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.
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.
