south of the loop

Inevitable Mastercard Ripoff

cost of Calexico ticket: $10

additional service fees: $8

tolls between Chicago and Milwaukee: $5

gas: $22

getting home at 1:45am on a weekday: utter exhaustion

having Joey Burns end a conversation with me by saying, “Hey, maybe I’ll see your writing someday!”: priceless

No photos from this show, but I did get the guys to sign some liner notes for me, and I walked off with a copy of the setlist. I have now been up for nearly the last 24 hours, though, and I have a 9am doctor’s appointment. Paying the price of getting home at 1:45am…

They Go Together Like RamaLamaLamaDingityDingaDong

remembered forever as shoowop shoowally wally yippity boom de boom

Reason #382 Why Life’s Not Fair

mom, telling me about my parents’ weekend trip to Texas: Your dad and I got a little visit from the Hurst Police on the way to Aunt Helen’s house.

me, casually: Again? He didn’t talk himself out of this ticket, did he?

mom: Well, as a mattera fact, he did.

me, incredulous: WHAT?! You’re kidding. You’ve got to be kidding.

mom, turning to dad in the background: What is this honey? Your fourth warning? Fifth?

[I can't hear his response. Probably a good thing.]

mom: And the cop followed us for seven miles with your dad weaving in and out of traffic. You know how he does. And then the cop finally put his siren on, and we were both like, ‘what’s going on?’

For the rest of the conversation, my voice spirals upward into shrillness, as I go on about how I have NEVER been able to talk myself out of a speeding ticket. Speeding tickets for which I pull over immediately, thank you very much, because some of us actually pay attention to the road. My dad just looks all innocent and humble and the police officers always say, “Have a nice day, careful out there!” They take one look at me and start scribbling. AND HOW IS THIS FAIR?!?! HOW DID THIS GENE SKIP ME?!?

* * *

current book: about 3/4 done with Blood Meridian, and actually enjoying it.

current music: uh, Calexico.

current socks: brown, blue, and green argyle. tall and fuzzy.

 

Take It to the Limit

How many bad puns can I make with the word “limit”? This will be my last ACL-related post. Promise. But I’ve gotten a few questions about ACL I feel obligated to answer. I’m even going to be a dork and set this up FAQ-style.

What about Kathleen Edwards and Gomez?

Kathleen Edwards was solid, although by the time I got to her, I had really had my fill of singer-songwriters. I wasn’t blown away, but I’d see her again. She’s very comfortable on stage and cracked a joke about having been mistaken for Aimee Mann earlier in the weekend. I’m glad I missed her story about how her dad once shot one of her cats.

Gomez was one of my favorite sets, even though I only caught half of it (I split that hour between Gomez and the weird, breathy grooves of Cat Power & The Memphis Rhythm Band). Tight band, great sound.

What was your favorite set? Besides Calexico, that is.

My friends will make fun of me for being a schoolgirl (I did NOT squeal, I swear it), but Calexico really does put on a great live show. I have actually listened to them for several years, but it wasn’t until I saw them at Lollapalooza that they stole my heart. They started off their ACL set with just Joey Burns and John Convertino doing “Convict Pool”; the two of them produce a surprisingly full sound. They changed some of the melodies to their standard concert fare (“Convict Pool” and “Cruel”). It’s fun to see musicians who are still playing around with their songs and trying new things out, and they clearly enjoyed themselves. They also brought out sultry Barcelona singer Amparo Sanchez for “Roka” and “Guero Canelo”; they used him to their advantage to create a set that was both familiar and surprising.

So, other than Calexico: Stars were (was?) great (although www.austin360.com/acl insists on calling them The Stars). A little too much chit-chat for a festival show, but the music was spot-on. I was curious about them; I’m most familiar with their first album, which is all dreamy and lush and trippy. Their set fell somewhere between dreaminess and rock, with Amy Millan’s vocals mellowing Torquil Campbell’s rock n’ roll energy. I also enjoyed What Made Milwaukee Famous, Lou Ann Barton, Ted Leo & The Pharmacists, Son Volt, Gomez, and The Stills. And I was very happy that The New Pornographers had Neko Case with them. And two different people told me I made a terrible mistake by missing out on Los Amigos Invisibles.

What was your favorite music festival this summer?

Pitchfork was best in terms of value, size, food, layout, and, of course, t-shirts. It’s not that the music there wasn’t good, but I was only familiar with a handful of bands beforehand, so it falls short of Best Overall, if only because of the high I get from singing along to a well-known and well-loved band.

The Hideout Block Party hardly counts; I was only there on Sunday, and although I liked both CocoRosie and Black Heart Procession, I was really just there for Calexico. It wins for most interesting setting–I traded in the lush green parks of Chicago for an industrial parking lot.

ACL was comparable to Lollapalooza, so much so that it’s impossible to say whether one was better than another. Grant Park in Chicago spreads a lot further, which has both pros and cons: at Lolla, you had to factor in a healthy 15-minute walk if you wanted to catch sets on opposite sides of the park, but there was no sound bleed between the major stages. None. Although the sound overall was better (and louder) at ACL, there were some sad, sad sound bleed problems. The New Pornographers paused between songs and asked, “Can somebody ask Son Volt to please keep it to a dull roar?”, and The Greencards quipped, “Hey, Ben Harper doesn’t know this one. Let’s play!”

A photo from Monday’s Austin American-Statesman. It doesn’t say which show this is from; based on the stage and time of day, I’d guess the Flaming Lips. (On my flight back home, I spotted a guy wearing a cowboy hat and a Flaming Lips t-shirt. Only in Austin.)

ACL 2006

* * *

current book: Blood Meridian. Now that I’m further into it, I’m loving the revivalist language: “In the morning a urinecolored sun rose blearily through panes of dust on a dim world and without feature.” But I’m still having a hard time keeping my finger on the plot.

current music: Laura took me to Waterloo Records in Austin, where I spent money like I had it and filled out my Calexico collection. I discovered that one of my favorite songs from their live set at The Hideout is “Stray” off the album The Black Light. Damn! I also purchased What Made Milwaukee Famous’ Trying To Never Catch Up, although I haven’t listened to it yet.

current socks: White with armadillos! The armadillos are wearing different colored handkerchiefs around their little armadillo necks. Truly a thing of wonder. THANKS, Laura & Mark! Y’all rock.

Releasing My Inner Groupie

Calexico trumpeters during sound check

joey burns & john convertino perform convict pool

Kathleen Edwards/Gomez/etc. details to follow …

Reaching My Limits

I am too stuffed full of Bluebell and queso to think, much less write, coherently. So for now, a list of how I spent my weekend at Austin City Limits:

  • Paolo Nutini (a Scotsman, strangely enough)
  • Ted Leo & The Pharmacists
  • Stars (best set of Friday)
  • Nickel Creek (they covered “Toxic”!!!!)
  • Cat Power & The Memphis Rhythm Band
  • Gomez
  • Ray Lamontagne (zzzzzz)
  • Ben Kweller (only half a set; a bloody nose left him unable to play, even after stuffing a tampon up his nose. I have to say, I use tampons on a regular basis, and it would NEVER OCCUR TO ME to stuff one up my nose, even to stop a blood flow.)
  • Nada Surf (for their last song, they brought out the two Calexico trumpeters)
  • TV on the Radio (bad sound, unfortunately, so I couldn’t really enjoy them)
  • CALEXICO (front row center. Martin Wenk, one of the trumpeters, caught my eye and laughed at me during their last song. I’m not sure if it was because I knew all the words to Guero Canelo–basically a list of drugs, not an easy song to learn the lyrics to–or because, by that point, I was covered in dirt and no doubt resembled a farm animal more than a woman)
  • What Made Milwaukee Famous
  • Iron & Wine
  • Willie Nelson (another show with bad sound–made worse by the gargantuan crowd, since I couldn’t get any closer than a half mile away–so I only saw a song or two before heading over to Massive Attack)
  • Massive Attack
  • The Stills
  • Kathleen Edwards
  • Sam Roberts
  • Lou Ann Barton (one of the best sets of Sunday)
  • KT Tunstall
  • Jose Gonzalez
  • Matisyahu
  • Son Volt
  • The New Pornographers (they had NEKO with them, who is the only person who could rival my Calexico crush. I met her years ago on my birthday at a tiny, now-defunct venue called the Volcano Room, and I’ve been smitten ever since.)
  • The Greencards (great bluegrass, but badly drowned out by Ben Harper)

Everything’s Bigger in Texas

Travel is never boring with me. Aside from my spectacular directional ineptitude and my never-ending zeal for Road Kill Bingo, I am also Queen of the Near Miss. For the wedding I attended a few weeks ago in northern Indiana, I took the South Shore Metra line from 57th Street all the way to the South Bend Airport. I arrived at the 57th Street station sweaty and frantic, sprinting up the stairs to the platform, hollering for the conductor to open the doors for me. Fortunately, he did; missing the 8 am train would have meant a two-hour wait till the next one. The trip back to Chicago was an even nearer miss: I pulled my rental car into the nearest parking space, sprinted to the airport, literally tossed the keys to the guy at the Enterprise Rent-a-Car desk, and arrived at the train in enough time to bang on the conductor’s window so he could STOP THE TRAIN FOR ME, PLEASE. To say I made it by the skin of my nose would be a gross exaggeration. It took me ten minutes to recover my breath afterwards.

I spent much of yesterday being anxious about how and when I was going to get to O’Hare this morning. The last time I went there (to visit a friend who had a layover), it took three hours; even though that was a weekend afternoon, I just wasn’t feeling especially optimistic about my journey there this morning. I called a cab company around 11 pm to reserve a cab for 3 am, went to bed–fully dressed and already packed–about 12:30 am, and set my alarm for 2:20 am. I figured this gave me enough time to wash my face, throw my toiletries into my suitcase, eat some cereal, and call to confirm the cab.

My alarm didn’t go off. This is not exactly a rare occurrence for me: aside from sleeping like a teenager, I also quickly acclimate to my alarm clocks’ buzzes and beeps, and I am impressively adept at walking across the room, shutting off the alarm, and going back to bed–all without waking up. But this morning I’m certain it really didn’t go off; with all my anxieties about getting to the airport, I feel sure I would have overcome my inner sleepy teenager and managed to roll out of bed. I shot straight up in bed–I really did, it was like a movie–at 3 am. I looked at my phone (which I had placed right by my head), which showed three missed phone calls from “Chicago Taxi.” Shit. They called again while I was brushing my teeth and told me the cab was waiting for me outside. SHIT. I must have had the nicest cabbie in all of Chicago; I don’t know why else he would have waited while the cab company kept calling and calling me. That was some kinda luck.

My transportation luck didn’t completely change, though: half a block from my house, I had to tell my nice cabbie to turn around because I’d forgotten my boarding pass (meter still running, of course). But I finally made it; I had the cabbie take me to the Jackson Blue Line, which I then took to O’Hare. I arrived at O’Hare at about 4:20 am, PLENTY of time to get through security for my 6:55 am flight.

As soon as more people for the flight arrived, it was clear that it was going to Texas by all the silicone. Seriously, if we had landed in water, the whole plane could have floated. Everything really is bigger in Texas. And nevermind the brassy bleach blonde hair, the caked-on makeup, and the “Western” skirts with big belts and denim shirts.  Ah, home!

As much as I poke fun at Texans (Dallasites, at least), I love this place. It’s a beautiful 90 degrees and the sky is bright blue. I have just eaten more queso and Bluebell ice cream than should be physically possible. And I think I’m going to have another scoop before bed.

*    *    *

current book: I’m 70 pages into Blood Meridian. I think I’m finally getting used to the writing. While I’m actually reading it, it’s absorbing, but I think that I could just as easily put it down and forget about it. What a strange reading experience this is.

current music: Austin City Limits, baby! Starts tomorrow around noon.

current socks: white with little cowgirls and cowboys.

Packing

Trying to, anyway.

(his eyes are a little freaky because I was playing with the green-eye reducer)

monte helps pack. he's good like that.

I Swear Like a Southsider!

I made my reservations for Austin a while back, weeks before the tighter restrictions on carry-on baggage. I’d planned just to take a carry-on–I’m traditionally a heavy packer (I like options), but I was sure I could manage to lighten up for a long weekend. Since I’m flying on frequent flyer miles, my flight options were somewhat limited, and I ended up on a 6:55am flight Thursday morning. All the better to practice packing light! I could just hop on the bus and race through the terminal and flop into my seat at the last minute. No problem.

This all rested on the assumption–the stupid, unreasonable assumption–that I was flying out of Midway, which is a 45-minute-to-an-hour bus ride from my house. I double-checked my flight plans today to make sure everything is on track. By this point, I’d pretty much given up on the carry-on idea, and resigned myself to getting there early enough to check baggage. Better to just take a book and wallet and avoid the carry-on chaos altogether.

But I’m actually flying out of O’Hare. Fucking O’Hare. The airport at which I’ve never had a good experience, at which nobody has ever had a good experience. And for a 6:55am flight. Working backwards: arrive O’Hare at 5am; get on shuttle and leave Hyde Park at 4am; get up at o’dark thirty. For all of this I have only one word. Motherfucker.

Beethoven & Britney

I was running late one sleepy morning last week. Intelligentsia (supplier of my daily latte addiction, running late or not) was playing Calexico’s Garden Ruin, and I had maybe four minutes of sweet, sweet relief from my otherwise grimy morning. Unsurprising; music frequently determines or reflects moods. See: any number of music reviews making references to “rainy day music” or “perfect summer pop songs.” Or try listening to The Smiths’ “Last Night I Dreamt Somebody Loved Me” when you’re feeling on top of the world. You’ll either shut it off one bar in or fall a very, very long way down.

I went to McBookstore during lunch today to get some new reading material (Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy and A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments by David Foster Wallace). Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 (second movement) was playing: a song both triumphant and devastating, exultant and crushing. Its eight minutes are an epic crescendo, plateauing mid-song in a joyful little dance, then falling prey to a deepening sorrow punctuated by the brass section. But for most of the movement, the cellos carry the emotion–appropriate, since a cello’s range is similar to a person’s–and, although I’m not well-educated in classical music, I believe it is somewhat unusual for a symphony to rely so heavily on cellos (Joel, do you still read my blog? You want to jump in here?). Beethoven’s Seventh moved me to take cello lessons, and hearing it today made me wish my cello wasn’t temporarily hibernating at my parents’ house. Probably my regret was exacerbated by the haunting A-minor key and the gray skies. And yet…

It got me thinking about more things than I can write about now, on the verge of bedtime and another early morning. In John C.’s entry about Britney Spears’ “Toxic,” he described it as something he turned to for a “sugar rush.” It’s definitely a song I’d listen to before, say, a night on the town (along with Madonna and Prince, natch). Funny how we turn to music: for solace, or to wallow ever deeper in self-pity, or to lift our spirits. And funny how music becomes a vortex of nostalgia. Beethoven’s Seventh caught me by surprise and took me back to the moment, and even to the emotion, of first wanting to play the cello.

And with all of these loose ends and half-thoughts, I’m off to Austin in one more day for yet another music festival. It will still be warm enough there to discover the perfect summer pop song. I might have to indulge my inner groupie and try to snag another front-row spot for Calexico.

* * *

current book: finished Michael K on the Metra home; cracked open Blood Meridian.

current music: re-living Sunday night with plenty of Calexico, with a break to listen to Symphony No. 7 three times in a row.

current socks: black with bumblebees. It was pouring rain when I came into work this morning, so I’ve been walking around unshod while my shoes dry out.