On Saturday night, overcome by sheer boredom and a gnawing morbid curiosity, we slinked into the Bret Michaels set at the Meridian. This concert was part of a tour to promote the sometime Poison frontman's ongoing televised quest for romance, the VH1 masterpiece Rock Of Love.
Predictably the audience was a motley crew (bad pun intended) of pop culture gawkers and aged former hair metal battle horses: ladies who may have been backstage the first time Poison hit town, now making calls, in between Jager Bombs with the girls, to the sitter to make sure the kids were in bed; dudes with luxurious manes that rivaled those in the equine family, sitting at the bar holding vinyl copies of Look What The Cat Dragged In hoping to get them signed.
I can't enough of watching this random Mexican Nu Metal Dude lose his shit over emo kids. I hear they are beating the white jeans off these kids south of the border. Anyway, this guy gets so worked up he slips into English to say "fucking bullshit" for added emphasis.
Ya gotta give it up to these guys. We've been dealing with this caca for years now and the minute it hits their cities, they get all the cholos and metal heads together for a beat down that the Who would have written a rock opera about. Social commentators are likening this to the Nazi persecution of the Jews in the late 1930s. Is that seriously the best metaphor they could dig up? Seriously, comparing the Nazi Party to a rag-tag group of Sepultura geeks and dudes in oversized Dickies beating up pansexual mall nymphs?
Dr. Pepper, that little old soda company from Waco, has jumped onboard the Chinese Democracy Hating Train that began sometime at the end of Bill Clinton's second term in office.
Everyone knows that Guns N' Roses frontman Howard Hughes (I mean Axl Rose) has been working on this Spruce Goose for the past 14 years. Recording has been the stuff of legend, with the sound said to change every few months to cotton to whatever is hot at the time. Be it trip-hop, rap-metal or that strain of nu-rock that's been permeating modern rock radio. You know, the Buck Seether stuff you only hear out here close to the coast. Cough Clear Lake Cough.
Look, I know nothing about basketball. When the Rockets were in the middle of that winning streak a few weeks back, I asked where Hakeem was. I'm sorry, but my knowledge of the sport ends in 1996, when a little thing called puberty knocked on my door. I do know that right now is March Madness, because all my butch friends said so. As a much cooler alternative to all this "madness," I found this.
94WYSP, Philly's Number One Rock Station, is holding its own version of March Madness, pitting classic rock bands against newer and shittier bands. Some of the match-ups are even horrific, with Nickelback going lame to lame with Limp Bizkit. Some matches made me sob into my shirt. In what universe would you let Led Zeppelin duke it out with G.O.D rappers P.O.D? Seriously, everyone knows that nothing beats dreadlocked Christians rapping about someone named Jah. Sounds like a "Star Wars" character to me. (Oh, really? Apologies to my Rasta readers.)
Trucker speed? Check.
Black leather pants? Check.
Grim reaper tattoo? Check.
Useless umlaut? Check.
Crusty sleeveless jean jacket? Check.
Drenched in Blog in the audience? Duh.
When I saw this poster last night, my lungs and heart looked up at me and said "Duuuuuude! You totally hate us, don't you?" – Craig Hlavaty
The name Magic Bullets at first had me excited because I thought they may be some JFK assassination-themed band. You know, with a tatted-up Lee Harvey Oswald doppelganger on bass or something. But instead I got really chilled-out Scot-Pop ditties from San Francisco.
Magic Bullets do a very lush jangle-pop thing, especially on "Red Room," with fleeting comparisons to a more gentler and warm Talking Heads. Or a less morose Joy Division. Expect these guys to get some mega-mileage from their new release Young Man's Fancy. A handful of shows with Rogue Wave at SXSW next week won't hurt either. Hurry up and get check them out first before Zach Braff snaps them up for a movie soundtrack.
A lot has been made this past year about the new wave of French techno; namely, groups like Justice and the renaissance of scene forefathers Daft Punk. Hell, this blog all but looked like it was written by a member of Justice’s street team at one point in December. It seemed no one on this side of the Atlantic was doing anything as catchy and arena-ready, save guys like LCD Soundsystem or MSTRKRFT.
But Jesus Almighty, we just got hip to Ghosthustler. And they are from frickin' Denton. Yes, that Denton. Texas. Our minds are blown.
Ghosthustler easily wins my award this year for best SXSW band name, mainly because the thought of a paranormal pimp makes my heart smile. But not only that, these guys sound like a decadent hybrid of mid-period New Order with just a splash of Britain's nu-ravers the Klaxons.
For every breakout band that hits Austin this year, there will be hundreds that trudge back to Omaha and get their jobs back at the video store. Something tells me if this band doesn't hit it big, they may just try out for the 8th grade volleyball team and record a noise record.
This is Care Bears on Fire, a Thurston Moore-lauded trio of 14-year-old New York City girls. They sound kind of like a slowed-down version of the Ramones, with a pubescent Kathleen Hanna on vocals. It's gritty. It's hip. It's not Hannah Montana. One of the girls even sports a Public Image Limited shirt. When I was this age, these girls could have pummeled my heart like a steel-toe boot to the face.
Man, I came home the other night and saw this new Arcade Fire video online after a long night of drinking cough syrup. I know, class out tha ass, no doubt.
Whose idea was it to include a ghastly giant old man head!? Is it weird for someone my age to still have night terrors? – Craig Hlavaty
Aren't ready to end the weekend just yet? Or really wanting to begin the week on a very toasted, mellow note? Every Monday night, Boondocks (1417 Westheimer) hosts a concert series upstairs. The best part? It's free.
Tonight, check out the Wild Moccasins. These Houston art kids do some very kind jangly folk-pop, with the cutest male/female vocals heard around here for awhile. If you find yourself humming those Kimya Dawson songs from the Juno soundtrack, then this is where you wanna creep tonight. Also on the bill is Sabra Laval.
This is Avril Lavigne's new Maxim cover, now on newsstands. She and her band hit the Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion April 25 with emo-poppers Boys Like Girls opening.
I will be there too. I will be the one in the crowd with Avril’s face painted on my bloated and hairy torso, crying during "Sk8er Boi." Look for me in the Pavilion's security office after the show, signing autographs for The Woodlands Police Department. Gotta reach out to the little people, ya know? – Craig Hlavaty
This blogger doesn't condone or support any of the attitudes expressed in this clip. Though I do have an aversion to “salad eating bitches.”
You know, I hope this is fake, as much as I want it to be real. This is momentarily famous ‘90s rapper Coolio's cooking show, Cookin' with Coolio. I like how, of all things, he really wanted to make an elegant caprese salad.
Houston’s Dimes are now the Young Mammals, a name change that went into effect over the weekend and comes just in time for next month's SXSW festivities. Including the Houston Press's very own showcase March 13 at the Tap Room. Oh, you better be there.
This is what YouTube gave me when I typed in “young mammals”:
If anyone knows Drenched, you know we love to dance. The moves have been described by bystanders as looking something like Henry Rollins being molested by Mick Jagger, fueled by whiskey, amaretto and denim.
Tonight at Boondocks, the official bar of Drenched In Blog, Austin's Car Stereo (Wars) will be spinning sickery upstairs. You may have seen Drenched up there, sweaty, bearded and covered in glittery lip gloss. It's a beautiful thing. Car Stereo do mash-ups the world only dreamed of before, with Elastica rocking with Salt ‘N’ Pepa and Faces jamming with Tone-Loc. It's like you’re back in seventh grade, puking up root beer Schnapps. I mean me.
