This Week in Musica (Shwa CD Release Edition)

So, Shwa. You know, the dude I've known since junior high and who lived down the street from me in DC but I didn't really hang with until we became grown-ups* and then I drew his fliers and got silly at his gigs** and then I moved to New York and co-opted all his friends? That guy.

ANYWAY, Shwa has a new CD out called Good Times, Good Times (available at iTunes, Amazon and CDBaby, you guys) and we just couldn't let an opportunity like that pass without a well-documented party. Which is what we did at Mercury Lounge last week. It was especially exciting because, in addition to his legendary*** band the Good Times, there was a horn section! Unprecedented in Shwa history! So of course I was asked to film the crap out of it. And I did. Check it out! And buy a CD! If for no other reason, my name's in the credits, like, TWICE****. So there's that.

* Grown-ups being a relative term.
** To put it mildly. 2009, you guys. 2009.
*** In our own minds.
**** Money may have changed hands.

Here's "Treat the Disease," starring drummer Matt's incredibly choreographed hair. Seriously, guys, did we plan that? Because it works.



Then we have the showstopping "Brooklyn Girls,"



And the future bar mitzvah staple "Penultimate Dance." And for those of you with delicate sensibilities, um, he's saying "Shake your Bics." Because that's what you have to do sometimes. To get the ink and all. Yep.



And then "Sandi Don't Worry," which has no horns, but eff it, it's my favorite song on the album. And for those of you with delicate sensibilities, he's saying "fuck."

This Month In Musica (Boys in Tight Pants Edition)

I've been pretty lame about posting the music clips with any regularity this month, so here's a sample of the past two weeks. Watching all of these at once, two things become clear: 1. I know some very talented folks and 2. I hang out with guys who wear much, much tighter pants than I do. And you know what? That's okay. Honestly, you guys. We're not in DC anymore, are we?

Anyway, here's Nate Campany at Rockwood doing "Audrey":




And Kyle Patrick next door getting all retro with it on "I Only Know How to be in Love":




And Atomic Tom and friends doing an impromptu set that same night. The impromptu part is part of why it's a little hard to hear at first, but it all comes nicely together for the singalong at the end.




See, you stick around the Rockwoods long enough, a set or two is gonna break out. It just happens. So do Queen singalongs. And two-stepping to Led Zeppelin with boys named Ignacio. And that's all I can tell you on the blog. You'll just have to come out for the rest.

Shwa and the Good Times: Live at Rockwood Music Hall (Birthday Edition)

These are some of my favorite people. At one of my favorite places. Singing some of my favorite songs. Needless to say, unblogworthy behavior followed. Good work, guys.

"Hey Jealousy"


"So Cry/Little Red Corvette"

Nate Campany and friends at Rockwood Stage 2

This weekend the brand new Rockwood Stage 2 opened next door to Rockwood Music Hall (Rockwood Stage One? Rockwood Original Recipe? We still have to work out the nomenclature). Big, big congrats to Ken Rockwood and company on a gorgeous new space, with extra room for dancing, a sweet balcony, a fancy-shmancy sound board and even a Presidential box seat for when Obama or Bono or whoever comes by. Which I'm sure will happen any day.

Nate Campany and the Serenade performed Sunday night, and there was much talk of the new space, and how happy we all were for Ken, and how Rockwood was like one big family, and everyone was all "Aww." And then he invited a bunch of folks up to sing, and since everybody basically knows each other's songs anyway, it was quite a crew, and everyone was like "Ahn." And then this little clip of lovely happened. And then we all made out!



Actually, we just lateraled over to the original Rockwood side bar and talked about Lost, but you know, close enough.

Three Hours of Tom Petty = Not Enough Tom Petty

Bar 4 in Park Slope has hosted some killer tribute nights. But I have never seen the place as packed as it was yesterday for the Tom Petty tribute, featuring Bucky Hayes and the Radio backing up a couple dozen singers/songwriters/amazing persons. Most of the evening was pretty well documented by others, but here are a few highlights:

Casey Shea doing a spot-on "Learning to Fly"



Misty Boyce thoroughly rocking "Don't Come Around Here No More"



and Bryan Dunn with the potential #2010 anthem "Even the Losers"



Okay, you guys? Okay.

Nate Campany at Rockwood Music Hall

I've been a bit tardy in updating the blog. I have things to do, people. Terrible decisions to make. You think I live online? Psh.

Just kidding. I totally live online. Online and at Rockwood, where the lovely Emily has claimed the distinction of being the first bartender in my colorful drinking career to not only know my beverage of choice but to start preparing it when I come in the damn door. Holy crap, is this place great or what? (Hey barkeeps and interested young gentlemen: it's a bourbon and diet. Not too fussy about the bourbon, but if all you've got is Jack, we'll get along fine. Learn it, love it, live it).

For your listening pleasure, here's Nate Campany, supported by Kyle Patrick and Phil Galitzine playing some lovely acoustic stuff at the aforementioned greatest bar on earth. Ahn.

Tuesday Night Music Club

Following a brief Passover hiatus, it was back to the grind yesterday evening on the Lower East Side. First stop was a rare tiny acoustic show by Atomic Tom, otherwise known as Our Friends What Just Got Signed To A Major Label. Think all the best parts of the Killers and Franz Ferdinand, without all the messy guyliner. Ahn. So before they get all banging-Megan-Fox-famous and stuff, it's important to capture as many stripped-down Van Halen covers on their part as possible. Because of posterity.



There are other, better-shot videos out there of their original stuff, I guess, but you guys -- Running with the Devil. You know?

A lesser group of people would call it a night after that. Nuh-uh. Our intrepid crew then proceeded over to the Mercury Lounge for songstress/pianist/badass Misty Boyce's CD release soiree, where there was more rock to be had. Funky!



Tuesday done right, you guys!

Saturday Night Spiral

I tend to pick my pals and scenes carefully, and have been pretty happy with my crew since I've moved to NYC. However, this tends to cocoon me from other, more hostile, environments, and I forget what a socially-anxious freakshow I can be when put in the wrong situation. Last night, I was reminded.

The night started out promisingly enough. I was scheduled to go to Rockwood to see Mike Grubbs of Wakey!Wakey! fame (and if you haven't checked them out, for God's sake, please do so. You're welcome). Then I was to meet up with some long-lost pals from DC, and dance the night away. This sounds foolproof, no? I was so stoked about the evening, I boldly sported a more substantial amount of cleavage than usual. My titties and I were ready to take on the city.

The music was lovely, the place was lively, the bourbon was doing its job. More pals materialized in the side bar after the show, conversations about sex, music, and museums ensued. I was kinda in my element. I was "on," you guys. Happyhappyhappy...

But I had to tear myself away to meet my out of town pals. So I left the relative safety and comfort of sweet home Rockwood, and headed out to points unknown. There were hugs and reunions. So far, so good. And then we got into the bar...

Here's the deal. I live in NYC. Spaces are small. Crowds are plentiful. I know this. So as long as the crowd is friendly and happy, so am I. But this was not good. Too crowded. Too frattish. And the only available space was by the bathroom, which not only smelled like rancid farts, but did not endear us to the teeming masses trying to make their way to the can. The molecules in this place started vibrating badly. I lost my confidence. I temporarily got it back with some drinks, but that was not a lasting fix. I started getting awkward. I started talking about my ex. It was bad, you guys. There was to be no dancing here. I ended up fleeing the scene, directing the taxi back to Rockwood, thinking I could re-set the time-space continuum by going back to my happy place. Alas, my pals had moved on. I was adrift. I actually started to panic that the night was so not going to plan.

Then I recalled that I had other pals at a birthday party at a club up the street. Maybe we could salvage this night after all! I texted my pals, and without waiting for a response, I went up First Ave, determined to dance my pants. Up to the bouncer I went, ID in hand, plunging neckline on display. He instructed me to wait by the door. So I did. This was going to be okay.

And then some glamazons approached. Very pretty girls. Freshly made-up. Not appropriately dressed for the weather. They smelled nice. Their heels were towering. And oh, landy, the boobage. I considered my now 6-hour-old mascara. My overcoat and Gap jeans. My slightly scuffed boots. And my comely, but incomparable, decollatage. I watched as they were waved inside. I watched as several more were waved inside. I watched as a third group was waved inside. This was worse than junior high and summer camp wrapped up in gym class. I knew I wasn't getting in this place. This was a New York I didn't know. This was a New York I didn't want to know.

I wound up slinking off to the Hot and Crusty, seeking solace in an Oreo cheesecake at 2 am. My pals finally texted me back. They were long gone from the club anyway, and called it a night a while ago. It was time to do the same.

Graphically speaking, the night went like this:



I think this is my first fight with NYC in the seven months I've been here. Which, when you think about it, is pretty good by any relationship's standards. And not every weekend can be a winner. But I think NYC owes me some flowers. Or some make-up sex. I'm putting it on notice until it does so.

Here's some footage of the high point of the evening, when Mike covered Cyndi Lauper. See how I could have been fooled into thinking this night was going to be amazing? Psh.

Oh, Let's Just Forward My Damn Mail Here...

It's just one of those weeks where I probably spend more time at Rockwood then my own apartment. But I'm okay with that. Enjoy the musical stylings of Patrick Thomas...



...and the Tim Blane Band.



Hey, it's either this, or more cat videos. Which I also have. This is the best blog on the Internet, you guys.

Lower East Side Pupu Platter of Awesomeness

A little something for everyone last night on the extended block that houses Rockwood Music Hall and Arlene's Grocery. Touching Dylan covers to unborn sons? Yeah. We're on it. And so is Benjamin Wagner:



Chicks who can sing the nuts off some rock-disco while giving my dear, darling, sensitive-lad singer/songwriters something to really cry over their Taylors about? Totes. I give you Mother Feather:



And some good old-fashioned, ass-kickin', whiskey-fueled roots-rock? Definitely. Mssrs. Chris Cubeta and the Liars Club:



Good game, Thursday. You're gonna kill me, Thursday.

My Saturday Was So Awesome It's Taken Me Until Wednesday To Blog About It

Sometimes, that's just how we roll. Here's some footage from this Saturday at Bar 4, where Ms. Lara Ewen paid tribute to the late Alex Chilton, and this happened:



And then, Matt Singer took the stage, and everyone helped with percussion, and this happened:



And then I left, all sober-like, and was very proud of myself, and then realized I forgot my credit card, so I went back, and I drank more, and then Jessi, Lara, and I attacked the photo booth, and this happened:



It was a good Saturday, you guys.

Project Mayfly

If you've been paying attention at all, you'll know that I spend the better part of my free time hanging around the various music clubs in New York. It's a habit I cultivated in fits and starts when I moved to DC, and became a full-fledged lifestyle after my last relationship ended. Funny enough, when you're with someone for a long time that frowns upon you engaging in certain activities (i.e. dancing, singing, drinking, fraternizing with the opposite sex, fraternizing with the same sex, maintaining good credit, etc), you become a little hell-bent on pursuing just those kind of amusements when you find yourself on your own.

But anyway, after I got whatever acting-out I needed to out of my system, I realized that I had accidentally found myself with a bunch of awesome, talented, lovely new people as friends. Some play music part time, some play for a living, some are photographers, writers, or just hangers-on who like to drink bourbon, dance spastically in the back, spend money and maybe, just maybe, meet boys. Guess where I fit in.

Two of my pals in this crew, the estimable Emily Rawlings and Lara Ewen, had a great idea to take over an antique store in Greenpoint, invite a bunch of people to play music for 20 minutes at a time, and turn it into a one-day only record store selling local music. Because as it turns out, it's damn hard to find anywhere in NYC these days that sells actual CDs at all, local or otherwise. It's probably the biggest difference between NY in 1999 when I last lived here, and NY now. So unless you're a gig rat like I am, local musicians have to hope that you're invested enough to find them online and pay money there.

So all day long, great people played great music and we drank great beer out of great paper bags and ate Pringles and sat on the floor and hung out and had us a time. And they made over $1000 that went straight to the artists who played there. And according to the NYC artist exchange rate, I assure you, this is very good indeed.

The project lives on at http://mayflylives.blogspot.com/ where the extra CDs will be available for purchase. Soon. Soon-ish. We kinda live and die by the -ish around here.

It was a bit of a love-fest, which is not a bad thing at all. Case in point, here's Bryan covering a song by Kelli Rae Powell, who couldn't perform her own stuff because she had an audition. Feel the love, you guys:

The Who's That Pack: "Time of My Life"

From last night's show at the Bitter End. Don't think there's no lifting.

Miss Jess at Artomatic

Rockulele!

Jill Sobule with Justin Trawick: "I Kissed a Girl"

Once upon a time, 1996 to be precise, you could be a mild-mannered folk-rocker and shock the crap out of people with a silly little song about being a lady who kissed another lady. Nowadays, Katy Perry sings about getting all Girls Gone Wild on Nickelodeon. Simpler times, friends, simpler times.

>

Illinois: Live at DC9

It's Bucks County, Pennsylvania's own Illinois, rocking in DC! I'm so confused!

Boys' weekend; Get classy with scallops and lavender!

This weekend I had a pantload of fun with my boys in NYC. I chilled in the park and wandered through bookstores with my high school pal Alex, I had burgers and beer with honorary Team 215 member Koz, saw a kickass Travis gig with my rockstar friend Shwa, had pancakes on the Lower East Side with my new friend Andy, and then returned home just in time for my friend Chris' gig in DC. It was the best series of non-date dates I've had in a while. Thanks, boys! I think.

However, there was a certain amount of grubbiness involved in the weekend, as it was a bit hot, and I had but one outfit and little recourse for a shower. There may have been a bit of a mishap with a too-quickly-chugged Miller Lite as well. May have been. Only Shwa, and my confessors, and most of 11th Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenues know for sure...

ANYWAY, much as I enjoyed my dirty weekend with the lads, I felt I needed to take back what remained of my dignity and dainty-ladyness. I'm not sure how well I succeeded, but making this dish sure made me feel a bit more classy.

Seared scallops with basil and lavender essence

Ingredients
15 to 20 basil leaves
1 clove garlic
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
2 drops pure lavender essence (usually available in health food stores in the herbal remedies aisle. DO NOT substitute synthetic).
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons butter
1 pound large sea scallops

Method
Combine the basil, garlic, salt and pepper in a food processor until smooth. Add the lavender oil and 1 tablespoon of olive oil. Let stand for 30 minutes. Cut a deep horizontal slit through the scallops, but not the whole way through. Fill with the basil mixture, close with a wooden pick. Drizzle with the remaining olive oil. Heat 2 tablespoons butter in a skillet, and heat until foamy. Add scallops and sear for 2 minutes on each side. Scallops should be browned, and translucent on the inside. Remove from pan immediately.

If you can't find lavender oil, just sprinkle with lemon juice. Scallops can also be grilled rather than seared.

There! Don't we feel civilized? Now I'm gonna crack open a Sam Adams and watch the Phils. In my underwear. Class. Easy come, easy go.

Miss Jess: "Memphis"

Some video of Miss Jess "Mustang" Graves from a house concert I went to last night. Wanna see more awesomeness from my musically-inclined pals? Check out my YouTube channel. Those who can't play, take pictures. And bake brownies. And draw fliers. And don't get paid. Hey, wait a sec...



I kid. Kinda.

Happy Erfday To You!

Apparently it's Earth Day. I know this because there was a massive concert on the Mall this weekend, and because just about every other TV commercial over the past week or so is making me feel morally inferior about something I am or am not doing to save the planet. Don't get me wrong, I'm totally on board. I was the kid rocking a straight-up lunchbox rather than brown bags in elementary school, complete with reusable Tupperware sandwich holders. I even have a Tupperware cookie holster, so as not to waste precious Saran wrap, so I'm totally down. Just...please stop yelling at me. I have tiny little fetus feet anyway. They don't leave much of a footprint of any kind, carbon or otherwise. 'Kay. Thanks.

But I will say that the Green Generation can throw a kick-ass party. My pals and I went down to the Mall to catch the delightfully silly Flaming Lips at the free Earth Day concert. Nevermind that what started as a beautiful 80-degree day turned into a blustery, 60-degree day in about 2 hours. That's just Mother Nature saying hello. Happily, hippies like to share, and one of our number was kind enough to loan me the World's Biggest Most Ridiculous Poncho to break the wind. So to speak.

And speaking of the "Green Generation," that term was thrown around quite a bit, and I want to be clear that it refers to the heightened awareness of the youth of today, and not to the funny smell that pervaded the scene (and made everything extra special hilarious that day), nor the fact that the festivities were held in such proximity to 4/20. And these guys just love music. That's ALL:

We did manage to get right up close to the stage, thanks to the zeal of my compatriots, emboldened by tasty street vendor food, and maybe a little bit of fermented apple-y beverages. So we were right up close to Wayne Coyne and the Lips. Close enough to be showered by the contents of his confetti bazooka. That did rile up the organizers some, but Mr. Coyne insisted that if anybody would pick up after themselves, it's a bunch of potentially chemically-altered, environmentally-conscious hippies. And wouldn't you know, when that show was over, the Mall by the stage was spotless. Save for a few hundred cigarette butts, because no one wants to touch those.

So, all in all, it was a good day. And so the tired celebrants trundled home on the Metro, including one poor random fellow who, in the span of two stops, made himself nice and comfy and went night night. Saving the earth is hard work.

I leave you with Robyn's-Eye-View footage of Wayne Coyne surfing the crowd in a giant bubble -- for the planet! XO