Tomorrow night Lemmy Kilmister and Motorhead hit the stage at Warehouse Live, and Rocks Off will be there, at least physically. We don't plan on remembering the show so we have diligently trolling YouTube for videos to fill in any memory lapses we may have from heavy indulgence and fanboy euphoria.
The band is synonymous with danger and disarray. Their logo the "Snaggletooth" and all its interpretations denote something frightening and alternately free at the same time. Lemmy's distinctive facial features and grizzled contentment are pure rock 'n roll, even if both are subject to ridicule from their detractors. The band isn't metal and they aren't punk, but they contributed to both genres' disparate lineages and became the one group that each sub-culture could share a beer over.
In 1988, few things were as cool or innovative on Saturday mornings as Pee-Wee's Playhouse. Each week, we screamed the secret word, connected dots, watched old weird-ass cartoons and saw Saturday Night Live star Phil Hartman play a surly sea captain.
The show was something five-year olds and hungover twentysomethings could all enjoy. But the Christmas special that came that holiday season is beyond understanding even 20 years on. Not until Drenched watched it again a few years back did he realize how utterly insane this thing was.
Even more interesting were all the gay cultural icons that were featured - people like Cher, k.d. lang, and Zsa Zsa Gabor all showed up around the playhouse. It was a fun and groundbreaking hour of television. Even Little Richard popped up out of nowhere.
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.
Yesterday saw the release of yet another Bachman Turner Overdrive hits collection, this one titled The Definitive Collection.
Quick, name me two songs that aren't "Taking Care of Business" or "You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet." Better yet, I defy you to even try to explain the differences between those two songs. On closer inspection, I also realized that 90 percent of BTO songs have something about "roads," "highways," "riding" or "wheels" in them. I was just going to assume these were all euphemisms for sweaty groupie sex, but then I saw this video. I didn't know the Cowardly Lion was in a band... – Craig Hlavaty
Turns out Arcade Fire didn't sign off on the use of "No Cars Go" after all. The band did not clear Fox Sports to use the song for its Super Bowl promos. The folks at Pitchfork must have breathed a sigh of relief after they sweated all morning through their American Apparel hoodies. The band is even considering legal action against the Rupert Murdoch empire.
That would be a bad ass trial. The Arcade Fire could show up all dressed like a traveling 1920's evangelical church group like they always do. Then that guy in the band that runs around banging one lonely drum can run up and down the courtroom, ending in a rapturous, life-affirming out-of-court settlement.
Here's a picture of John Mayer playing on the deck of a cruise ship in the Bahamas this past weekend. I would be inclined to make a snide remark about his bitchin' Stevie Ray tat, but you're dealing with a guy who has the Rolling Stones lips logo tattooed on his arm for life. Carry on, you tall, magnificent bastard, you.
P.S. And please stop showing up in my girlfriend’s dreams. – Craig Hlavaty
Leave it to the ad wizards on Madion Avenue to dredge up the sins of our pop-music past. This year's Super Bowl was an upset, and I'm not just talking about the Giants shooting down my beloved Patriots. The worse atrocity was commercials this year featuring odd musical fumbles and questionable plays. But we all agree that Tom Petty's halftime beard was one for the ages.
First there was the Pepsi ad featuring Haddaway’s "What is Love." This "song" was cool for about two minutes around the time Bill Clinton took office. Then we endured its resurgence thanks to SNL’s "Roxbury Guys" sketches in the late ‘90s. After the ad’s first-quarter airing, I had that damn song in my head the rest of the game. What is love? Not this. This is hate.
What kind of world have we have found ourselves in when a soundtrack featuring the Velvet Underground, Moldy Peaches, and Sonic Youth covering the Carpenters is the best-selling record in America?
Don't get me wrong – this is pretty cool stuff. Five years ago, if you would have said someone like Kimya Dawson would be a chart-topper, I would have taken a drag from my Marlboro Red and called you a butt-stove. Then I would have asked you if you wanted sausage or pepperoni on that pizza. I'm just excited that this soundtrack also features my favorite Kinks song, "A Well-Respected Man." Plus the Cat Power track makes my manly bottom lip quiver whenever I hear it.
Don't know what to do with all those unused Best Buy and Circuit City gift cards left over from the holidays? Why not pick up Nickelback’s new Ultimate Video CollectionDVD, in stores today? Not only will you get 12 videos of some sort of mentally challenged Jesus impersonator belting out lyrics about being a rock star ripping off your pants, smashing the DVD creates shards upon shards of jagged hard plastic, just the ticket for cutting those hard-to-reach veins. Remember, when it comes to wrists, go down the street, not across the street. Just a tip.
Yesterday, hard-nosed news outlet Entertainment Tonight announced Miley Cyrus has legally changed her name to Miley Ray Cyrus. It's been almost two decades since father Billy Ray hit the scene with his one-hit-wonder classic “Achy Breaky Heart.” No better time to capitalize on such a landmark societal shift than right in the beginning of your Britneyesque career, Miley. Way to remind people where you literally came from: the sweaty, acid-washed loins of a mulleted Kentucky lothario.
I hate posting anything related to Cyrus, because she poses like a middle-age cougar prowling the Hop in Clear Lake on a Friday night. It makes me look like even more of a lecherous goon. But this has to be the most backwards bit of career planning ever.
It was unofficially announced last week, in separate interviews with Slash and Scott Weiland, that Stone Temple Pilots are reuniting for a tour. Touring should begin by the summer, sometime after Velvet Revolver unceremoniously implodes.
When I excitedly told my friends this wonderful news over the weekend, I was met with general disdain. What did everyone hate about this band? Is it possible I’m one of the few people who still enjoy the dark, sinuous vocals of ex-junkie Weiland and the adequate drumming of Eric Kretz? The interlocking guitar and bass work of the DeLeo brothers? Is it weird that my favorite album of 1996 wasn't Sleater-Kinney's Call the Doctor, but a little something called Tiny Music: Songs from the Vatican Gift Shop?
John Oates, legendary half of power duo Hall and Oates, recently told journalists that a cartoon is being developed about his moustache. He claims that it has "superpowers." I'm hoping this is some wacked-out druggie Adult Swim stuff. It will make my Sunday nights that more THC-drenched.
But dude better hurry up. I'm also working on my own cartoon about my moustache. It's about a devastatingly striking part-time blogger from the suburbs that eats Lunchables and has a tattoo of a dead baby on his forearm. My moustache is my conscience, telling me what haggard pop stars to burn each afternoon. The Veggie Tales guys don't know what they got into. – Craig Hlavaty
Say goodbye to hygiene, regular sexual relations and sunlight. This thing will make your days and nights all that more trashy and dancey. I dare you to not shake your ass. This will make any cubicle feel like a sweaty club in South Beach. – Craig Hlavaty
Man, remember when Marilyn Manson was the scourge of parents everywhere? Or when wearing one of his shirts made you "goth," and girls carved his initials in their ankles during Social Studies? Here's Mr. Warner picking up his daughter, I mean fiancee, at the airport. Judging by these pics, the prosthetic boobs from back in 1998 may not be needed so much anymore.
Manson, with reunited member Twiggy Ramirez, hits Verizon Wireless Theater Sunday, March 2. I'm already trying to figure out a way to trick my mom into taking me. Getting out of my Sunday night Bible study may be hard. We're going over Ephesians that night. – Craig Hlavaty
Dolly Parton has just been added to March’s SXSW lineup. Over her four-decade career, Parton has defined the role that women play in country music (big boobs), won a few Grammys (big boobs), written timeless love songs (big boobs) and even found time to open her own theme park (big boobs).
That's all fine, I guess. But all I care about is her role in 1980's 9 to 5, where Parton, Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin conspire to kill their boss Dabney Coleman. I love this movie because the theme song is catchy as hell, and I wouldn't mind killing Coleman myself. Seriously, Drexel's Class? He's prick incarnate. But dude did help save the world in WarGames. – Craig Hlavaty
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