//nedward.org

GOD damn my head hurts… last night was really fucking rough. We went to see Loveless and the Realistics at the Paradise, but I had way too much to drink. I think we pre-partied at least 6 cans of Pabst BR, and then I must’ve had 4-5 buds at the show. Hooliganism abounded.

The Realistics were fucking cool as shit though. They’re so much better live than on their record. Anyway, Glenndo, evilmonkey, Ben, Presley and I were up front rocking out in this nearly empty place…

I think toward the end of the Loveless set I was singing along (subtlety god damnit. not dorky), and Dave Wanamaker must’ve noticed cause he thanked us for singing along and pointed at me… dork. Then, after they tore up the place on the last song, and they came down off the stage, I screamed at Jen Trynin and gave her a high-five… Well, I bought a Jen Trynin record when I was in high school (a long, long time ago), so it was nice to see her. I hope they appreciate the enthusiasm because there wasn’t a good crowd, and quite frankly I’m unemployed & I don’t get excited much.

So anyway, I need to get to why my head hurts. Coming out of the Paradise, we decided to head to the Silhouette for some pitchers, and we were fucking trashed… I think there were punches and wrestling, but we were just having fun. So we go to the ‘ouette and drink and drink. And then we leave, and head back down Brighton to the house… And, as we enter my building, I started chasing Glenn up the stairs, and I swear to GOD, I do a fucking battering ram right into the wall. head-first, I go down, and Glenndo starts laughing because he’s glad that he’s not me.

So we come inside and go to bed… which probably isn’t the greatest thing to do when you’ve just taken a header… So I wake up when Howard comes on my clock/radio at 8 30, and I’m naked sleeping sideways on my bed. And I totally forgot about the head-shot, so I think I’m only hungover… so I keep drinking water, and I’m wondering why the fog isn’t lifting… and THEN, I reached up to my head and felt a big fucking lump. right on the top of my head. big as day.

The New Yorker gave Sarah Shannon’s solo debut album a favorable review:

From the opening trumpet-and-saxophone volley of Sarah Shannon’s self-titled début (Casa Recording Co.), it is clear that the singer is finished with the basic guitar-drum-and-bass setup of her indie-rock past, when she was the front woman for the introspective pop outfit Velocity Girl.

Here, Shannon (who plays the Knitting Factory this week) has assembled a small orchestra of horns, strings, and woodwinds, and the result is a warm paean to the power of the imagination. The songs cover familiar subjects, mostly love sought and love lost, but the album isn’t a delicate collection of wilting chamber pop. “I’ll Run Away,” which is propelled by the piano work of collaborator Blake Wescott (he produced the album and co-wrote a number of its songs), is a strongly defiant piece reminiscent of Carole King. “What’s Mine” bumps and grinds along on Wescott’s guitar chords, and it includes the staunch chorus “I don’t want to waste your time, but I got a feeling you’ve got what’s mine.”

The best part of the record, though, is Shannon’s wonderful voice, which makes each song a gem.

Also:

• NOW toronto
• Seattle Times

Once again, someone writing in the New Yorker puts to pen the thoughts that I’ve been loosely throwing about on the state of Rock n’ Roll…

Jerry Lee Lewis was rock and roll. Gene Pitney wasn’t. The Pretenders were rock and roll. The Bee Gees weren’t. Elvis Costello was rock and roll for a while, and then he wasn’t.

By this standard, the moody crooning of Creed and friends doesn’t qualify; nor does the self-effacing arena rock of the Dave Matthews Band. But there does seem to be a new crop of bands that favor short, spiky songs galvanized by angst and anger. If these bands?the White Stripes and the Strokes are the best known, and among the best?aren’t exactly new, they’re a return to something older and more distinctive: to the spirit of punk and, before that, of the British Invasion.

(thanks danno for the link)

Well, it’s going to be 88 degrees here wednesday, so summer has arrived. and, yes, that is Liz Phair singing back-up vocals on Sheryl Crow’s new single, soak up the sun. Seems silly, but true.

Those of you familiar with her peculiar harmonizing might have picked that up, (I didn’t). Rumor has it that everyone’s favorite reformed-indie-low-fi-pioneer makes a cameo in the video, playing basketball, of all things. Sheryl’s explanation of how they hooked up, makes me wonder about this liz + basketball thing.

• background video on liz (hosted by j-lo??)