It's that time of the year again. Get ready to see tattoo-clad, mohawked music fans roaming the streets of downtown Gainesville this weekend for the seventh incarnation of The Fest.
I am a true believer in the Mean Girls Halloween philosophy: "Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut, and no other girls can say anything about it." I don't normally condone dressing like a whore, but on Halloween, anything goes. Halloween is the time to be something you're not, so if you want to dress up as a sexy nun or a sexy nurse, go ahead. No one has the right to judge you on that night.
Fresh off a full Canadian Tour, Less Than Jake drummer Vinnie Fiorello talked to the Alligator about life on the road and returning home to play a special Halloween show at The Fest. First stop Gainesville, and then it's onto Europe for a six-week tour.
I always play it safe with a simple "Hello" because the rare few misinterpret "Hi, how you doing?" as "Hi, tell me how crappy your day was in the context of your life story." Lucinda Williams - a.k.a. Debbie Downer - is one of these people. With "Little Honey," the aging country maven spills her guts with songs about stalling Chevys and drunken lovers, all in a self-ingratiating attempt to fulfill a patience-trying time quota. Williams has a cheese grater for a voice, and on the inebriated "Jailhouse Tears," she sings in down-home Southernisms that twist the life out of unsuspecting vowels. It briefly occurred to me this record could be collaborated to sound perfectly tuneful if you're actually hung over, so start drinking or just nod your head and pretend like you're listening.
The comparisons between the Secret Machines and Joe the Plumber are all but unavoidable with said band's self-titled third album. Both phenomena receive way more attention than they deserve, have prominent direct articles in their names and now specialize in releasing crap. Things weren't always this way for the once-promising New York space-rockers. "Last Believer, Drop Dead" - addressed to their fan, perhaps? - showcases a fleeting bit of potential with appropriate grandiosity built by big, fuzzy guitar lines and a truly exhilarating chorus. "Have I Run Out" is more typical fare, as it sets psychedelic Dungeons-and-Dragons-styled ramblings to blunt-riffed agro-noise. The song mercifully ends at around eight minutes; the band's fame at fifteen.
Economy in crisis. Russia flexing military muscle. Metallica kicking ass. Yeah baby, it's the 80s all over again. Keane's look could use a perm and spandex, but their neon-flecked sound is already primped for the Jazzercise age. On "Perfect Symmetry," the British three-piece swaps their emo-piano fetish for synth-spiked, Ric Ocasek-approved retro goodness. The way-back machine takes full effect on the shockingly melodic "You Haven't Told Me Anything," which floats on breezy harmonies and hip-shaking new wave guitar. "Again & Again" only ups the pop ante with an absolutely explosive chorus. The bridge alone could erase the memory of "Is It Any Wonder?" Hell, it could single-handedly take down the Berlin Wall and vindicate Reaganomics: the good-idea trickle-down effect at last reaches Keane.
English singer-songwriter Damon Albarn obviously has an affinity for primates. In his new incarnation as Monkey, the Gorillaz mastermind combines his love of hairy apes and the Far East in "Journey to the West," an ambient document that completely rationalizes stifling imagination at a young age. It's creative if nothing else, melding oriental instrumentation, electronic beats and the lyrical musings of geishas and dragon kings. "Monkey Bee," a hypnotic, synthesized rocker, arrives about twenty tracks too late and proves one of few passages to translate cleverness into actual appeal. The spastic chalk-board screech "Battle in Heaven," on the other hand, is payback enough for years of tainted crayons and chemically activated toys. As the opera progresses, the cultural connections emerge. You hit a great wall halfway through. The rest is like water torture.
So let me "break this down for you": In "High School Musical 3: Senior Year," teen dreamboat Troy Bolton (Zac Efron) is dealing with a lot of problems. Gifted at both sports and theater (gasp), Troy doesn't know what to pursue. He wants to follow his best friend Chad (Corbin Bleu) and play basketball at the fictional University of Albuquerque, but his burning theatrical passions are keeping him back. To make matters worse, he's up for a Juilliard scholarship, and as if this weren't enough, Troy's heart beckons to a different call.
On his new show, David Alan Grier dares to ask the question that's been on everyone's mind: What the hell happened to hip-hop? When did "Fight the power" become "Wait 'til you see my dick"?
This week's column continues our journey through proper bar etiquette. Now that you have your drink in hand, we'll move on to the next area where problems often arise - paying.
This difficult midterms week that recently passed wore on my patience because of the day-to-day annoyances bartenders face. It inspired me to share my thoughts on bar etiquette from start to finish.
I'm convinced Halloween was created for the sole purpose of getting boned. No other holiday compares. When mischief and moonlight abound, someone is going to get laid. Throw in a chintzy costume, garish makeup and orange beer, and you're done for.
One bus, one band and a group of friends will hit Gainesville music venue Common Grounds today at 9 p.m.
In a bold and risky move, my sister asked me to be godfather to her child.
To be successful, an action film needs only to have two things: a plot that's somewhat interesting and lots of macho characters, memorable one-liners, explosions and weapon fights. "Max Payne" has none of the former and unfortunately lacks the latter.
The Gainesville club scene is not my favorite crowd. I'm much more of a small, pretentious boutique club girl myself, but my loving friends and roommates have dragged me out to my share of Gainesville clubs, and I have not been impressed by what I've seen. Maybe it's because my taste in going-out attire is just different than most, but some of the outfits I've seen out on Friday and Saturday nights in Gainesville are beyond wretched. In my tradition of trying to better the taste of the Gainesville population, I'll describe some outfits I don't think you should wear out.
Cows coming home, days in the sun, cold Budweiser - it's the finer things in life that concern country collective The Weight. While "Are Men" ruminates lyrically on simple pleasures and equally simple pains, the music relies heavily on intricacy. The cowboys' equation: Silver Jews, minus smart-ass irony and plus an extra shot of twang. "Hillbilly Highway" is pretty much exactly what you'd expect - a beer-soaked love song for hicks, fleshed out with organ fills and yeehaw fiddle. It's a somber affair for the most part, but "Had It Made" shakes off the Jack and Coke haze with a Tweedy-esque melody and stomping guitar interplay. The tune cuts to the barbecued heart of The Weight - these "Men" are really just a bunch of good ol' boys.
Where would democracy be without the third party? Exactly where it is today, but don't tell that to Murs. With "Murs for President," the L.A. rapper throws his hat into the political ring with a free-styling beat-fest that's both wordy and repetitive - he would make a great stump speech. His everyman message: "You might think that you know me / You know where I'm coming from." Actually no, Murs, we don't know you, so let's begin the vetting process. His stance on immigration, from "Lookin' Fly": "My Brazilian / She worth a few million / Beauty and brains / Might let her have my children." Surprisingly tolerant! Foreign policy experience, from "Soo Comfortable": "Moved away from Maui to European valleys." Hell, he's probably pals with Sarkozy. But can he pull the female vote? From guitar-riff laden "Road Is My Religion": "Every night different women want to please me." I think we have ourselves a contender.
Dow, Pacman - it sucks to be a Jones these days. So to ward off any negative surname karma, Norah has officially changed her name to Rachael Yamagata, piano-crooner extraordinaire. On "Elephants…Teeth Sinking Into Heart," Yamagata - if that's really her name - makes understated, acoustic music for coffee houses. For all of their nuance and organic instrumentation, "What If I Leave" - answer: I probably wouldn't notice because I fell asleep half an hour ago - and "Over and Over" match herbal tea for sheer excitement. It comes as a kick in the stomach when, for the love of PJ Harvey, disc two erupts with three vicious, melodic rockers. Maybe the Norah comparisons are off, but that's what she gets for making me suffer through the "Elephant" tranquilizer.
Kevin Barnes lost his marbles a long time ago. Now his pants must go. Of Montreal's "Skeletal Lamping" uncovers the brainchild's most outrageous fantasies in a series of wildly uninhibited hallucinations - each deceptively catchy, each bat-shit freaky. The track titles -"An Eluardian Instance," "Nonpareil Of Favor" - baffle as much as the actual music, which shuns conventional song structures for whimsical snippets blended indiscriminately into a faux-disco smoothie. Prince says it goes down easy. And it does - the slinky R&B, the electro-pop excursions, the noise jams. It's an orgy of a record that takes us to the bottom of Barnes's rabbit hole where he buried his two most cherished readings - Webster's Dictionary and the Kama Sutra.
Solutions by The State News
