WALLPAPER

I was having trouble finding a photo from the Sacramento show, so this is from THIS girl who went to the San Francisco show, took pictures, then left them as comments on Wallpaper's Myspace. Shout out to McShanAttackAsaurs Rex!

My friend Kim does this thing when he really likes something: he acts vaguely offended, like he can't believe it, like he's completely aghast and thinking “how dare they” at the band he’s hearing. On Monday, during Wallpaper's 40-minute set at Club Pow, Kim stood across the room from me. Every time I caught his eye he shook his head and made some sort of signal with his arms and hands that I interpreted to mean something along the lines of "I'm done." The movement kind of resembled a baseball umpire calling someone safe; Kim shakes his head and does the "safe!" motion over and over again.

At no point did I doubt how much Kim was enjoying Wallpaper. Everyone was. Wallpaper—for this tour, at least—involves two guys. The project is the intelligently sleazy electro-outlet for Eric Frederic, the singer and writer for the prog-pop band Facing New York. In Wallpaper Mr. Frederic is accompanied by a live drummer—Arjun Singh—and an iPod. The iPod drips out melt-y, Ratatat-style keyboards over fizzy beats, with Mr. Singh bolstering the electronic percussion with his kit. Mr. Frederic filters his vocals—both live and recorded—through a tolerable amount of autotune, or vocoder, or something, giving his voice that pitch-corrective, robotic "One More Time" effect. Live, he plays no instruments.

Which leaves all sorts of room for gimmicks. For Monday’s show, Mr. Frederic dressed like he was trying to dress like an indie-rock Casanova: a green lumberjack shirt, white shoes, and cheap-o neon sunglasses. Between songs he sat in a chartreuse pleather easy chair, sipping courvoisier. These words (chartreuse, pleather, easy and courvoisier) sufficiently paint the art-decco mural of Wallpaper’s intent. Progressive rock tends to succeed when intent is most obscured, which makes Mr. Frederic’s Wallpaper both his alter-ego and his super-ego.

Mr. Frederic is a card-carrying music geek and discerning ears will hear the pleasing complexities in the vocal harmonies, melodies, and phrasing. The rest of the ears will hear Hellogoodbye-ready hooks like, "I am a million dollars," and “This is your ringtone.” The effect is funny and, shitty PA be damned, catchy. Without the overbearing sonics of a full band, Mr. Frederic embraces the lack of obstacles between his voice box and the audience. It’s a pleasant infection; Mr. Frederic’s lyrics are Destiny’s Child-simple and oft-repeated. (One of Wallpaper’s two cover songs included Bell Biv DeVoe’s ‘90’s boy-band gem “Poison.” The other was an interpretive R. Kelly homage.) Watching 40 strangers laugh and dance gave the band’s name a literal feel, as if Wallpaper really was all around us.

Every Wallpaper song is two minutes and thirty three seconds long. It’s a silly, suspicious boundary, as though Mr. Frederic has case-studied Pop music to a distant, precise decimal place. In the context of so many flushed out ideas, the uniform song lengths add to the ultimate mystery: what makes pop popular?

I ask that question because I feel that Wallpaper provides some answers. Every moment of Monday night’s set felt relate-able. It wasn’t so much that I’d seen it before as much as immediately wanting to see it again. There’s an answer: Pop music presents us with the desire to become familiar, to be included. Inclusion seemed paramount to Mr. Frederic’s stage character; he constantly checked his cell phone throughout the set. In doing so he seemed at once too-cool, reasonably curious, and sort-of-desperate. Launching into the track "Text Me Your Love," Mr. Frederic responded to text messages while singing a song about receiving text messages. I texted “Big time! My love!” or something like that. I just wanted to be a part of the moment, to feel included.

And I did.

Wallpaper covered this song, Bell Biv DeVoe's "Poison." Both versions (the original and the cover) are remarkable.

Right click-and-save to download “So Hot,” from the Million Dollars single by Wallpaper.



Wallpaper on MYSPACE.
Wallpaper on LAST.FM.
Wallpaper in THE EAST BAY EXPRESS.
More Wallpaper mp3s on ELBO.WS.
I meant to support the opening band, a great, Pele-inspired math rock duo called Silian Rail, but I had to support Wallpaper, so next time. Until then check out Silian Rail's MYSPACE.

AIR

They don't make 'em like this anymore.

I watched two great movies so far this week: Wassup Rockers and Little Children. I also watched a Fellini's La Dolce Vita.

Wassup Rockers is a film by Larry Clark. He made Kids, which, I imagine, was the sort of film best seen the week it was released, amid the amber waves of cool people joining together with the critical hype. I saw Kids when I was twenty-something years old (it came out when I was 12). In Kids, I thought that many of the stylistic decisions were smart, but I grew weary of the story. Wassup Rockers is different. The crazy faux-reality style used in Kids seems to develop some modesty, some balance between light and impenetrable dark. Kids told bleak stories; Wassup Rockers tells bleak stories, too, but intersperses a wider pallet of moods and humor in its anecdotes. Even during an early drive-by homicide, it didn't immediately occur to me that this story was being acted: the people on camera just looked like people, fighting through an urban landscape I've scene in dozens of towns. Most of the first half of the film buries that drive-by under the cast of real people using their real names acting out their real daily experiences. The tragedies of the second half—the two-faced glamour, the racism, the death—seem refreshing, albeit in a dark way. Wait, this isn't real, I thought, as a millionaire alcoholic tried to keep from slipping into her bathtub by grabbing a low-hanging crystal chandelier. Her electrocution pantomimes the societal detachments I enjoy watching Clark explore. For the most part, Wassup Rockers is fiction starring nonfiction. Genius.

The Wassup Rockers preview.

This is a video interview with Larry Clark. It's great. He has real devotion to the particular slice of America he's concerned with. His interest in making films began when Francis Ford Coppola told him: "If anyone should make films, it should be you."

Little Children is a film by Todd Field. He made In The Bedroom, which I don't remember anything about, save for Marissa Tomei looking slammin' and my dislike for the movie. Like Wassup Rockers veering away from Kids, Little Children makes the same swerve away from In The Bedroom. The style takes over and gets rid of some of the heavier themes. The best things about Little Children were: 1) the narration, and 2) Jennifer Connelly. The narration reminds me of the elegant, precise narration in Y Tu Mamá También and, come to think of it, The Royal Tenenbaums. Narration seems like a ballsy choice to me, because filmmakers have a tough enough time as is making whatever happens on screen interesting. To add another, non-visual element is risky. Especially when the narration chooses to go beyond what's happening on screen, as it does in these three films. I love how all these movies narrate tiny, useful emotions and thoughts. Like when Ms. Connelly realizes the sexual tension between Patrick Wilson (unbelievable in Hard Candy; the new Christian Bale?) and Kate Winslet; or when a blank expression from Ms. Winslet's character is augmented by the narrator's description of her purposefully hidden surprise. I loved the narrator's voice (it was Will Lyman, a seasoned narration expert). He sounds like God in the '50's or something. Also, Ms. Connelly's never looked better.

The preview for Little Children.

I watched La Dolce Vita last night, too. Great costume design. It seemed to be about pervasive, unsolvable boredom. Past that, I need to let it marinate—possibly for the rest of my life. It will sit in the sauce next to 8 1/2, which seemed to be about pervasive, unsolvable failure.

None of these flicks had anything to do with the French band Air, who have at least one great song on their most recent album. I'm a big proponent of Air's high-class, expensive-haircut music, but Pocket Symphony seems a little drowsy to me. Not this song, though ("Mer Du Japon", brilliant MP3 below). It taps into the space-station-hipster-oxygen-bar-vibe that I'll never get enough of. While these films didn't have anything to do with Air, I doubt that will be true with my next Netflix: Viva la Marie Antoinette!

Air performing "Mer Du Japon". Sounds crisp.

The video, directed by Guillaume de la Perrier.

Right click-and-save to download “Mer Du Japon,” from the album Pocket Symphony by Air.


Air's WEBSITE.
Air on MYSPACE.
Air on LAST.FM.
Air on YOUTUBE.
Air on WIKIPEDIA.
Air on HYPEMACHINE.
Air on ELBO.WS.
Air on AMAZON.
Support Air's LABEL.

CORNELIUS

I look like Rich Costey just shook my hand and said, "I've never been more excited to be recording anyone in the history of my life." Which is to say: I look happy.

Never have I conceived and sponsored a personal vacation—I’ve always traveled with my family and my band. I just took an independent vacation and it was exactly as fun as I imagined it might be. I was in Southern California a few weekends back (from Saturday through Tuesday) for the tri-purpose of seeing my sister perform, visiting my grandparents, and seeing Cornelius. There was also the infinity of friends, boutiques, and restaurants to visit.

The independence of being in a different cultural hub—alone—with just my wallet and my know-how and my wide-eyed sense of giddiness no doubt assisted the pleasure I experienced with Southwest Airlines. At some point along the way, I realized that I enjoy flying. My recent airport experiences both began in Sacramento, which hosts a nice facility. It doesn’t get that crowded and the wireless internet is great. Flying solo, I boarded my flight and sat in the front row next to a young family heading to Disneyland for the first time. I savored the legroom while reading the new Interview cover-to-cover. When I finished reading, I wrote and doodled on the Gucci and Dolce advertisements. My iPod, stocked with about 35 new albums, randomized 500 songs for the 120-minute flight to Irvine, CA.

It was a perfect beginning to an excellent long weekend.

In place of touring constantly, I’ve been saving money. I intend to update my guitar rig and move to San Francisco. All this will take an indeterminate, but surely large sum. I’ve been doing well—at the somewhat-expense of my social life, rather, my near-ridiculous social life of six months ago, where my weekly temp-agency checks were funneled directly into seeing four or more shows a week, many of which in SF. No regrets, but I’m proud to have simmered down a bit. I’m the type who’s always found solitude to be the busiest part of my day. I mean that in a good way. I feel thoughtful and productive on my own and, because of the band’s recent-ish touring schedules, I’ve really needed some downtempo-type time to reconnect with my greater goals and intentions.

I don’t want to entirely sacrifice my social self, however, and, after running some figures by my online banking statement, I rationalized a modest vacation budget. I figured I could travel to and be in the Los Angeles area for about $300. I barely went over budget, even after impulse buying a pair of THESE (only mint green).

I landed Saturday at one in the afternoon. George picked me up. We went out for Korean food; he called it a “soft tofu” place. Amazing. Herring. Tofu soup. A raw egg. Pickled things. Then we rolled up to UCLA, where my McSweeney’s friends were tearing down their booth at the book fair. On our way, George parked in the middle of Chinatown and said: “We need to make a stop.” I thought I might be coming up on some illicit pets or weapons or something, but no. We were checking out the Lion’s Den. Every other storefront on this block is a market with live catfish and wholesale-amounts of raw bok choy. Then there’s this tiny streetwear boutique, all negative space full of A-Life’s, next season’s Ice Creams, and all sorts of $82 t-shirts. The interior looked as though Kubrick’s set designer needed a spot to sell Umbro.

That night I finally got to see my sister perform. She’s a dance major at UCI and she’s been immeasurably supportive of my musical passions. I don’t mean that lightly; I hate when writers use terms like “countless,” “needless to say,” or “immeasurably,” because almost all of the time whatever they are writing about can be counted, measured, or said. But Molly has been at every show she could make and we’ve spent days talking about our futures and sharing ideas. I was a little nervous for her performance. The last ballet I went to I might have fallen asleep. It’s tough to say.

But Molly was doing a “modern” show. Her group performed some wild Aztec-inspired tribal number, and she had this crazy “arm-solo” thing. Most of the performers and performances were tops. I was entertained all the way through.

We spent that night (and the next day) in Palm Springs. Not my favorite desert oasis, but it was great lounging by the pool with our grandparents. I was also one exit from THIS. Tantalizing.

Rolled back to LA on Sunday night with George and without Molly. We stayed at a hotel at one end of Sunset (in Bel Air, I think) called The Luxe, courtesy of Dave Eggers and co. The clock alarm had an iPod doc; this place was beautiful, all dark and modern.

Everything is as huge and as soft as it looks.

Tried to find Cinespace but couldn’t, so we went to Canter’s, the famous Jewish deli that Mötley Crüe and Guns ‘N Roses after-partied at in the ‘80s. I was too full to eat, but I turned George red with a single Irish Car Bomb.

The next day felt perfect, like master-craftsman’s rendition of a normal day. Breakfast, shoe-buying, and crazy-boutique-ing in Silverlake. Then more of the same—plus a second Canter’s trip—in and around Fairfax. Tried on a couple of the nicest blazers I’ve ever tried on at Fred Segal on Melrose, priced between $1,368 and $5,000. I asked why the new Air album cost $27 and the aspiring actress working behind the counter told me that “it costs that much because when you buy it you actually become one of the guys in Air.” She was really informative.

Oh, then there was this store: Family. Go there. Wild books, unhinged comics, cassette tapes, shirts, all sorts of homemade desirables.

At this point it was time to visit my friend Matt at Barefoot Studio, where he’s been working with my pals The Audrye Sessions. He gave me a tour and geeked out with George about The Warriors pissing all over everyone’s expectations. Barefoot was purchased by Eric Valentine in 2000. But it’s been a studio for decades: Stevie Wonder recorded there, as did Hendrix. That sort of thing really sinks in once you are actually standing in the room, touching the walls and hearing the sound of a strummed guitar. The Audrye Sessions songs sounded like a couple spots on next years Top 40.

George’s dad was in town with a bunch of his Cultural Revolution pals. We ate with them. We had one thing in common: the Chinese hate cold drinks. Now, I’m still a DIT (Diva In Training) for the most part; I’m still working on earning those bedazzled wings. But one of my few, already-established Diva habits is that I hate ice water. It’s not particularly good for the voice. And I hate it. Serve it to me and I instantly transmogrify into Diana Ross. Whether or not I actually told you “water with no ice,” I will say “I said no ice” and then you will be covered with ice and water.

Then, finally, it was time for Cornelius. We located the gorgeous El Rey, I donned my new kicks and we were in. Cornelius released a record in 2002 that I bought based on THIS Pitchfork review. I missed seeing Cornelius back then. I’ve been waiting for him to return to the states, especially since George (who is one of my top three cultural centrifuges) claimed that Cornelius in 2002 was “the best live performance he’d ever seen.” The goal was to see him at Bimbo’s in SF, but we were booked to destroy Chico and couldn’t make it. By the time I began considering contingency plans, Coachella was already sold out. And then I conceived my vacation. It was perfect.

Actually, it was perfect. Cornelius is beyond unbelievable—immeasurably, innumerably, needless-to-say-ing-ly spectacular. Keigo Oyamonda is the mystical Japanese elf that controls Cornelius. His band—two other multi-instrumentalists and a cute, precise drummer—performs for 80 minutes in synch with about 20 high-concept music videos (I’m embedding as many as I can find below).

Cornelius benefits from fervent fans, hundreds of folks from every ethnic and social denomination. This is what makes minute-one of a Cornelius show so insane. The red velvet curtain rises and 800 people go apeshit. Cheering. Screaming. Crying. Jones-ing. The curtain reveals another curtain, this one the consistency of a thick fog. Mr. Oyamonda hits a perfect note and a rectangle of red light silhouettes his pose. Then the drummer hits a cymbal and is silhouetted by a blue rectangle, then the other instrumentalists by yellow and white. The rectangles correspond perfectly with crisp sound stabs and poses, crescendo-ing with the curtain disappearing to reveal the band, now waving at the crowd and feedback-ing. Everyone is much happier and warmer and in all ways more emboldened than ever to do good in the world.

A video and light show begins with a visual announcement informing the crowd that this is the “Cornelius Group” performing the “Synchronized Sensuous Experience.” The song selection is a wonderful menagerie of work from all three of Cornelius’ albums. At one point, Mr. Oyamonda brings up a girl from the crowd and uses her arm to solo on a Theremin. She looked to be crying and laughing and having an orgasm all at once. Before re-entering the crowd, Mr. Oyamonda hugged her, the bassist gave her a lay of flowers, and the smiling stagehand helped her off stage.

After the show my friend Dave South told me he’s seen Cornelius three times, and for his money it’s always been a better show than Bjork or Radiohead. I’ve never seen those bands, nor doubted their capacity for awe. But Mr. South's a stable dude who doesn’t just talk to hear his voice. What if he’s even remotely right?

If he’s remotely right, then Radiohead and Bjork would also provide some of the best live performances I’ve seen.













Right click-and-save to download “Beep It,” from the album Sensuous by Cornelius.


Right click-and-save to download “Wataridori,” from the album Sensuous by Cornelius.



Cornelius' WEBSITE.
Cornelius on MYSPACE.
Cornelius on LAST.FM.
Cornelius on YOUTUBE.
Cornelius on WIKIPEDIA.
Cornelius on HYPEMACHINE.
Cornelius on ELBO.WS.
Cornelius on AMAZON.