NEW MUSIC FOR OLDS #61
Too Cool has officially left the building
Hello, dear reader. Today’s jam-packed (and likely typo-ridden) NMFO is cause for celebration. And…dance?
On the agenda:
Reznor reimagined!
Lava lamp headtrips!
Thom Yorke-ian vibes!
Scattered thoughts on the Totally Tubular Festival!
And, our extended tournament finally comes to a head!
I command you to stop the world and melt with this newsletter.
GOOD STUFF
Let me go ahead and answer the question you’ll have after listening to this week’s tunes: Why yes, I have recently inquired about upping my Prozac dosage!
With that out of the way, I offer you this Glossary of Terms.
Allie Goertz, “March of the Pigs”
Listen on Apple Music // Listen on Amazon Music
Album: Peeled Back (out now)
Nutshell: Nine Inch Nails, but all fancy and the like
Voltage: 3
Thoughts: On Peeled Back, musician and comedy writer Allie Goertz reconstructs fifteen Nine Inch Nails tunes from the ground up. Given the comedy association (full disclosure: Allie and I are friend-ly in real life), you’d be forgiven for assuming this is a novelty project. And sure, there’s some anachronistic fun hearing a woman whisper “Got me a big ol’ dick” over vibe-y electric piano. But this is decidedly not meme fodder. These are full-on gut renovations that, like all successful covers, celebrate the elasticity of great songwriting. People usually discuss Trent Reznor’s music in sensory terms—creepy, angry, etc—or praise him as a studio whiz. But the dude also knows how to write a hook, even in a song like March of the Pigs, where a “melody” is barely suggested. And where hooks don’t already exists, Goertz ably inserts her own.
Pairing Suggestion: Wanting to gently make love to you like an animal
Apifera, “Iris is Neil”
Listen on Apple Music // Listen on Amazon Music
Album: Keep the Outside Open (out now)
Nutshell: Jazzy prog psychedelia
Voltage: 6
Thoughts: Apifera is an Israeli psych rock outfit that specializes in what you might call audio sativa. I mean, I wouldn’t call it that. But you might, you filthy pothead. More a state of mind than an actual song, “Iris is Neil” immediately calls to mind “Tomorrow Never Knows”, with its backwards guitar and raga-inspired drum loop. I’m semi-obsessed with this drum sound—punchy and tight, with no hint of reverb. It helps ground what might otherwise feel wispy and ephemeral. Other tracks on Keep the Outside Open have a jazzier feel and many are fully instrumental. All feature ace musicianship and spaced-out vibes that will have you floating on a cloud, maaaaaaaan.
Pairing Suggestion: Staring intently at your lava lamp
I can almost smell the dorm room
Loma, “How it Starts”
Listen on Apple Music // Listen on Amazon Music
Album: How Will I Live Without a Body? (out now)
Nutshell: Slightly unsettling indie folk
Voltage: 3
Thoughts: How Will I Live Without a Body? has been my go-to sleep album this week, which could help explain my rather depressing dreams. Remember just now, when I claimed that Apifera will make you feel like you’re floating on a cloud? “How it Starts” will also have you on a cloud, but it’s growing steadily darker and carrying you off to a place you’re not sure you want to go. Not quite a “supergroup”, Loma is a trio comprised of two respected indie bands (Shearwater and Cross Record). And while comparing bands to Radiohead is almost always lazy, I defy you to tell me this arpeggiated chord progression isn’t positively Thom Yorke-ian. The perfect soundtrack to what feels like our gathering dystopia, Loma has released the feel bleak song of the Summer!
Pairing Suggestion: Driving through thick fog on two hours sleep
Clearly these are the three best songs you’ve ever heard. But if you had to pick just one?
So, what do you have to say for yourself?
SOME BULLSHIT
Last night, Kambri and I trekked out to Southstreet Seaport for about 1/3 of the Totally Tubular Festival, a traveling tour of One-to-Five Hit Wonders from the 1980s.
I’m not going to review the show, given that we arrived late, left early and spent the majority of our time people-watching. Also, this thing was supposed to go out hours ago, so here are my scattered and malformed observations.
Firstly, it’s weird I even attended this concert. I love a number of songs by the artists on the bill, and I have no issue with seeing “old” bands—heck, I saw The Cure and Tears for Fears within the span of eight days last year. But I generally avoid events where the fundamental guiding principle is nostalgia. I’m not above it, I am beside it. To my mind, nostalgia is like cilantro—a sprig is delicious, but you wouldn’t want to bite down on an entire wad. But I’m genuinely trying to stop being a guy who’s too cool to enjoy things. I’m a doughy 51 year old with an open heart surgery scar, whose favorite activity is doing the crossword puzzle in an Adirondack chair. “Too cool” has officially left the building.
Still, in the days leading up to the event, our enthusiasm was waning and if either Kambri or I had seriously suggested bailing, we’d have happily stayed home to watch the final episode of Ken Burns’ Vietnam doc. We decided to follow through, but to arrive (and leave) whenever we felt like it, without regard to who we’d be seeing/missing.
We showed up at the tail end of Men Without Hats. If you’re wondering if they closed with “The Safety Dance”, rest assured. They also opened with it, apparently. Did I mention their set was only fifteen minutes? I mentioned to Kambri that, considering the infirmity of the crowd, they should’ve renamed it “The Safely Dance”.
The crowd was…well, it was as you imagine. Some folks older than me, though probably not as many as I told myself. Lots of empty nesters who’d dusted off vintage concert tees and reawakened long-dormant helix piercings. From behind, many of them appeared much like they’d have looked in 1983. But then you’d notice a knee brace. Or a hearing aid. Or a double mastectomy. It was all delicate and human and a little bit sweet.
I was very much a part of this decrepitude, for the record. At one point, we were encouraged to raise our arms to clap above our heads. I declined, on account of elbow bursitis. ROCK AND ROLL, BABY.
Next up was Modern English, who were gifted with an entire 30 minutes. They’re still a functioning band, with a recent album that seems not terrible. While clearly not here for the “new stuff”, the crowd politely waited for “I Melt With You”.
At one point I added a flavor packet to my can of sparkling water (shut up) and it foamed up and spilled into the roof deck. A teensy bit splattered onto the leg of the woman next to me and she turned to give me an over-the-top scowl. I apologized, but at the same time…it’s seltzer water and also WE’RE AT A FUCKING CONCERT, LADY. RELAX.
I remember feeling smug that I was not a sour stick in the mud—you know, like some people.
Twenty minutes later, someone behind me kicked a full cocktail that was resting on the ground, absolutely drenching my ankle. I instinctively wheeled around to find the culprit. A woman (not the same one) made firm eye contact with me and continued to dance joyfully, as if to say “WE’RE AT A FUCKING CONCERT, ASSHOLE. RELAX.”
And you know what? She was right. Nevermind that my favorite pair of shoes now smells like a Bacardi Breezer.
Next up was Tom Bailey of Thompson Twins, who gave off vague Hugh-Grant-playing-a-preeening-ass vibes. Still, he and his crew of capable younger session musicians put on a good show, with a bit of pre-recorded *ahem* vocal assistance. It was, at the least, a reminder that Thompson Twins had more hits than you remember.
At this point, we had to skeedaddle. Our schedule was partly determined by our decision to take the ferry, which travels from Wall Street all the way up the East River to my neighborhood of Astoria, Queens. I realize most of you are not in NYC, but if you plan to visit, I highly suggest riding the ferry. Especially at night. To quote Ralph Fiennes from In Bruges, “It’s a fairytale fucking town, isn’t it?”
Same goes for the venue, which was a large part of our decision to buy tix in the first place. I’ve said it before, but The Rooftop at Pier 17 is, hands down, the best concert experience in NYC. Open air, ample space, Brooklyn Bridge directly in the background—*chef’s kiss*, as they say.
I’m bummed to have missed Bow Wow Wow, and I’ve have enjoyed hearing Wang Chung play “Dance Hall Days”, but it was an otherwise perfect evening. Totally tubular, dude.
Finally, I present:
NMFO Fictional Band Madness: The Finals
Okay, so I’m going to be honest: I did not totally think this tournament thing through. A bi-weekly newsletter is perhaps not the best vehicle for a compelling 64-team battle royal.
When I started this thing, Joe Biden looked like this.
Nevertheless, against long odds, we have arrived at our final match up. Who will be named the Greatest Fictional Band of all time?
Yes, I know. It’s Spinal Tap. It’s always been Spinal Tap. I should have disqualified them from the get-go and called this the “Second Greatest Fictional Band of All Time” tournament or some shit. Way to go, Finnegan. You fucked it all up.
LET’S MEET OUR COMPETITORS!
In the red corner, representing the misfits and losers of Junction City, MO, it’s Hedwig and the Angry Inch! And in the blue corner, the mighty Spinal…Tarp?
The winner will be the subject of some extended bullshit in NMFO #62. How exciting!(?)
That’s all for today. See you in a fortnight.
A show being at Pier 17 makes me 15% more likely to get tickets, in the same way that a show being at Terminal 5 makes me 33% less likely to buy tickets.
Allie Goertz' old LA roommate is in a band now called Sadlands [not an emo Springsteen cover band, unfortunately(?)] https://open.spotify.com/album/6Q2gaPgBRuKY0ZuOBpziZV?si=FWbrIleHQguREBQRPrczcw
Sorry this is how you find out we're only two degrees separated, but there's no good way.