Black Metal Which Sucks, Which Does Not Suck

I should have known that a Black Metal show at Union Pool would be problematic. Here's what I learned.

You should not have a black metal band if:

+One of your instruments is sleigh bells. [Seriously.]
+Your audience consists mostly of really hot chicks. [I'm sorry, but it's like when white people "know" a good Asian restaurant by how many "actual asian" patrons are in there. Black metal is for plain janes and dudes. Period. You don't go to Panda Express for quality Schezuan. Don't go to Contempo Casuals for quality noise.]
+You still think playing with the word "Christ" is clever.

You should have a black metal band if:

+Your drummer can do the tap dance from hell on a double-bass drum for an hour straight.
+You can gut your pharynx like a Tyrannosaurus Rex for five minutes. Then between songs, in borderline radio DJ voice you can say, "could you turn up the drums on my monitor?" Then go right back to jurassic war with your microphone.
+I say so.

B'doun O'mr (Ageless)

If you like black metal you will love Nader Sadek, who joins art with Arabic elements and well, metal.

Go to this.

Just go.

It will blow your mind.

Nader Sadek.

Wisdoms

Paula Scher, on introducing ideas to clients:

"I used to always bring in three design options to a client, and deliberately have one bad option in there, thinking that would force them to choose one of the designs I actually like.

The client always chose the bad one."

Clients, get on your marks.

Norwhere

The first time I went to Tromso Norway it was with Kaori Ekuni, for Ördkalotten. Accompanied by a gay Oslowegian, we were like Three's Company-Version Linklater. I'd been five months out of an epic June filled with tragedy. Five days out of a much less meaningful milestone of ennui.

The trip was other-worldly and mundane all at once. I did not see northern lights or consume any exotic food or drink, but I spent a lot of time outdoors with Ekuni, talking about relationships. We had one memorable walk by a fjord that ended with dinner at a local family's home, replete with a lanky goth teenage son who shit on everything his dad said.

Now, I know that talking about relationships on a blog is sort of like...well it's stupid and no one should do it. Ever. However talking about talking about relationships is fine, I think. And trust me, with a gay Oslowegian, it's even better. And believe it or not, the following exchange between us as characters (heartbroken, heart beat, heartbreaker), about sums up everything you'll ever need to know about love.

Anne: I have a joke. What do you call pussy that tastes like shit? (Repeats joke in Japanese)
Ekuni: What?
Anne: An overbite.
Arild: That joke doesn't apply to me.
Anne: OK. What do you call dick that tastes like shit? (Repeats joke in Japanese)
Arild: Success.

I'd taken hundreds of pictures but they were all lost in one of my last three hard drive crashes/thefts, so I'm considering my next trip to the North Pole, recompense.

Thank you, Nick, for the extra cameras. I'm ecstatic to show the results of my Digital Ari. I have also started a Vimeo account for video updates. Hammertime.

Candelaborate from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

dickchicken and the french

This week I host a pair of French friends visiting New York: Oz and Julien. Both are hard-core kids turned social workers, which makes sense in exactly the same way that mean kids turn into cops in the U.S. Last night we walked from Giant Robot NY in the East Village (which you allllll know), to Williamsburg and had The Convergence Crazies.

Part I: The three of us stopped at Village Yokocho for some Calpico--a sublime beverage that hasn't made its way to France yet. The last time Oz was in NY he came with his mother, and we three did the same exact thing at Go on 8th St.

Unbelievably, the table seated next to us at Yokocho...was the same exact group that sat next to us at Go last time. The. Same. Exact. Three. People. (We remember them perfectly because they all had very distinguishing characteristics, not the least of which was a tie-dyed afro.)

Part II: After we downed some Calpico and onigiri we headed out for the walk of hipster champions. Julien started talking about a show in France called "New York: Unité Investigative Speciale." I told him I had no clue what he was talking about. Julien was making the point that being in New York walking around at night he couldn't help but sing the theme song to himself.

Duhn-DUHN ba ba ba-da daaaa

Anne: Oh my god you're talking about LAW&ORDER.

We cross the Williamsburg Bridge, singing every single note of the theme song. With two singers you can capture every single note. We're annoying everyone on fixed-gear bikes or wearing Girlfriend Jeans on the way. Oz keeps telling us we're stupid. By the apex of the bridge, we are actually belting out the song top volume.

When we land on the other side of the bridge we are exhausted. We head to the waterfront for picture ops, have a few cigarettes, talk about our friends. On our way from the waterfront to the bars, we come across a "dickchicken" tag. Julien stops dead in his tracks.

Julien: It's Dick Wolf's son!

Carrying the Coke Zero

Just got a reference to "fluorescent beige" ("Precious") from a Charlie I thought I knew, but turned out to be a different Charlie who I don't know at all. Made the same mistake with two different dudes named Shane, a couple weeks ago, sending one of them a very confusing and obscene email. A frenchman just told me through a pay phone to meet at Grand Central but I thought he said Parc Central and now I'm supposed to find a statue of an eagle or wings. I have no idea what I'm hearing anymore.

I need a flux capacitor and a coke.

Crapsical Musicians

I was just being apprised of a string quartet famous for performing with rappers (Osso), and it made me think...
Where are the bastard children of rap and classical music?

Crappers:
Ice Cubist
Chuck D Minor
Eazy E Major
Beastie Boys Choir sings "No Sleep Till Harlem"
Lil' Kim (the Korean violin prodigy)
Tupac: Piano for Four Hands, performing "Tupachabelle's Canon"
Dr. Doremi
The Suzuki Method Man

Craposers:
Steve RZAich
J-Zorn
Busta Brahms
Red Schumann
Scarlatti Face
Da Bussy
Run-DMC performs "U Bee Thoven"
Stravinskee-Lo performs "I wish (I was a little bit Mahler)"

The Best Story Ever I Will Have Ever Told About Children.

Preface: My friend Matt is a private school teacher of general music and jazz ensemble. Now, this isn't just any private school. The Little Red Schoolhouse is a very progressive institution with none of the rules you and I engaged in at public schools. Run in a horizontal hierarchy, all the adults--from janitor to director (principal)--are on a first-name basis and get equal credence. They give scholarships to children from compromised economic backgrounds, and the board of directors includes professional saints. Though the Little Red credo benefits from this in the strange celebrity student body it attracts, stories like this could take place anywhere.

Recently, Matt was co-teaching a third grade class of about 20 eight year olds. They were standing on choir risers learning Pete Seger. Matt was at his laptop preparing the next class and Lidell (the other co-teacher) was conducting a melody. All of a sudden, Cameron Glass (son of Philip) starts sobbing quietly.

Lidell: What's wrong, Cameron? (Gives Matt a bewildered look)
Cameron: (sniffling) I'm sad that Michael Jackson is dead.

Lidell looks at Matt, unsure of what to do or say here. The kids standing next to Cameron gently stroke his back and say, "it'll be OK." I like to think the neighboring children were Bowies and De Koonings.

Cameron: My dad bought tickets to his concert but he died two weeks before! (Sobbing louder)
Lidell: Well, we can still listen to his music. Matt, do you have any Michael Jackson in your computer?
Matt: Yes. (Laughs) Yes I do.

Matt starts foraging his library for Michael Jackson tunes and starts with "A,B,C" at maximum volume.

The kids go nuts.

Lidell: (Looks at Matt) Let's have a Michael Jackson dance party.

All the kids start dancing. The teachers start dancing. Matt plays "Thriller," "Billie Jean," "Beat it," "I Want you Back." The whole room is now bursting with Michael Jackson and a room of children and adults are pointing in the air, waving their arms, jumping up and down. Cameron slowly gets into it, swaying side to side and then eventually wipes the snot off his face and smiles. By "Beat It," all his cares are gone. As they are dancing, the kids start requesting "Bad."

Now, "Bad," for those who don't already know, was released in 1987, at least ten years before any of these children were born. The opening lyrics are:

Your butt is mine,
Gonna take you right,
Just show your face.
In Broad Daylight
I'm Telling You
On How I Feel
Gonna Hurt Your Mind
Don't Shoot To Kill
Come On, Come On,
Lay It On Me All Right...

According to Wikipedia, in his 1988 memoir, Moonwalk, MJ said of "Bad":

"Bad" is a song about the street. It's about this kid from a bad neighborhood who gets to go away to a private school. He comes back to the old neighborhood when he's on a break from school and the kids from the neighborhood start giving him trouble. He sings, "I'm bad, you're bad, who's bad, who's the best?" He's saying when you're strong and good, then you're bad.

Beautiful.
"Bad" comes on the speakers and the kids are now all over the room, doing their Michael Jackson impersonations, replete with castrati-style "hooo!"s, "shamow!", and of course, moonwalking.

I wonder when they learned these things but mostly I marvel at the irony of rich 8-year olds (Mike's favorite kind of person) celebrating his music and begging for "Bad."
This story makes me really happy.

Bad.

Good morning, Long Beach

The beach made for the one-hour experience: speed walkers, joggers, waiting out the morning on a bench.

Virgin America

If I wanted to be inside a dating website apholstered by CaseLogic in a color-scheme of iPod white and vagina pink (if this vagina were shot on the set of Tron), and populated with nothing but smug flirts, I'd just move to San Francisco.

Instead I took a Virgin America flight to Los Angeles.

Carsick Cars Guests at Museyon Launch Party

Museyon Guides is having a launch party on Nov.4 (6-8pm) at Von (3 Bleecker, off Bowery) for the upcoming release of Museyon:Music+Travel.

12 Cities, 12 Scenes:

Addis Ababa, Ethiopop

Chicago, Jazz

Los Angeles county/Laurel Canyon, Country

Beijing, Experimental

Istanbul, Classical

Mumbai, Pop

Berlin, Electronica

Dublin, Punk

Buenos Aires, Cumbia

Paris, Hip-Hop

Melbourne, Art Rock

Moscow, Chanson

I'm gonna say it, but I'm more excited about the Music book than the Film trilogy, only because it's been curated down to 12 really choice experiences. The Film books are more like a history lesson. You can actually take Museyon: Music to your damned bucket list and come out blown away. This is not a diss on all the wonderful writing and photography and design in Film+Travel. Just that Music+Travel is more compact and episodic.

And as far as the launch party is concerned, you would be completely, absolutely, horribly remiss to ignore the opportunity to see members of Carsick Cars (Xiao He and Jeffray Zhang Shouwang) do a special performance before they go full out on their first North American tour.

If you haven't heard or heard of the Carsick Cars, you haven't been pretending to keep up with back issues of The Wire. And that's fine.

But let's put it this way: Carsick Cars will be for Beijing-NY relations what the Boredoms were for Japanese "noise" and the rest of us still pretending we've kept up reading The Wire. And you don't want to say you missed that chance.

GO.

Things I will never do:

1. Run my hands through a mohawk

2. Buy Uggs, Gladiator Sandals or a Coldplay CD

3. Dress up as a sexy maid or a fart for Halloween

Decoding Hangovers

I am occasionally shocked with myself for having only gotten drunk for the first time freshman year of college in a dorm suite (pictured above). Everyone seems to have partied well through high school, and I swore beer was about the grossest thing created by man. Since this inaugural night at the vomitorium I've considered what it means to be a heavy drinker. Usually over prayers and promises never to drink again because I'm so friggin' hungover.

The last time I swore off drinking was after a bunch of birthday revelers and I hit up Dino's Bikini Bar for an ostensible "night cap." We really just wanted to make fun of the sorry people who patronize bars like that, completely unaware that we were a bunch of sorry people about to patronize a bar like that.

After Dino's I tried twice, unsuccessfully, to take a cab home to Brooklyn from Chelsea. After the second cab defeated me in my quest to make the world stop spinning, I decided I had to take more serious measures. Slumped against the wall of an unmarked warehouse I meted my superpower--vomiting--to make the Earth stop moving.

With headlights scratching at my face like sandpaper, I turned my face away and saw in my carryall bag an open bottle of vodka. "That damned Canadian..." I though. Some canuck left it in my bag, and now I smell like the entirety of Manhattan. (Always blame the Canadians.) Somehow I got home and kept meting my superpower, again, swearing off booze... or at least vodka and Canadians.

The next day, I discovered The Hangover Cure:

+Alka-Seltzer

+Hot and Sour soup

+Fried kimchi

+Coffee

+Coca-cola

+Water (and this is going to sound weird, but a little bit of salt helps it taste less like aluminum)

+Singing out loud

+A lot of self-reflection

+A short but fast jog

I'm halfway through fried kimchi and coffee today, trying to recall that Ginsberg poem about vomiting through the years (yeah, which one, right?). I wonder if God likes vodka.

I know next to nothing about DJs but I love me my Powershovel/Superheadz.

This Friday, power up for Halloween with some toy camera love at Powerhouse Books in DUMBO where Powershovel celebrates their "raibei" (coming to America). Eddie Murphy won't be there but everyone else will be.

So much depends on a read email.

Chinatown Sticks

I somehow downed two pints while eating a hamburger with an old friend and got drunk. Realized I was in no shape to go on to the cmj show I planned on which would require drinking the rest of the day.

On my walk back home from the restaurant, a man approached me and this is the dialogue that proceeded:

Man: excuse me, could you hold this bag open? (Gives me a Dunkin Donuts bag) I need to take my donut out and put my coffee back in.

Anne: (confused but a little drunk) Sure.

(We keep walking, in the same direction)

Man: I like your shirt. Chinatown. It looks like you got it in Chinatown.

Anne: Thanks.

Man: Your hair too. You like you're from chinatown.

Anne: (silence)

Man: You eat with sticks?

Anne: Pardon?

Man: You know... (does scissor gesture with fingers)

Anne: Oh, sure.

Man: There's a chinese restaurant on Columbia with booths. You sit on one side, I sit on the other, we order food and talk. unless you like buffets.

Anne: (a little confused) That's nice.

Man: I want to learn how to eat with sticks.

Anne: It's really not hard.

Man: Yeah? My cousin eats with them like he was born that way. How long have you been eating with sticks?

Anne: I have no idea.

Man: I'm a construction worker. My name's Al. I work with a lot of chinese people. I'm in Chinatown all the time. What do you do?

Anne: I'm in publishing.

Man: You mean computers and stuff?

Anne: ... Yes.

Man: Are you married?

Anne: ... Yes.

Man: Well, this is where I turn. Into the projects. I bet you don't live in the projects. You're going past the park.

Anne: Yes.

Man: It was nice meeting you, Anne.

Anne: It was nice meeting you, Al.

Japan's first lady voted "best looking in jeans" by the Japan Jeans Association.

In other news, the Minister of Finance was voted "Most Likely to Become a Schoolteacher" and the Internal Security Deputy was voted "Best Hairdo."

(via AP)

Before. After.

Thanks to Alexis for bringing this gem of yellow fever to light.

"A Self-Guided Study of Japanese Food: (Setting) out to understand Japanese food traditions but finding out how modern and trendsetting it really is." (From Food & Wine magazine)

A. What year is it? 1985? Because if "discovering" trendy Japanese cuisine is novel, then I must still be wearing an acid-washed jean jacket with a pink L.A. Gear varsity patch glued onto the back.

B. This line:

I didn't have to try hard to appreciate the flavor of the grilled sanma. It was obviously delicious.

I feel sorry for whoever has to sleep with her.

C. This dialogue:

Harris ordered the sanma becaise ot was shun. In response to my blank look, he explained: He’d ordered a mackerel pike (sanma) that was at the peak of seasonality (shun). Shun is a critical concept in Japanese cuisine. Said Harris, “Japanese culture is so food-obsessed, even the mailman knows when an ingredient is at the height of its seasonality.

I want to know the mailman that describes his lunchtime bento box as "shun."

Thanks, Alexis.

Bali

It turns out life-changing vacations are nothing new.

There's even a book out there specifically about how women can "get their groove back" in Bali. I'm annoyed that my transformation is a cliché. Enough of a cliché to have warranted a best-selling book I'm going to refuse to look up.

A catalog of lessons and promises.

a. The rate at which I smoke cigarettes now would give Joe Camel a non-metaphorical boner. As a counter-vice I'm going to try never to throw out a cigarette butt on the sidewalk or road again.

b. I've momentarily lost my appetite. I've replaced it with wanderlust, and before my passport expires, I plan on filling the last eight squares of blank immigration papers with stamps from Norway, Mongolia, France and South Africa.

c. Most music sucks. I'm going to see more live music.

d. There will always be elephants in a room. Ride them.