Justin Timberlake – 20/20 Experience (2 of 2):

No one was surprised to find ten more songs from the newly crowned prince of pop this past week.  But when the Roots spoiled the surprise back when part one of two had first come out, it helped quiet the negative backlash Justin was receiving for what some (myself included) were calling a sub-par album.  And even though I like a lot of the songs off the first half of the 20/20 experience, I have to admit the critics had some merit.  It was a few tracks shy of being fulfilling.  Which as we all see makes complete sense.  If I had to rate both halves of the album as two separate albums; I would say the first was a step in the right direction, but came up short in terms of completeness, and the second half I would grade as having a great sound, but not really showing much growth.  Fortunately for all parties involved, these aren’t two albums released ten years apart.  This is, by all measures one whole album released in a gimmicky fashion to capitalize on increased record sales (can’t really blame him, have you seen the record industry lately).  And as a whole experience this album is really good.  From part 2 you get that nostalgic sound that we missed so much (remember JT hadn’t put an album out in 7 years), and from part 1 you get that more grown up sound you can listen to over a cocktail. Together it’s exactly what I needed from him.  And yes I use the word need rather strongly.  Quick anecdote that I think I shared before, but in case you missed it. At the time JT had released an album prior to the Experience I was in the midst of the longest tenured relationship of my existence and his album was sort of a soundtrack to that relationship.  low and behold it eventually came to an end, as all good things do, and I was left with a personal battle I had taken on.  I wasn’t going to lose JT to a relationship.  I forced myself to listen to that album nonstop for a week (I even cried on the subway sitting alone one time) in order to disconnect it’s reminiscent effect.  In the end it worked.  She can have The Feeling: Twelve Stops From Home, but Future, Sex, Love Sounds was mine to keep.

Which brings us to the present.  As I already said this album is damn good.  From the more dance poppy songs of TKO and Amnesia, to the more rock ballad sound of Only When I Walk Away.  It’s a great mix of tempo, melodies, and unsurprisingly great vocals.  I will state that this album is far from perfect; I would’ve loved to hear him push a few more boundaries and that I hope this isn’t Justin’s one and done for the next seven years album. I just think it’s a good album to fill a much needed void that was created last time he stepped away.

7.0/10

Lorde – Pure Heroine:

If you’ve been reading this site, then you know I’ve had a huge musical crush on Lorde.  Her EP came out about a year ago, and I absolutely loved it.  Well the completed version of that work is finally here and honestly it’s awesome.  Here’s the thing.  Lorde is only 16.  I want to say that upfront, as to me she has a lot of influences (Lana Del Rey and Adele to name a few) that she borrows from but it’s to be expected.  Young people are impressionable.  Ray Charles was known for sounding like every other famous artist out until he finally found his sound (Don’t worry I’m not saying Lorde is Ray Charles).  Hell the song Glory And Gore sounds like it could be straight off a Portugal the Man album.  But that doesn’t discount that it’s actually quite good.  As I listen to this album I realize there’s going to be an obvious backlash. One; she’s positioning herself as almost anti-pop, as in one song she claims she’s “kind of over gettin’ told to throw my hands up in the air.”  If you search Lorde you’ll see her very tightly kept image also fits this mold.  And while it’s a bit contrived (remember she’s 16) she isn’t really wrong for her stance.  Britney came on the scene at 18 and was clearly having her strings pulled to play into the dirty fantasies of old sleazy men everywhere.  And after reading the Sinead O’Connor  letter to Miley (which I wholeheartedly agree with), I find Lorde’s disposition rather refreshing.  Here’s a sixteen year old with no massive online identity, singing about apt stuff to her life.  And while you may not get all her complaints, as some of them are just young problems, you can definitely enjoy her much more adult sounding vocals.  In a lot of ways she reminds of  Paolo Nutini, who’s first hit single at 17 was about New Shoes. His first album was really good, but honestly it was his second album that blew me away.  His first had great sound, but his second album had wisdom.  And if I had to guess her career arc I’d lean towards it having a similar growth.  Look I love an artist like Britney Spears all the same, but when we go to play our songs of yesteryear and wish to enjoy them without the need of nostalgia, I’m more inclined to think that sound is something closer to Adele.  And while an artist like Miley makes some great Bangerz, I just think a sound more like Lorde my stand the test of time.  This isn’t to say you can only enjoy one or the other, or to pit these two against each other (much like the Girls in Hoodies Podcast on Grantland seem to do) but musical significance is usually a byproduct of how you stand out among your peers.  And right now the closest peer to Lorde is Miley Cyrus, and I feel fairly confident whatever comes out of Lorde’s camp next will probably sound infinitely more timeless than anything we’ve heard from Miley yet (Let me reiterate, I love Miley and actually think her album is really good, but when speaking purely in guesstimations as to what I might still be listening to in 10 years, I think Lorde has a better shot at being that).

All in all the album Pure Heroine is really good.  It’s 1 hit songs away from being incredible as it does tend to just flow from beginning to end, with no real tempo break up.  I think most will enjoy it in their shuffle, and more specifically I think she has a ton of upside.  It will probably garner some award buzz as she is only 16 and does a lot of her own work on the music, so she kind of deserves it. But if you’re looking for a perfect accompaniment with that new Drake album I think this is it.

8/10 

The post The Prince and The Lorde: Album Reviews appeared first on Rookerville.

“How this n***a workin’ like he got a fuckin’ twin though?”

This is Drake’s proclamation on the intro to Nothing Was the Same.  And to be honest I don’t know if I believe all the Drake hype cause I think it’s true, or if it’s cause he’s so good at confidently stating it himself. I’ve listened to this album all weekend. I’ve got 3 stages of reactions to it.

1) This is good…kind of subtle but still good.

2) Have I just listened to this whole album 3 times in a row?

3) Maybe nothing will be the same?

Rap is weird. It doesn’t evolve like other art forms.  Most other evolutions tend to lead to more niche and specialized forms.  Rock evolved into its many forms to the point that I think Mumford and Sons might be their own genre.  Where as rap/hip-hop started out, actually with many forms and has slowly but surely eroded down to simply hip-hop.  Hip-hop is an all consuming word.  Along the way it has taken on any thing in it’s vicinity and reshaped itself to properly embrace it.  It’s kind of the natural evolution of the word of rock n’ roll in terms of culture.  Things used to be “so rock n’ roll” are now “so hip-hop”.  Had hip-hop stayed in its niche of purely being about the struggle of lower class Americans and the lifestyle that came with it, it might’ve not lived to see 30.  Meaning guys like Jay-z would’ve been done some time prior to the Black Album.  But it changed for the better.  Had it not changed guys like Kanye or Drake would have no place at the table, but instead they are now the honored guests.  Why?  Because a genre that was once hooked on authenticity or at least the veil of authenticity (we now know that 50 cent, even though he was shot 9 times, isn’t really scary or hood, as much as he’s just a really savvy business man, and DMX isn’t really intimidating as much as he’s just quirky and pretty much a caricature of himself) is no longer concerned with being authentic.  Which in a way is more authentic than it ever really was.  People like Kanye and Drake, who never claim to shoot anyone, or that they would shoot anyone, by previous standards would have been seen as inauthentic to the genre, but instead, are now  the standard for how to survive in the industry.

This is a long winded intro to explain that Drake couldn’t have released this record 10 years ago, but I’m glad he can now.   This album is damn good.  And good in a way that not many hip-hop albums have been.  I’m not saying it’s as good as, but it has a similar feel of longevity that Kanye’s My Twisted Dark Fantasy had or that Jay z’s American Gangster had.  It’s hard to explain but it’s not necessarily how good the album is in terms of review scores, cause both Nothing Was The Same and American Ganster are not as good as MTDF. But they are still great and very listenable.  I think that’s the attribute I like most about this album.  I can’t think of a bad place to listen to it.  Where as something like Yeezus has a very specific listening experience (one where a certain level of alcohol or testosterone needs to be coursing through my veins).  This is a classic sounding album.  You can listen to it alone, you can listen to with some people as you prepare to go out for the evening, you can listen to it in a car; I know this now cause I did all these things this weekend.  The production is subtle, but great.  He didn’t produce his own album, but credit him for having good taste.  The cast of characters he’s employed to be featured on the album are great choices too.  His track with Jay z is better than anything on Magna Carter.  But the track that stands out most is “Too Much”.  It’s the track he premiered on Fallon featuring Sampha.  He’s an artist from South London and Drake was especially excited for this collaboration prior to the record release, which now I see it was with good reason. It’s a smooth track with a lot of emotion.

In terms of lyrics and content, Drake does a good job of being true to himself.  There’s a bit of angst and pining but it seems real, and not really out of character.  He’s got a lot to prove as someone that get’s discounted as just being “Aubrey”.  There’s an enjoyable amount of cleverness and self awareness when listening to the record.  He has a knack for calling himself out before anyone else gets the chance.  On the intro he asks “How much time is this n***a spendin’ on the intro?” Which is a legit question cause by verse number three you realized he’s just turned the intro into a full blown song without a hook. Additionally it’s one of my favorite tracks on the album.  He maintains that comedic self awareness throughout the album (“That’s why every song sound like Drake featuring Drake”) which kind of makes him impossible to hate.  He’s self deprecating and self assured all at the same time.  He covers the spectrum of aww shucks to aww shit very well.  Look if you don’t like Drake, for not liking Drake-sake, then this album won’t change your mind, and I’m pretty sure no album would.  But if you were on the fence about him as I was, this album should turn you over to a supporter.  And if not for anything else, he’s a walking catch phrase.  He continues to come with ways to tell you he’s awesome with out ever actually saying he’s awesome.  He’ll never come out with the brashness of Jay z or Lil’ Wayne and just straight up call himself the best rapper alive, no instead he’ll settle for subtlety cause he’s too clever for that.  He said his goal was to channel his inner Marvin Gaye for this album, and I don’t think he’s far off.  I suggest getting this album when it’s released.  It’s a perfect segue into the fall.

8.5/10

The post Nothing Was The Same appeared first on Rookerville.

I have a confession to make: I watched the VMAs last week. At the time it actually aired. It’s been many years of distancing myself from anything MTV-related, but for a variety of random reasons – mostly due to stumbling upon east-coast reactions before it came on out here – I found myself seated in front of the television as famous teenagers I had never heard of walked the red carpet a few blocks from my wife’s former apartment (side note: does the fact that the VMAs took place in Brooklyn mean it isn’t cool to live there anymore?). I knew three vague things from snippets of headlines and brief, dissociated comments I had read as the event began: Lady Gaga performed, Miley Cyrus did something crazy, and Justin Timberlake made sure sexy stayed right where it was. These all came to fruition, but as I’m sure you’re well aware, Miley’s on-stage outfit and antics blew up the internet for the next several days with outraged reaction pieces written by people from all walks of life, scathing in their tone and disapproving in their content. [My take, not that you care: She’s twenty years old. Tell me you’ve never danced around at a college party less than fully-clothed while acting in ways you’d prefer your mother didn’t know about. Chill out, prudes.]

What all this hyperbole over the loss of our previously-moral universe did, however, was to completely obscure an analysis of something far more noteworthy from the awards show. I’m referring to neither the Mother Monster nor the newly-elected President of Pop; for me, the most important sequence of the night came in relation to one of Seattle’s finest. Their video having won an earlier award, Macklemore, Ryan Lewis, and Mary Lambert took to the stage to play their hit “Same Love”. They were preceded by the obligatory-titled, first-openly-gay-athlete-in-American-major-sports Jason Collins, who stood alongside A$AP Rocky in a sometimes awkward, but still sincere, introduction to the performance. They both spoke of equal rights regardless of skin color, ethnicity, or sexual orientation, an openly gay black man’s words leading into a song written during the gay marriage debate in Washington state, one containing a hook sung by an openly lesbian white woman.

You could argue that moments like these – that is, open demonstrations of pro-gay marriage sentiments – have been almost a dime a dozen in recent months as we march towards progress, but this one was decidedly different. The viewership for this year’s VMAs was reportedly well over ten million people, a large share of whom are under the age of eighteen. With this demographic, we find an entire generation of future voters and policymakers, nearly all of whom can be easily categorized as “impressionable”. Their beliefs are still evolving, their attitudes and actions yet to be determined. So to recap: a clear, strong, and obvious social message of equality was delivered by a group of famous, relatable adults to a vast audience of young people whose minds and opinions are still very much up for grabs. Yeah, I’d probably call that an important moment.

What’s that Whitney Houston lyric? “I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way.” A little less T-Swift, a little more Mary Lambert, and I think we’ll be just fine.

We now return to your regularly-scheduled Miley-bashing.

The post We’ll Be Back With Your Regularly Scheduled Miley Bashing After These Messages appeared first on Rookerville.

Our sunny, fun, and rocking Saturday begot a sunburnt, sore, and dehydrated Sunday morning. I entertained the idea that maybe I was starting to get to be too old for this, a notion that seemed more real as I stood inside a packed train with young Californians pontificating about the psychotropic principles of the molly-absinthe combo that had put them in such a good frame of mind the previous night. Fortunately, the slate of bands scheduled for Day 3 seemed to cater to those who remembered the good ole’ days, so certain songs and crowd members still made me feel pretty young and in touch.

We wanted to start the day off by catching a comedy show, one of the underrated aspects of the festival experience, particularly on a day with some down time. Most of these performances and stages usually work in a similar fashion to the musical acts – just come and go as you please. However, Outside Lands had constructed The Barbary as an enclosed club, which they policed to prevent in-and-outs and to adhere to fire code restrictions. We had been turned away when we showed up midway through an act on Friday, so we vowed to get to today’s show well ahead of its scheduled start time, where we planned on seeing Craig Robinson of The Office and Hot Tub Time Machine fame. We were there a solid 40 minutes early, and sizeable crowd had already formed.

We learned shortly thereafter that there were in fact two separate lines, one for stand-by audience members, and one for those who had tickets. Wait, what? Tickets? As it turns out, if you wanted a guaranteed admittance to The Barbary, you had to show up two and half hours ahead of the start time to secure tickets, an extra step not mentioned once on any of the material or schedules handed out at the festival, and also not verbalized to us when we had been turned away two days earlier. Leave it to San Francisco to add another tier of elitism into a three-day pass. We were definitely not getting in, and we weren’t even close to the end of the line.

It sucked to have put a bunch of time into a what turned out to be a lost cause, but on the plus side, we were close enough to the Sutro Stage during our fruitless wait to hear the entire Camper Van Beethoven show. We wound up getting tickets to Robinson’s second show, later in the evening, which we didn’t use. Sorry Craig, I got things to do.

Instead, we ventured once more through the carnival (juggling this time!) and over towards Wine Lands, where we also caught part of the Rudimental set. But more importantly, I finally came face to face with the mysterious figure I had seen at a distance so often throughout the weekend.

THE MONKEY.

He was in the midst of getting a replacement stick on which to hang out, accompanied by his human friends. He was a friendly monkey, and was happy to be at the festival for the past three days. His favorite color was teal. His favorite shape was the correctangle. He thought Phoenix’s set the night before was pretty dope. I was glad to have finally met him.

We headed back to the Sutro Stage to catch Kurt Vile & The Violators, a laid-back show for two tired concert-goers who just wanted to relax on the grassy hill and enjoy the music. Kurt played a great set at a perfect pace, stripped down and spacy. Everything was chilled out. And then, suddenly, it wasn’t.

A large cry went up behind us, and we spun around. A horde of people, at least two dozen strong, had started climbing, and ultimately, crushing, the fence at the border of the grounds. They were some combination of the vagrants who live in Golden Gate Park and people who look like park vagrants, quickling sprinting down the hill into the crowd and immediately blending in with surprising ease. Miraculously, the group of older folks underneath the collapsed fence weren’t injured, but unfortunately, a couple of seated, unaware audience members got clipped and/or kicked by the stampede and had to be treated by the medical staff. What a bunch of dickheads.

This event at the end of the set had seriously harshed our mellow, as no one says anymore. We were staying for the next show, so I hustled over to the group of food trucks to acquire some fried pickles and assorted bacon treats. I made it back in time for the beginning of Trombone Shorty & Orleans Avenue, which was an absolutely awesome show. The musicians brought their A game, with wailing saxes dueling with the headlining trombone. We had originally planned on leaving a bit early to catch the full Hall & Oates set, but just when we began to gather our things, they broke out in a cover of “Brain Stew” and just blew our minds. We stayed put, and they have officially made it into my shortlist of “Bands I Would Undoubtedly Pay To See Again”.

We finally made it over to Hall & Oates, where a crowd of all ages had assembled, dancing furiously and singing along. I haven’t spent an enormous amount of time listening to the duo, but the fun from the set was infectious. Everyone was in on it and getting down. A large dance circle began to develop behind us, enveloping more and more audience members in a black hole of exuberance. Despite being two sets away from the headliner slot, they still decided to do the old leave-and-come-back-for-an-encore trick. The finished with – of course – “You Make My Dreams”, which is near and dear to me for being the song my bridal party entered to and also reminding me of a childhood full of DuckTales. We danced. We cried. We laughed. We had a really, really, really good time.

Next up was Vampire Weekend, who I’ve been wanting to see for years now and finally got to realize this desire. They sounded just as incredible as their albums, fast paced, vibrant, and tight. Things kicked off with “Cousins” and touched on virtually any track I could have possibly wished they would play; this was aided by the fact that their songs almost never exceed the four-minute mark, rarely even approaching it. The crowd roared at the mention of Bay Area geography in “Step”, and head-bopped and sang their way through the entire set. We had a couple of young Vampire Weekend superfans directly in front of us who couldn’t contain themselves at the site of Ezra Koenig; these girls – to our surprise – were actually not the exception, but the rule themselves. Ezra is [apparently] an indie heartthrob. So, so dreamy.

We bounced along to “A-Punk” and did our best to imitate the weird vocal effects of “Ya Hey”, but – by far – the best crowd-created signs of the [vampire] weekend were those that showed up during “Oxford Comma”. I don’t have a picture, but they looked something like this:

,

They closed with one of my favorite tracks, “Walcott”, wrapping up with the same energy with which they had begun. The entire band was prepped out and pumped up for the full seventy minutes, their guitarist/keyboardist never ceasing to smile and their bassist never ceasing to show off some fancy footwork and sassy shoulder moves. Congrats, guys; you win the weekend’s award for best act not called Paul McCartney. Ivy League represent!

We had strongly considered jetting over to catch the second half of Matt & Kim, who in my opinion have emerged as one of the better contemporary Name Ampersand Name bands (She/Him, Belle/Sebastian, etc.), with catchy hooks and fun tracks. However, in a “What will we say years from now?” moment, we opted out of this act and instead headed over to see some of Willie Nelson. We took in the folky, bluesy grooves and appreciated the fact that we were seeing a country music legend in the twilight of his career. Totally worth it. Sorry, Matt. Sorry, Kim.

The final show of the day (unless you were one of the thousands who thought Kaskade was an appropriate way to end a festival weekend) was the one, the only, Red Hot Chili Peppers. They have a very special place in my heart as the group that inspired me to learn to play guitar and launched a love for energetic, live rock music that continues to this day. They are tied with Guster for the band I’ve seen in person the most times (five), and each time I think I might skip their next trip through wherever I happen to be living, I simply can’t help myself. John Frusciante’s departure from the band absolutely crushed me, and it kills me to see them operating at a shell of their former selves. That being said, Josh Klinghoffer is a very good guitarist, and even if they aren’t the EPIC Chili Peppers I first saw a decade ago, they are still very capable of closing down a festival with a bang.

The set started with their usual jam session, as improvisation has always been a staple of RHCP concerts (this is aided by having one of the best bassists of all time). I’m at the point where I can actually tell what song they’re about to launch into based on the jam leading up to it, which is either really cool or really pathetic. I’m also pretty positive they could play an entire set by just picking a key and making it up as they go – vocals included – but I digress. From the moment the funky riff of “Can’t Stop” began, there was no shortage of hits. The crowd definitely enjoyed the novelty of hearing “Dani California” and “Californication” while in their namesake state, and went crazy as Josh whipped out the intro to “Snow (Hey Oh)”, perhaps the last truly great RHCP song. “Under The Bridge” continued to serve as one of the most emotionally moving songs to hear live, a sweet, long intro transitioning to forlorn, melodic lyrics, a singalong chorus, and an explosion of an outro. They ‘closed’ with “By The Way” before returning for an encore, during which Chad beat the shit out of the drums during the funky “Around The World”, ultimately finishing with the raucous “Give It Away”. Flea addressed us all at the end, telling us to love and be good to one another.

“Music is love,” he said. “Music is the word of God.”

God bless music.

God bless Outside Lands.

God bless the monkey.

The post Inside Outside Lands: Sunday appeared first on Rookerville.

Our west coast correspondent braved the clouds of rain, dust, and funky cigarette smoke at this past weekend’s music and arts festival in San Francisco.

We awoke the next morning in our own beds, tired but basking in the afterglow of Paul McCartney. We took our time getting ready and went out to breakfast. We sipped our coffee at a streetside cafe and walked back home to prepare for the day.

Yeah, I think I can get used to urban festivals.

We were among many other concert goers as we took the train back to the park, and it seemed the only thing anyone was talking about was, again, Paul McCartney. It had been a great night, and we had all set our sights on having a great day. I find that the middle day(s) of these multi-day festivals are usually the most debaucherous, likely due to the increased level of comfort that comes with getting the first day under the belt – you know your way around the grounds, you have a feel for how to balance your day, and, most importantly, you know how the security works. In the case of Outside Lands, ‘security’ was mostly an eight-letter word on the back of a yellow shirt, and not much else. I’ve heard harrowing tales of the car searches that go on at Coachella and witnessed myself the intense pat downs done upon entering the concert grounds at Sasquatch. At Golden Gate Park, a typical exchange went something like this:

“Open your bag.”

[Feels the bottom of the bag]

“What’s that?”

“A water bottle.”

“Is it empty?”

“Yes. Do you want me to open it up?”

“No, I trust you.”

Needless to say, people managed to bring things in on the “don’t bring” list. I’m not revealing anything to you right now, other than that my breath smelled like cinnamon for most of the afternoon. That is all.

We kicked off the sunniest of the three days with Gary Clark, Jr., who I’m pretty convinced is the best sunny afternoon act out there right now. There’s a few artists whom I listen to fairly frequently without actually knowing any of their songs, mostly because their repertoire is very effective at capturing a certain mood. I’ll thrown on Phish if I just want background music to chill to. Rodrigo y Gabriela comes on if I’m feeling sassy (I really don’t know what other term to use there; flamenco makes me feel sassy). I put on Gary Clark, Jr. when I want to hear someone shred. And that’s exactly what he did. He only played six individual songs, but my goodness, the man knows his way around a guitar.

Midway through the set, I noticed a familiar face was there as well. That silly little monkey.

Back for more, huh monkey?

I love Gary Clark, Jr.

What does it say on that banana you’re holding?

I love bananas.

Of course you do.

After the set we hustled over to catch the end of James McCartney, mostly to see if his dad would show up to play with him. He didn’t, and from what I could tell, the crowd was not really into the set. Kind of a rough shadow to live in throughout your life, but then again, if my father was in The Beatles, I would probably consider a different career choice. Since we were over in Hellman Hollow anyway, I decided it was about time to visit the place where I wish my parents had sent me during my summer breaks instead of sign language camp.

Sierra Nevada had brewed up a couple of small batches that found their way to the festival, a delicious Outside Lands Saison and an IPA known simply as #93. I got a pint of each, and then moseyed over to the camp’s next door neighbor.

Wine Lands had become quite the shitshow, completely packed and questionably organized. First you went up to a booth. Then they told you they didn’t accept money; you had to buy tickets. So you waited in line and bought tickets, only sold in packs of ten for ten dollars (what a great exchange rate!). Then you went back to the booth and asked for wine. They asked you where your glass was. You didn’t have a “glass” because you didn’t want to pay extra for a plastic cup. They had cups right next to them. They said they’d been using them for tastings (even though this wasn’t an issue yesterday), and weren’t sure if they could use them for a full serving. Seriously, dude, can you just pour some dry riesling into my mouth?

We crossed back over the pass and met up with some friends for the Young The Giant show. Other than some preparatory listening I had done in the week leading up to the festival, I hadn’t been too familiar with Young The Giant. This was a mistake. Their show absolutely exceeded my expectations, opening strong and building to the propelling drum beats and catchy vocal lines of “Cough Syrup”. They tried out a few newer songs they have been working on including “Anagram”, and closed the set with a rocking rendition of “My Body”. The crowd was bouncing, and YTG officially won the coveted “Band I Didn’t Know Much About But Now Pledge Allegiance To” award, a title also captured by Tune-Yards last summer.

It was time to upgrade from Beer Camp to Beer Lands – 9.4 ABV North Coast Brother Thelonious? Don’t mind if I do! – but I first had to tackle another issue.

During what seemed like an endless wait, a woman next to me commented on how great it was that everyone had lined up in front of each individual stall in such an orderly formation. I’m going to go ahead and disagree with you, Miss. Ten lines for ten stalls (just as an example) means I am committed to whatever line I select. If the girl in front of me has to poop – and let’s be honest, she’s not going to share this – my kidneys are doomed. Take that down to two or three lines for those same stalls, and you’ve got options and anonymity (and something that did, in fact, occur at Sasquatch). Just throwing it out there.

Next up on our docket was Jurassic 5, the token hip hop group of the festival. I don’t say this to be stereotypical; I say this because it is often what happens. I’ve seen J5 twice now, and despite being a fan of their records, I’ve sadly been underwhelmed both times I’ve encountered them at a live show. Perhaps outdoors on a lawn in the early evening isn’t the right forum for them. Ho hum.

We ended up leaving the Jurassic 5 set early and journeyed back to the other side of the grounds, as I had a burning question that I needed answered. The question: What happens when Harlem Shake is ‘performed’ live? The man who would answer it: Baauer himself. We got to the stage exactly as the first “con los terroristas” came over the speakers, learning that it basically just works like a live version of the meme – nobody moves until being told to do the Harlem Shake, and then no one does the actual Harlem Shake. They did get wild though, and reacted similarly to all the subsequent remixes and mashups that followed. He ‘closed’ with “Drop It Like It’s Hot”, and you know what? Everyone had a great time.

We went back to the opposite side of the park again (a lot of walking today), passing by some of the live art pieces that were being worked on throughout the day.

They grew.

And grew.

And were eventually ready for their closeup.

Would Karen O be ready at our destination? Three words with bad grammar: Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The frontwoman emerged in a glittery pharaoh hat with clown tear makeup and a purple and gold suit, and she and her band kicked things off with “Sacrilege”, the first track off of their new album. Things continued on in a rocking fashion, the crowd jumping and dancing, mimicking Karen O’s energy. A roar went up as “Heads Will Roll” began to play, but the younger members of the audience began to depart at its conclusion, only halfway through the whole set. Seriously, kids? They certainly missed out, as the soft singalong to the chorus of “Maps” that came a few songs later served as the most tender moment of the weekend that far. “Date With The Night” came last, and at that point, it was time for us to have one with it as well.

We quickly made our way over to the hill on the side of the Sutro Stage to catch one of my favorite bands to emerge in the last couple of years, The Head And The Heart. Their song catalog is a bit limited since they’ve only had one album as of yet, but when that one album is phenomenal, quality trumps quantity. “Sounds Like Hallelujah” became “Cats and Dogs” which became “Coeur d’Alene”, the second song marking the only time I’ve ever barked in unison with a singer at a concert. They played a new song or two – which thankfully sounded similar to the old stuff – and the crowd really picked up around “Lost in My Mind”. Once we hit the closing tracks of “Down in the Valley” – seriously, a gem – and “Rivers and Roads”, the rain had started to come down to thank the Seattle transplants for gracing us with their presence.

For the evening show, we made the difficult decision of seeing Phoenix rather than Nine Inch Nails, as we had never really gotten into the latter but were very familiar with the former. We needed to grab dinner, and since NIN started prior to Phoenix, we did a walk-by of their set.

The moment the stage came into view, I was transfixed.

The music was hypnotic.

Like a bug to the light, I was drawn in.

“Where are you going?”

I couldn’t hear her.

“We’re supposed to be getting food.”

I drew closer.

“Seriously?”

I was gone.

I looked up. A dark shadow in front of a deep blue light. A pulsing beat.

I looked down. An empty tinfoil wrapper.

“Wow, you were hungry.”

My ears perked up. “Lisztomania” was playing.

Where was I?

I looked up. A similar silhouette.

The monkey.

Had he guided me here?

We drank in the Phoenix set from the back of the crowd, dancing with the other twentysomethings who wanted nothing to do with the teenage hysteria going on much closer to the stage. They sounded fantastic, although I did a double take when Thomas Mars addressed the crowd, having not realized that Phoenix is actually from France. There was a confusing amount of geography in that sentence! They closed heavily and strongly, with “1901”, “If I Ever Feel Better”, and “Rome” leading into a reprise of “Entertainment”, in which Mars ran into the audience and crowd surfed his way back to the stage as everyone present sang along to the choral chant. People danced in the neon light, and then it was time to depart.

We decided to go back through McLaren Pass to see what was happening there in the nocturnal hours, and to see if there were any Outside Lamps (see? I can make puns too). The Hell Brew Revue was still rocking, the carnies were giving out hugs, and the whole area was eerily lit in the middle of dense trees.

We emerged on the other side of the pass to witness Trent Reznor playing the final chords of “Hurt”, and the trees on the other side morphed shades in the rain.

There’s something about seeing the silhouettes of people in the crowd against the backdrop of colorful stage lighting. It’s like a live iPod commercial. You have no idea who those people are. They’re anonymous shadows moving to the beat. But you see their bodies move, and you can tell how they feel. You know exactly how they feel.

Want to know how they spent the day:

Friday

The post Inside Outside Lands: Saturday appeared first on Rookerville.

Our west coast correspondent braved the clouds of rain, dust, and funky cigarette smoke at this past weekend’s music and arts festival in San Francisco.

For some reason, I can’t wrap my head around festival punctuality. The concept of showing up on time for a multi-act concert is foreign to me. Last year, I thought it would be an okay idea to go to work on the first day of Sasquatch, only to sit in traffic on Snoqualmie Pass and ultimately miss Girl Talk’s set. Years earlier, leisurely eating lunch with my summer housemates meant missing Relient K and Reggie and the Full Effect at the Warped Tour (this sounds silly now, but at the time was pretty upsetting). And when Lollapalooza was still touring, I was dumb and in high school and far too preoccupied with the festival scavenger hunt (where the prize was going backstage with Incubus) to catch any of the acts before the late afternoon. This year, however, I was determined to not make the same mistakes. I shifted my work week to Sunday-Thursday and cleared my schedule for the entirety of Outside Lands. I was set.

Of course, this was very nearly derailed by my own inability to mobilize in the morning hours of the weekend. After consuming far too much ribs and fried chicken and beer the previous night (I had a serious craving for soul food), I was feeling rough on Friday morning. I left far later than I had intended, and subsequently underestimated just how long it would take to BART to Embarcadero, hop on the N-Judah towards Ocean Beach, and actually arrive at Sunset Boulevard south of Golden Gate Park. The morning was a typical Bay-Area-in-August mix of wind and fog, but as I stepped off the Muni and caught a glimpse of the Pacific, the sun came out, warm and optimistic. As luck would have it, the start of the Smith Westerns set had been slightly delayed, and while I spent some of it in line getting my ID checked, I was still there for it. I’m going to count that as a win. By the time they closed with the catchy “Weekend”, it was, in

fact, time to celebrate the weekend. We lingered in the grass and the sun briefly, but decided to spend this downtime exploring the grounds.

We sauntered by booths of merchandise, food, and libations, checked out the already-long line to get into The Dome (designed to be an enclosed club for all the smaller DJ sets), and passed thousands of revelers, many of whom – in usual festival tradition – were dressed either as crazily or as trendy as they possibly could be. For the ladies, it seemed the “in” thing for this year was cutoff shorts with a waist line up to the navel and an exposed midriff. For both guys and gals, much to my chagrin, one of the most popular accessories seemed to be the exact backpack I was wearing. It was everywhere.

One pack.

Two pack.

Red Pack.

Blue Pack.

Sigh.

The grounds were separated into three parts, split in the center by McLaren Pass, a brief venture through the woods in between large swaths of open lawn. Within the trees, among other things, was an interactive art piece put together by Mike Shine known as Flotsam’s Wonder World. It was themed like a demented carnival, featured guest musical acts throughout the weekend, and was populated mostly by clown-face-painted people in kilts. It turns out this has been a recurring event for the last few years, but at the time, I was caught a bit off guard by the forest-dwelling carnies.

As we made our way through the pass we went by Choco Lands and eventually emerged at Wine Lands, also known as the two places my wife goes in her fever dreams. The latter of these two fantasy locales was populated by representatives from nearby California wineries with a few different of their own varieties at each booth. For an extra two dollars, you could get a plastic Outside Lands cup in which to consume these. Or you could just get a regular plastic cup for free. But thank you for offering to allow me to spend more money.

While we were down in this area we happened upon the Panhandle Stage, a side venue which was completely powered – including all lighting and amplification – throughout the weekend by only alternative and solar energy – pretty cool. The folk rock group Houndmouth played during our time there, providing a great backdrop to what was shaping up to be a relaxing afternoon.

We made our way back to the Lands End Stage in time to catch Surfer Blood, perhaps the perfect name for a band whose music is a fusion of fuzzy surf rock and indie allure. I had only been turned on to them a few days prior when a friend was looking at the lineup and recommended them, but I was pretty pleased I had inserted them into my schedule, as they were another awesome midday act. They opened with “Floating Vibes” and closed with “Drinking Problem”; again, perfect names for songs to be played at festival.

We had another brief intermission before Band of Horses would begin to play, a time spent in an area of the grounds that was my own little happy place.

Band of Horses came out ready to rock and happily playing to the crowd’s energy. Things built to “Is There A Ghost”, played in the middle of their set, and continued on towards “Knock Knock”. Their finale was the wildly popular “The Funeral”, the quiet arpeggios expanding to a full-on onslaught of guitars, vocals, and drums. At its conclusion, their lead singer told us “it [was] a great fucking day.” We believed.

One of the funny things about having multiple live music stages within a relatively small amount of space is the frequent occurrence of ‘accidentally’ hearing an act on one’s way to do something else. My first encounter with this phenomenon on this particular weekend came while I was taking care of the state in which Beer Lands had put my bladder. I hadn’t been to the Sutro Stage just yet, but the silky smooth grooves and vocals of Rhye managed to float their way over to my place in line. I don’t know much about Rhye other than the biography I’ve read and the few songs I heard that afternoon, but that’s another one of the beautiful things about a high density of live music – you don’t need to know what you’re hearing to appreciate the experience. Thanks, Rhye.

I walked over to where The National was about to come on as the sunlight morphed into fog. Matt Berninger, their singer, came out, briefly lamented about the weather, and then launched into “Fake Empire” and “I Should Live In Salt”. The melancholy nature of the songs actually seemed to go hand in hand with the darkening skies, as they breezed through other standards like “I Need My Girl” and “Graceless”, playing over half their set accompanied by the musicians of Kronos Quartet; it was a nice touch to have live strings at a concert. During an emotional, extended “Mr. November”, Berninger jumped off the stage, over the protective barrier, and pushed his way deep into the crowd, howling the refrain alongside excited, adoring fans. It would have been quite a way to end a set list, but just when we thought it was over, the band went ahead and performed one of my favorite festival tricks – bringing out another famous musician to collaborate on a song. In this case, it was San Francisco’s own Bob Weir of The Grateful Dead, who jammed along to a fantastic rendition of “Terrible Love”. Really great stuff.

We tried to make it over to the Zedd set prior to its conclusion, but got distracted by the delicious smells coming from Outside Lambs (sweet pun, guys). Lamb poutine, lamb gyros, and lamb paella? We were not making it over to Zedd, even if he did have a remix of the theme from Legend Of Zelda. During The National’s set, we had noticed that, oddly, we were among the younger members of the crowd; this is strange as festivals are not an old man’s game. However, we got our answer to “Where are all the drugged-out teenagers?” shortly thereafter amid the mass exodus from the end of the Zedd show. They were at the DJ set. Of course they were.

We caught a little bit more surfer rock in that of Wavves at the Panhandle Stage (still kicking!), then swung by the Sutro Stage to get a glimpse of the end of what I thought was going to be D’Angelo. Unfortunately, I was sadly not up to date, as disco funk group Chic had subbed in at the last minute due to the originally scheduled act’s illness. This was very disappointing, as the little bit we did catch – including “Le Freak” and the oft-sampled “Good Times” – was incredible. The crowd was bumping and the band was having fun. There had apparently been rumors earlier in the week that Daft Punk was going to be D’Angelo’s replacement (I would not be able to live with myself if I had missed Daft Punk due to my own misinformation), and Chic closed with a nod to this notion, dancing along to “Get Lucky” before finishing.

Of course, all of this was simply an appetizer to the final act of the night, Paul McCartney. We made sure we were at the stage with plenty of time to spare; this was not a show to be missed. Shortly before Sir Paul took the stage, a silly little monkey popped up on a stick just a bit in front of us. I assumed he was there to request “Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey”, off of the White Album.

Silly monkey – John Lennon sings that one.

But wait. Does he have something to hide?

He turned and looked right at me.

Don’t worry about me. Enjoy the show.

That was weird.

There were some grumblings beforehand about how McCartney’s set would overlap with the entirety of Pretty Lights. I’ve seen this act before and genuinely enjoyed the show, and even I briefly entered my own mental debate as to whether I could slip away for half an hour or so to catch part of the DJ’s light show.

Then Sir Paul emerged. And “Eight Days A Week” started. And that was the end of that foolish debate.

The hits were endless. Every Wings song was preceded with, “this is for the Wings fans”. He teased “Foxy Lady”, told a story about hanging out with Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton, and then launched into “Paperback Writer”. The man was a machine. He played for three hours and forty songs straight. When the other musicians needed a break, he performed “Blackbird” solo, or a stripped-down “Something” on the ukulele. We all sang “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” together. The monkey was having a great time.

The songlist grew and grew, each more spectacular than the last. “Band on the Run” led into “Back in the USSR”, followed by a story about meeting the Russian government and hearing from the defense minister that he had learned English from The Beatles’ records. This guy was unbelievable. We laughed with him. And then the piano chords to “Let It Be” began, and as embarrassed as I may be to admit this, the floodgates to my tear ducts absolutely opened up. I couldn’t handle it. “Live and Let Die” followed, complete with explosions of fireworks and fire in sync with the song. And finally, he closed with “Hey Jude”, a singalong that unquestionably ranks among the greatest live concert moments I have ever experience. Truly a wonderful moment.

Of course there were encores. Plural encores. “Day Tripper”, “Get Back”, “Yesterday”, “Helter Skelter”, and appropriately, “The End”, among others. He came out waving the flags of America, California, and Great Britain. And he brought two girls onstage who wanted to have their wrists signed so that they could get the imaged tattooed on their arms forever, the second of which was dangerously close to fainting right then and there. Think of that – it’s been FIFTY years since The Beatles first appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, and Sir Paul is STILL making young women lose their collective shit with his mere presence.

There’s always a slight worry when you see a legendary older musician play a show. Can they possibly live up to your expectations? Will they even still “have it”? The stakes are even higher for arguably the most accomplished rock musician of all time (I will listen to your arguments for Dylan or Elvis, but not much beyond that). Well, I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that Paul McCartney still has it. Good God, does he still have it.
There’s always a slight worry when you see a legendary older musician play a show. Can they possibly live up to your expectations? Will they even still “have it”? The stakes are even higher for arguably the most accomplished rock musician of all time (I will listen to your arguments for Dylan or Elvis, but not much beyond that). Well, I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that Paul McCartney still has it. Good God, does he still have it.

The post Inside Outside Lands: Friday appeared first on Rookerville.

My favorite songs, in general, are songs revolving around love; proclaiming love, admitting despair after love loss, or just simply establishing how beautiful your love might be.  It’s a simple formula.  I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s fact that the subject of love is timeless, so whether it’s Ray Charles singing about the love of his state of “Georgia”, or Paolo Nutini singing about losing his love and just wanting her to grant his “Last Request”; it gets me. Probably cause I’m a sap and a hopeless romantic that’s watched one too many “500 Days of Summer” type movies.  Either way, because of that fact this installment of ‘Too Much Good Music’ (we’ve done it enough times now, that I think it’s a thing) is filled with only female artists.

AlunaGeorge:

AlunaGeorge is a musical duo hailing all the way from London.  George Reid is the producer and the one man band behind the sound, but Aluna Francis does the vocals, song writing and is the heart and soul of the duo.  Don’t get me wrong George does a great job of creating some great melodies, but Aluna shines with her soft voice that has just the right tinge of an English accent coming through.  They’re listed as an electronic duo, but to me it sounds very pop and R&B.  Their new album, “Body Music” is a soulful joyride.  I’m not sure the sound is for everyone, it’s not quite uptempo enough to grab everyone’s attention, but if you have a soft spot for the likes of James Blake, but want something a little more upbeat you might enjoy AlunaGeorge too.  The song “Friends to Lovers” is probably my favorite from the album.

Their Single “You Know You Like It”:

Ariana Grande:

Am I supposed to have known this girl outside of music.  Wikipedia told me she was on some Nickelodeon show.  Honestly never heard of her before hearing the song she did with Mac Miller and as I look now that video has 75mm hits on youtube.  So maybe I’m not sharing any best kept secret cause it seems everyone knows her already.  Either way I’m hooked.  Her sound hearkens back to that few years Mariah Carey did a song with every rapper in the books.  ”The Way” was good, but what had me looking forward to her album was her most recent release with Big Sean (Oh Gawd!), “Right There”. She might be super poppy, but I don’t care, this girl is good, and her music is fun.  Have a few drinks and put that Big Sean song on and I dare you to deny how much you like it.

K. Flay:

This girl’s awesome.  I happened across her music just a few days ago.  She has no official album yet, just two EPs, but the two EPs combine for a good compilation of music.  She hails from Illinois and went to school for music in California.  Allegedly she started rapping, cause she was tired of the misogyny and sexism in hip hop and wanted to prove it didn’t need to be that way.  She’s got a clever vocabulary, and nice flow to her.  Her and Lorde might be the two female albums I anticipate the most.  Her background in music shows through the production and her intelligence shows through the lyrics.  I highly recommend getting every song you can from her.  Also her song “Easy Fix” was in the flick “This Is The End”.  It might be her tipping point.

The post Too Much Good Music: Its a Woman’s World appeared first on Rookerville.

There.  I got my Fox News-like headline out of the way.  I’m being hyperbolic, but I really do hate it.  So if you are a Jay Z apologist, don’t read this.

When I first heard Jay Z (he had a press release to announce the dropping of a hyphen?) was going to perform “Picasso Baby”, his new track from Magna Carta Holy Grail (a wildly boring album), I groaned.  I groaned because Jay Z has gained favor to such a degree, that makes haters like me seem like  jealous miscreants.  I’m not jealous, and I hate being lumped in with the jealous few.  I just don’t think he’s good, and he comes off as a big ol phony, from a mass-market standpoint.  The guy gets an 11 min special on HBO to perform a song in front of other actors, musicians, and little rich kids, and I am supposed to think I’m watching an event?  An event so monumental that it brings the art world to the hip hop world?  I think that’s what he wants us to think.  However, I can’t get past the points of who he is.  He exists as two completely different people.  There is Jay Z the mogul.  There is Jay Z the artist.  I think Jay Z the artist died about 10 years ago, and what we’ve been left with is a man trying to continually tell us that he’s relevant because he says so.

If you went to an art gallery and were able to actually meet the artist of a painting you thought was pretty good, but then he told you it was easily the most important piece of work you’d ever see, you’d laugh at this person.  You’d laugh because this person’s self-delusion is so sad its funny.  That’s Jay Z to me.  Of course rap is built on the tenets of rappers telling the audience how great they are yes, but Jay Z takes it a step further.  He no longer says “I’m the best rapper.”  He says, “I am this generation’s most valued icon. I exist in this world as a reminder to all that I am the height of success in this world and should be the model to follow.  People will be singing my classics 100 years from now.  Why? Because I’m Frank Sinatra.”  That’s like the extreme version of giving yourself your own nickname.  You don’t do it.  In the world I like to live in, you don’t Inception people and define your legacy for them.  You let the people decide your legacy.  Jay Z is so consumed with seeming a certain way, that his music has suffered as a result.

Luckily, we live in a post-modern world, where you can call anything art, so of course Jay Z takes the opportunity to extend his legacy further.  To me, this move is not genuine at all. Furthermore, the video is not really a performance art piece as much as it is a music video.  Yes, music videos are, in their own way, art, but Jay has decided his video is more than that.  It’s only more than that, because he said it is.  Nothing happens in the video that you haven’t seen before.  There are a few cameos (including cameos by Alan Cumming and Jim Jarmusch that killed me), but for the most part, it’s a longer video.  Nothing more.  However, he called the song “Picasso Baby” and rapped about how he is the new Picasso, so we associate him now with true art.

Ultimately, I don’t really like the last ten years of Jay Z, so I walk into this article with that bias, because I don’t think his music is that great, “Empire State of Mind” notwithstanding.   I think he’s focused more on ensuring an enduring legacy, more than he’s made music that will actually endure.  While I don’t really like Jay Z the artist, I really do like Jay Z the mogul.  What he’s done for hip hop as an ambassador I think is great.  I think that a lot of his diversification over the years by owning .5% of a basketball team, and becoming a sports agent is pretty cool too.  I think he’s helped legitimize hip hop internationally.  It’s been the most popular genre for a while and he deserves credit for that.  He should be stepping back and finding new talent.  He should be using his influence to find the next Jay Z, and not convince us he’s still the old one.  Watching his HBO performance was proof that this is just a really old guy, trying to convince us he’s got new tricks.  Not my bag baby.

You aren’t the next Frank Sinatra.  You aren’t the next Picasso.  You aren’t even the next you anymore.

Check out his “performance art” below and see for yourself.  I welcome disagreements!

The post Jay Z’s Picasso Baby Art Piece Is The Worst Thing In The World appeared first on Rookerville.