Washington D.C. 9:30 Club. November 16th, 2008.

American By Birth, Southern By the Grace of God

Global warming really sucks. If you disagree, please close the window that you're reading this text from immediately. Unlike others within the blogging community, I don't care about opening your mind. Much to the contrary, I see my blog as a platform to ramble on about whatever I please, and today, it's how much better the Southern United States stands in comparison to the remainder of the Continental U.S. Just this past week, for example, as many of my friends enjoyed a -10 degree holiday, I basked in +70 degree sunshine whilst sipping Mint Julips and recounting the old glory days of Paul "Bear" Bryant and Crimson Tide football. Well, actually it was whiskey, and there was no sipping involved. Nonetheless, Alabama football still reigns supreme, and I have no doubt in my mind that all of "you's guys" wish you could roll a "y'all" off your tongue like I can.
Don't worry, though. It isn't your fault, after all, that you happened to be born into a sub-par region of what is so obviously the best country on the face of the planet, right? Well, not entirely. As a matter of fact, much of the aforementioned beautiful weather that I've been lucky enough to enjoy is a consequence of the blatant negligence by which we've chronically poisoned our planet, and the whiskey is...well, whiskey is just great bottom line. Either way, turn off your lights you bourbon-drunk rednecks, and stop swerving all over the Jersey Turnpike!

Can Jam Bands Save the World?

If there was ever a sign of the quickly approaching apocalypse, arbitrarily decided and self-righteously blogged about "best of.." lists would certainly be it. So, instead of assigning a numerically categorized placement of importance to my favorite records, I'll instead just say this: Every prominent and generally respected "jam band" currently making a name for itself could most likely defecate excellence onto any number of the myriad heavy-synth, highly pretentious, indie-hipster bands that presently seem to dominate most of my friends' "best of..." lists. Yes, yes, I am aware that Deer Hunter is not the same thing as Deerhoof, and that Of Montreal aren't actually Canadian. Most importantly, though, I do not care...at all. Please, hipsters. I beg this of you: dedicate at least a few minutes of your time in the near future to music that involves more than off-beat rhythms and intangible compositions. Perhaps, just perhaps, when you do so it will finally become apparent to you that there is a clear and obvious distinction between minimalist art and minimal talent.

Not-So Slick Dick...

One in five Americans really hate Vice President Dick Cheney, according to a recent poll conducted by CNN. Now, I hate to ramble all philosophic-like on the subject, but come on people! Give the guy a break. It's not like he tried to shoot down Head Start initiatives for inner city kids, or voted against establishing a holiday to commemorate the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. He even worked to free former South African President Nelson Mandela from 27 years of imprisonment! Oh, wait. My bad.

My LIfe Has Reached An All-Time High for Cliched Choices...Exhibit A.

Watch out, hipsters. You aren't the only ones with an underground, ultra-indie BlogSpot anymore. You are, however, still considerably smellier than I. With that said, however, I can't possibly succeed in this "blogosphere" without coming to terms with the ultimate, and unfortunate, reality that I am, in fact, a cliche. That's right, hipster guys and gals. I've almost attained the same level of "non-conformist conformity" that you all pride yourselves for exuding. Between this new blog 'o mine and all of my newly discovered favorite indie acts I might as well quit my day job now, and move on up to Williamsburg where I belong, right? Well, not really. I don't think Baby Gap sells tapered jeans in my size range, and I certainly don't own enough high-end boutique/vagrant wear to fit the hipster mold. No worries, though. From the looks of it, there's still a plethora of uber-cool cats in danerously tight jeans to keep the super-indie and underground hipster infrastructure functioning without too much disturbance. That is, of course, unless Hot Chip's tour bus bursts into flames, or Pitchfork encounters technical difficulties that even the most accomplished of lo-fi synth experts cannot solve. God help us in such an event, as the gates of hell will undoubtedly open, and we will all be doomed to a land of hellish proportions for all of eternity.