end up playing at the same time as Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, which would mean I wouldn’t be able to go see them and wish I were watching My Morning Jacket because I will be watching My Morning Jacket and glad I’m not watching Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

Others: Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (so what if I’m a hypocrite), Ladytron. HA! Just kidding! I wouldn’t even sit on Ladytron’s lap if it had fois gras and Jessica Alba in a cat suit.

Late Night: Likely to be the last show for those not completely high on E or snorting coke through dirt-crusted nostrils. And what better band to see than Sigur Ros? This band probably even has the power to make even that meaty UC Irvine junior wearing a white baseball cap backwards shutup. Last time I saw them I was on the verge of slitting my wrists because I just wanted to die right there. I’ll bring the razors and chocolate.

Late Late Night: Daft Punk. IT’S FUCKING DAFT PUNK!

Of course, there is the chance that all these bands will play before noon, and the only fun times I’ll have is hoping Depeche Mode falls down the stairs and trying to poison Cat Power.

Sunday’s projected lineup coming soon.

susie_vomit
It seems everyone’s favorite “musician” has fallen ill and had to cancel her tour. Could her problem be toxoplasmosis? Inman and I did fling shit at her the last time she was in town…

susie_vomit
Last night, Inman McFistington invited me to something called “Birdmonster”. Now,┬áInman and I both have a predilection for birds and have spent many a night dining on the feathery tasties. We had some catching up to do, so I was looking forward to going. But when we arrived at the Mezzanine, I realized Inman had other plans. I learned that Birdmonster was about to perform a musical set. That didn’t bother me. If my dinner wants to entertain me before being devoured, it’s all the same to me. But once it took the stage, I realized I could not eat it. And I humbly ask that you refrain from doing so as well.

Here I offer you the five reasons why I did not eat Birdmonster:

  1. As it turns out, a “Birdmonster” is much larger than your average bird (hence the name, I suppose). It also consists of four, separately moving parts. While this would normally just make for better sport, I was in no mood to chase down four creatures before eating. You know, sometimes I just want to be served. Also, it looked rather bony.
  2. Once it started playing, I realized that Birdmonster rocks. With solid musicianship, high energy and time changes that were all over the place, this was no shoegazer bullshit. The lead guitar was clean, rhythm guitar was loud and crunchy, vocals were heartfelt, and there was even a touch of country in “All the holes in the walls,” which in this crowd is ballsy. Extra points are awarded for bringing a cymbal out front for the guitar players to bash and knock over. The Birdmonster doesn’t forget that indie rock is, in fact, supposed to rock. Thank heavens for that.
  3. After the show, I bought a three-song EP. It was wrapped in plastic, but when I opened it this morning, I was delighted to find that it didn’t have that annoying sticky thingy on the top of the jewel case. Hallelujiah! My fur always gets stuck in those things, and ripping them off hurts like hell. For this reason alone, true music lovers should not eat Birdmonster. Just think of the pain and suffering that would be avoided if only more musicians were so kind. I dare say half the violence in this world would disappear.
  4. I think maybe Birdmonster’s rockingness might cancel out some of Cat Power’s suckingness.
  5. The last reason I decided not to eat Birdmonster is that the bassist’s hair is insane. I would’ve been hacking up furballs for weeks.

Thanks, Inman. And thank you for the rock, Birdmonster.

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