I got to see Animal Collective on Thursday. They were good. We were pretty far back (we got there just in time after Extraordinary Rendition lost in the Dual Duel) so we didn't get to see the strobe light-theatrics of the show that well. Their performances of "Peacebone" and "Fireworks" were worth the price of admission alone. They filigreed the latter so beautifully that they doubled the runtime without losing any of the awesomeness. I'm tired from 24Live. I'm doing one more show. Phil Mitchum forever!
America* has been inundated with Amy Winehouse shenanigans for a while, and I think we may be getting burnt out on her. She's up for a VMA or two, she was "buzzing" for a while, and of course she's been all drunk and shit for a while. I think America needs a break from Amy Winehouse.
That said, she's really really good. I've been listening to Back to Black, and while it relies heavily on some considerably good background music and slick production, Winehouse's novel vocals and raw emotion really make it soar. It's an excellent album.
Examples:
She can sing, she has a certain bizarre charisma, and she's unconventional. So now, Amy Winehouse, I have something to say to you:
Please don't die.
You are a year older than me. You have mountains of talent, and I know that crack is good, but jesus. I understand that your fucked-up-ed-ness informs your music, but you have to be alive to make it. Gain some weight, stop shooting herion into your clitoris, and make a few more albums before you die. I sort of imagine you making it to 35, becoming completely clean, and dying in a freak accident (maybe setting yourself on fire while ironing your hair?).
*Those of us who spend large amounts of time on the internet.
So, the band that might save rock and roll* and one of the great legends of popular music get on stage together. The result:
Watch that again. Wait until about the 2:35 mark. Is that Heather Graham? Trying to enjoy Arcade Bowie? I can't tell if she's succeeding. I dunno. It seemed strange to me.
*A big proclomation, but hey, this is the internet. I rather like them, at least.
Today, in the trash outside of Harris Teeter, peeking out amongst the banana peels and condom wrappers, was a burned copy of Moby's Play. I want to imagine it was a halfhearted gift from an annoying ex-boyfriend.
Lately I've been turned on to Kiwi folk-parody duo Flight of the Conchords. They're dry to the point of sometimes telling anti-jokes, but their comedy is infused with such a sense of fun that I can tell that they love what they are doing and want us to love it, too. Case in point:
