At the time of this writing, it looks like tickets are still on sale for the last of the SPIN anniversary shows, where tonight Spiritualized plays their drop-dead gorgeous masterpiece, Ladies and Gentleman We Are Floating in Space, alongside an orchestra and choir at Radio City Music Hall. If for whatever reason you have a thing against space-rock masterpieces or just prefer your indie-rock to sound more like the Shins, whippersnapper Avi Buffalo and his very tall Sub Pop cohort Chad VanGaalen will be playing the Seaport. Seventy-eight degrees, no chance of rain, free admission.
Come Saturday afternoon, it seems probable that every single person living in Brooklyn, ages 18-30, will head to Queens for what promises to be one of the biggest P.S. 1 Warm Ups of the season. Animal Collective DJs. You dance. Blondes, Oneohtrix Point Never, Prince Rama and more under the psych-synth-freak umbrella perform. You dance, or at least nod your head knowingly. Then catch Sonic Youth at Prospect Park (with Talk Normal and L Mag new obsessions Grass Widow) if you're in the mood for a classic or punk duo Japanther at Union Hall if your feeling feisty.
Sunday's toss-up: Ted Leo, Darlings (um, we really like Darlings) and ArpLine for a free Jelly show at Brooklyn Bowl or St. Vincent, tUnE-YaRdS and Basia Bulat for a free show at Central Park's SummerStage. If you find out why Jelly hates us, let us know? End the weekend at The Delancey for Julian Lynch and his, you know, lo-fi pop that's a notch better than the rest. Then get some sleep. Wavves and the Black Lips both play on Monday, and you'll want to be alert in case there's a fight. (The joke's not dead!)
This right here is epic, like the Duck Amuck of the 21st century, the most creative deconstruction of cartoon animation in decades: Teddy Newton's Day & Night. If you didn't see it before Toy Story 3 (and even if you did) watch it now, and all weekend. See you on Monday! (Fubiz)
So we were very, very sad to learn that Gino—a preserved-in-amber specimen of fine old New York eateries—was closing up shop after 65 glorious years... to be replaced by a Beverly Hills cupcake concern, some stupid fucking thing called "Sprinkles," beloved of stupid fucking celebrities. It really couldn't get any more galling than that. (Here's a pic of the gutted Gino, not for the faint of heart.)
Granted, there's nothing new about hating on all the ridiculously moronic high-end cupcake shops in this city, but all of the aforementioned pain and anger came flooding back to me when I read breathless news this morning of a fancy new cupcake shop opening in a couple weeks just up the hill in Brooklyn Heights, Crumbs.
So, though it may be a purely symbolic gesture, the only way I think I can deal with my grief and rage is to hereby vow to never, ever again eat a fancy store-bought NYC cupcake, until the day I die.
Did you hear about the zoo in China that inadvertently gassed its star attraction, a 21-year-old giant panda named Quan Quan, earlier this week? Workers were apparently disinfecting another area of Jinan Zoo in Shandong province when their chlorine, chlorine hydride and carbon monoxide mixture made its way into the ventilation system and seeped into the panda pen, killing the mother of seven. Understandably, people are pissed, as, presumably, are the pandas. If they could they'd inform zoo officials of their outrage in a manner similar to the above commercial for some sort of panda-flavored spread. Which, gross, right? (Ufunk)
... and Intern Deirdre brought it over to my desk.
Do you guys know how long it took me to decide which Primus video to post? It took a really long time. Why? Because now more than 15 years removed from the last time I voluntarily listened to a Primus record, it his hitting me like a ton of bricks that, holy shit, they had a lot of really, really awesome songs. "Too Many Puppies," "Here Come the Bastards," "My Name is Mud," "DMV," "Tommy the Cat," "Mrs. Blaileen," and even, of course, "Wynona's Big Brown Beaver"—hits, every last one of 'em, by a band that, yes, could potentially be described as irritating, but also must be described, for better or worse, as nothing if not 100% original. Anyway, they're at the Waterfront tonight, and hooboy, you thought there were a lot of dudes at Faith No More?
So, Stewart, Dinner for Schmucks wasn’t as utterly tasteless as I’d expected given how low Jay Roach has managed to set the bar over the course of his two big franchises, Austin Powers and Meet the Parents/Fockers. (And in light of our colleague Michael Joshua Rowin's adroit review) What I found most disappointing was actually the thing I was most looking forward to: Zach Galifianakis. After stealing last summer’s funnier and more offensive The Hangover, his mind-controlling IRS agent in Schmucks was this film’s second least funny character.
Alright, so, a couple things about this:
1) If M.I.A. had employed mimes a couple weeks ago when she did "Born Free" on Letterman, perhaps I would understand why everyone thought it was sooooo good.
2) It makes no sense to methat everyone cries classist or racist or whatever when Vampire Weekend uses auto-tune or expresses an interest in African music, yet it's perfectly acceptable for Kevin Barnes to do this Prince-lite sex-jam thing, with lines like, "You look like a playground to me, playa" and the awesomely objectifying "You are my only luxury item." The white face paint only makes the whole thing worse.
So with Simon also gone, that left two empty seats at the judges table, one of which is now reportedly being filled by, oh god, Jennifer Lopez, arguably the worst singer of any pop star in recent memory, and certainly one of the least relevant right now. There's also no real reason to think she'll have anything of any value to say about contestants who've set their sights on anything other than hilariously outdated dance-pop, which of course accounts for approximately all of them. This is not gonna go well.
Rumor has it the fourth judge will be named on Monday. Elton John and Justin Timberlake's names keep coming up. Either would probably be fine, though Justin would be a far bigger get. Only time will tell, I suppose. ONLY TIME WILL TELL.
It hasn't even been two days since Kanye West joined Twitter (@KanyeWest), and already he's revolutionizing the social medium. Or, as he put it, "I think Twitter was designed specifically with me in mind just my humble opinion hahhhahaaaahaaa humble hahahahhahaahaaaa," and also, "My thoughts on Twitter so far... at the end of the day, God damnit I'm killing this shit!!!" It's true, he is. For proof, here are his Top 10 tweets so far, helpfully paired with illustrative photos of Kanye.
After Officer Jessica Gavaras told Garcia she needed a carrier, Garcia had her cousin take the little pooch outside, and then pleaded with Gavaras not to give her a ticket. When Garcia went to check her phone for the time, Gavaras grabbed it out of her hand; when Garcia reached for the phone, Gavaras cuffed her. And now it'll probably cost the taxpayers some money.
Between me and you, though, Garcia isn't the most sympathetic victim of asymmetrical police response.
[It was the] worst night of my life. A prostitute offered me a job. There were women in there hiding drugs in their private parts. People were fighting. I've never been around that caliber of people in my life.
What, no hooker with a heart of gold?
For Newsweek, Seth Colter Walls runs down to the Strand to pick up what he can of the dispersed personal library of the experimental writer David Markson (author of Wittgenstein’s Mistress and This Is Not a Novel, among other novels), who died last month.
Earlier this week, the London Review of Books's Alex Abromavich informed readers that Markson's library of classic and contemporary novels, poetry and philosophy, inscribed with Markson's name on the flyleaf and heavily annotated in his hand, appeared to have been sold to The Strand in bulk, and were being resold. He found this out when someone passed on a tip from an undergrad, whose copy of White Noise had previously belonged to Markson: "oh god the pomposity, the bullshit!" he had written alongside one passage. A small flood of readers began scouring the Strand for Markson's books and marginalia—one Keith Lincoln contributed an account of his haul at htmlgiant—and are beginning to upload particularly interesting marginalia to a Facebook group created for the purpose.
Our favorite bit of Markson marginalia—so far—is above. It's always fascinating, owning books (or anything else) that used to belong to strangers; what's interesting here is how the dispersed detritus of the deceased is being used to piece a picture—of Markson the reader and writer—back together.
facebook? did I miss something?
I never got a facebook site because I don't want to spend my free time…