Arrington de Dionyso

Arrington de Dionyso's Malaikat dan Singa is full of weird noises that evoke a scary grindhouse flick set in Southeast Asia. The fake-tribal soundtrack to this film feels like it was written by a funky Bizarro-World version of Captain Beefheart. [In Bizarro World, Captain Beefheart is fun music that a person might listen to for pleasure as opposed to (1.) finding out what Captain Beefheart sounds like or (2.) being a guy in a record store who says he likes Captain Beefheart.] The entire album is sung/screeched/muttered in Indonesian.

The wacky, faux-Eastern jazz sax and pie tin banging is carried out with such conviction and attention to the groove that you don't even mind that much when it's time for the didgeridoo solo, or whatever that is. In fact, the whole reason I'll bet you might not immediately put something else on is the hypnotic, post-punk bass and beats. They do a nice job of anchoring all that exotica. Take them away, and this album would be the kind of nightmare that makes me giggle. With them, I'm kind of into it.

Mr. de Dionyso's press materials suggest that Malaikat dan Singa was recorded to impress a girl. I would like to meet this girl. And ask her if she is impressed. But take that bit about a girl under advisement, because the press materials also claim that this is an album you can dance to, and to that I say: maybe at Burning Man. But not in my house. You fucking hippie.

Rad Laundry

 

 

 

 

 

When Julia isn't crafting amazing veg delicacies, she's selecting choice vintage items like the pom pom hat and Colombian beer t-shirt I'm wearing and selling them through her Etsy site Pickleabra.

Besides Pickleabra, this photo shoot (cred: Sean) also gives me the chance to send a long-overdue shout out to my beloved Laundry Lounge in Midtown. In addition to '80s video games, this chic laundromat offers a genuinely pleasant lounge area with rocking chairs and effing free coffee. It's more of a laundry spa, really. Admittedly, the washers are small and the dryers can be a bit ineffectual, but in a world where real style is such a rarity, I'll take that over substance once in awhile.

The Lounge might truly be a best kept secret, but, y'know, I'm beginning to think I was put on this earth to eradicate such secrets. To that end, I challenge you to show me a cooler place to wash clothes. Seriously, if you can, you get a prize.

If you say so

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Motion Lotion

 

They also had this on the mantel. It is trucker inspired cologne, which you would expect to smell like ball sweat, but which actually smells like bubble bath I had when I was a kid. As Sean put it, "nothing says Flying J hand job like Breaker 19." Speaking of ball sweat, this.

Turkey Day minus turkey is the way to go.

I'm not a inhuman monster, I swear, but Thanksgiving has never been my favorite holiday. I'm not into turkey or empty ritual based on events in American history I have zero identification with. Then again, maybe the empty ritual just needs some tweaking. After last night, I'd say the holiday needs more beer and less meat and that you should celebrate it with whoever is around. Sorry, Aunt Judy.

 

 

 

There now that's better. I celebrated this year at the Charlotte, North Carolina home of Julia and Erik. Julia acted like cooking a whole vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner that makes you totally forget the vegetarian part and just go nuts stuffing your face wasn't anything extraordinary. It is extraordinary, but some aspects may be simple enough for anyone to adopt. There's the no tofurkey aspect, for instance.

The theme for the menu was Southern vegetarian. On my plate, clockwise from the fork, you will find cheese grits and gumbo, potatoes, stuffed cabbage, Yorkshire pudding, and greens and brussels sprouts. Below that photo is banana bread pudding a la mode in a bourbon sugar sauce brought by Erin, who is the only person in the group photo not making a weird face. Oh, man, I'm still full. At least in my heart.

Dead Media

Many Atlantans reading this will already be familiar with Brian Dettmer's work. (Never mind that Ceci in Austin brought it to my attention.) It gives me something to think about as I liquidate much of my physical music collection. I like how he shapes the cassettes to emphasize their visual kinship with bones, if only because both are lovely to look at for their own sake. I've had a longstanding affair with cassette tapes, but I think it may finally be coming to a close. Almost.

Here's a link to a neat post on his work. Here's his website.

Goodnight Keith Moon

Brilliant Colors

San Francisco's Brilliant Colors' Introducing is the kind of album that makes you yearn to see the band play. It feels like a hurried communique reading something like, "We're over here! Come see us!" Some albums transport you to impossible places; this one takes me on a magical journey to what I think their live set would be like. As happy places go, that suits me fine.

The imaginary show in question sees me waving tightly wadded fists in the air to some messy, pretty rocknroll that skitters across every possible intersection of punk and pop. But I'm not paying too close attention. I'm jumping up and down, especially when they play "English Cities." Sorry, what? Did you say something?
There's something about the production that suggests an outdoor concert on a sunny, dry day.

The album's out on Slumberland but the the veil of noise and vague air of disaffection marks this trio as part of the Captured Tracks/Woodsist family of animal. And a particularly vigorous example of the breed at that. The spacey, hazey '60s pop influence is there and invites comparisons to Vivian Girls but Brilliant Colors is less composed in every sense of the word. This debut full-length feels like a hastily assembled collage of colored tissue paper. (Brilliantly colored tissue paper of course.)

While there's plenty of art here, there's more life to be found than in Vivian Girl's arguably flawless debut. At least musically, they skip the Gen Y/Urban Outfitters blankness in favor of a sound with some hair on its chest and, as a former persistently high-spirited D student in high school, I tend to champion the sloppy and the lively when I come across it. Drummer Diane Anastasio has a satisfyingly bashy approach to her instrument, and it is not surprising that guitarist Michelle Hill has been a touring guitarist with The Slits.

Frontwoman Jess Scott yaps out a lot of her vocals, but sings in a sweet, unaffected voice when she chooses.  After hearing "English Cities" and "Mythic," she is my new lady du rock pin-up. With that delicate Riot Grrrl/Valley Girl drawl, she takes it back and brings it up to date at the same time. Alas, the band is on the West Coast for the near future.

Nedroid

I found a new web comic too. I thought I'd never find another comic to love, but this one just might work out. Nedroid Picture Diary is arty and crafty like some of the good ones and nerdy like some of the other good ones that I don't love as much. It's also surreal like the best ones. Check it out.

Hate Watch

It's baby's first podcast! Maybe. If I've listened to any others, I don't remember them. I'm a pretty tardy adopter. If you know me, or you have been reading this blog, you will probably not be surprised that the podcast I have imprinted on is called The Hatecast. It comes from The Onion and Amelie Gillette.

Have you heard this? It's very good. Her subtly dead-pan inflection is at once uniquely soothing and exquisitely passive aggressive. Plus, she brings me all the things in popular culture that I would totally hate if I hadn't managed to avoid knowing about them and then she hates on these things for me and for all the right reasons. It's like a scalp massage for the soul. I encourage you to hear how she feels about harem pants. I haven't determined yet if this is going to exacerbate my sense of alienation from the world around me or reliably take the edge off.

I had no idea podcasts were so easy to consume. I always avoided them because I felt certain they would be some kind of undertaking. I see now that I could very easily become a junkie.

Best Dream Ever

There's a general consensus that listening to other people describe their dreams is boring and confusing. There are exceptions. For instance, if you are Marco from Las Vegas then you should tell everyone about your dreams. Hell, you should post them on Facebook. This one really deserved a wider audience. It is quickly becoming the most critically acclaimed dream on the Web. Below is the complete text of his post.

Pau Gasol: Now with Leather Chaps and Road Warrior Boots

Pau Gasol finally entered the realm of my dreams last night and what a grand entrance it was! I managed to write down what I could remember when I woke up - no shit.

The dream started out with me interviewing him, Ahmad Rashad style, in his boyhood home somewhere in Spain. His mom happened to have a gigantic washtub of beans cooking over a huge stove, as the Spanish are known for.

During the interview we hit it off so well, that I brought him back to the states to hang out with me and all of my friends. In anticipation of the sesh, we went to Costco to buy much needed party supplies. Pau ended up buying a Sick Of It All box set. This dude clearly knows how to party!

Soon enough we arrived at the party, which was actually a punk show in an old Franciscan mission. I definitely remember thinking at some point, "Whoa, I'm totally hanging out with Pau Gasol at a punk show in a mission! What the fuck!?"

Eventually the bands ended and Pau and I perused some of the exhibits the mission happened to have in a side room somewhere. Among these exhibits was a micro sculpture of a velociraptor, displayed next to a specimen of a flea with a pin holding it down. Upon viewing these, Pau knocked the entire display off the table with one sweep of his arm in some kind of primal gesture of dumbfounded frustration. I promptly laughed and shared the incident with Sean Grossman, who happened to be nearby. He was stoked.

Finally, it was time to get onto the drinking and partying. Pau had apparently slipped away to change into party clothes. He pulled me aside to ask my opinion of his wardrobe. Dude was dressed in classic tan leather cowboy chaps, complete with stamped cowboy designs. He lifted those up from his shin to reveal his Mad Max style "road warrior" boots, complete with metal shin plates. Apparently he had bought these while we were shopping earlier and wanted to surprise everyone.

The party was fun, we listened to Sick Of It All, and I made Pau laugh a lot. Everyone showed up, including Roxie, with Christian Bale at her side. When I asked her why he was there, she told me he was her new boyfriend. I remember my specific reply being, "Well, at least now you have someone to beat up the cops!"

Eventually I blacked out, of course, only to be woken up by Roxie, Jessie and their son, who was now 7 years old for some reason. They were yelling some inane question at me and their son's eyes had all kinds of electric currents running through them, like Raiden in Mortal Kombat. Upon answering, I got up to realize that everyone was still up, still high on BEERS and had just heard our conversation. All of a sudden, Pau bursts into the room, dressed in his jammies, which boasted a ridiculously loud pattern of some sort, and drinking a glass of champagne. Without hesitation, he put the Sex Pistols on the stereo and drunkenly shouted, "SEEEX PISTOOOLSSS! PUUUUNK ROCK! YEEEEAH," while triumphantly holding his glass of champagne in the air.

Clearly, I was pretty stoked on how the party was turning out. I got up and surveyed the room. The floor was littered with drunken buffoons, which made me burst into laughter. Bobby Franks, amongst the drunken buffoons, asked me why I was laughing. "Dude! This room looks like a freakin emergency shelter after a natural disaster more than it does a party," I exclaimed while still laughing. Soon enough, the laughing fit devolved into a wrestling/pillow fight amongst the drunken buffoons. Pau wanted to join in but I wouldn't let him due to his hamstring injury that he was still nursing, an allusion to the true state of affairs in the non-dream world.

Next thing I know, I had woken up and thought to myself, "Did I just dream about hanging out and partying with Pau Gasol!?" All of a sudden I looked up and saw that we were still in the party room and Pau was situating his sleeping area on the couch! It wasn't a dream after all!

Then I really woke up and realized that it was a dream. Slightly disappointed, I decided to write all this nonsense down because it was just too good to forget.

Stomp and Stammer turned thirteen

The party was last night at Star Bar and it might have been my last show in Atlanta before I move. If that's the case, I'm glad the Barreracudas and the Soulphonics & Ruby Velle were on the bill. The Barreracudas were around 10 to 20 times better than I expected. They have some sweet, juicy garage punk going on. Their jam "Dog Foods" especially got the crowd moving. It might actually be about dog food.

Here is singer Adrian Barrera doing his best impression of John Bender from The Breakfast Club. That's a Personal and the Pizzas badge on his lapel.

 

Ruby Velle was just nuts. I have to see her act live again. All the old soul covers you wish someone would do plus originals. Ms. Velle's voice and charisma are such that you can't help but be bummed Amy Winehouse gets to be famous while our lady remains a best kept secret. (Bear in mind that I have a weakness for horn sections.)

Judi Chicago was cool, if you like getting pelted with glowing orbs and/or Gang of Four's later stuff.

 

Boy, am I ever gonna miss this place.

 

Girls Rock Vegas

As an aside, I'm only just finding out that this past summer Las Vegas saw its first Girls Rock Camp. I'm posting about it now because it seems that no one told me this wonderful news because no one knew.

Soccer Goal Urinal Mat

That's what you're looking at. After this, we are getting our minds out of the gutter, I swear. But for today, I would like to introduce you to Urinals.net. The link will take you to their Top Ten Urinals list, but you can view urinals on the site from the Taj Majal to the Downer's Grove Public Library in Downer's Grove, Illinois.

I am informed by this unique website that the soccer goal urinal mats are popular in bars in Europe and South America.

Thursday Morning Bonus Post

Because we know the Internet is the only thing keeping you from falling asleep in the break room.

It's a sitatunga.

You Like Sparks?

How about Mr. Bungle? Well, Max Tundra's Parallax Error Beheads You is random and cerebral like those guys but with less smirking and more respect for the tired conventions that make pop music worth listening to. Good beats, for instance.

If you like electronic pop music, this album has the potential to keep your brain and your feet busy. And I know that's the only way some of you maniacs ever find any peace.

Ask the Potluck

Dear Timythy,

The other day my boyfriend wanted to go to third base. I said okay, but I was SoOOOO nervous, that when he put his hand in my pants I peed all over it!!! I was SOOOooOO mortified I wanted to crawl into a hole and die!!!!

I was in a panic so I told him that I was realllllly wet, and he believed me because i dont think he goes to third base that much. But now im nervous for next time we get to third base, because if i don't pee he'll think i'm not turned on, but if I do pee then i'm just peeing all the time.

HELP!!!

-WoopsieGoldenshowerz65

Dear Whatever,

First of all, kill yourself.

Failing that, I think the best policy in this situation is to ride your lie for all it's worth. Considering the obvious pitfalls; the potential for embarrassment, the likelihood of causing your boyfriend significant and possibly permanent feelings of inadequacy, etc., you may be overlooking ways that we can make your incontinence work for YOU.

I believe it was the venerable Sir Isaac Newton who once said, "We are to admit no more causes of natural things than such as are both true and sufficient to explain their appearances." Historians would have us believe he was composing a sonnet to his Pomeranian, but there may be much for you to glean from the man's abysmal poetry.

No one competent in the field of advice-giving would suggest you go on peeing ALL the time. However, for the immediate future, SOME pee may be sufficient to cover your tracks (got that little chestnut from Bear Grylls). Seeing as how the poor guy doesn't get to third base very often, it stands to reason that you might've had to pee on him anyway before anything interesting went down. If the universal condition of adolescent male sexual prowess is one of inept to inadequate foreplay, you'd be doing the both of you a big favor by making him EARN your pee. Tangible rewards comprise one of the cornerstones of development in education. Ask any third-grade teacher. Drink plenty of water. If you can keep a straight face for a few weeks of this, you may then proceed to phase two: weening yourselves off the watersports.

As your precoital micturation gradually decreases in frequency, amount, or fervor (your choice here), you'll likely observe your boyfriend going to greater and greater lengths to please you. You may also notice that his teeth are whiter, and that he's got a shinier, healthier coat. Eventually, your extracurricular activities should require no urine whatsoever, and it will be as though you've achieved some tantric plane of bladder control. At this point, your boyfriend, driven to utter distraction, should no longer have the cognitive capacity to care. You will have honed your unwitting teenage Severin into an atomic nookie-missile. With a little luck, promise-rings will burst into flames for miles around.

-TIMYTHY

I got yer huddled masses right here

I have posted spottily in the past week because I have been running around New York City taking pictures.
Here is the John Varvatos store that has replaced CBGB.

And here is a church in Astoria, an architectural detail on a Masonic temple, a figurine in a shop window in Chelsea, and the taco truck where I will buy all my tacos when I live in New York.

I will be buying those tacos in a matter of weeks. This will leave an opening for an Atlanta correspondent. Candidates should respond with knee-jerk sarcasm.

My friend went to Fest 8 and all I got was these sweet photos

Going to the Fest in Gainesville, Florida wasn't in the cards for me this year, but my friend Sandra Julien of Seattle, Washington went and agreed to be the Potluck's Fest correspondent.

"If you go to this you will have the time of your life, but then get sick as fuck for a week after. Don't say you weren't warned," she reports.

She is, of course, referring to the well-documented phenomenon known as Fest AIDS. It might be that the average person isn't constituted to watch several dozen sets of weapons-grade pop punk with gruff vocals over the course of a single weekend, and that trying to do so dangerously weakens the immune system. It may also be that the fans and practitioners of this form of music are vectors for disease. Unfortunately, the research is inconclusive and No Idea Records has declined to comment.

I can tell you from personal experience that Fest AIDS is not life threatening and the Fest is totally worth it. As Marissa Paternoster of Screaming Females, who played the Fest last year, once sagely observed, "Who doesn't love a sweet frat party?" To be fair, it looks like piles of girls played this year, including bands like Cheeky that I yearn to see live. So bummed.

Seven Seconds

Lauren Measure of The Measure [SA]

Sheena Ozzella of Lemuria

Epic line

Hot Fun in the Wintertime

Okay, it isn't winter yet but that doesn't change the fact that Harpoon Winter Warmer is only available through January so we need to make it the beer of the month and tell you about it now. That isn't much time after all.

This is the beer to drink with friends and family over the holidays. It is also the beer to drink alone after the inevitable arguments and bad vibes. It is not a complex beer. It is an amber ale that tastes like nutmeg. Just nutmeg. There is also cinnamon, but for once in its life that showboat takes a back seat. You will know by this that you can trust the Winter Warmer. It will both warm and sooth you.