Archive for August, 2010

Greet the Enemy Head On

August 30, 2010

Look at this metasticizing spoonful of shit for a second. Just fucking humor me you scab sniffer.

I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of the people who started this website last week at the Curragh during the usual rounds of Thursday night pints. When I say people I mean women, and I mean the women who lit this website up as a signal fire for the masses of lost suburban post-menapausal vaginas vagrancing through the northern suburbs of Chicago.

LET ME FUCKING TELL YOU. I’m never taken aback by anything that anybody has to say, but I was abruptly sent a nuke to the skull by the maniacal undertones of these ladies’ Made for FOX TV mission statement. I thought my own mother was a complete fucking loony toon with her Eucharistic minister commitments and unquestioning devotion to the papal announcements but these unshaven dick-splitters are the REAL ENEMY and they hit my radar blips reminding me of the first time I heard of Joseph Stalin, youthfully fascinated by the magnitude of evil…

I’m not going out of my way to attack these people; honestly if they wouldn’t have made fun of me for drinking a Guinness as a 22-year-old I probably would have never spoken to them. But they jested and I did the research and now they fucked up. Big time. Picture the opening scene: two older, probably 6-double whiskey fuckable women, slapping it on me and my cousin incessantly talking about their magazine editor positions for a social welfare publication, reminding us that we were “going to be very happy” because we met them at the bar…

Happy in the Buddhist sense that we realized what it was like to not think as a rock and be grateful to ponder as a man…

Asides aside, they wandered through a half hour of trying to pitch the social merit of their jewelry and low cut top magazine to us and we remained in a state of chagrin, almost perplexed, and unable to take any of their syllable strings seriously.

Seriously. These lasses tried to make a case as to why they weren’t money grubbing whores (while they drank their $12 dollar martinis and swept through their iPhones) but rather a bunch of plebian do-gooder’s on the path to righteousness.

My cousin said it best after looking at the section of their publication dedicated to real estate. “So is it going to be the fifth fireplace that complete’s your social mission, or no, it has to be the sixth on this house.”

All they could sputter out was “We are trying to make a difference.”

Enough often becomes enough. All I could reply with was “I wish you the best of luck, but more talking is going to lead to more of me thinking, which will inevitably lead to more cussing and upsetting, so lets just finish our drinks and have a nice, separate kind of night.”

They persisted in trying to convert me to the church of capitalism. “Mike, the north shore exists, you have to accept it.” “One day when you take the chip off of your shoulder, you’ll understand what we’re doing.” “We just want to make a positive difference.”

Hypocrisy doesn’t kill, it rapes and hides and lies and propagates without any responsibility. Fuck these women and their north shore and their feel good agenda confetti. Let’s burn down the subdivisions, blow the red lights and bring their bank accounts down to the knee-level we want our girlfriends perched at. Don’t give into this filth, don’t agree that synthetic pot needs a substance ban just because your kids can’t get the real thing, don’t buy your next time-share out of the Gulf Coast, don’t take your next whole grain recipe from the central binding…Stand up and shout.

This is awful. We, the real north shore, the real any-shore of Chicago, the free-thinking still criminal-hanging public need to retaliate.

I hope the underground can divide and multiply and sweat it out in crowded hallways waiting for the signal fire.

The smoke will come.


Economy of Love

August 20, 2010

Last Thursday I solidified a life thesis at my local watering hole (where most life theses occur- check that hot plural out) with my mad-man cousin : the twenty first century has been the most religious time period in human history, but it has been the least spiritual. I use religious because it invokes an idea of dedication and priority adjustment, of people following a mindset blindly because some one said they should. Western culture has created a hell on earth with our religions of money, greed, consumption and social status. Where is the love, where is the hot potato of spiritual centeredness?

About two hours into our pinting, some 55-year old FACE (fuck-ass capitalistic extreme-o-phile) intercepted an elegant conversation regarding the subtleties of the female nipple in order to enlighten us on the importance of contributing to the economy and the evil behind Obama’s tax policies. I sat in silence for a good ten minutes (he bought us each two beers) before we were able to thank him for the suds  and politely say go fuck yourself. It was tolerable while beer was flowing down into my jejunum,but once I bottomed out and realized that this is what every American adult is like, a money-grubbing economy pushing facebook junkie, my anger bubbled up through the alcohol and out of my mouth in the form of, “Dude, we really could give a shit. You’re talking to two kids who dumped 30 g’s into a college education struggling to pay student loans and hoping to move out of the house. Fuck your economy and your system, it doesn’t work. We shouldv’e all moved to LA at 18 and said fuck college and jobs and became musicians or bums or both.” This planted an idea in my head, but more on that later…

Anywhoosies, I’ve decided to begin supporting a new economy, an economy of free love and free thought and independent observations, an economy that gives kickbacks in the form of Blue Dragons at a Flaming Lips show, an economy of 12 twenty-three year olds living in a foreclosed house making art all day. This is the stuff of life, not dollars and sense.

In order to prop up my own Chicago Exchange of Good Vibes, I am going to start posting local happenings, people places things, that don’t sacrifice human interaction for a pay-check and a profile pic. Let’s get fucking UN- distracted people.

Todays Hot Stock Ticker- Glitter Bones (GTRB)

Local band who I have fallen in love with this summer, they make me feel like I’m watching the creation of the world described in the Vedas.  Airy, electro-psych, drony. All good things as far as I’m concerned, and they seem like a band capable of pushing that particular genre (a difficult feat given the number of acts going this direction these days). Check out their EP Returning the Magic or their other Amulet Calls and be on the lookout for them at Schuba’s or Joe’s or Subterranean. Invest well mi amigos, our economy is in your hands.

Free Listens:

Gut Shot Friday Concert Update

August 13, 2010

Wavves are coming back to Chicago 9/12 @ Lincoln Hall. 21+ but I’m sure the suburban hipsters will laminate however many IDs it takes to see California’s psyched out punk surfers.  Going to be a righteous show considering Nathan Williams is the closest thing I can now find to Jay Reatard. Their gig at the Empty Bottle after Lollapalooza received some  good PR and I think it will be a similar scene to the Black Lips @ Logan Square Auditorium this past spring, and let’s just say I don’t mind having an excuse to fuck up chicken wire thin neon brandishing bags of teenage angst. Let the astrals project.


August 12, 2010

Transformed by over 240,000 fans across three days, the stretch of land encompassing Grant Park and the loop-side lakefront became an omega point for this summer’s music festivals. By day three the city had broken curfew with Billy Joe, crowd-surfed a fishnet brandishing Gaga, and exploded over an Edward Sharpe show that ejected the band out of the blogosphere of indie music and into its stratosphere. Sunday began with rain, with hesitation, but it culminated in a coda of thousands chanting the chorus of “Wake Up” walking past the police and the halted traffic, creating the most cathartic mob scene Michigan Avenue has ever hosted.

The Antlers opened on the Budweiser stage to a poignant scenery of grey Midwestern skies above and rain drenched feet beneath. In the writer’s urgency to stay hydrated and support the host of the stage he was unable to catch the bulk of their set, but it sounded crisp and the band who made one of 2009’s most insightful concept albums (Hospice) was well received. Fans began scurrying for ponchos and garbage bags to prepare for the inevitable monsoon but because of how young the day was most were unconcerned with the weather and more so with finding the necessary equipment for an illuminated viewing of MGMT’s set.

Festival Sundays are meant to be a wind down, but once the dragonflies amassed for Blitzen Trapper’s set all bets for a breezy ride were off. “Furr” got the crowd jolting in unison (appealing to the crowd’s youthful side, “When I was only seventeen”) after a set that offered more for the contemplative and psych-folk types. They sounded like a  Pacific Northwest Widespread Panic bastard-child on less mushrooms and more Quaaludes, making it a very “dig-able” set given the scorching sun that had just recently found parking in the sky. The crowd was mingling after a ginger-mullet guitarist of BT bid us farewell, as talk of MGMT and Arcade Fire united everyone in an effort to push forward to the fence and look onward to the rest of the day.

Yeasayer was hyped non-stop by the hipsters from Brooklyn and fab girls from Philly who seemed to penetrate all the breathable air around me. 2080 was phenomenal to hear live, but their lack of embracing the free-love vibe of the affair with “Red Cave” as a closer created a snippet of animosity in my heart. For a second. Really their set, along with most of the all day sonic endeavors I have attended, taught me to appreciate my height more than anything else in the world. The layer of air that mingles within a 30,000 person crowd is acrid and dripping with sweat-festered microbes that have been dragged about the continent via whirlwind disco-danceoffs and festival day trips.  My height created an escape hatch to the bustling clarity of a summer’s breeze, and between my gasps of salvation I was unable to determine if I agreed with the direction that Yeasayer were headed given their set at such an event. Funny thing is, I don’t think they gave a shit about it either.

Monitors and smart phones across the park relayed a message of heightened security levels just about ten minutes before MGMT came out. Not that it would have mattered even if they did; bedlam only breeds more bedlam. MGMT was a BIG name with my constituency on the lawn and the energy surging about the first ten rows was nuclear. I may have aided and abetted in the crowdsurfing of at least  200 people over my head. No joke (I remember a brief instance of peace (in my mind) where a young Volcom wearing hipster turned to me and my research compadre and begged us to lift him up to safety, “Man, I just can’t be here anymore”) My younger siblings and the high school heavy crowd loved them,and it wouldn’t require a Ciceronian discourse to argue that Lolla was a ripe scene for who their music was reaching (but not necessarily who it was intended for). I clamped any and all irritations caused by the miniature fuckheaded flashdancing sixteen year olds engrossing me and embraced the music as I remembered first finding it in a college dorm room five years ago, stoned and fascinated. The serenity and tranquility of The Youth and Weekend Wars made a beautiful contrast to the unholy sea of fleshy madness I was entwined in. At that point I was alone and shoving bitches to avoid being trampled, and when Time to Pretend wrapped up I had next to nothing left for Kids. I let myself shift twenty or so rows back to recoup with my associates. I was spent from six hours in the heat, but the conflict between my body and the environment, my body and other bodies, my mind and my body…ad infuckingfinitum…allowed my soul to careen up an exhilarating crescendo, inching towards a galactic dosage of catharsis you could just sense Arcade Fire would bring. That they would HAVE to bring.

Lightspeed through meat taco’s ( I nearly said grace I was that elated to eat), lounging in some VIP chairs (thank you 93.1XRT Lounge), recycling rounds of water (fuck you Dasani for the understaffed station and the long lines), eavesdropping in on the end of The National’s set  (Mr. November clawed and gnarled, fucking elegant) and a quick joint (no explanation required). Win Butler stands before a plain of weary but hopeful searchers of the soul, and it begins. Arcade Fire was put on earth by baby Jesus to play Lolla, pure and simple. Their sound was absolutely built for 50,000 people to be oohing and aahing between orchestral build-ups and lead-heavy rock-outs. They plugged their freshest album (“Roccoco” ‘s satirical concept would give Twain a hard on) but kept their rusty guns close at hand(Haiti, Keep the Car Running). I think everyone on the northside of the city figured them to close with Wake Up, but no one south east or west could have anticipated the overwhelming nature of the audience’s impassioned response. Hairs stood on end, feet sprang free, eons of bad karma were extinguished in an instant. We took the sound from the park after bidding our hero’s good-bye and marched out after our 10PM curfew with middle fingers pointed at cops and falsetto voices ringing out the chorus to the encore, droning out nearby teetering L trains and frustrated cabbies and beeping cars. We had won, finally, and from the front gates of Friday to our respective Sunday nightstands, we had almost been as one.