Elsewhere | The Politics of Conor Oberst

I am pretty sure that I could write about 2000 - 2005 era Saddle Creek forever. It wouldn't necessarily be thoughtful, or good, or substantial, but I could keep going without end. THat's all I'm saying.

Fortunately, this concert piece I did for Moxipop, is a little more substantial than that. I could never deny that Desaparecidos had a weird, somewhat underdeveloped political edge, but it kinda crystallized when I saw them live. Still, it was a great time, I just understand this great time differently.

 

Elsewhere | Committing Kitty Crimes

I think I might be happy with the way this (very) longform piece for Moxipop turned out. Profiles are often the most fun thing to write, especially if the subject gives you something meaty like artistic identity to latch onto. But, then again, I did just finish it so I am not qualified to judge its quality yet. I'm sure I'll come back to it in 2 days and be horrified by some typos or judgments or sentences, as I always am. Nothing is good for longer than 10 minutes.

Elsewhere | Chvrches - The Bones Of What You Believe

Moxipop is going to be the home for most of my music writings right now, and following up my inaugural Okkervil River review is a few paragraphs about of my most anticipated albums of the year. It's good. It's great. It's not Album of the Year (The National is still holding on) but dang, you guys, this is going to be a beloved debut. This is either the making of a new indie institution or the inevitable stellar debut to unfortunate slump (hey mgmt.)

On Oddball Festival 2013

How much is mythology worth? It's not something you can buy, but that doesn't mean it's priceless. Dave Chappelle would have you believe it's not worth 30 million dollars.

"I didn't walk away from 30 million dollars," he said during the Irvine stop of Funny or Die's inaugural Oddbal Comedy & Curiosity Festival. "I still want it."

He went on about the bogus benefits of artistic integrity ("Let me feed my kids some integrity sandwiches") and the way most people will never understand what it's like to be offered 30 million dollars to do something. My initial instinct is to assume he's joking about the regret, because there are more jokes in it than talking about how you took a righteous stand against the fame machine. It just seemed like he left of his own free will and could get a show any time he wanted.

But he's right -- I can't fathom what a 30 million dollar offer means and what it feels like 10 years after turning it down. It's no small thing. So I can't assume that he doesn't mean the things he's saying.

At the same time, if he hadn't left his show, he wouldn't be the mythic figure he is now. But what does that amount to? He'd still be big enough to headline a comedy tour with Flight of the Conchords, but it wouldn't be a legendary return to the public eye. He still could have sold out the Verizon Ampitheatre in Irvine, but it might not have sold out as fast as it did. The idea of Dave Chappelle as a master comedian that won't dance when you tell him to, reinforced by his non-compliance at Oddball's stop in Hartford, has made him stand-up comedy's only modern day mythical figure. He would've been a hall of fame, headline comic like Chris Rock but now he could be anything.

But, still, 30 million dollars. I kept thinking about that trade off before & after the festival, wondering what's better, what matters more. It just comes down to waiting and seeing how his work will be remembered. Building a mythology is something that happens organically, and when everything comes together it's like a winning lottery ticket. But its value can only be determined in the far future. Perhaps it won't be worth the giant cash-in. Intangibles are hard to measure, and not everyone cares about maintaining a profile in the history of comedy.

Oddball was a great time, but, yes, odd. Stand-up comedy festivals can't work the way music festivals work. There's still more of a monoculture in comedy than there is in music, so you can't divide acts up into multiple stages and compete for the attention economy. There was a secondary stage, yes, but that wrapped up as soon as the big stage show began, which was a stacked line-up of Jeff Ross, Kristen Schaal, Al Madrigal, Chris D'elia, Jim Jeffries, Donnell Rawlings, Flight of the Conchords and, of course, Dave Chappelle.

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Elsewhere | 3 Frozen Yogurt Experiments In The South Bay

Yesterday on SeeSouthBay, I create monsters and eat them.

This ridiculous piece came together mostly because I wanted to write something vaguely more creative but still promotional. I understand and am happy with my promotional role on See South Bay, but I was curious to see how far I could go off-brand. It felt good. I'm not glad I ate these things, but I'm glad I got to write about them and just be an absurdist fake journalist for an afternoon. Hopefully I'll get to be a little looser on things like this.

Songs About Elliott Smith

It's Elliott Smith season; the time between his birthday (August 6th) and the date of his passing (October 21.) There's a certain segment of fans that treat these 3 months as a time to reflect on his work. Retrospective think pieces will be written and XO vinyls will be dusted off, but you can see this most at the Figure 8 mural in Los Angeles. It's around these dates that there's an uptick of messages scrawled along its black, white and red lines. As if it were a holiday, some fans leave flowers or candles.

In the nearly 10 years since his passing, there's no doubting that he's remembered as an avatar of suffering through art. He's become indie's Kurt Cobain. Depending on your temperament, this is either the canonizing of a saint or the reduction of a rich and unknowable life.

I understand the ways it is problematic. Even in life, Smith seemed to resist the idea of being the sad, confessional artist that many of us channeled from his work. It didn't matter. As fans, we used the idea as a totem to explore our own troubles. Falling in love with the tragic story required assumptions on our part that were easy to make. It's even easier to characterize him these days. In death, there's no one to stop us from forming whatever romantic image we want.

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Washed Out @ Sonos Studio | 7.29.13

I wasn't sure if I was going to actually get in to the show, or rather, the "listening party" for Washed Out's newest album, PARACOSM. In truth, it was more of a free concert, but because of the nature of chillwave (and any instrumental studio composition album) perhaps "listening party" was more appropriate. The venue was Sonos Studio, a small soundproof art & sound gallery just a few miles from LACMA. The lack of ticket fees meant hundreds of leeches like me would be in line, yes, but it also meant there was potential for a special night.

In my on-going quest for once-in-a-lifetime concert experiences, the free show is a high value target. The rarity of the event plus the open access compels artists to put a unique performance together — or at least, as fans, we believe they will. They're not required to do so in any way, but if ever there was a time for it, it would have to be under these unique circumstances, right? That's the hope. Even I, a mere mid-level Washed Out fan, was excited for this night and the show that might happen.

But first there was the line and other fans. I arrived 45 minutes before the listed start time with only 20 people ahead of me in the general admission/mere pedestrian line. Across from us there was the VIP line which held 10 or so people that deceptively looked just like me. The first thing I noticed is that Washed Out's fanbase runs a little older. Maybe it was the promise of an interview with NPR's Nic Harcourt that skewed the demographics, but I was surprised at how many 30 and 40 somethings were down with "chillwave" or whatever replacement label we've decided to use without shame.

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Loose Leaves 07.23.13

Okay. I think I've calmed down a little.

Some day, I will be able to explain strong feelings in measured, well articulated tones. Until then, I have learned to be emotional and to aim at other people's emotional centers. I am not hoping to become more moderate. I hope that I will always be "an earnest," "as uncompromising as justice," and all that -- but I also know that the last entry was mostly steam. And steam isn't substantial enough, not if I want it to stick around.

I very recently just got off the road. I'll write about that trip some day, when it has gestated in my head for long enough. It was mostly a success, with some outstanding and unfortunate events that make it worth turning into something. But not right now.

Right now I'm listening to SILENCE YOURSELF by Savages because Sufjan went pedantic on their typography. My listening habits this season have split into two branches: stripped, guitar-centric, time displaced 90's alt-rock (Yuck, Hebronix, Wavves) and electronic indie pop (CHVRCHES, Geographer, even something pure pop like Charli XCX who has great production.) I don't think it's because I've outgrown all the folk-descendent music that I've always followed, but there isn't a lot happening in that scene right now. Waxahatchee was the last great one to break through earlier this year, and I'd be hard pressed to think of the break through before her.

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What Happened Today

"ALL SMILES" -- @joemande

On some level, yeah, I expected this verdict because the system is broken. Because the technicality of this dumb fucking law allows you to stalk and kill somebody so long as there are no witnesses. I can imagine someone who is a strict letter-of-the-law adherent, with no room for finesse or spirit of the law. I disagree vehemently with it, but I can imagine how someone could arrive to that conclusion. I can imagine a fearful, narrow-minded jury defaulting to innocence because it's one guys word versus literal dead silence.

What I cannot understand, under any fucking circumstance, is how this is somehow a verdict worth cheering for. Like, I don't understand you, I hope I never understand you, I hope your lack of empathy and basic humanity is your downfall some day. Even if you think the verdict should be not guilty, I don't know how you can see this as a victory. At best, it would be just a grim reality of the world we live in. Something to exhale over and move on. Not put on a smile and pump your first. Nah. Fuck you.

The only way that mentality can exist is if you see yourself on a "team" -- basically team Anti-black-teens. If you feel like your right to judge, hate, fear and despise young black men is under attack, then that's the only way you could feel a sense of victory. Hooray! You can continue being disgusting!

The lesson here is that in Florida, you can get away with murder so long as there are no witnesses, because then you control the narrative and can say whatever you want. Even when you created the situation. Even when you were wrong. Even when you admit to it.

These specific assholes like to say, "Well Trayvon shouldn't have swung back," or "Well here's a picture of Trayvon flipping off a camera." As if he's the one that's on trial, as if most 17 year olds aren't angry and flipping people off. They hold him -- the victim -- to a different standard than Zimmerman, the admitted murderer. They say Trayvon shouldn't have fought back, but they never say Zimmerman shouldn't have stalked him. They're willing to forgive Zimmerman's shortsighted decision, but they'll say Trayvon's led to his own death. 

I can understand a person who disagrees. I can imagine that being an opinion. I don't imagine how you can pretend anyone "won" here. George Zimmerman is a free man, he gets his gun back, he gets as many guns as he wants and he's out on the street as a one-man vigilante. And our legal system says it's okay to be just like him.

Beads on a String

Ryan Davis died last week. For people that aren't immersed in video game journalism culture, let's just say this: he wasn an entertainer. I'm someone who does more reading about games culture than actual game playing, and I have been pretty familiar with his work for the last 4 or so years. I primarily knew him as a really funny commentator, purposely abrasive, but completely charismatic. He died last week, 5 days after his wedding.

"Some day, someone will write the book on grieving in the age of social media," said his colleague Jeff Gerstmann the day after the news broke. He was aware of the weirdness of the situation, and how it was this strange confluence of celebrity, internet accessibility and the ease of emotional connectedness that the internet can develop when used correctly. Thousands of comments poured in, he got written up in Reuters, virtually every major games news site put up a tribute or fond anecdote. Complete strangers were reaching out to his widow and his father. You might expect this if it were James Gandolfini or some other mainstream media star, but to most people, in most circles, this was just a guy that worked at a website.

Whenever I think about the impact these subculture figureheads make, an impact that far exceeds what you would reasonably expect, my mind always recalls a line from Kieron Gillen & Jamie McKelvie's PHONOGRAM: "They're never going to be Big big. But they're going to be big to some people."

I was a fan of Ryan Davis and his website Giant Bomb, but I wasn't a dedicated fan. I didn't listen in every week or watch every video or read every article. I tuned in when I was bored and got 10 to 20 minutes of entertainment before convincing myself to do something productive. For a fan like me, there's a wealth of undiscovered Davis material in the archives that I can explore. I did, and it was like nothing had ever happened. I was laughing at jokes and learning about whatever they were talking about.

Superfans that ate up everything he put out felt his passing more acutely. His absence was marked in a lack of new content, the media stream would no longer produce things with his name on it. But because I had only known him and his life in a specific context -- video, audio, articles -- i'm capable of achieving a temporary amnesia. This context that I know about him hasn't gone away.

In that way, the internet, when used by producers and all-media creatives, has achieved Kurt Vonnegut's vision of death in SLAUGHTERHOUSE FIVE:

The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral. All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist. The Tralfamadorians can look at all the different moments just that way we can look at a stretch of the Rocky Mountains, for instance. They can see how permanent all the moments are, and they can look at any moment that interests them. It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever.

When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition in the particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is ‘So it goes.’

It's different from an Elliott Smith or a Heath Ledger passing. Their death marks their work, so that even if you got into their work post-mortem, the tragedy suddenly rears its head in everything they've done. It colors and flavors it. It's not so with Davis, partially because he worked in comedy, and it's hard to be reflect on death when you're laughing. But also because Davis was locked into multiple intimate online mediums: weekly, lengthy podcasts that were played in-your-ear and in-your-head, hundreds of quick bursts of video where he talks directly to the camera, conversational writing with clarity. These were one-on-one experiences, distributed online, to hundreds of thousands of people. They don't lose that potency even when the guy is gone.

I'm not attempting to make a grand statement like Davis will live forever, or that online we are all immortal. Just that the wonderful thing about today and now is that if you produce, if you make things and they're personal and true, it's the closest we can get to a kind of spacetime vision. We see life as a single point, but if we take a step to the side we can see that it stretches into the distance -- an elongated line, made up of many points.

Contemporary Superheroics

Before I saw it, MAN OF STEEL was positioned in my head as an antidote to IRON MAN 3. IRON MAN 3, that annoying, mediocre, poorly-plotted superhero film that hated being a superhero film. You could really feel the change in behind-the-camera talent as they leaned hard on the charm of Robert Downey Jr.'s banter to the point of breaking. They constantly undercut themselves, defating suspense in order to shoehorn psueod-witty back-and-forth at every unnatural opportunity.

It reminded me of a class clown who uses humor as a defense mechanism to avoid being vulnerable or opening up. Like a school bully who had accidentally revealed something deeply personal and serious, and upon noticing this, slams it shut by immediately giving a kid a wedgie. Like, dude. You can take yourself seriously sometimes, it's cool. No one's going to judge you.

Instead, we have Tony Stark & James Rhodes forcing some Seinfeld-ian banter about ammunition or whatever before they storm the enemy base. Or, a defeated and worn Tony Stark must rely on the kindness of a kid he just ran into — except because that kind of sincerity is lame to someone, let's make them both sarcastic assholes because we think that's all people like about Iron Man. Flimsy facades of personality for everyone!

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Photoglitching

I've been having fun with the chaotic randomness of photo glitching, the way a child has fun with the spray paint tool in MS Paint. I know it's an old hat to a certain type of New Aesthetic graphic designer, and I know I'm not really doing anything interesting with it — but I've been randomly acquiring graphic design skills for nearly 10 years now, at some point I ought to learn how to create this type of warped, digital static and fragmentation. It's a tool to have.

I got curious about it because Warren Ellis was singing the praises of an iPhone app that took care of the nitty gritty photo glitching for you. Being an Android user, the app wasn't available to me, but I knew there were other ways around it. An app like decim8 is just a clean, accessible version of glitching the way Instagram is just a clean, accessible version of vintage photography. So with a quick Google, I found out glitching was really simple, done in under a minute, and weirdly fun.

Much like the faux-vintage cool of Instagram, photoglitching's appeal is in purposely fuxin' with something to create some illusion of artistry and authenticity. It's hipster chic that looks to the future instead of the past. The key here is that doing it yourself is more than just selecting a filter, it's about experimentation and the simple implications of little things.

All it is is taking a picture file in a certain format, opening it up in a text editor, deleting things, and seeing what happens. You use a barebones text editor like Notepad, Wordpad, or HTML editors like Notepad++. Better yet, use all three — that's the fun. Different file types do different things in different editors, even on different operating systems. Messing with a BMP scrambles the order & hue of the photo. A PNG creates harsh static, a TIFF warps like old VHS tapes. On Windows 7, Wordpad doesn't do much differently, but on older operating systems, even saving untouched data on Wordpad throws a huge wrench into how the file is read.

Then there's the question of what you're deleting and what it does. It's pure trial and error. You stare into the unintelligible glyphs, the matrix in every JPEG, and you pick spots at random to see your results. What happens if you delete a huge chunk? A single character? From the beginning of a file or the end?

I've found that most of the code at the top, especially in a PNG, is important to maintain the file's "stability." It is very easy to corrupt a picture so that it cannot be opened in Preview or Photoshop. I made a few dozen files last weekend, running them through different ringers — corrupt a BMP, save it as a PNG, make a copy, add minor glitches, add different glitches on the copy, resave them all — there are a million combinations. And it's easy. There's a stupid simplicity to the whole thing that turns out rewards that well outweigh the work you put in.

The last time I went to San Diego Comic Con, I made sure to get a sketch from one of my favorite illustrators, Francis Manapul. This was when his star was on the rise, but he had not yet revealed himself to be a company superstar. There wasn't a lot of traffic at his end of Artist's Alley, and he was a kind enough dude to do a quick, free sketch. With one hand holding up the pad, and the other holding up a brush, he whipped up a quick Superboy in a few strokes.

"I wouldn't even be able to hold up a pad with one hand, let alone draw on it."
"It's not really about control," he said. "It's more like managing the chaos."

He was just laying down thick lines and deciding what to do from there, letting the chaos of each stroke dictate how he would wrangle it in with the next one. And that's fun. The unpredictability of it makes it experimental and mysterious, though we have little chance of understanding it. It's art made from math, strictly adhering to algorithms, a painting completely free of the human mind.

Review | I'm Not Alone I'll Never Be

A moment of honesty: I've been disappointed by a lot of the recent efforts by the artists I hold highest: the xx, James Blake, Beach House, Youth Lagoon and the rest. It would be unreasonable to call any of their records bad, or even anything less than solid, but I was underwhelmed by their inability to recapture the magic that brought them to the spotlight.

That is not the case with the National's TROUBLE WILL FIND ME. It could have been, and it looked like it was heading that way because the first two songs they released were blood-slowing trudgers. They man the album's first two slots, but after that, there is no slump for the National. I haven't listened to anything else this much all year. Lines are in my head when I wake, and the melodies dictate the motion of my day. It's as good as anything they've ever done, further cementing their place as a central, inclusive fixture in the indie rock landscape.

In all the National pieces I've read over the last couple of weeks, every music journalist and blogger seems to feel it necessary to address the criticism floating in the air. Meaning, I don't actually see a lot of the actual criticism, maybe they're random Twitterers and Hype Machine squatters, I just see a lot of pre-emptive defenses. By and large, this seems to be a beloved band, but I think we're pulled to justify them because, on paper, this band shouldn't work. In indie rock's culture of cutting edge coolness, where "trendiness" has been replaced by "relevance", a bunch of 40 year-olds in dark menswear making songs of constant sorrow shouldn't be an institution. But then you listen to them.

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The Redemption of Disco

I'm having trouble with the redemption of disco.

The long-awaited new Daft Punk album, RANDOM ACCESS MEMORY, certainly has a lot to do with it, but from where I'm standing the ball started rolling last year with Hot Chip's IN OUR HEADS. This is, of course, a purely personal evaluation; you may find enough disco element's in Royksopp's JUNIOR, or perhaps your definition of disco can encompass the sounds of LCD Soundsystem's 45:33. But for me, it wasn't until that Hot Chip album that I began to evaluate where I stood with disco, and it took a hell of a Daft Punk album to finally make me commit to a decision.

For us loathsome millenials, disco has long been the communal punching bag. We all developed different tastes and hates, but it was universal that disco was bad. It was awful high collar white suits, images of John Travolta pointing to the opposite corners of the room, "Disco Inferno" and our parents in awkward pictures. We could come around on all our other biases, but disco was the village idiot, never to be redeemed, a scar on music history reinforced by jokes on The Simpsons.

At the same time, I was a bassist, and disco was the last genre that let us feel important. Rock & roll had great bassists, but they were great because they used their talent to force themselves into notoriety. With disco, a good bass groove was necessity, not a luxury reserved for the cream of the crop. I thought of the genre as uncool, but even then I still had to learn "Play That Funky Music" and "Stayin' Alive." It was fun to do, but still, ultimately, the peak of uncoolness.

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Loose Leaves 05.13.13

Tonight, I finished Haruki Murakami's NORWEGIAN WOOD. It's my second Murakami book (first being THE WIND-UP BIRD CHRONICLE) and I was surprised at how straight forward and brisk it was. I didn't realize that it was considered his blockbuster hit and most accessible, mainstream work but that didn't feel like a knock to me -- the surrealism of WIND-UP BIRD was a source of entertainment, but I didn't miss it in the books relentless push into the crevices of the heart. I wanted to say that this was "just a love story," but it's effective books like this that remind you that love stories are no small thing. When they're not just mandatory B-plots in suspense thrillers, they're as big as the world. They're life and death.

It's a fantastic read -- moving with unflourished, effortless prose, stock full of complex character histories, and a story that has a faint ring of death through out. The last 100 or so pages of any book are exciting because of the inertia; you know the end is near, and suddenly every passage is suspenseful, important ground. But disregarding this phenomenon, there was so much in that last third that determines the fates of these characters. It was almost unfair.

Even though I like it a lot, I have to acknowledge the heavy male-centric escapist fantasy going on. The protagonist Toru Watanabe is a guy with no obvious extraordinary personality traits except he's adopted a kind of CATCHER IN THE RYE laid back perpetual coolness. He speaks in short, frank sentences, but exudes a quiet untapped intelligence. As a result, nearly every woman throws themselves at him, he's constantly adored, but he does little to earn it (but rarely chases in.) It sounds worse when I type it out that way -- most of it isn't overbearing, and it's still enjoyable for readers of any gender, but it's hard to ignore that its engine relies on the yearnings, ego and angst of young men.

My reading of the book took away a lot about the echo of death. How it attaches to our lives and the lives of those around us -- Kizuki, Midori's father and the others -- and the different ways it curses or liberates. There's an argument in there about how this relationship, the line between life and death that we live along, makes death not the opposite, but an inescapable part of life. I'm afraid of ever really understanding this.

It's funny, a friend of mine a few years back asked me to read a novel he was working on, and one of the things I criticized was  the 4 or 5 character deaths he had written in. It was a bit much for me. I said, "If you're going to kill this many characters, it better make me feel like it's the worst day of my life." As I closed the back cover and examined how I felt, NORWEGIAN WOOD comes close. If I let myself take a step back and look at the character tree and all those withered branches, it does seem like a bit much, but it works. It gets dour, but not hysterical, tragic but not weeping. The way the news is delivered and doled out is almost merciful and sweet.

I was at my local post-work coffee shop when I finished the book. Still living in the book's fog, I semi-randomly picked Still Life Still's "Burial Suit" to listen to on the ride home. The wiry guitar hook and heavy bass let me stay in the fog a little longer. It was a good pairing, the cheese to book's wine. If you've got a sunset drive, I'd recommend it to anyone:

The next stop on my shelf is THE GREAT GATSBY which I'm supposed to have read by now. Through some weird contortions of fate, I was always taking the courses that didn't assign the book. In fact, my teachers didn't assign very many classics to us. In AP English, I was busy trying to pick through BRAZZAVILLE BEACH and THE HANDMAID'S TALE. There are advantages to this approach -- the classics are always there and obvious for us to read on our own time. Still, I'm going to knock this book out quick and in secret. Once I've assimilated it into my being, I'll pretend that I read it years ago. Don't tell anyone.

The only thing I'm taking in outside of music & books is THE ELDER SCROLLS IV: SKYRIM, the NBA Finals, and MARON. MARON is a great show for fans of Marc Maron. Andy Greenwald is correct in assessing that the show doesn't capture what's great about his WTF podcast, but for those of us that have grown to become a fan of his person, warts and all, it's immensely gratifying. No small part of it is his narrative of being a constant underdog finally getting his day in the sun -- it's joyful for superfans merely because he's getting the acclaim he's convinced us he deserves. In that current form, it might not be an instant crossover hit, but it's a wonderful base to start from.

I was surprised at how well they've written everyone that isn't Marc. Kyle, Dragon Master, and even the celebrity guests have delightful character quirks and personalities that deflect any criticism of Marc's work being navel-gazing. The temptation here is to compare it to LOUIE, another show where a comedian gets to do whatever the hell he wants, but it doesn't even feel like the same genre. It's more conventional and movie-like, as opposed to the strangely funny essays that LOUIE presents to us in theatrical form.

I'm looking forward to it. I dont' get IFC, so I've been relying on Hulu & Amazon Instant Video. I wasn't initially jazzed about spending $3 for an episode, but then I realized I spend twice that almost every day on expensive coffee because some guy makes it in a vase or some shit. I felt like an ass after that.

Brooklyn Festival: Sufjan Stevens, Bryce Dessner & Nico Muhly @ Walt Disney Concert Hall | 4.22.13

If you're just joining us, I was two days recovered from the Antlers and their wall of sound performance in the high tech Walt Disney Concert Hall. The "Brooklyn Festival" continued there through the weekend, but I was only interested in attending the closer: "Planetarium," a solar-system inspired collaborative set of songs by Sufjan Stevens, Bryce Dessner (The National) and Nico Muhly. The combination of Sufjan Stevens and the vague description, I was prepared for anything. Wordless orchestral composition in 15 movements, an educational film set to music and a giant diorama with costumed characters were all on the board. It turned out to be a bombastic, larger than life visual/audio feast full of video art, light shows, and prog rock songs from an alternate universe.

Despite the all-star lineup and musical talent on stage, the show was made by its visual component. Hanging above center stage was a 20 foot tall, pitch-black inflated sphere. I had originally thought it was 2 dimensional because of how much it sucked in light, giving no clues to its shape. When the songs were on, visualizer-style abstract video art was projected precisely onto it. For the song "Jupiter," a light flare would swirl in hot colors, resembling the giant's eye. For "Saturn," stripes with the texture of vinyl would run across the sphere and occasionally look like cut up close ups of its rings. For "The Sun," a snake-like trail of fire drew across the darkened orb, dying and sparking in a cycle as Sufjan sent adrift a short, "Redmond"-like ambient piece. For "Earth", a blue smoke that eventually faded into a 3 dimensional kaleidoscope with the texture of Earth's satellite photos.

Each was complimented by 360 degrees of colored spotlight constructions and lasers cutting across the darkened auditorium. I try my best, but it's almost pointless for me to try and describe the effect of the art. Even the video embedded above doesn't do it justice — it's one thing to see it in a tiny 560 pixel rectangle, it's another thing to be surrounded by it — it was the atmosphere of the night. The visuals were creative, playful and emotive, all set to the music of Sufjan Stevens.

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Brooklyn Festival: The Antlers & Chairlift at Walt Disney Concert Hall | 04.22.13

The Walt Disney Concert Hall is one of the few prestige venues of Los Angeles that I really like. The Hollywood Bowl and the Greek Theater bring with them an air of importance, but it's only downtown's Walt Disney that also allows for a pleasant viewing experience. It's small, so even though you're paying top dollar you're bound to get a good view, and most importantly, it's designed with acoustics in mind.

Last week they created an event they called "Brooklyn Festival" - 5 nights of notable Brooklyn acts, showcasing the creative and cultural burst that area has produced in the last decade. In place of Coachella's overload in the desert, I put my money into two of their nights: Sufjan Stevens, Nico Muhly & Bryce Dressner and Friday night's double header of The Antlers & Chairlift.

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Review | But A Stone On The Shore

It's strange now to think of the time when dubstep was the cutting edge of music, with two opposing conceptions of it fighting over its soul. There was a hyper kinetic tooth-pulling dance noise led by a guy with long hair on one side, and then there was music that sounded like a long nap. At least, that's how critics and fans described it if they weren't drinking James Blake's Kool-Aid. Me, I came back for seconds.

It's obvious now that that battle is over, and the clear winner is the guy featured in hit movie soundtracks and Internet Explorer commercials. I don't think anyone lines Blake up with the dubstep label these days, and so now he's just his own thing. This brand of music with distorted, muffled bass steeped in pits of silence, like painting gray on black. On his follow-up album, OVERGROWN, there is a little more energy and fire, but for the most part it's still the cold earth and the deep sea.

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