Considering its use as a catch-all for music originating in the general “not North America or Western Europe” region, the “world music” label, while technically accurate, is arguably the laziest addition to the English language since Martha Stewart coined “fixer-upper” in 1914 (a title challenged in recent years as Twitter spawned The Verb That Shall Never Appear Herein).
If the sprawling genre should apply to any musical production, though, it would be to that of Thievery Corporation: Sure, Beltway stalwarts Eric Hilton and Rob Garza serve as the group’s core, but a revolving, polyglotic galaxy of guest contributors define the Corporation’s identity. From Anoushka Shankar to Seu Jorge, the collection has drawn from disparate corners of the globe over the past 15 years, mixing genres to oftentimes brilliant effect. Loyalists laud the mega-collab as groundbreaking in its synthesis of foreign sounds and cultures; detractors accuse the band of aspiring to a Starbucks-worthy brand of vapid backpacker trip-hop. Last weekend, it scarcely mattered: Thievery Corporation brought its lush consonance to San Francisco’s annual “Sea of Dreams” New Year’s festival, and 7,000 revelers converged to greet 2011 as one pulsing, euphoric mass of Day-Glo.
This isn’t to suggest, however, that the conglomerate played alone: Berlin’s Modeselektor and gypsy-punk-evolved Balkan Beat Box topped the roster of nearly two dozen acts on four stages. Thievery, in fact, effectively opened for brash SoCal DJ MiMOSA, whose 70 minutes of “crunk-step dub-hop” (his words) shut down the venue before an entranced crowd that thinned only minimally after Thievery stepped off. The throngs jiggled through a vast maze of stages, sideshows, vendors, and recovery stations, with throwback candyravers, goths, and all sorts in between ogling an impressive assortment of hanging jumbo neon constellations and other visual treats. Elaborately-bearded tea mavens from San Francisco’s OmShanTea served up hot refreshments in a Bedouin tent-like environment, while upstairs, UC-Santa Cruz grads and other mellow-outers vied for prime puffing position in the aptly named Hookahdome Lounge.
Thievery Corporation, which took the stage shortly after midnight and played well past 2 am, ran through a host of standards (yes, “Lebanese Blonde” included), drawing heavily from its latest and most political album, 2008’s Radio Retaliation (playing “Vampires,” “Sweet Tides” and “33 Degree,” to name a few). Co-founders Hilton and Garza — still the band’s only official members — presided over the stage behind twin turntables as longtime vocal mainstays LouLou (France), Sleepy Wonder (Jamaica) and Emiliana Torrini (Iceland) swapped turns in the spotlight with several other toasters, funksters and songstresses. Meanwhile, a DC-heavy collection of instrumentalists layered sitar upon sax, trumpet upon guitar, bass upon bongoes until the roof of the main hall, wracked from beyond by a howling winter’s storm and from within by relentless and rolling basslines and the heat of many thousands of sweating bodies, could take no more and dropped the first raindrops of 2011 onto the heads of the revelers below.
Never before has a leaking roof been welcomed with such enthusiasm.
A couple awaking-at-3pm thoughts on what appears to be a beauty of a wintry Sunday in New York:
1.) Kettle’s new “Fully Loaded Baked Potato” chips are a fairly large disappointment. It seems the stoners in their R&D department merely combined the seasonings of the BBQ and sour cream-and-onion lines and called it a day. Bacon isn’t even mentioned among the ingredients. Thusly, I’m saving the second half of the bag until my re-up of Bacon Salt arrives (no, really). Will report back.
2.) Ghostland Observatory + Terminal 5 = laser armageddon. Yes, Steph, this is my review.
3.) A couple of Brits are immersed in a very cool project of modest intentions (via): “To write to everyone in the world.” In April, Lenka Clayton and Michael Crowe sent a unique, handwritten letter to all 467 residents of the Irish town of Cushendall. The recipients learnt all about the origins of the horse and the artists’ outdoor exploits. Last month, Clayton and Crowe launched part two of Mysterious Letters, this time loosing their thoughts upon the 620 denizens of Polish Hill, Pennsylvania. The results include such genius dickery as this. Looks like they’re catching some press, too. Coffee table book in six months’ time.
…was tight as always, albeit a little light on the underage freaking. So tight, in fact, that we’re gonna let it marinate for another day or two before attempting to describe it. In the meantime, Long Island City looked nice the other day (realtors: photography skills for hire — yes, it’s true, I’m still available):
We ventured across Newtown Creek for LIC Artists’ Open Studios and, in typical DCQ fashion, set aside enough time to visit the workspaces of three of the 150-plus participating artists. Converted old factories and warehouses on barren industrial blocks slicing through a neighborhood trending residential housed the studios…
…which held, along with paint-splattered daycare centers, rotting staircases and freight elevators, some nice stuff from relative unknowns:
The responsibility inherent to this blogging business has had us all flustered recently, so we decided to just sit around and eat corned beef hash out of the can and wait for someone to finally invent the remedial device that will read our Cleverest/Poignantest Thought of the Day and transcribe it onto this limp-wristed blog. Seems basic enough, right? But Jackass Scientist Man is evidently preoccupied with more trivial matters, so we regretfully return to pounding the keyboard with our middle fingers and opposable thumbs while eating more corned beef hash out of the can, because that shit is delicious.
In keeping with tradition, then, we once again eschew literary substance in favor of photos and throwaway captions while celebrating the now-rapid approach of the Day the Puerto Ricans Retake Manhattan. It’s a mere month away now, so maybe it’s time I overcome my newly perfected machete phobia and saunter over to Sazon Perez for a mound of greasy, crackily pernil, since it’s allllmost as delectable as corned beef hash and it doesn’t typically come with aluminum splinters and other tasty surprises that sometimes make non-crunchy canned foods crunchy. Oy…hurry up, Jackass Scientist Man. For now, shutup, you, and marvel upon the shiny soul-drawrings:
Shouldn’t wear a wife-beater for the same reason I don’t wear an afro: Because it just looks stupid
A Passover for the memories: It snowed in April, the sun returned to its God-chosen point of origin, and the deli guy topped my morning bagel with cream cheese and lox instead of its raggedy Appalachian cousin lox spread. And finally, thanks to a very large and loud collection of family friends/benefactors, my fridge is now stocked with several containers of mysterious concoctions involving raisins, nuts, matzoh and “ch” sounds.
In other news, a crew of American seamen provided more fodder for ethnocentric Yanks by overthrowing their Somalian pirate captors, while another group of buccaneers clearly slept through the “What Kind of Boats to Not Hijack” seminar. Most importantly, though, “Pablo Sandoval,” IDM’s beer-addled trivia team, scored 94 points last night in its first contest of the year, which happened to coincide with a successful first contest of the year for a certain baseball team by a certain bay. Pablo Sandoval’s showing was good enough for second place, as the number ‘94’ oft is in things such as trivia and, say, baseball. We didn’t receive a wild card playoff invitation because the league’s administrative office is populated with Mongoloids, but if we had, we’re confident that our fundamental excellence (in geography, pop culture, sports and music, as it were) would have allowed us to dominate the opposition, who only won because we started slow and they were using iPhones like A-Rod used needles. Nevertheless, the 94 remains. An omen? Last I checked, one can still dream.
And finally, enjoy this fun video from a couple of Jamiroquai-sounding Euros (playing SF’s Mezzanine on 5/15):
A little Röyksopp-infused entertainment for you brainless bastards on a rainy, lazy work-filled Friday afternoon:
We’re off for the weekend to Sager Farms, where they grow emus and house criminal-minded goats. Line of the Day: “We cannot confirm the story, but the goat is in our custody.”
If you, like us, viewed the 1980s through the colored lenses of blissful youth—eyes shielded, that is, from Iran-Contra, Wall Street and Menudo—some visionary probably gathered your entire elementary school in the big kids’ yard to release balloons into the air at some point. With notes reading “Hello this is Tom I like Will Clark” and “Hi my cat’s name is Barf what is your’s (sic)?” attached, the rising multicolored cloud caught a westerly and drifted out of sight, headed for Europe or Russia or the Nation of Africa, you were sure. More likely they landed in Modesto or Syracuse, were swept into storm drains and channeled into rivers that led to the ocean, where they suffocated that sea turtle you found dead and bloated on the beach two weeks later—you know, the one that still screams at you in your sleep and sits in your rocking chair asking judgmental questions during bad acid trips.
The point is that even at a public school filled with children of reformed hippies in an environmentally prescient city like San Francisco, we went willy-nilly with the balloons. Kids in Missouri are probably still doing it. Meanwhile, in Brazil and Oregon, people are putting balloons to good use. I mean, if you must loose all that rubber on some unsuspecting sap/sea creature in a far-off land/sea, at least have the balls to put your money where your mouth is. RIP, Reverend Adelir.
