Murder! By Death!
Murder By Death isn't just the title of a farcical 1979 Peter Sellers detective movie - it's also the name of a Bloomington, IN based band who have been compared to Nick Cave, Radiohead, and Johnny Cash. I don't know what it is about the Midwest, and their production of unusually talented musical groups - I'll suppose it's the flat terrain, broad expanses of corn and nothing else. Their latest album is titled In B occa Del Lupo (In The Mouth of the Wolf) - and it's like listening to some American Gothic revival novel set to music, with Satan and the ghost of Johnny Cash dueling for your immortal soul. They'll be here in San Diego in 2 weeks, so I'll have a better report for you all then. Until then, check them out here on their website and here on their Myspace. Their latest album isn't a theme album like their last one, Who Will Survive And What Will Be Left Of Them, which told the story of a small Mexican town under siege from the Devil - but I can tell they love good narrative regardless.
Hmm, what else? The Ditty-Bops have a new CD out, which they are supporting by a bicycle tour, biking cross-country to gigs while their instruments are ferried in a bio-diesel fueled van. How very Willie Nelson of them! Plus, they juggle, use shadow-puppets, and dress in costumes for their shows. Kind of like an acoustic, vaudeville Flaming Lips, minus the giant bubbles. They are sadly not coming to San Diego on tour, but they might be coming to a city near you. So look them up! Two cute girls playing their own instruments and who sound like the Boswell Sisters by way of Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys. What's not to like?
Also, for my Creative Writing class, it was necessary for me to attend some sort of open-mic poetry night and write about it. Sad, but true. I procrastinated all the way through the Spring, and finally dragged my skeptical butt to Lestat's across the street ftom my apartment. Herein lies the record of my adventure, which my teacher recommended I publish. So here it is, for you, bceause I'm too lazy to proof-read it for actual publication.
Lestat’s is more than a coffee house for the disaffected and painfully gothic. Lestat’s is more than a venue in constant use for a succession of singer songwriters, poets, stand-up comics, and Jesus freak metal heads. Lestat’s is more than a twenty-four hour hangout for street people and insomniacs. Lestat’s is an experience - a thrilling ride that starts with a cup of coffee and ends only when you get your tongue pierced and style your hair into dreadlocks. I don’t go to Lestat’s, I go to Café Cabaret down the street. It’s a lot less effort, and the coffee is cheaper. However, in the interests of research and this paper, I went into Lestat’s for “Open Mic Night with Isaac” on Monday. The format is simple…signup starts at 6:30 and each performer has ten minutes to wow the audience with their own unique blend of vaudeville and emotionally overwrought creations. I sat near the back, next to a large man in a white beard and flannel shirt. The fun was already in full swing when I arrived. On stage was the Little Dave Band, which was one skinny guy in a t-shirt playing the acoustic guitar. His song was “I Tried My Best For You”, which might get described in a music magazine as a “vulnerable, poetic, finely tuned expression of longing”. Also, it could be described as “I wish I was Jack Johnson and chicks threw panties at me”. Either way. He tried his best for us, and we clapped, so he played a Radiohead cover. This might have been unremarkable, except for two things. One, there were a lot of young girls there, by which I mean 10-14 years old with their grandparents present. Two, the song he covered (Creep) has a chorus that runs like this, “..I wish I was special/ so fucking special/ But I’m a creep/….what the hell am I doing here?” Indeed, Little Dave, indeed. The grandparents looked puzzled, and the girls looked uncomfortable.
We quickly forgot about Little Dave when The Wolf took the stage. The Wolf, who had us howl wolf noises when he grabbed the mic, was wearing a sleeveless Metallica tshirt and spiked knee pads over torn jeans. His hair draped in an oily rope over his forehead like a rat-tail wig on backwards. I believe his intention was to perform music with a black guitar, but since he couldn’t play or sing, I’ll class it as poetry. Loosely speaking…very, very loosely. He spoke to us of his heroin addiction, and described his influences as Early Kurt Cobain. He spoke to us about Seattle, and nicotine. He spoke to us of Jesus Christ as the only answer. Sometimes he would strum the guitar and look thoughtful. I was taking notes in the dark, as this drama played out, and looking back I can clearly see in deeply impressed print “HOLY FUCK THIS SUCKS”. Yep, that’s Wolf. He did another song, or poem, whatever you want to call it. It was also about heroin. He left the stage making wolf noises and pumping his fist in the air.
The next contestant was pretty good…a Chinese stand-up comic named Wally Wong which is the best pseudonym, ever. I’m fairly sure he ran over ten minutes, but he was funny enough nobody cared. He made a lot of ethnic jokes, which is OK, because he was Asian. It’s a rule of stand-up that you can be as racist and deliberately provocative as you want to if you’re a minority. It’s OK, white people, you can laugh. His humor was topical, and reminded me that I was missing President Bush’s 8PM speech about immigration. I think Wally was a lot funnier, albeit intentionally so.
Remember the young girls I mentioned? Well, they weren’t there just because they were regulars, and liked the scene. No, one of them was having a birthday. And to celebrate her birthday, “Rhiannon” was going to treat us all to her own songs. She was a cute 14 year old with a guitar, and the world was her oyster. Much like with trained animals, the bar is set so low for kids that it’s almost impossible to fail. Half the audience was either her friends or family, so it wasn’t a hostile crowd. She started off wailing in the style of the Cranberries, and sang a song, entitled, no kidding, “Who I Am”. From the content of the song, she fit every stereotype that Seventeen Magazine and The Gap For Kids has ever tried to reach. According to her lyrics, Rhiannon is that girl who:
1) Likes to shop
2) Likes to dress up
3) Likes to wear her hair in a ponytail
4) Go to the beach and watch the waves roll in
5) Um, you know, that girl.
She was, in short, exactly what you might expect out of a 13 year old who wrote her own material. Following this amazing bit of insight into her psyche, she treated us to another self-penned composition entitled “Pink Canary”. This one went out to her friends in the audience. This song was much less clear, as I couldn’t tell if she was singing about being a bird, singing about owning a bird, or wishing she had a bird. But, regardless, the pink canary was pluckily determined to do things her own way, to express her individuality through singing and flying around. It was heady stuff. Of course, “Isaac”, the emcee, had to banter with her, and get the audience to raggedly belt out a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ as the goths and overly hip people tried to slink into the darkness to avoid the appearance of mirth.
Poetry. That’s what this was about, right? I came here for the poetry man, (The Wolf notwithstanding). I read about this on San Diego Poetry Slam.com, and that’s why I came out. And now, a bonafide poet took the stage! His name was Alonzo. Alonzo looked a bit like Fez from That 70’s Show with a self deprecating style that was a huge hit. “Hollow Mannequin” was his first effort…it was about, “you know, breaking up with someone, and how they see your faults, and shit like that. You know. Anyway.” Yes, Alonzo, we do know. Hollow Mannequin was 4 minutes and 13 seconds long, and was surprisingly upbeat despite the subject matter. Alonzo. Dude. Smiling mannequins are just creepy. Pick another metaphor. The poem itself was “modern” which means, “doesn’t rhyme”. The next poem was “My Love Is Not Enough”. It was remarkably similar to the first poem by him, in that it dealt with breaking up, loss of love, the dwindling of the light of the sun, and rhyming moon and June. His delivery was low and disinterested, because he wasn’t talking to us. He was talking to his ex-girlfriend, who wasn’t there, and so couldn’t hear him anyway. Poor guy. She probably dumped you for The Wolf - at least he had a guitar.
That was the end for me. As I was getting up to leave, a guy in a Packers sweatshirt was getting up to do stand-up comedy, and he had actual notes laying out on the stool behind him. I decided if I wanted to laugh at a jackass trying to read material off notes, I’d go home and watch the President. I could at least mute him.
Hmm, what else? The Ditty-Bops have a new CD out, which they are supporting by a bicycle tour, biking cross-country to gigs while their instruments are ferried in a bio-diesel fueled van. How very Willie Nelson of them! Plus, they juggle, use shadow-puppets, and dress in costumes for their shows. Kind of like an acoustic, vaudeville Flaming Lips, minus the giant bubbles. They are sadly not coming to San Diego on tour, but they might be coming to a city near you. So look them up! Two cute girls playing their own instruments and who sound like the Boswell Sisters by way of Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys. What's not to like?
Also, for my Creative Writing class, it was necessary for me to attend some sort of open-mic poetry night and write about it. Sad, but true. I procrastinated all the way through the Spring, and finally dragged my skeptical butt to Lestat's across the street ftom my apartment. Herein lies the record of my adventure, which my teacher recommended I publish. So here it is, for you, bceause I'm too lazy to proof-read it for actual publication.
Lestat’s is more than a coffee house for the disaffected and painfully gothic. Lestat’s is more than a venue in constant use for a succession of singer songwriters, poets, stand-up comics, and Jesus freak metal heads. Lestat’s is more than a twenty-four hour hangout for street people and insomniacs. Lestat’s is an experience - a thrilling ride that starts with a cup of coffee and ends only when you get your tongue pierced and style your hair into dreadlocks. I don’t go to Lestat’s, I go to Café Cabaret down the street. It’s a lot less effort, and the coffee is cheaper. However, in the interests of research and this paper, I went into Lestat’s for “Open Mic Night with Isaac” on Monday. The format is simple…signup starts at 6:30 and each performer has ten minutes to wow the audience with their own unique blend of vaudeville and emotionally overwrought creations. I sat near the back, next to a large man in a white beard and flannel shirt. The fun was already in full swing when I arrived. On stage was the Little Dave Band, which was one skinny guy in a t-shirt playing the acoustic guitar. His song was “I Tried My Best For You”, which might get described in a music magazine as a “vulnerable, poetic, finely tuned expression of longing”. Also, it could be described as “I wish I was Jack Johnson and chicks threw panties at me”. Either way. He tried his best for us, and we clapped, so he played a Radiohead cover. This might have been unremarkable, except for two things. One, there were a lot of young girls there, by which I mean 10-14 years old with their grandparents present. Two, the song he covered (Creep) has a chorus that runs like this, “..I wish I was special/ so fucking special/ But I’m a creep/….what the hell am I doing here?” Indeed, Little Dave, indeed. The grandparents looked puzzled, and the girls looked uncomfortable.
We quickly forgot about Little Dave when The Wolf took the stage. The Wolf, who had us howl wolf noises when he grabbed the mic, was wearing a sleeveless Metallica tshirt and spiked knee pads over torn jeans. His hair draped in an oily rope over his forehead like a rat-tail wig on backwards. I believe his intention was to perform music with a black guitar, but since he couldn’t play or sing, I’ll class it as poetry. Loosely speaking…very, very loosely. He spoke to us of his heroin addiction, and described his influences as Early Kurt Cobain. He spoke to us about Seattle, and nicotine. He spoke to us of Jesus Christ as the only answer. Sometimes he would strum the guitar and look thoughtful. I was taking notes in the dark, as this drama played out, and looking back I can clearly see in deeply impressed print “HOLY FUCK THIS SUCKS”. Yep, that’s Wolf. He did another song, or poem, whatever you want to call it. It was also about heroin. He left the stage making wolf noises and pumping his fist in the air.
The next contestant was pretty good…a Chinese stand-up comic named Wally Wong which is the best pseudonym, ever. I’m fairly sure he ran over ten minutes, but he was funny enough nobody cared. He made a lot of ethnic jokes, which is OK, because he was Asian. It’s a rule of stand-up that you can be as racist and deliberately provocative as you want to if you’re a minority. It’s OK, white people, you can laugh. His humor was topical, and reminded me that I was missing President Bush’s 8PM speech about immigration. I think Wally was a lot funnier, albeit intentionally so.
Remember the young girls I mentioned? Well, they weren’t there just because they were regulars, and liked the scene. No, one of them was having a birthday. And to celebrate her birthday, “Rhiannon” was going to treat us all to her own songs. She was a cute 14 year old with a guitar, and the world was her oyster. Much like with trained animals, the bar is set so low for kids that it’s almost impossible to fail. Half the audience was either her friends or family, so it wasn’t a hostile crowd. She started off wailing in the style of the Cranberries, and sang a song, entitled, no kidding, “Who I Am”. From the content of the song, she fit every stereotype that Seventeen Magazine and The Gap For Kids has ever tried to reach. According to her lyrics, Rhiannon is that girl who:
1) Likes to shop
2) Likes to dress up
3) Likes to wear her hair in a ponytail
4) Go to the beach and watch the waves roll in
5) Um, you know, that girl.
She was, in short, exactly what you might expect out of a 13 year old who wrote her own material. Following this amazing bit of insight into her psyche, she treated us to another self-penned composition entitled “Pink Canary”. This one went out to her friends in the audience. This song was much less clear, as I couldn’t tell if she was singing about being a bird, singing about owning a bird, or wishing she had a bird. But, regardless, the pink canary was pluckily determined to do things her own way, to express her individuality through singing and flying around. It was heady stuff. Of course, “Isaac”, the emcee, had to banter with her, and get the audience to raggedly belt out a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ as the goths and overly hip people tried to slink into the darkness to avoid the appearance of mirth.
Poetry. That’s what this was about, right? I came here for the poetry man, (The Wolf notwithstanding). I read about this on San Diego Poetry Slam.com, and that’s why I came out. And now, a bonafide poet took the stage! His name was Alonzo. Alonzo looked a bit like Fez from That 70’s Show with a self deprecating style that was a huge hit. “Hollow Mannequin” was his first effort…it was about, “you know, breaking up with someone, and how they see your faults, and shit like that. You know. Anyway.” Yes, Alonzo, we do know. Hollow Mannequin was 4 minutes and 13 seconds long, and was surprisingly upbeat despite the subject matter. Alonzo. Dude. Smiling mannequins are just creepy. Pick another metaphor. The poem itself was “modern” which means, “doesn’t rhyme”. The next poem was “My Love Is Not Enough”. It was remarkably similar to the first poem by him, in that it dealt with breaking up, loss of love, the dwindling of the light of the sun, and rhyming moon and June. His delivery was low and disinterested, because he wasn’t talking to us. He was talking to his ex-girlfriend, who wasn’t there, and so couldn’t hear him anyway. Poor guy. She probably dumped you for The Wolf - at least he had a guitar.
That was the end for me. As I was getting up to leave, a guy in a Packers sweatshirt was getting up to do stand-up comedy, and he had actual notes laying out on the stool behind him. I decided if I wanted to laugh at a jackass trying to read material off notes, I’d go home and watch the President. I could at least mute him.
