i ♥ skinny rock 'n' roll boys

Okay, so yesterday was insanely long. I was up for something like twenty-two hours straight (and idle during almost none of that time). I thought about writing separate blog entries about my various adventures, but let's face it, that's not what ridiculous authenticity is about, it's about me recalling it in my crazy way. So I warn you, this is going to be long, rant-like in parts, and it's probably not for the faint of heart.

I'm going to start, not at the beginning of the day, but at the beginning of the action, which usually means criticism for me.

Million Dollar Bullshit.
Oh, I'm sorry, you probably know this as Million Dollar Baby. You know I had massive bias going into this film and actually an adamant refusal to see it. But a free showing and a sense of guilt for blasting it without seeing it coaxed me into the theater. Now, my bias against it isn't what the press covered. I hate Clint Eastwood. Even I was rooting for Martin Scorsese to take home the Oscar for best director. And, I'm sorry, but Eastwood cannot act. Maybe that stiff, walking skeleton, gruff delivery worked in spaghetti westerns, but he's just nowhere near Oscar-nomination caliber (for acting, at least). Plus, any other Eastwood-directed movies I've ever seen bored me to tears with a complete lack of pace. I'm actually going to praise him this time for not boring me at all; the pace was perfect. See, I'm not always so negative, I give people credit where credit is due.

However, the first part of the movie was such a postmodern experience for me. I was laughing hysterically like I'd gone to see a Farrelly Brothers movie. Sure, there was intentional comic relief, but I was reading it from a different light: this is supposed to be serious, and it's the most cliched thing I'd seen in a long time. That was the awful part.

The movie actually improved once Maggie (Hillary Swank) falls. And I don't mean that in a sick, sadistic sense. It was heart wrenching, and dammit, yes, I cried as the film went on. But this also meant I could take it seriously especially since the horrible, awkward exchanges among characters became something more real, more emotional, less farce to me. Eastwood still couldn't act to save his life, but was valiant in taking hers. I didn't read widely about this film, but just in reading my usual suspects I got enough of a sense of the hoopla over the damn thing to be convinced Eastwood was trying to crush disability rights yet again (I'm admitting my own bias here as a truly well trained cultural critic should). But man did the media spin this improperly, but I shouldn't be surprised at this at all since you know I contend that there is a general conservative bias to go along with the current conservative regime (which predates Dubya). While I don't think you're meant to take a political message away from this throw-back to Hollywood glamour days, let's face it, in postmodernity it's all political and anything could have an equal message to anyone. So let's get it straight: it's not about euthanasia, but the right to die. And I support that.

Overall assessment: bad movie, not worth the praise or Oscars, but also not as horrible as I made it out in my head. I'm glad I went. And I'm sure you're glad you read my rant.

Intermission.
Now for where the title of this entry starts to make sense. I saw a total of five bands split between two concerts yesterday. And yes, they were all skinny rock 'n' roll boys. Okay, two of the bands were middle-aged and probably past their prime, but still made for good performers. But in just recalling this, perhaps my incessant small indie concert going as a teenager is what bread my intense attraction to my archetype of skinny, tall, dark-haired, fair-skinned gentlemen preferably in suits, ties, or some sort of mod-inspired/conceptual look. Or perhaps that fueled my interest in going to these concerts. A chicken and the egg thing maybe?

Gin Blossoms Festival.
So Allie and I mosied to Byrd Stadium, home of the Maryland Terrapins in case you didn't notice the fifty zillion signs claiming that. I'd never been in the fucking thing, and I'm sort of sad to have killed that streak so close to my retirement from Maryland. At any rate, we were psyched to see the Gin Blossoms, who played an annual event known as Art Attack. We couldn't get a sense of when they were playing, but we figured they'd follow the campus band that won the competition to play before Chevelle and Guster hit the stage. Good thing we got there early, because the Gin Blossoms were first. Yes, the Gin Blossoms opened for a local act in a massive stadium. How sad, but so fortunate for me because I said I'd meet someone at the Velvet Lounge on U Street at 8:30, and I had plenty of time for that.

The sound was good, but you couldn't help but wonder why they were booked or even had an interest in playing. Who knew they still existed?! They don't even have a website. I Googled them and located the "unofficial" website, but even that didn't help provide details on this gig. The photo used in the school paper yesterday was dated 1996. 1996! The frontman, Biff (yes, Biff), was wearing a hoodie. A fucking hoodie. You know that is not my thing, it's way too related to publicly wearing pajamas or sweats. And wearing sunglasses (it was freezing for May and not sunny). Clearly trying to reclaim his youth, it was a bit sad. He crowd surfed. Yes, seriously. He was a good showman, and I really want to give him credit for that. It was well worth the experience and the free price tag.

Velvet Lounge Love.
On Wednesday, I ran into a dilemma. In a random effort to procrastinate by checking out local venues for clubs prompted by an email from The Phobes saying that Friday would be their last show, I looked up the other three bands playing with them--and dug all the sounds (particularly The Bonapartes and Bona Roba). I had to go. But I also wanted to see Deep Throat, showing at midnight on campus. I decided, fuck Deep Throat. If you know me, you know I had to be really psyched about the show to turn down classic porn. But then Allie couldn't go due to the 21+ policy. I was even thinking of going alone, but my pal Jon agreed even though he hadn't heard of any of the bands. I love the thrill of discovering really cool, live, local music. L.A. better not disappoint (like I could be disappointed with that smoking ban! I'll be in heaven.). So I got there prompt as hell at 8:30. I was the first person there that didn't work there (or band). Yes, I'm serious. How dorky am I? There was some confusion about start times for key bands so I thought better get there just before the thing was supposed to start at 9. Well, it started a little after 10. I was geekily sitting there reading the City Paper as the employees chatted and I tried to make some conversation. I was saved from utter embarrassment when Andrew (grad school colleague) and his friends walked in to have a drink at the bar. Then Jon showed up. I had to talk a mile a minute (as if I don't do that naturally) just to keep myself awake, knowing it was going to be a long night. And it was. I was ready to pack it in by the time The Phobes hit the stage at nearly 1. They were my least favorite of the night, perhaps influenced by my zombie/exhausted state and the interaction of some of the smoking and drunken people, but also because I think I just liked the other three bands better. Bona Roba was a strong second to The Bonapartes (see below) with melodic indie rock and some Mick Jagger/Jim Morrison/David Bowie showmanship. Jerra, fronted by a woman (and you know I generally detest female vocals even as a feminist, it's a style thing), was very solid. Something to look forward to in L.A., where they are based.

The Bonapartes.
So you know I've got this Francophile thing going on. No, The Bonapartes aren't French, but reading their self-description they like to play up that sort of influence too. Actually, I rather like the words they put out about themselves, intellectualizing their own endeavor. That's sexy as hell. You can stream three songs via their MySpace page, but I couldn't get the download function to work using three different browsers. So I posted a comment praising the show and their concept, but asking about the download issue. Well, I should click around before I open my mouth, because now I'm embarrassed. I located their independent website at http://www.thebonapartes.com to find the songs downloadable. However, my personal favorite "Domino Theories" is incomplete! So I recommend streaming that one for sure, but the other two are solid, especially "Concentric." I'm bummed, because I was planning to make a new mix CD and use "Domino Theories" as the opener.