Dumb Comix/Rocknroll Zines

Cassie Ramone has a zine. It's called Shitty Reality, and it is now into its second issue. Shitty Reality #1 is a loose collection of rad Vivian Girls-esque-abilia, like weird postcards and photos from on tour and even weirder drawings. Number 2 is out now and those of you lucky enough to catch the band on its current tour can pick it up.

I'm starting to prefer picking up my reading material at shows. Even the ones I was too lame and sleepy to go to. (It's always time to rocknroll, unless it is time for a nap.) For instance, recently my boyfriend went to see Holy Shit and all I got was this dumb comic. But I really like it. It's a split comic between Matt Chicorel from Holy Shit and Travis Thompson from Thomas Function (who actually seems to have left the band).

Thompson's half of the volume Drop Dead Dumb is pure degenerate comic joy. The artwork marries the high manner of Dan Clowes to the weird-ass energy of Evan Dorkin, and the story told will absolutely not improve your mind. Buzzpop, the other half, was actually a little stylized for my taste, but as we say around here, cold coffee is better than no coffee and I've been a little hard up for funny papers lately.

Lacing up my smug shoes, or we are all gutter punks now

 

 

I never thought there would be a picture of Lindsay Lohan on this blog. But she is helping me illustrate my point that beat up black combat boots are all the rage at the moment. (Thank you, Lindsay.)Which brings me to the part where I get to be smug because I never got rid of mine. I never really warmed to the oughts, so I guess in that sense this '90s revival thing is working out well for me. Maybe no one really liked the last decade. Let us all piss on the grave of Hummer!

Garfunkel and Oates

I'm in love with the barely contained anti-social rage. And the ukulele. Their names are Riki Lindhome and Kate Micucci. Can they be on TV all the time? Please?

 

 

 

 

www.garfunkelandoates.com

Dear Onion

There is nothing funny about Lars Von Trier.

Denmark Introduces Harrowing New Tourism Ads Directed By Lars Von Trier

Art Museums

A recent debut from the Woodsist label, Art Museums Rough Frame is somewhere between a simplified version of early Belle and Sebastian or a Syd Barrett album, if Barrett had been a teen-aged indie rocker in the '90s. It's dreamy and deliberately callow indie pop with endearingly stilted vocals. There's a bit of '80s U.K. DIY and a lot of reverb. Since they're Americans and it's 2010 the album is like a pendulum sweeping between adorable and irritating. Like a too-sweet girly drink on a hot day. But this video has a way of smoothing things over for me.

ART MUSEUMS "S.H.O.P.P.I.N.G." (Woodsist) from Kerry McLaughlin on Vimeo.

Via

http://virgencitafromhell.blogspot.com/

Defensive Ads for Shitty Beer

I feel a special affection for the Budweiser subway ads where they scrappily try to take on the entire craft brew movement by pointing out that the type of beer squirted into those little cans has a fancy name too. And apparently there are taste benefits to brewing a lager with rice. It imparts crispness and refreshment. Next you'll be telling me that brewing Miller High Life with corn gives it that distinctive warm savor of inexpensive. These ads are really funny all, but I kind of miss the frogs and Spuds MacKenzie.

I have no quarrel with shitty beer. It is great for times like when you are broke, want something to spray on your favorite band at the peak of their set, or when you have serious business to discuss and don't wish to be distracted by delicious flavors. It's also great for those rare occasions when one wants to drink without having to actually feel the effects of alcohol.

I try not to be bad spirited on here, but look at it. It is an ad campaign on the verge of tears. Like, is Dogfish Head seriously keeping these guys up at night? That's kind of exciting. There's surely no reason for it, though. I'd be surprised to find out that all the IPA's ever consumed in Williamsburg had measurably impacted the brand's bottom line.

Incidentally, it's no longer an American brand. It is owned by InBev, a multinational based in Belgium and run by Brazilians according to THIS and various other sources for my cursory research.

The Potluck Hearts Scanwiches

 

 http://scanwiches.com/

The Best Bad

We got this link from Gizmodo. They have a little ChatRoulette-oriented contest going on over there. Check it out.

I'd really like to try this ChatRoulette, but with my selectively-crippling social anxiety and lack of a web cam it's sort of a non-starter. Too bad. This is the stuff really weird dreams are made of. Let me know if you've taken a dip in this ocean, Dear Reader.

Solicited Advice is Better Than Unsolicited Advice.

Dear Timythy.

I was born without a partition between my balls. Meaning, I have one big ball. It looks like someone left a brown fuckin (sic) sea anemone in the sun for nine years.
What do chicks have to say about uniballs? Will I ever be loved?
Sincerely,
Ball One

Not with that attitude, son.

I am reminded of a certain local firefighter acquaintance of mine who might very well sum up my advice to you with his particularly well-worn and signature aphorism: "cold coffee is better than no coffee." Never mind the fact that his romantic advice ought to go largely unheeded; and never mind that on numerous occasions he has prevented me from ending my own life through the irksome fulfillment of his public duties, The phrase is something to be meditated upon at this juncture.

"cold coffee is better than no coffee, son."

You, my friend, are afflicted with more than just monorchia. You have what is quite possibly a debilitating dearth of knowledge about sea anemones. What is more, son, is that you seem to be infected with a festering case of ingratitude.

There are literally scores of cryptorchids who would literally kill to be in your position. Thankfully, they somehow lack the motivation.

You've got one good ball, son! You should be out there USING it! And I don't just mean in the production of sperm. Technically, you can do that in your sleep. (IF you sleep at all, you freak of nature. Do you even have a reflection?) What I mean to say is you should be doing your damnedest to deliver deeds of derring-do! All too often, feats of courage and bravery are attributed to the testicle in its plural form. Through a well-executed (and well publicized) series of heroic and death defying acts, you could single-handedly redefine the idiom! How comforting, then, would it be to your beleaguered psyche to overhear some duly-impressed plebeian regaling his compatriots with tales of your greatness:

"Man, that kid has BALL!"

"A chrome-plated one!"

As to your question about what chicks might have to say about uniballs; I'm glad you asked.

I popped 'round to the all-male typing pool we have here at BIPL and asked the stout lads to broach the subject with their wives.
They said they had none. Who knew bachelors could type with the grit and determination one normally sees among married men? In any case, bereft of such a focus-group I'm forced, once again, into the position where I must speak for all women everywhere.
The answer, son, is a resounding "no," shortly followed by a well-anticipated "kill yourself."

-TIMYTHY

This show was epic.

I showed up late to the Don Gionvanni Records showcase at Bowery Ballroom, missing Groucho Marxists, which I hear is a shame. But Black Wine was a groovy surprise to walk into. It's especially groovy when drummer Miranda Taylor sings. If you can never decide whether you like raw '90s alternative or raw West Coast pop punk, then this is the band for you.

But I was there to see The Measure [SA] and Screaming Females mainly. Having never been to New Brunswick, I know there's something a little untoward about my fixation on punk bands from there, but they are doing it how I like it. Singer and guitar player Lauren Measure of the The Measure is one of the greatest poets of our generation. I was certain of this as the band whipped through their stirring song "Drunk by Noon" somewhere in a set that gave me chills before the band's members had even built up much steam.

However, Marisa Paternoster, guitarist and frontwoman of Screaming Females, might not actually be from Earth. Or, at least, there is something distinctly otherworldly about the power trio's music. Speaking prosaically and literally, Screaming Females has a lot of disparate influences. Many of these influences can be heard though such pedestrian venues as mainstream classic rock radio.  And yet I hear in this band a kind of speculative musical fiction. I hear an alternate emo, the sound of melodic hardcore if its development had been defined more by a preoccupation with spiritual ecstasy, rather than disillusionment and loss. (And also if it had been influenced more by the likes of Neil Young than by heavy metal, certainly.)

This is not to say that I think Screaming Females is an isolated musical incident. There is a tradition among the Discord and Discord-type bands that I feel stems from a kind of clean, spare American mysticism, by which I probably mean Transcendentalism. There's a trace of it in almost every emo band I like, even Rainer Maria, but Rites of Spring, Lungfish and Moss Icon are the easiest examples of what I'm talking about. When I'm feeling crazy I like to throw every emo band ever and all of D.C. hardcore into this. In the cold fire and hermeticism of both the melodies and the lyrics I hear what it would be like if the worldview of Emerson or Thoreau or Whitman had a sound.

And in the unmoored wonder of Paternoster's shredding and the glossolalia of her lyrics I hear that worldview at once perfected and exploded, both brought to living warmth and utterly transformed. I hear the American mysticism that I have been searching for suddenly colorized and revealed. This is probably not the first time an American music fan has had such an experience and, in both cases, I'm obviously hearing what I want to hear. (I'd speculate on what role the genders of the musicians might play in all of this, but I'm far enough out on a limb for one post, and that isn't really the kind of speculative fiction I'm trying to write anyway.)

Paternoster helped back up my raving internal monologue, singing in powerful, incantatory tones and appearing in a high-collared eggplant-colored dress, looking like a mod guitar priestess from space. Her reticent stage patter mostly consisted of referring to the obvious with a certain nervous deadpan humor.

There were other bands too. JEFF the Brotherhood gave leather pants and dirt-staches a good name and Shellshag is a musical phenomenon (and adorable couple) that I would happily revisit. But you know who I was there to see.

Download a sampler of Don Giovanni bands from the label.

Photo Credit: Jonathan Lyman

Vagina Jenkins and her Ramblin' Mind

If you've been reading this blog for a little while, you probably know about my appreciation for Atlanta burlesque performer Vagina Jenkins. She represents so many things that the Potluck believes in, like looking really good in cat-eye makeup.

That's why we're sharing with you her goals for traveling to perform in London in April and for touring the US in 2010 roughly. She's calling for donations but also for bookings and places to rest her head. This is your opportunity to book an extraordinary performer, or meet a nice lady, or both, depending on what you can help out with. And, if by some bizarre fluke you also have some cash to throw around, the perks for donating to the cause aren't bad.

Here's a link to the Facebook Event that explains it all.

My sister made this for me.

What has your sister done for you lately?

Okay, no.

This is the real dudecake of the month. Come on, February had to be something good.

Recession Reminder

Here's a Bad Idea Potluck icon if there ever was one. Pictured above is Hank. He is more or less the patron saint of this blog. Or at least we would like him to be. He did write us an advice column once.
I could say more, but I think Las Vegas artist Keri Schroeder really captured the man and the message here in this portrait.

No One Knows About Persian Cats

No One Knows About Persian Cats is the most exciting music movie I've seen since Wild Zero. Directed by Bahman Ghobadi (Turtles Can Fly) and co-written with his fiance, the journalist Roxana Saberi, it is not a documentary but a fictionalized portrait of Iran's hidden musicians, who must record and perform illegally. The film finds a unique way of blending fact and fiction, however, because the the actors are musicians playing themselves. This way, Ghobadi allows them to tell their own stories while also smuggling their music out to a wider audience.

In the film, real-life indie rockers Negar Shaghaghi and Ashkan Koshanejad want to get a band together for a gig in London. But, because of the restrictions placed on musicians by the Iranian government, they're forced to go about it like two drug runners. They cautiously feel out other musicians and struggle to secure false passports. As their enterprise leads them through alleys and across the rooftops of Tehran, they introduce the viewer to a cross-section of Iran's truly underground music scenes. Transcendent performances are showcased in living rooms, open fields, and even cow sheds. So that no moment is wasted, each musical interlude is cut with dizzying scenes of life in the city.

The soundtrack includes songs in both English and Farsi and gives voice to emcees, indie rockers, traditional musicians, and one metal band. The driving "Human Jungle" by Take It Easy Hospital becomes the film's haunting theme and a fitting rallying cry for repressed artists. The soundtrack is already a bestseller in Europe. (The film itself won the Un Certain Regard Prize at Cannes.)

Watching the movie, I rooted for the both characters in the story and the actors whose real lives were being portrayed.  It is exhilarating and disturbing to watch a film about events that are in fact present tense. And then, well, the whole idea of a film shot in secret, starring secret rock stars just makes my hipster bone tingle. I mean, talk about dangerous art. Obviously, filming the movie wasn't exactly cleared with the authorities.
But, apart from being dangerous, it is great art too. Ghobadi creates genuine suspense, even as he inspires genuine outrage.

Most of all, No One Knows About Persian Cats left me hungry to hear more about indie music from beyond American shores. So far, SPIN Earth has been my best online resource. There is a page for Tehran, but much of the posting there, understandably, is more about political turmoil than rock 'n' roll. Does anyone have more resources for me? Zines? Blogs? Maximum Rocknroll hooks it up once in awhile, but their scope is obviously limited to punk and hardcore.

The soundtrack is out April 16th, the same day the film opens in New York.

Stay Inside

Those are some good looking dudes. Let's call this the dudecake of the month.

The great snow has begun.

The snow is coming down and that means it's time for the beer of the month, Smuttynose Winter Ale. It is an amber beer perfect for preemptively staving off cabin fever. There's something woody and tea-like about the smooth flavor that subliminally suggests it will cure what ails and fortify against maladies real and imagined. The dark color is suggestive of water in frozen puddles turned brown by the dead leaves marinating in them. There is nothing festive about this winter beer. It is a solemn, almost sober beer. It is one for the months like February and March, a beer for seeing winter through. Or at least the next day or so.

Comedy Week is Over

It's time for Amateur Night!

 

I just really like that song. Someone please cover it. Hunx? Are you out there? But maybe posting it was inspired by the drunk dudes who were singing alternative radio hits of the '90s outside my window late last night. I think they had bongos.

We found more funny

It isn't even all that nerdy. At least not in the same way that some of this week's picks are.

Behold:

Selleck Waterfall Sandwich.

Henry 8.0

On with with comedy week! Check out this series of BBC Online sketches featuring Henry VIII using the Internet. I mean Henry VIII is using the Internet, though you must also use the Internet if you want to watch it. Then again you are already here. Hi.

To any non-nerds reading this, feel free to suggest possible sources of non-nerd humor for any non-nerds who read this blog. I wouldn't know where to look for it.

Karmic Komix

I thought I'd never find a new web comic to love, but I have. So, let's just make this week comedy week and go for it. I know I make chronic underemployment look glamorous on this blog, but that isn't the whole truth. It isn't all sleeping in and inventing new ways to eat ramen. Sometimes it's hard work. Sometimes I could use few laughs.

That's why I endorse Darwin Carmichael is Going to Hell. It is guaranteed to balance your karma or at least take your mind off the fact that you too may be going to hell. The basic idea is kind of like Constantine meets Friends in Brooklyn. See, Darwin Carmichael is a lot like you and me, only he made a big mistake when he was a teenager involving the infant Dalai Lama and now he is probably going to hell. (It has yet to be explained how he knows this for sure, but stay with me.) Of course, it isn't all hopeless. His best friend is the daughter of saints and she wants to help him. His pet manticore is pulling for him too.

Set in Brooklyn as it is, the comic is loaded with enough urban subcultural references to make it every bit the guilty pleasure that Nothing Nice To Say and other Mitch Clem comics are. However, when it comes to references to obscure mythological creatures, Darwin Carmichael is probably unrivaled in the online cartooning world. For instance, I'll bet you've never even heard of the Leprechaun of Gentrification.

This part of the '90s is allowed to come back

I find Chester's character to be the most poignant. I can identify with the way he hovers eternally between joy, terror and confusion. Also, "Stolen Holiday" is just about the greatest song ever written.

 

 

Best version of this song ever:

Dread and an Eames Chair

Unhappy Hipsters explains why Dwell always made me feel so uncomfortable. There is so much anxiety hidden in those sleek surfaces.

It's a very funny blog. And yet, I'm not laughing.