R.I.P. Jay Reatard

Today we mourn the passing of Jimmy Lee Lindsey, 29, who died where he was born, in Memphis, Tennessee. He was probably a GG Allin fan, and he was built in that same image, one that serves as particular inspiration to me and many of the people I admire: kicking, screaming, and (in this case) figuratively shitting all over everything he came into contact with. Maybe because he was angry, maybe because he sad, or scared, or maybe just to experience the rapture of coming into contact with life in a way few of us can or ever do: full. But mostly, likely, because this is just how he was built. And while - even if we don't - none of us are ever really all that far from feeling the way Jay Reatard felt, he was something I'll never be, and nobody I'll ever really know or be friends with will be, either: The Real McCoy, with a heart that pumped piss, vinegar and red hot blood, unstoppable by only a few things, this being one of them. Unfortunately, when guys like him die, it reminds us of the only thing on the horizon when living a life so feeling, the endgame of quagmire too many inspirations have been caught in the crossfire to prove, no mater how useless this life may or may not be:

There's nothing punk about being dead.


Jay Reatard - Fading All Away

No Fucking Future

I haven't felt old a show for a while, probably since I lived in Salt Lake City and used to see bands play Kilby Court. I felt kind of old last night, but not too old.

I saw Los Campesinos! and Titus Andronicus last night at the Bowery Ballroom. Both of these acts (especially Los Campesinos) are two kinds of bands you can get regularly shit on for liking around here, even though nobody blinked an eye when I wrote without a trace of irony about the genius of Leona Lewis. One of the reasons people shit on Los Campesinos is because the have, like, seven people in their band. The more the merrier, no? Somehow, taste in music works like this. It's also worth noting that these are the kinds of bands that *actual* critics regularly shit on (yet, somehow, are immune to whatever trappings bands like these have to get critics to hate them).

I probably shouldn't mention that Titus Andronicus - as it was their last show of the tour - closed their set by covering Green Day's Worst Song, "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" with the Campesinos' violinist, because you might think it was intentionally ironic, or totally sincere (and thus: ironic in context). There's no way I could reasonably articulate the fact that it was justified, and smart, and rightly done, so I won't. But it was nice.

I kept on my toes. And I did some screaming, which, you know, I forgot how much fun that is. They're both kinda scream-y bands. Anyway, I didn't think anybody had anything interesting to say about relationships after I listened to The National for most of last year, and then stopped listening to music all together for a few months, and then I stopped listening to everything. Anyway, this song made me feel better, as nihilist art often strangely does for some of us.

Los Campesinos!, We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed

While the bankers and the lawyers drive our country to the wall.

There are two important takeaways from the Waco Brothers show at the Highline Ballroom this week: one, Tracey Dear can sell a holocaust joke better than David Cross [Or David Duke -Dana]. And two, it turns out I'm not racist after all: I'm just an idiot. [Not even! Just a drunk. -Dana]

The run up: after the tremendous successes of the Creativity Now conference (read: cheap material gold mine), we hatched an elaborate plan involving recruiting young, eager suckers, rehashing old ideas, and finding out more about Curt's 'interesting' manhood.

Though it's Internet Week, which I will ask someone about in a drunk and confrontational state before Sunday, and then interrupt even a cogent answer with unjustified bellicosity -- and I've already blown off the Thrillist party (sorry Curt!) -- it was important we swing for the fences and do something about our anemic music blog rank.

So Team YM went to the Waco Brothers show at the Highline Ballroom on Tuesday. Rhodia notebooks were left at home, but not that much drink was consumed (out of real wine glasses; remember that for the upcoming F Yeah Tour show), so all near quotes are verified. [How does the Highline Ballroom stay in business, incidentally? This is the second show I've attended there and both were fairly sparsely attended. -Dana]

Walking up, I had one of those "hey, that guy looks like... everyone I know" moments. Which means we marched right by without a glimmer of acknowledgment. Upstairs, later, I theorized it might be Alex Pareene, which is weird, since even though he's the most precocious human being ever, Jon Langford is too old for his mother. Ten minutes after that, I thought I saw Maura peering intently into a phone at the bar. Thoroughly chastened by my debacle at the media clusterfuck, I approached neither. Inquiring after both of them the next day, it turns out I can wipe away my previous shame with a towel of ignorance and lack of social graces (Alex, thank you, white brother!).

[I was thoroughly pissed off that these two were in attendance, because it means that I was no longer the youngest person in the audience. -Dana]

What this also means is that everyone who wasn't a portly, shaved-to-stave-off-balding man in the audience (me: "This is the only show in the world with a lower men to men who are getting laid ratio than a TMBG gig") was a blogger. But there is this: there's something sweet about watching people who are well past the point of giving a shit dancing because they love the music. [True. A Wacos show is a Safe Space for Dorks. This is why I have seen them roughly 20 times. -Dana]

The show itself was a fucking blast. Of course it was -- it was the Waco Brothers. If you didn't assume that, shame on you. We'll tell you all about it next month at Spitzer's. [And whack you with our canes. -Dana] Disappointment of the evening: they ran out of flasks at the merch table.

The Waco Brothers 'Do What I Say'