As evidenced by my pictures from the Raconteurs show, rock shows are hard to photograph unless you are right up close.
Luckily, there was more going on at Tuesday’s Yelle show at The War Room than just fun French pop. The Brunswicks delighted in tormenting a passed out man whose reserved booth we pilfered, with hilarious results.
I had a great time at Yelle for not knowing most of the songs and not being able to understand any of the words apart from “garcon” and “merci bouquet”. Naturally, she spoke with a cute French accent, which, for some reason sounded a little fake. Especially when she said things like “Do you know how to zsnap your fingeaurs?”. She also smacked the hell out of her giant drum. It was pretty enthralling.
The crowd was pretty eclectic, but it did have the overwhelming feeling of being in an American Apparel showroom. SO MANY T-SHIRT DRESSES AND BELTS!
If you’ve never heard of Yelle, check out her retro-tastic video for his biggest hit which she played twice.
I know I don’t normally like dance music, since I am such an atrocious dancer. But I definitely had fun shaking my uncoordinated tush to Yelle.
Pilfered from Slog. I wish I knew how to make these things. I could add the ones from The Brothers Solomon and The Devil’s Rejects.
On Valentine’s Day this year, B. and I went to a cabaret/variety show at the Jewel Box. One of the acts was a drag queen named Ultra lip syncing to a hilarious song I’d never heard before about what to do if you suspect yo man has been out carousing with hos. Now there is a video for that song and it’s totally viral. To aid in the efforts of spreading the Riskay virus, I present to you… “Smell Yo Dick”:
On Saturday, B. and I attended a birthday party/engagement party in the back room at the Spitfire Grill in Belltown. Even though it’s a sports bar, I have always loved the art in that place. They have this amazing ginormous painting of a dead sparrow, killed by an arrow to the heart, is being eulogized by anthropomorphic insects and other birds. It’s fascinating.
Anyway, I’d never been in the back room, but there was more interesting art back there including a trio of paintings of Ian Curtis.
I loved them immediately. I couldn’t stop staring at them. Out of happenstance, B. mentioned the paintings to the bartender; a chap named Zeb Ringer who was also the artist. Not only that, but the paintings were for sale. When B. told me this, I couldn’t help myself. I HAD to ask.
They were pretty reasonably priced, but still art prices. I asked the artist if he would sell one of them. He told me he couldn’t do that because they were actually a unified painting. He asked me to stand far back and look at the gray areas as one picture. I did. They were Ian Curtis’ face formed in the Manchester smog blanketing each painting. Incredible. I was sold.
Luckily, whatwith the poor state of my accounts, B. offered to buy them for us. He’s picking them up on Sunday. I am so excited! We have the perfect place for them in the front room. Come on over and see ’em!
Even though I watched most of “Rock of Love 2” (I started the season late), and was well aware all the while that I was witnessing some horrible portend of doom, I didn’t really figure it all out until last night, when I watched the “reunion special”. This post-season wrap up was a concentrated dose of R.O.L. in which Riki Rachtman (good to see you!), fresh from the Ricki Lake Training Camp, psychoanalyzes every member of the “cast”. This lasts approximately 5 hours. At one point the old one sings. It is perhaps the most surreal television program I have ever seen.
New shit has come to light, man. And that is the fact that Brett Michaels, formerly thought to be just a lame ex-butt rocker, is actually the world’s biggest misogynist. And no, I am not one of those neo-feminists who sees gender bias in everything. He truly hates women and loves to see them suffer. It helps that he, as he admits on more than one occasion, LOVES crazy girls. This helps because crazy girls are more than willing to do whatever he says, including, but not limited to, giving him lap dances, allowing him to photograph them scantily clad, playing FOOTBALL in the MUD and then HOSING EACH OTHER OFF, and taking turns making out with him in the back of his Hummer limo. If he were just a normal 46-year-old doosh, they would not fall for this. I mean, the guy plays acoustic air guitar. But he is Brett Michaels, former lead singer of one of the most inexplicably popular butt rock bands of the year most of these girls were born. For some reason everyone involved thinks that makes this OK.
In a way, Brett Michaels is a genius. An eeeeviiiil genius, but a genius nonetheless. He has found a way to find large groups of his type of lady (crazy strippers, both professional and amateur…and TV HOSTS, also crazy) and assemble them in his fantasy environment (a mansion littered with pictures of himself and stripper poles, no shortage of booze or motorcycles) and make out with them and/or sleep with them, sometimes in FRONT of the other girls, but always in front of America. Every week he is allowed to dump one of them without any of the real-world recourse (i.e. they continue to call him and stalk him and throw drinks in his face when he is on a date). Eventually, he settles on the one that he feels he can sleep with about 15 more times before quietly dumping her and gearing up for the next season of the show.
I’m not letting the ladies off the hook either. It’s pretty clear that each of them wants something from this show other than “love”. Some of them want to “break in” to the biz. (Megan being the newest career reality show slut. I am so angry at myself for ever rooting for her bitchy ass on “Beauty and the Geek”.) Others just want attention (Daisy) or to be told they are pretty on national television (also, Daisy). Their success is pretty much directly proportional to how good they are at convincing Brett that they “are here for him”. Yet I hear the word “competition” at least 250 times per episode. So perhaps some of them are really just tired of their amateur volleyball league and want a new hobby.
If you had shown me “Rock of Love” in 1990, I wouldn’t have believed it. I would have thought you were showing me an extended scene from Paul Verhoeven’s new film, or something penned by Margaret Atwood about a dystopian future. I would have laughed. Sure, I laugh when I watch “Rock of Love” now. But it is that hysterical cry-laughing that you do when you can’t fully process the horror that you are witnessing.
Cheers, Brett Michaels. You really have reached your full potential. You are not only allowed to be a total cad with no social consequences, it has become your job.