Rocking & Headache; Afghani and BtS; Grey's & Beer; Downing & Sweater; Devil & Daniel Johnston; Okkervil & Jenny
10/17
More band practice, followed by a bad neck ache thingy.
10/18
Way back in '04 when I visited Thom in Boston, he and Ali took me out for "terrorist food" at an Afghani restaurant. The food was spectacular, and when I returned to Houston I immediately asked Citysearch where I might find such food in Houston, only to be greated with its cold, digital reply that there was none to be found.
Two years later, I happen to be reading the Houston Press and see a writeup on a new Afghani place that had opened up out West. I made a mental note, and suggested it to Cindy for this particular occasion.
Afghan Tandoori King was unassuming, in a small strip center. The interior was spacious, sparse, and the restaurant wasn't particularly busy. We were quickly seated by an enthusiastic waitress. I ordered a squash and yogurt appetizer that was in theory the same as the pumpkin-based dish we had ordered in Boston, but not as tasty. I ordered a chicken dish served with rice, carrots, and golden raisins; it wasn't particularly impressive. Cindy did much better, ordering something akin to wontons or pot stickers, filled with a very mediterranean array of meet, veggies, and sauce. That dish was much closer to the cuisine we had in Boston.
Our enthusiastic waitress pushed dessert quite heavily, so we accepted. It was good, if different. Sort of a pudding, but beraing a fairly unique selection of spices (though I think I've had something simpler in Indian cuisine).
All in all, not as good as the place in Boston, but I think I owe them a second visit.
Afterwards we took off to go see Built to Spill at the (blech) Warehouse. We got there about 10 or so, not expecting the show to start until 10:30 or 11:00, only to find the band already in their second song as we entered.
We got reasonably up front, emulating the strategy that worked so well at the Gnarls Barkley show. But Buil to Spill are a band very much dependent on sonics, and in an environment as harsh as the Warehouse, they just weren't as good as when I had seen them in better venues.
It was worth going, though, to hear them play their almost-forgotten "Nowhere Nothing Fuckup", adapted from the Velvet Underground's "Oh, Sweet Nothin'". Also, I felt vidincated when Doug thanked us for coming to hear what it would be like if they "played in a giant shower".
10/19
Cindy comes over to watch Grey's Anatomy and drink beer. No one is shocked.
10/20
Cindy and I decided to check out Good Co. Hamburgers & Taqueria, as part of our continued search for the best burgers in Houston. The interior was definitely very taqueria, and there was a nice patio in the back dominated by a huge fountain. The burger setup was very Fudruckers, with all the fixins in a salad bar setup. The burgers themselves were tasty, probably on par with Beck's Prime, with some nice mesquite (?) smoked flavor. The atmosphere at Goode Co. probably pushed it ahead. Both places are maybe a little pricey for fast food-ish burgers, but a whole step ahead of most fast food chains, and maybe a half step ahead of Whataburger.
Afterwards, another night at Downing St. with Angela, the Marshes, the Bakers, and Char... except, they turned me away at the door for wearing a t-shirt. Guy inside is wearing fucking scrubs and I can't get in in a t-shirt and jeans? Fuck you, Downing Street, and in particular, fuck you, asshole door guy who probably singled me out because I was white. Yes, I went there.
Char saw us walk away, and arranged to bring me... a woman's sweater. Yep. Thankfully, it was big. Black. Plain. A little tight, maybe, but not particularly affeminate. So I put it on and the asshole door guy let me in.
But beer and cigars (surprisingly reasonably priced at the in-store humidor) made that all better...
10/21
Cindy and I decided on a movie night, and, after some debate, settled on watching the documentary The Devil & Daniel Johnston. I had heard of the man, as Guster (and a whole bunch of other notable bands) had performed covers of his songs on a tribute disc, and Dan and Kristin had gone to see a play about him, and I knew him to be a somewhat crazy songwriter.
By then end, I felt like I knew him intimately. An eccentric kid who made outsider art and wrote simple songs, he somehow ended up in Austin after briefly working for a travelling carnival, and then followed the local scene before frying his brain a bit with LSD. After that a bipolar disorder dominated his life and led to frequent delusions that the devil was all around him, haunting him and the people he loved. But enough people (musicians in particular) liked his music that he developed a following, which exploded when Kurt Cobain wore one of his t-shirts on MTV.
In the end, I couldn't really tell whether he was an eccentric outsider artist who developed this persona, or an idiot man-child whose condition was exploited to the success of his art, and a question I still can't answer even after seeing him live.
10/22
Look, I have nothing personal against Jenny Lewis. I'm sure she's talented and her fans have legitimate reasons for liking her solo work and her work with her band, Rilo Kiley.
But she doesn't hold a candle to Okkervil River. And when I miss a chance to see Okkervil river headline because their headlining show was cancelled and they were moved to an opening slot for Jenny Lewis's show, I get fucking pissed off.
I'm sure it was a financially beneficial arrangement for all parties involved. I'm sure it made complete logical sense to the bands and the promoters.
But fuck you, Jenny Lewis and Super Unison, for depriving me of an Okkervil River headlining set. Fuck you for promoting a steaming pile of mediocrity over one of the most interesting and talented bands to emerge this decade. And fuck you, fans of steamping piles of mediocrity, for making it all possible.
But we went anyway. I mean, hell, it's Okkervil river, right?
And it was a beautiful night. First cold night of the year, which is an occasion for me to be happy. Cold weather energizes me and makes me giddily happy to be alive. It makes me wonder if I would be genuinely a more well person if I lived somewhere that wasn't Texas. It was a beautiful night to be out, and catch a short set by a great band, and then hang out on the patio drinking beer and bloody marys while the fools inside listed to Jenny Lewis.
Cindy picked up a sweet collection of prints by Will Sheff. His art is a little violent and psychotic for me, but it's good, and I think it will be a neat thing for Cindy to use to decorate her apartment. I had to prod a little, but the collection was $30 for 10 or so prints, and though that's a lot of money, it was a good deal, and I reminded Cindy that she was paying less than 1% per print of what I had payed for my art.
I wanted to pick up their Australian tour EP, which has the great "Love to a Monster" and "The President's Dead" on it, but I guess it's called Australian for a reason. I've since remedied that situation through other venues, but it was a bit disappointing at the time.
Still, a great night out. Even with fucking Jenny Lewis fucking headlining.
(Nothing personal, Jenny, I swear, although the award for hottest indie rock redhead still goes to Neko Case. But seriously. Nothing personal. You were just the beneficiary of bad circumstances, and an easy target for my wrath.)
More band practice, followed by a bad neck ache thingy.
10/18
Way back in '04 when I visited Thom in Boston, he and Ali took me out for "terrorist food" at an Afghani restaurant. The food was spectacular, and when I returned to Houston I immediately asked Citysearch where I might find such food in Houston, only to be greated with its cold, digital reply that there was none to be found.
Two years later, I happen to be reading the Houston Press and see a writeup on a new Afghani place that had opened up out West. I made a mental note, and suggested it to Cindy for this particular occasion.
Afghan Tandoori King was unassuming, in a small strip center. The interior was spacious, sparse, and the restaurant wasn't particularly busy. We were quickly seated by an enthusiastic waitress. I ordered a squash and yogurt appetizer that was in theory the same as the pumpkin-based dish we had ordered in Boston, but not as tasty. I ordered a chicken dish served with rice, carrots, and golden raisins; it wasn't particularly impressive. Cindy did much better, ordering something akin to wontons or pot stickers, filled with a very mediterranean array of meet, veggies, and sauce. That dish was much closer to the cuisine we had in Boston.
Our enthusiastic waitress pushed dessert quite heavily, so we accepted. It was good, if different. Sort of a pudding, but beraing a fairly unique selection of spices (though I think I've had something simpler in Indian cuisine).
All in all, not as good as the place in Boston, but I think I owe them a second visit.
Afterwards we took off to go see Built to Spill at the (blech) Warehouse. We got there about 10 or so, not expecting the show to start until 10:30 or 11:00, only to find the band already in their second song as we entered.
We got reasonably up front, emulating the strategy that worked so well at the Gnarls Barkley show. But Buil to Spill are a band very much dependent on sonics, and in an environment as harsh as the Warehouse, they just weren't as good as when I had seen them in better venues.
It was worth going, though, to hear them play their almost-forgotten "Nowhere Nothing Fuckup", adapted from the Velvet Underground's "Oh, Sweet Nothin'". Also, I felt vidincated when Doug thanked us for coming to hear what it would be like if they "played in a giant shower".
10/19
Cindy comes over to watch Grey's Anatomy and drink beer. No one is shocked.
10/20
Cindy and I decided to check out Good Co. Hamburgers & Taqueria, as part of our continued search for the best burgers in Houston. The interior was definitely very taqueria, and there was a nice patio in the back dominated by a huge fountain. The burger setup was very Fudruckers, with all the fixins in a salad bar setup. The burgers themselves were tasty, probably on par with Beck's Prime, with some nice mesquite (?) smoked flavor. The atmosphere at Goode Co. probably pushed it ahead. Both places are maybe a little pricey for fast food-ish burgers, but a whole step ahead of most fast food chains, and maybe a half step ahead of Whataburger.
Afterwards, another night at Downing St. with Angela, the Marshes, the Bakers, and Char... except, they turned me away at the door for wearing a t-shirt. Guy inside is wearing fucking scrubs and I can't get in in a t-shirt and jeans? Fuck you, Downing Street, and in particular, fuck you, asshole door guy who probably singled me out because I was white. Yes, I went there.
Char saw us walk away, and arranged to bring me... a woman's sweater. Yep. Thankfully, it was big. Black. Plain. A little tight, maybe, but not particularly affeminate. So I put it on and the asshole door guy let me in.
But beer and cigars (surprisingly reasonably priced at the in-store humidor) made that all better...
10/21
Cindy and I decided on a movie night, and, after some debate, settled on watching the documentary The Devil & Daniel Johnston. I had heard of the man, as Guster (and a whole bunch of other notable bands) had performed covers of his songs on a tribute disc, and Dan and Kristin had gone to see a play about him, and I knew him to be a somewhat crazy songwriter.
By then end, I felt like I knew him intimately. An eccentric kid who made outsider art and wrote simple songs, he somehow ended up in Austin after briefly working for a travelling carnival, and then followed the local scene before frying his brain a bit with LSD. After that a bipolar disorder dominated his life and led to frequent delusions that the devil was all around him, haunting him and the people he loved. But enough people (musicians in particular) liked his music that he developed a following, which exploded when Kurt Cobain wore one of his t-shirts on MTV.
In the end, I couldn't really tell whether he was an eccentric outsider artist who developed this persona, or an idiot man-child whose condition was exploited to the success of his art, and a question I still can't answer even after seeing him live.
10/22
Look, I have nothing personal against Jenny Lewis. I'm sure she's talented and her fans have legitimate reasons for liking her solo work and her work with her band, Rilo Kiley.
But she doesn't hold a candle to Okkervil River. And when I miss a chance to see Okkervil river headline because their headlining show was cancelled and they were moved to an opening slot for Jenny Lewis's show, I get fucking pissed off.
I'm sure it was a financially beneficial arrangement for all parties involved. I'm sure it made complete logical sense to the bands and the promoters.
But fuck you, Jenny Lewis and Super Unison, for depriving me of an Okkervil River headlining set. Fuck you for promoting a steaming pile of mediocrity over one of the most interesting and talented bands to emerge this decade. And fuck you, fans of steamping piles of mediocrity, for making it all possible.
But we went anyway. I mean, hell, it's Okkervil river, right?
And it was a beautiful night. First cold night of the year, which is an occasion for me to be happy. Cold weather energizes me and makes me giddily happy to be alive. It makes me wonder if I would be genuinely a more well person if I lived somewhere that wasn't Texas. It was a beautiful night to be out, and catch a short set by a great band, and then hang out on the patio drinking beer and bloody marys while the fools inside listed to Jenny Lewis.
Cindy picked up a sweet collection of prints by Will Sheff. His art is a little violent and psychotic for me, but it's good, and I think it will be a neat thing for Cindy to use to decorate her apartment. I had to prod a little, but the collection was $30 for 10 or so prints, and though that's a lot of money, it was a good deal, and I reminded Cindy that she was paying less than 1% per print of what I had payed for my art.
I wanted to pick up their Australian tour EP, which has the great "Love to a Monster" and "The President's Dead" on it, but I guess it's called Australian for a reason. I've since remedied that situation through other venues, but it was a bit disappointing at the time.
Still, a great night out. Even with fucking Jenny Lewis fucking headlining.
(Nothing personal, Jenny, I swear, although the award for hottest indie rock redhead still goes to Neko Case. But seriously. Nothing personal. You were just the beneficiary of bad circumstances, and an easy target for my wrath.)
posted by L. Maxwell Ward at 2:14 AM
