A gentle breeze carried across the dark blue ocean. The scent of saltwater air was a sweet flavor always missed and forever welcomed. Voices were the waves that rolled over each other, and a thousand eyes decorated the sky. The heat was finally simmering, and the promise of rain draped over the falling night. Security stood at the ready, ushering ticket holders to their seats, and the aisles filled with hungry anticipation. Then, her voice rose high like wings soaring, touching down across smooth velvet, and talent lit up the stage.
Dr. Tom Hansen, retired academic and activist, will appear at Charlottesville’s Quest Bookshop on July 11th at 7PM to perform nine unique songs and spread his philosophy that human beings are “not just physical beings having an occasional spiritual experience.” Hansen’s rich voice, intricate melodies, and softly strummed guitar create a warmth in his music; believers in his spiritual ideas will no doubt take additional feelings of comfort from the lyrics Hansen presents with serene confidence. Each song is comprised of quotes from Hansen’s latest nonfiction work, Remembering Our Oneness, a continuation of his 1995 book Trying to Remember. “I contend that consciousness is the cause of the physical,” he says about his work, comparing it to the ideas of certain masters of quantum physics who use this spiritual idea to justify the existence of the universe.
Make no mistake about it. Let It Be: A Celebration of the Music of the Beatles, which just ended its run at the St. James Theater and is about to embark on a North American tour,is no mere Broadway musical. It is much more. It is a play that not only requires good musicians but fine actors as well.
From the first note struck on the guitars to the last note hitting a piano key, Let It Be is a tour de force of the musical lives of four guys from Liverpool—John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr.
The New York CMJ Music Marathon is run by, you guess it, CMJ: a heavy-hitting online and print publication that prides itself on having its finger on the pulse of modern music. The “Marathon” is more of a mile-long race where you have to chug a PBR every 400 meters. The group does a darn good job all things considered, amassing an intimidatingly long list of indie artists on the bubble of buzz. Thus, the festival is a wet dream for the contemporary fan and a porn shoot for the industry. Record labels, PR companies, and prominent blogs host showcases featuring their respectively supported up-and-coming artists. The orgy starts around noon everyday and goes on for a full week. I had it described to me the first day I got to New York as “South by Southwest, but more of a shit-show.” Cheers, Brooklyn.
Removing light-blue sheets from various instruments onstage, each roadie at the Jack White concert sported suspenders, a blue tie, and a fedora—despite the inescapable Virginia humidity. Their antiquated outfits clashed slightly with the modernity of the stage backdrop, where three tall rectangles, which would later radiate an electric blue, loomed. One suspendered gentleman, timidly walking up to a microphone, politely asked that the milling crowd “watch the show live,” instead of through “those tiny screens” of their phones. This outdated request caused quite a murmur in the standing section before the stage.
“Oh, that’s just my hearing aid,” Jim Reid slurred in response to the shrill attack of feedback that emanated from the stage in a lull between songs. It’s true that The Jesus and Mary Chain are no longer the Wayfarer-wearing Scottish troublemakers of their youth, but at the 9:30 Club, they certainly knew how to, as they say, bring the noise. Even seasoned clubgoers and fans in the back were holding their ears shut in pain, and the club might have made as much in ear plug sales as they did in alcohol that night. This, of course, is part of the charm.
I am inclined to tell you these things largely because my sangria-addled mind was almost totally unable to recognize and/or record many of their opening song choices; I was limited to feeling them in impressionistic (drunk) sort of way. I walked into the Jefferson right after eating tapas for two hours in celebration of a friend’s birthday, and at first I only managed to cross my arms, drift into my own thoughts, and strike what I imagined to be a serious critical pose. Sipping my drink (water at this point), I waited for the energy of the music to steamroll my inner imbalance, as it had for many nights, years ago now, when I read Will Sheff’s lyrics as The Stage Names played in my high school bedroom.
The sort of manic energy present at a music festival compressed into ten square blocks of downtown Chicago is hard to put into words. Grant Park, the city’s cornerstone public green-space that flaunts the Art Institute and the infamous Millennium mirror bean, closed its roads from August 3rd to 5th to host a max capacity of 160,000 gormandizers and their chosen musical explorations—a diverse line-up that could strike at least …continue…
Why does the beverage Jagermeister hold such appeal to Gwar?
BECAUSE IT GETS YOU WASTED, YOU COMPLETE IDIOT.
…Read on for story and interview…
July 19, 2012 Ntellos Wireless Pavillion Charlottesville, VA It starts with the concert listing and ends with me walking away tired, hoarse and utterly alive; seeing Wilco perform has always been that way for me. The setup at the Pavilion was typical: a few visible guitars, a drum set, and keyboard–nothing too surprising or suspect. I felt simultaneously complacent and anxious, enjoying the atmosphere and company yet yearning to see …continue…