The Secret Machines . . .

Imagine if the rockin'est band you know played one of the best shows you have ever seen. Imagine yourself dancing and singing along, cheering and screaming until you voice fails. Imagine the show grows into an orgasmic crescendo of musical brilliance whose ultimate climax is only tempered by. . .

Now imagine all of this is happening as you are surrounded by the dead souls of music industry. Accountants in suits. Jaded A & R people who heard The Secret Machines once last March at 9am before a conference call about the Backstreet Boys retrospective album while listening to Clair from HR ramble on about the intricacies of direct deposit. The two pock marked web-designers who took the night off from their online roll playing games 'cause Mr. Stein's Nieces didn't want the tickets. What if no one around you cares that one of the greatest raw talents in the world of rock is putting on a legendary performance? Is it the same? Does it feel the same? Do you wonder why you are the only one dancing? Why no one knows the words to the songs? Does the moment feel the same if you aren't lost in it? If you are thinking about it this hard, isn't it already ruined?

I fell in love with TSM at Webster Hall. I went on a whim and a strong recommendation from an old bandmate. They literally blew the roof off the place (OK, sorry, they figuratively blew the roof off the place -- I hate when people say literally when they mean figuratively). They were supporting their album Now Here is Nowhere. That album is responsible for at least 1% of my hearing loss. It is that good. I spent a lot of time warming up to the new album, Ten Silver Drops. It is everything that I loved TSM for NOT being; careful, contemplative, cerebral. I want to be the last person to criticize an artist for taking a direction they feel is right, but if they really think it is right, take it to the fans.

I doubt if anyone from their organization will see this post, but I want to make my challenge public! Right here! On a blog that almost 100 people have seen! You guys need to play a show that takes you back to your roots. Come to the Polish National Home, just a mile or so from you beloved Bushwick. Do a cash only show. No velvet ropes, no record company people, and no friends of Christine! Rock like you mean it! Rock like you care!

The Secret Machines/Hiro Ballroom/Maritime Hotel/April 26,2006

Bradly . . .

• a little whiskey on the gums to sooth the teething
• vicodin for the broken wrist after jumping off the bed
• ritalin because he is too much to handle all alone
• buy robitussin and gum to make it look normal
• beers from the bum who charges us double
• suck gas from the cool whip when mom falls asleep
• break it up and snort it like the guys on miami vice
• a little mary jane from d.j.'s dad's top drawer
• no one remembers if the rum is 1/2 full or 3/4 full
• ride our bikes cross-town and smoke it in cigar leaf like the guys we buy it from
• prozac because he is sad and tired all the time
• cigarettes cause we get our own booze now
• deadhead asshole finances his trip selling oregon kind
• acid or 'shrooms around shows
• take care of the losers and smoke for free with the money we make selling swag
• the supplier's got crank from the valley
• we drive out to bakersfield to help him out
• dude named ray ray shows us how to cook it
• ketamine from the punk girl who likes our fast songs
• the ecstasy from back east made us trip so hard we had to stop on a "turnpike" reststop
• cocaine from the old timer who missed us open his show
• heroin, "tying on the dinosaur tonight, it used to be so cool. . . one day i'm gonna lose the war"

Uncle Bob. . .

Several years ago a guy named Dennis wrote a book called Guide. There were several passages that included lyrics from a band called Guided by Voices. In my mind's eye I imagined a far more cerebral band. I picked up Mag Earwig! based solely on the cover art as there are quite a few albums available in the store. The band really rocked. I fell in love. Their execution of short, riff driven songs was really impressive before you consider the depth and complexity of the lyrics.

As I dug deeper I came across the truly compelling story of Robert Pollard, the singer and primary songwriter for the band. A schoolteacher for over 10 years, he nurtured the band to "semi-fame" as some have described it as he toured each summer.

Still none of this still could prepare me for what the live show was like. I saw Pollard first in 2002 when he was still touring as Guided by Voices in support of Isolation Drills. The raw energy and showmanship takes the band to another level. Now at 48 years old Uncle BOB has not lost a step.

Last night we got there late. The train from Williamsburg literally just stopped running for over an hour just as I got there. It is among the greatest hardships of the hipster class along with finding boys sized jeans long enough to fit that can still show off their total lack of any ass. The girl at the door at the show told us they were three songs in. We found a nice spot by the recycling bin. It turned out to be a great location because the bus boy was seriously hot. Incredibly every song was better than the one before. He started off with several songs off his the new albums, From a Compound Eye and Normal Happiness. Decent tight songs that the band seemed to know well. Within ½ hour into the set he was doing songs from Mag Earwig!, Alien Lanes and other albums in between. There was no drop off with the older stuff as is sometimes the case with bands who get to smitten with their new material (Belle and Sebastian). A little strut and a swing of the mic and the crowd went crazy.

Pollard: "That's my Robert Plant move . . . you haven't seen that yet tonight!"

The intensity of the show grew with each song. My friends (both newbies) and I could not keep up the drinking pace that Pollard had set, but we tried. The guy takes about 2 chugs per beer and an hour into the show he was drinking some sort of brown liquor (Cuervo I think). The crowd cheered in respect.

Pollard: "There is nothing like approval and ice cold beer!"

We switched from beer to Wild Turkey at this point. Our generosity in tipping came back to us in spades as the bartender poured 3 very large whiskeys.

Pollard Salutes.

The band was tight. I am pretty sure I recognized one of the guys from the last incarnation of Guided by Voices. He was the only other guy on the stage not young enough to be Pollard's son. I don't love the venue (Irving Plaza) but the room really worked for Pollard. Surprisingly I didn't need the earplugs I brought. The band's intensity came from musicianship and shear finesse not by brute force.

He finished off the set with a son called 50 year old baby.

Pollard: "The song is not about me cause I'm only 48!"

From my perch by the recycle bin I was able to start a chant of "Uncle Bob" to entice our hero back to the stage.

Things start getting fuzzy from here on in as we felt obliged to have more whiskey during the break. I just had to go right into the center – driven to dance.

Pollard: "....and wear my Maroon Blazer all the time."

I don't remember how I got home. I know it wasn't the L train.

Next week: The Secret Machines.

PS. Dennis, pick up “Now here is Nowhere” by The Secret Machines (it might also still stream on their website). This band is not about introspection. They come to rock you.

Adam . . .

"I don't understand why you like that shaggy, can't grow a mustache, 70's junkie look", said the "straight" guy at the next desk. He would only point out Ken Dolls to gauge my reaction. To see if I am reallly gay.

He was right. He couldn't understand. I don't either and I don't really want to. As long as I can remember -- since the 70s actually -- there has been this allure. Roll out from underneeth your Dodge Charger Adam.

I wish he weren't a great basketball player. I wish he were another spaced out hipster making Lattes at the corner.

Adam Morrison is like a Big Star song. He's like speed before it was disco. Like barebacking 30 years before became "in" again.

He goes ape shit on the court. Especially at the end of a game. Win or lose he is dramatic..

There is little sexual about my obsession with him. Nothing even erotic really.

I want to smoke a joint with him. Lie there next to him. Listen to him talk as he falls asleep the night after a game.

The pot would put him in that wonderful state where the body is exhausted and the mind is racing.

He mubbles in the bed next to me . . . stream of consciousness:

I am so ugly. . .

I hate those pictures I look like Lurch.

I get all nervous talking after the game,

like . . . I think I am going to forget what I said or um. . .

what I am saying. . .

or like just forget what words are.

I know what I want to say but I don't know how to talk like in my mouth,

like the face muscles don't remember how to make the words

and I can't breath out at all!

I think of superman

and how he is always shifting his eyes,

but that's it.

That's all he can do.

Just look around.