The world happens under this striped sky

"There's been an accident"

Sit in one place long enough and you're certain to witness a full spectrum of events regarding human lives.  The circus is designed to entertain, to amuse. Most have expressions of joy, awe, happiness. That, however, is not all that happens here. Children can be scared by that designed to please, much as Santa Claus does.
The other day a woman excused herself from the show briefly because she was nauseous. In talking to her outside, I found that it was not physical malady that induced such discomfort, but rather the fact that she was attending the show with her future ex-husband -- a man that decided to move past her after 39 years.
Yesterday, I was standing with two women outside the tent who appeared to be waiting for another member of their party. Just before I approached them to inquire, a coworker hurried up to them and said,

"There's been an accident"

This is a vague statement that can bring the worst of scenarios to mind when a family member is involved.  Judging by their immediate frightened looks, this is just what happened.  As it turns out, the person they were awaiting had a seizure while rushing between the box office and the tent. I've no idea how things concluded, but there were paramedics on site (we always have at least one EMT at all times).

I wonder what else I might witness while doing this. Will be there a child born here? Would the parents be cruel and name it "Ovo" or "Guy" (after Cirque's founder)?

Borders...not the book store (no apostrophe!)

Each time I cross the US-Canadian border, things go less than smoothly. It seems that my choice of a nomadic lifestyle is aggravating this situation. Yesterday, I came back from Quebec, Quebec and, because I had passed through one of the primary border inspection stations (Derby Line, VT) the previous day, I decided to go through a more remote location (Beecher Falls, NH -- which looked more like a pull-through gas station than a national border crossing) just to see two different routes. I had passed through a heavy thunderstorm along a soft dirt/gravel road (another story, another time), so it might have looked like I was trying to sneak across. He searched my car trunk, handed my passport to his coworker who took it inside to check out, and looked really annoyed after closing the trunk because his hands were now quite dirty.  The interrogation went a bit like an Abbott and Costello routine. The whole event took about 10 minutes, but it's not like we were holding up all the imaginary traffic that goes through at Beecher Falls.  I now attempt to recreate the highlights as accurately as possible:

Officer: Where do you live?
Me: Boston these days.
O: Where are the car plates from?
M: It's registered in Oregon.
O: Is this your car?
M: Yes.
O: But you said you're from Boston.
M: I'm living there for two months. I change states every two months for work. I'll be moving to DC next month.
O: How long have you been in Boston?
M: A little over a month. I'll be moving to DC next month.
O: I don't get why your plates are from Oregon.
M: Let me show you my driver's license (Oregon). Does this help?
O: Not really. Where are you from? [I think he asked this because my passport is California].
M: I'm from CA, but I moved to OR in February for four months. Then I moved out here and change states every two months [I explain the whole Cirque business].
O: So the car is from Oregon?
M: No, it's actually from California, but I re-registered it in Oregon.
O: Does the job pay well?
M: Not really.
O: Then why would you do this?

A quote for Monday

"You know that point in your life when you realize that the house that you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your stuff, that idea of home is gone."
-Andrew Largeman

Get's you thinking .

Crrrrraaaacccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!

In case you were wondering, the title of this post relates to the sound I heard just after clocking in for my first show day with Cirque. The sound in question happened to be the thunder resulting from a lightning strike hitting the big top (or Grand Chapiteau, if you will) shortly before the media preview/dress rehearsal.  Fortunately, power was lost only briefly because each of the tent's masts are grounded lightning rods and there are multiple generators on site. Cirque is a self-providing city. Upon arrival, they hook into the telecommunications and water lines of a city. Everything else is handled within the compound.

In other news, I discovered last week that the term "soccer", whose usage will out you as an American instantly is actually a British word.  Just as "rugger" is slang for someone who plays rugby, "soccer" was slang for someone playing association football. My apologies for the large text. I was hoping to underline, but couldn't find that feature.  Association => Assoc => Soccer

There you go. That's your lesson for the day.

We've been trying to steer clear of animal vs animal discussions here, since they no doubt end in laughter and pointless arguments, so here's your four-part question of the day (which was our QOTD yesterday):

When you hear the word "dragon", does your mental image present an Asian dragon or a European dragon? Which would you rather have as a pet? Which would you rather fight? [And the inevitable] If battling each other, which would win?

We can't seem to avoid those questions. Oh well, more laughter must ensue.

Here there be giants

I check my notepad: "Write about big ants."

They're everywhere.  Ants on the plants, on the railings --- there are busy ants on the trains and downtown, running about, each with duties to perform before going home for the night.  These are the same ants we see from wingside in a plane, above the clouds, and from the roofs of skyscrapers, looking at the world below. These are the small ants that we've known since childhood. However, that's not what I'm looking at right now. I'm not looking at small ants or people ants...I'm looking at giant Boston ants.

I haven't been much of an ant the past 5 months. There have been days where I wish I had things to do.  Other times (like this evening), I have opted for events I've been ambivalent about, but, due to lack of options, have no reason no to go. I used to keep busy. Work in the day, play at night.  Then came the work at night, play in the day period. Lately, it has been ...I'm not really sure...play in the day?

I leave you with an idea planted in my head yesterday:
The beer choices of our parents' generation.
Switch the tap handles and no one would notice the difference.
We are spoiled.

Impressions of Boston, vol. 1

Dorchester: Home of Leonard Nimoy, Mark Wahlberg (nee Marky Mark), Donnie Wahlberg (of the New Kids on the Block), Dropkick Murphys, Martin Luther King Jr., Donna Summer, and me.  I don't know if I'll be putting out any Billboard chart toppers, traveling at lightspeed, or starting the revolution, but life can be strange enough without making a name for yourself.

If you want to be specific, I'm currently residing in Savin Hill. Originally the summer home for the Neponset tribe of Native Americans, the Puritans disembarked from the "Mary and John" and eventually kicked out the natives. Joseph Tuttle, an aspiring innkeeper, decided the area (then known as "Old Hill") needed a tourism boost and renamed the neighborhood surrounding his new hotel Savin Hill, after the red Savin juniper trees that I've got in my front yard.  I arrived at my triple-decker (a symbol of the neighborhood and reportedly a 1905 vintage) with nothing to do but sit outside until my future roommate arrived.  I figured I might as well make myself at home, so I settled into an Adirondack chair in the front yard and waited. It wasn't long before the sound of an unhealthy vehicle caught my ear and I looked in the general direction of the noise. Apparently the driver was tired of people staring at his wreck and he flipped me off immediately. Welcome to the neighborhood, Greg.

It has been too hot for this West Coaster and we stay up late every night out on the second floor balcony having endless pointless conversations, whether debating the family heritage of the deceased Hawaiian superstar Iz or arguing the possible outcomes of animal battles (bear vs shark, cheetah vs bear, etc).

In good ol' me fashion, I venture out into the city without a map. I don't know if it's an unspoken rule I have for myself.  If I have a starting point in mind, I might reference it online before I embark. Otherwise, I wander by following the sun's position, following the border between land and water, and, if I feel like finding myself, checking out a directory should I happen upon one. That's how my camera and I discover. Eight and a half miles the other day, when the only idea I had at the start was, "I think it's cool enough to go outside and take some pictures." As it turned out, it wasn't so cool, but I kept walking anyway. Lots of pictures resulted.

At some point mid-afternoon, the heat was wearing on me and I felt like heading back to my hood. However, though I knew which way was home, it was quicker to find the nearest T-station.  Being one who doesn't carry maps, I have no problem asking for directions or tips. I happened upon a couple of young entrepreneurs selling bottled water on the sidewalk. Though they were no older than 10 years old, I trusted their local knowledge and paid my juvenile informants good money ($1) for a water and directions to the local station.

And off I went.

A journey begins

It was at some point just after the pterodactyl was flying next to me on that moonlit night, I realized that I had no idea what I was jumping into. At first, a sense of awe washed over me, followed by a bit of fear. It was huge! How had no one seen one of these gliding through the canyons of Eastern Utah? To the best of my recollection, I was near the junction of Hwy 84 and Hwy 80, just around the midnight hour. I had been driving pretty much nonstop for 14 hours and surviving off an exclusive diet of chocolate, Mike & Ike's, potato chips, and water. To my right, I was getting glimpses of the left wing, dipping in and out of the moonlight. It took me a couple views to understand that there was a monstrous creature swooping up and down next to me.  I couldn't believe my eyes.

I shouldn't have believed my eyes. It took about a minute to realize that I was hallucinating. While what I saw was dipping in and out of the moonlight, it wasn't a leathery wing, it was a wind turbine blade. I decided to take a nap shortly after. That was just the first night.

I'm pretty sure I only suffered from alternate realities twice on my drive east. The other wasn't so much an image of what wasn't there as it was the planning of an event later in the day that had no possibility to occur. Besides that, I think my mind kept its grasp on reality, but then again, only the crazy person doesn't question his sanity. How would I know if I saw things that weren't there? What is real? Was the state employee riding a mower next to the freeway while barefoot and wearing a tanktop and shorts real? Were the Amana (don't call them Amish) colonies, a historical site in Iowa, now featuring a waterpark and "Landmark Restaurant", real or just some perversion of the American free market?  What about the fact that I passed through Kingsville, Ontario [not my pic], advertising itself as Canada's southernmost town, yet the map says otherwise and even the town's website says it is "one of the most southern towns"? How is it that Canada's tomato capitol and rhubarb capitol are so close together? Coincidence or just good tourism planning? Can I say that I have seen the states I traveled through on my journey? I entered and exited Michigan under the cloak of night, so all I can attest to are the road signs and the starry sky.

I have seen a wildfire sparked by a thunderstorm or was it a thunderstorm generated by a wildfire?  My eyes have fallen upon daytime in the wee hours of the night.  I have witnessed incredibly aggressive mosquitoes, blood-sucking flies, and giant Nebraskan bugs at my campsite.  I have been nearly blown up by skateboarders, the bored youth of Michigan City, Indiana, who play with homemade explosives while skating and biking under the watchful eye of the neighborhood cooling tower.  I have stood on the banks of a Great Lake looking at our Northern neighbor from our home perspective and I have stood on the bank of another Great Lake looking at home from our Northern neighbor's perspective.  I have left those whom I care deeply for behind and I have made new acquaintances, forging a new temporary life where I discover a new town, a new state, new homes, and new faces every two months.

I'm on an extended photowalk.

"Taco Smell" OR "Why Reeka?"

It's the halfway point in my drive and I find myself at the Yreka Taco Bell. I was here in December and there was a rank sewage smell (as opposed to pleasant sewage smells, I suppose) to the property. Fortunately, today seems odorless. As I walk inside, I watch as Holly, customer service rep extraordinaire, deals with a woman (I shall call her Dido) who lacks proper communication skills.

Dido: [points at a menu photo that has two items] I'll have one of those.

Holly: [obviously hating her job] Which one? There are two things there.

Dido: [points again] That one.

Meanwhile, an off-duty staff member walks in and tries to hand ten dollars over the counter to the manager. He rejects the offer.

Juturna: You earned it. You were right the other night. I ended up in jail.

Latinus: Seriously? Everything all right?

Juturna: I'm okay, but they got me for DUI.

Evander: All right! [high-fives Juturna across the counter] First one?

[Juturna walks away, but lifts two fingers in the air]

Evander: Psssshhhttt, that's nothing. [Lifts three fingers in the air]

[The three exit for a smoke break]

Is this life in Yreka? Is a person's coolness factor determined by the number of intoxicated driving sessions during which one gets caught?
No thanks.

The Greek letter of the day is "Delta"

Bob Dylan said it. Watchmen brought it back to the ears of this generation. The times they are a changing. The world is full of craziness. The craziness that entertains me in my chance encounters is also the craziness that causes listeners to question my honesty and creativity when I repeat the stories. I'll still be going to concerts as time allows, and I'll bring my trusty steed (named Nikon) as house rules allow. However, I have tales to tell, musings to write, and I can't get to enough concerts to post as frequently as I'd like.


And thus, "It's a Transocular Life" is born...or reincarnated...or recycled. Whatever your word of choice, it's here, I'm here, and I think you're still here.  Grab a teacup, put on a nice sweater, and get those comfortable shoes on. It's walkin' time.

Metal Night at Backspace

Line-up for the evening was Nether Regions, SubArachnoid Space, and Red Fang at Portland's Backspace, a venue that functions as a cafe by day and an all-ages venue (w/ alcohol) by night.  Red Fang opened with the slow, but delightfully heavy "Humans Remain Human Remains" before picking up the pace for their 50 minute set.  Cries came from the crowd frequently for "Prehistoric Dog", a hit due in large part to the great video made for the single, and the band closed with it, much to the audience's moshing pleasure.

I haven't shot photos from a mosh pit since Warped Tour last year. It's a fun challenge. More pics here.

The Slackers and The Getbacks - 03-24-10

My first venture into Mississippi...the Portland version, that is.  A communal bike pump and diverse food choices welcome me to the 'hood.  I'm in the newly revamped Mississippi Studios, though, having never been here, I don't know the difference.  41 chairs upstairs and a side balcony -- all good views from above. Two chandeliers and assorted low wattage sconces illuminate the room.

Portland's The Getbacks are on first. The red walls and single dim red light on stage worries the photographer in me, but time will tell. The crowd is not as I'd expect: a single mohawk and a couple checkered hats, but sweaters and vests dominate.  The lights flash and the show begins...well, a few minutes later, but that's not as dramatic-sounding.  The singer informs us that they are here for "our entertainment pleasure". They sound good from the start, but the seven-piece looks crowded  up there, with horn players shuffling to make room for solos. The take home song from these guys is the mildly gross, but catchy "Drunk Girl".

     "Uh, uh, uh....uh, uh, uh, uh, you better watch what you do.
       If you take home a pukin' girl, you might get puke on you."

The Slackers are self-described "Jamaican rock 'n' roll". At least one person in the crowd wanted to make the atmosphere just a little more Jamaican.  In the past, I'd seen Vic (lead vocalist, keys) play the mad scientist with the theramin, but tonight he stuck with the organ.  The band eased into their classic "Married Girl" with a story, but at the start of the actual song there was a point of crowd realization, followed by cheers and instant skank: Just add water.

On that note, it's not a ska show if the audience isn't drenched in sweat. They were ---- it was.

Post Harbor - The Dunes - March 6, 2010

The club is black, with a recessed door and no signage.  No wonder no one is here. I had the address number and that's the only reason I even approached the massive 15 foot door.  A drum kit is set up, but no one is playing...except Freddie Mercury.  Queen Live at Wembley is pumping through the sound system and is projected on the wall.  I ask the guys if they've ever had Queen open for them. A remarkable night indeed.

An hour after the advertised showtime and there are ten others in the room. Considering the three bands on the bill tonight, I'm guessing that I'm the only one that's not a band member or a girlfriend.


Bombs Over You starts the night off with a slow, spacey number full of synthey fuzz guitar and double keyboards. The microphone stand progressed through various stages of rebellion throughout the set, but the singer stuck it out and handled the troubles well. During the last song of the set, a group of four in clever hats -- frog, dinosaur, red-and-white-striped waldo, and cowboy -- strolls into the bar.  One's sporting a tutu as well and her behavior communicates the fact that they know Post Harbor.

Tonight's special on the sign is "Big Beer $4", which turns out to be a cheap American corporate beer (no names mentioned to preserve innocence) in what was at least a 25 oz mug.  I pass.  The not-as-big drink of the night is crushed ginger, ginger ale, and whiskey.  A glance down the counter gets me thinking: The velociraptor with glasses at the bar worries me. Is he here for trouble? If I avoid eye contact, will I be fine? Eye contact? Which eyes: the human or reptilian pair? I go back to my drink.

Bombs Over You breaks stage loading protocol by talking to friends while slowly packing up instead of getting everything offstage first. As bonus points, however, the drum hardware is nicely stuffed into a golf bag to the amusement of those who see.

Watching Post Harbor set up is comical as well, but the band demonstrates the adaptability a touring band must have as it fits four keyboards, a full drum kit, three guitars, a cello, and a bass in what I'd guess is about 90 square feet.  A Tetris game of musical instruments in front of us.  I'm familiar with the music of Post Harbor, which is why I came out tonight.  Bowing guitars as well as cellos, using drumsticks as guitar slides.

The fuzz can put you to sleep. You don't happen upon a place like this.

Videos from the show:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWf4XcxZAvU
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7Ai1vvGT_k

The trees make their own noise. I still help.

I think back to family camping trips in the forest. I, a most humble, amazingly-charming 10 year old playing around the campfire. There's that fine line between having the fire for illumination and heat and having the fire to throw leaf litter into for the sole purpose of witnessing the resulting blaze and campfire sounds.  I remember getting in trouble for tossing bits into the fire, particularly fresh, sappy pine needles, for they make the loudest firecracker noise. Jump ahead two decades and I'm standing in a forest throwing litter into the blaze. Instead of pine needles, I'm throwing branches and tree trunks. And, after six hour shifts of doing so, I realize it's not as much fun.

For two days, I volunteered my time to the Little White Salmon River Biodiversity Reserve (LWSBR), part of the World Steward non-profit in Underwood, Washington.  The plot of land I worked on, St. Milly's Grove, is 40 acres, but the accumulated property of the organization has grown to 263 acres.  It is located about 11 miles west of Hood River and overlooks both the Columbia River Gorge and White Salmon River. Five staff live on site and work pretty much every daylight hour. I found out about the program through an advertisement for the Neighborwood program: In exchange for a 6-hour shift of hauling wood and grooming the forest, a volunteer earns the right to either take home a half cord of fresh firewood or donate said wood to a senior or disabled person's home.

The purpose of our cleanup was to artificially restore the natural balance between the oak and fir populations.  19th century logging and 20th/21st century fire suppression have created an area with twice the tree density as would normally have been there.  In addition, the firs grow at five times the rate of the oaks and are thus smothering the oaks in more ways than just spatially. Everybody loves a Douglas fir -- It's a Christmas tree! However, those bushy branches make great kindling in a forest fire and the canopy ends up blocking light from the oaks and actually cooling the overall temperature of the soil.  Normally, a quick blaze would burn through every couple years, removing the young trees and twigs spread over the floor.  The last major fire here was 1911.  This resulted in a crowded floor that would be out of control if ever ignited.

There's not much to talk about regarding the actual work.  One of the staff would cut down a selected fir. We would haul the branches, trunks, and other non-decomposing material to the bonfire. The fire, at times, got to a point where the 15 foot flames were generating enough wind to blow nearby trees around. Fortunately, everything was nice, moist, and mossy, so escaping embers would fizzle out soon after leaving their source. It's a slow process, and Hank, the executive director for World Stewards, has a 20 year plan for the recovery of the area. The LWSBR mission is conservation, research, and education.  Ultimately, there will be hiking trails, an outdoor school/learning center, an off-grid solar home, and who knows what else.  He has also been responsible for the fund raising, purchasing, and protecting of another 11 farm and forest parcels that are part of the LWSBR, but are held in title by two other not-for-profit organizations. The western neighbor is a federal fish hatchery.  I'd spend more time helping out here if it weren't 90 minutes away.  It's quiet, it's peaceful, and the occasional blue jay is the only sound besides the river below, the wind through the trees, and the crackle of the fire.

Notes during lunch:
I realize how loud I am out here. Yes, carrots are meant to be crunchy, but the plastic wrappers that all my food comes in seems so much louder when opened in such a serene, solitary environment. Perhaps it is not the noise contrast but the knowledge of environmental costs that makes my lunch suddenly less enjoyable and more embarrassing.  I shouldn't have all this plastic waste, especially because I know better.

More pics at gallery

Tapefest 2010 at The Holocene - 02/25/10

First of all, for those who haven't been to the Holocene:
When you think you're there, but can't find it, don't give up! It's the warehouse on the corner of 11th and SE Morrison with absolutely no signage. Don't accidentally walk into Sassy's, the gentleman's club, unless it's "accidentally" -- walk across the street. It's there, I swear.
Tapefest 2010 is a celebration of bands and record labels who, in the hopes of retaining an analog world, still release commercial music on cassette tapes. There is also a limited selection of vinyl and CD formats available, but I think you get the gist of what this night is about.

First up is Pete Swanson, one-half of the experimental Portland group Yellow Swans. Live performances are reserved to the back room, painted in soft pink-purplish hues on predominantly blank walls.  Swanson sets up loops of industrial samples, gradually building the texture and volume before embarking on a live guitar as a final overlay.  There are traces of voices in the loop; not vocals, but through the static...voices.  Unfortunately, I can't hear a bit of his guitar or singing over the background he has presented to us.  He is working the whole time and I can see the emotion pouring from his face as he played. I want to hear what he has for me, and I struggle, but all that reaches me is the same loop.  Nothing makes it through the sonic wall that the creator unknowingly made impenetrable.  And so I wait...for a possible sound adjustment, for the song to end. The audience stands at attention and one man bobs his head to the unchanging rhythm of industrial noise.  I see the emotion of his lyrics as he belts them into the microphone.  I only wish I could receive what he has chosen to share with us.  One song is all the chance he had to grab us (granted it was 15+ minutes)...and it's lost.

 
Next up is Strategy, a one-man show of knobs and dials, performing off-stage closer to the sound board.  He has all his gear fitting on a 6 square foot table.  This one presents a slower tempo; gradually building loop upon loop.  It appears he's matching the bass tempo to the march of a large animal, but what beast lumbers in steps of three? Knobs are twisting -- so many knobs -- like he's at the control panel of some futuristic transport vessel.  One unit looks like a shoddy attempt at a Hollywood bomb: a small orange metal box with wires sticking out all over it.  As art imitates life and life participates, a spectator drops his plastic cup to the cement floor.  At first, the distraction fits the music, its resulting sound accelerating as it bounces around -- another sample being layered into the soundscape.  Had I not seen the guilty party, I would not have questioned it.

Circles, moons, and bellies: They all come full eventually

I've been meaning to write this for a couple weeks now, but life has been full of all sorts of change (for the good, read the rest). Some time in mid-2008, my life returned to the world of live music. This was something I used to attend multiple times a week but had sadly dwindled down to once every couple months at its most frequent.  With this return to music, which I realized instantly how much I had missed, came photography. Of course, if you've read my other postings, you already knew this.
Early on in my new hobby, I found OONA opening up for Forrest Day at the now sadly shuttered Monterey Live.  I enjoyed both acts immensely and wanted more of each.  I can't quite remember the sequence of events, but I took video and still shots of the show, supplied them to the club and to the artists, and opened channels of communication. I became "that Monterey" fan of Oakland-based OONA and proceeded to see them when I could, including an invite to an intimate in-studio webcast. Meanwhile, Still Time, a band which I had been eager to see live, opened for Forrest Day and Kapakahi at the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco. It was an amazing show and I wanted more. You might be asking why I'm spinning this tale. Good question.
The story of my life and these bands have come full circle. For my last weekend in SF there were three shows (and two nights) I wanted to attend: 1) OONA, playing what would be a sold-out show at the Bottom of the Hill, 2) Still Time, opening for Kapakahi at Slim's, and 3) Forrest Day, opening for Battlehooch at Slim's on the same night as OONA.  There were more details that tie these bands together, but the bottom line is this: I'm taking big steps in my life. At the same time, my last opportunities for good music in that scene were with the bands to which I was closest; the bands that are taking big steps at the same time as I.
OONA has struck it big with So You Think You Can Dance, getting hit after hit on the show, most recently with "Remote Control" which topped out at #54 on the iTunes singles chart. They have a Japanese EP release coming soon and I was privy to other off-the-record info that may spell big developments for them.
Still Time is embarking on their first national tour, which is good for them because more people need to experience their live show. Not only that, but they're playing SXSW in March, which will give deserving musicians the exposure they deserve.  Fortunately for me, they're playing two shows in Portland in the coming weeks, so that provides me two shots to see them in my new home and two shots to introduce myself to local clubs.
Forrest Day...well, I'm not actually sure what they're up to (to what they are up? I can only use proper grammar 99.5% of the time). Out of the S.F. Bay area, these guys always get the crowd moving. Last time I saw them, they opened for Still Time (a role reversal, but more examples of full circledom) in San Luis Obispo. I spoke to their merch guy, who has been in the business for decades, and he knows they're going to make a difference.
So to sum it up: there's good music out there...and things have come full circle. My hope is for some sort of transdimensional figure-8 to arise, but I'm not sure how that will play out.  I do my part to help out the bands, and sometimes things work out for me (permission to shoot, my work displayed on band's pages)
Now, you're wondering what full moons and bellies have to do with this. Nothing much, actually, but I hopefully got you thinking. I'm hoping to try out moon-illuminated long-exposure photography. Until conditions are right, I'm scoping out potential locations. Full bellies? Part of my current mid-life crisis has me wanting to develop my culinary skills. I realize this has nothing to do with music or photography (and you probably don't care), but I wanted a third "full" item for the entry and it's what came to mind.
Until next time: be safe.

Movits - Bottom of the Hill, San Francisco, California 01/23/10

The thumping double bass, the steady rhythm of the floor tom and snare, the big-band sound of the horn section: the combination has entranced me. Obviously, I'm not the only one, as the couple in front of me enjoys themselves, cutting circles in the floor with their swing and hustle dance moves. Though limited in selection, their dance repertoire is enough for them.  It's apparently enough for me, since I'm the one watching them.  I snap back to reality and my gaze scans up, above the bouncing, sweaty crowd to the performers onstage. There isn't a double bass. There isn't a leopard print drum-kit.  There's barely a horn section, and that was up for debate as well. This isn't a swing band.

Three Scandinavian men in matching sport coats, fresh Adidas kicks, and thick black-rimmed glasses are giving their all up there, hopping to the beat and spitting rhymes in a language I can't comprehend. Meanwhile, their posse is pogo-ing behind them, swinging towels above their heads and working the crowd, enticing synchronized hand-claps.  This is Movits.

I'll be honest: I wish there had been a live band.  The video for their single, Appelknyckarjazz (which means Apple sniper jazz), features a full big band.  It's quite the entertaining video and I recommend watching it. However, in my pre-show research, I viewed live videos of the group and knew that the tour crew was limited to three guys. I suppose it is difficult, both financially and logistically, to do a world tour with a full swing band when you're playing clubs that have a capacity of 240.  They pulled the sound off, but my friends and I stood skeptic at the back, wondering if the saxophonist (the only live instrument for the bulk of the set), was actually playing.  He was most of the time, I think, but there were times when he would solo over the backing track that also had sax in it and the tonal qualities of the two (live and recorded) were clearly distinct. Oh, the questioning...

Here's what it comes down to, I suppose: They weren't misrepresenting themselves. Movits is a Swedish swing/hip-hop crew.  And as long as that's what they're advertising, they're doing a great job of it. The crowd loved it. A lot of the beats sounded the same, but the energy of the live show appeared to make that factor negligible. Be true to yourself, Johan Rensfeldt.  Be true to yourself, Anders Rensfeldt. Be true to yourself, Jocke Nilsson.

Near the end of the set, a gentleman walked by wearing an Eazy-E shirt. And so I close with a bit of his wisdom shining down on this scene:

Push play on the instrumental that's recorded
Step on stage and I'm suddenly awarded
Some sort of track appeared like a plaque
And some hell of a screen from the girls in the back
Takin' a bow cause I got style
Never at the bottom of the ways on the top of the pile