Smell You Later

Generally, I tend to stay away from stupid stinky folk hippies, hence my ignorance on this matter. So please indulge me this quick question: stupid stinky hippies don't have sex, do they? If not, why do nearly all the stupid stinky folk hippies within Folk Is Not A Four Letter Word summon up such sultry sexy rhythms (Ar Goll, It Takes So Long)? Is that why this song is called Warm Up My Lips? Is that why it begins with the word "spooge"? Isn't there a law against this, somewhere?

The Future Is In Plastic

The urinary geyser of excitement I have for Now I Hollar isn't because rap pranksters Plastic Little have sampled goddess/songstress PJ Harvey. Nor is it because this track features Spank Rock, one of the best new acts from last year. Rather, I'm excessively wallowing in pee-glee because they've taken the bold step of creating a "me so horny" for the new millenium.

White Light/White Heat/White Head

While recently buying gum at a local convenience store, I noticed the clerk at the cash register had the most incredible white-head pimple on his chin. It made me swoon, this pimple. Honestly, I was almost weak in the knees, made delirious with desire and envy. It took every ounce of my mighty, masculine strength to resist reaching up, grabbing that chin in my hands and squeezing! squeezing! squeezing! until the money shot enveloped me in its greasy bodily payday fluids. The euphoria of zapping that zit would have been similar to the unbridled emotion I get when listening to Texas Overture by Pere Ubu--a tune so filled to bursting with creamy-hot goodness that even the moster guitar riffs could be eaten like toast.

How To Sundance

Do everything possible to assist global warming in melting the world's snow in a speedier fashion. Ridding the earth of the icy nuisance that prevents you from seeing more movies is a most commendable endeavor.

The cliche, in this case, turns out to be quite true: everyone living in Utah really is a white, middle-class, heterosexual Mormon family.

When running behind schedule for a screening after sleeping late, the ability to brush morning breath from your teeth while driving 65 m.p.h. down winding slippery snow-crusted highways is a skill well worth nurturing.

Should your cinematic hero David Gordon Green happen to sit on the same shuttle bus as you, remain calm. Do not wet your pants, no matter how enjoyable that might be. Quickly but firmly approach, conveying how much his films mean to you and what an honor it is to meet him. He will be humble, polite and will shake your hand. Retreat as fast as humanly possible back to your seat. When the woman sitting next to you asks, "What filmmaker is that you were speaking with?", try to refrain from weeping.

Abstain from disembarking off the shuttle at the same time as David Gordon Green: it will lead him to think you're a stalker. If this is unavoidable, bury yourself in the festival program, giving him a few seconds head start to be in front. Sadly, things take a turn for the worst when you find yourself walking right alongside him again a few blocks later; worse, he catches you looking at him. Pretend to be distracted--whoa, there is something really super duper interesting in that shop window across the street! Speed up, passing him in a dramatic fashion as a reassurance that this has all been one big coincidence. Chartering a zigzag path doesn't help: shockingly, you suddenly find yourself right next to him yet again a few minutes later! Holy fuck, how does this keep happening? Eventually, you will have to duck into the festival headquarters to finally and truly avoid walking next to him. Later, fantasize that he relates this run-in with a crazed fan to all of his movie genius buddies as they sip Meisterbrau in the lounge of their private-membership cineaste salon.

When driving between the Sundance Resort and Park City, be sure to seek out the woman selling blankets from her front porch in the quaint town of Heber City. These handcrafted gifts all bear the likeness of various favorite childhood characters: Mickey Mouse, Dora the Explorer, Barbie and...N.W.A???

That Peter Zaremba look-alike you saw on the street the other day turns out, in fact, to be god-like filmmaker Chris Smith. You don't understand this, of course, until later in the day when he makes an appearance for a screening of his latest effort, The Pool. Wait in line to speak with him after the film ends, sulking further when you only have enough time to ask what song played on the soundtrack over the credits. He promises to post the tune on the movie's website but this statement is only meant as an abrupt conversation closer. When leaving the screening of this excellent new film, refrain from slapping the women next to you who--knowing nothing of Smith's background as a documentary filmmaker--complains that it was "too slow" and that "nothing happened".

If you happen to blank out on the name and filmography of marginally interesting queer filmmaker Gregg Araki as he scurries past you, it's best to be accompanied by an aspiring filmmaker friend with few inhibitions. He is more than eager to shout out, "Hey! Hey, you! Did you make The Doom Generation? And what's your name?" The notorious filmmaker seems amused by this arrogant and ignorant outburst; the boyfriend standing next to him, less so.

If you are a frightfully hip young man from L.A, with artfully coifed blonde hair placed just so, a good way to project just how much more evolved you are than the teeming masses sitting amongst you in the theatre would be to continue wearing your expensive brand name sunglasses as you enter the auditorium, taking great care not to remove them until just before the lights go down. You should also take great care to avoid the blogger watching you from two rows away--if he catches you alone outside, he's liable to take those sunglasses and shove them so far up your ass, you'll have to call in a search team to find them.

Because you are movie star hunk Paul Rudd, your ears will burn due to the excited shrill conversation about you between three high-pitched sorority girls who spied you strolling down the street earlier in the evening. Although the encounter with you probably took all of 30 seconds, their recounting of this brush with fame will stretch for a little over an hour.

It's not unusual to find Protagonist, the new film by Jessica Yu, surprisingly accessible because of its direct emotional core. A seemingly simple exploration on the practices of character development handed down from ancient Greek dramas (all enacted by puppets), it's the interspersed personal stories of four real-life men reflecting on power, violence, hubris and redemption which has you bawling tears of empathy. Don't be embarrassed--everyone around you is crying, too.

When flying home, don't be afraid to speak with the diminutive gentleman behind you, taking off his shoes for the X-ray machine. It's comedy legend Bob Balaban and he's the nicest man in the world. He'll accept your compliments gracefully and engage you in a friendly conversation long after he had en excuse to end it. Both the talents and the warmth of Bob Balaban make the world a better place.

God Said "Wha...?"

God: Are you leaving us, my son?
Disco:Very: Only for a short while.
God: Where are you going?
DV: To the 2007 Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah.
God: Will you see any celebrities?
DV: Perhaps. Mostly, I will be avoiding celebrities.
God: Care to name which ones you'll be avoiding?
DV: The ones still wearing "Vote For Pedro" t-shirts two years after they went out of style.
God: Will you come back?
DV: No, I plan on setting up a permanent domicile under the seats of the Egyptian Theatre. Of course I'm coming back! Jeez, I mean, c'mon, the festival isn't year-round or anything! I'll be back on Wednesday night.
God: What films will you see?
DV: I know what I won't be seeing: anything remotely connected to John Sayles; anything starring Zach Braff; anything about indie rock kids looking for love in the big city; any movie using the following bands in its soundtrack: The Postal Service, Jet, The Doves, Phantom Planet, Death Cab For Cutie, Keane or Beulah.
God: That doesn't leave much else.
DV: No shit, Sherlock. It means I'll only be catching, like, the new one by David Gordon Green and a documentary or two about border crossings and that's about it.
God: Do you have a nice lodging situation set up?
DV:: Hella, yes. My crib will be the shit.
God: Can I stay with you?
DV: There isn't any room.
God: But you're staying at a 2-room suite in a swank resort and--
DV: You don't want to stay with me. I snore and I'm a major slob. Also, I don't want to share a bathroom with you and find your holy pubes on the soap dish.
God: I don't have pubes.
DV: Everyone has pubes.
God: Only those weighted to earthly desires.
DV: Nobody desires pubes. They just happen.
God: Silence! Your Lord and Savior does not have pubes!
DV: Alright, alright, don't get your flowing robes in a twist. Whatever, I just want to be alone, is all.
God: Fine. You will be alone for all eternity, writhing in agony amongst the flames of hell.
DV: A sphincter says what?
God: What?
DV: Perfect.

The Roots Of Emo

Part One

Rainy Days and Mondays and New Zealand Movies With Excessive Rain As The Central Metaphor Always Get Me Down

There is nothing witty or clever about the topic of re-posts. Believe me, it's true. If there was something humorous to be said, don't you think I would have said it already? Someone wrote me asking if I could repost a particular song from the soundtrack of the depressing New Zealand flick Rain and I'm not only going to comply (Orange and Blue), I'm going to up the ante (Summer Of Love, Drive Home, Red Room.) The soundtrack (mostly by Neil Finn) is very difficult to find in the U.S. Your choices are to have someone copy the entire CD for you (which, I shouldn't have to remind you, IS COMPLETELY ILLEGAL, PEOPLE!!) or you pay through the nose for it at Gemm. You must choose your fate. I have spoken.

FORGOTTEN FAVORITES RECENTLY HEARD ON MY iPOD
[DURING WHICH I PEED MY PANTS WITH EXCITEMENT]

Tempura Soul by Fuka Vicente (buy)

Bomb Shelter by The Drags (buy)

Israelites by Desmond Dekker (buy)

Nice New Outfit by Fugazi (buy)

Transformation Mistriss by Cosmo Vitelli (buy)

Yo Se by Royal Trux (buy)

Tennessee Club Mix by Bob Sinclar featuring Farrell Lenn (buy)
Thanks to Jockohomo for being the Pusherman on this one.

King Kong by Psapp (buy)

Impossible Things by Looper (buy)

Pop Junior Pop by Jr. & His Soulettes (buy)
Don't worry about collector prices: someone can copy it for you (wink wink)

Plant White Roses by The Magnetic Fields (buy)

Noodle On The Couch by Volcano Suns (buy)

They Hunt Deers, Don't They?

Who are Deerhunter, and why did it take Underneathica so long to turn me on to them? How did kids so very young get a sound so steeped in the post-punk art-squall of This Heat, Swell Maps, Chrome and Wire? How could a group of unseemly 12-year-olds come up with such brilliant songs as Cryptograms, Tree Spies and Tech School? Here I am, old enough to be their great-great-great grandfather who can't grow a moustache and yet these boys with a collective age of 42 are writing better music than Jesus Christ. It warms my dark twisted heart to hear them kicking up an aural dust storm instead of taking their musical cues from the Garden State soundtrack, like most tykes of their generation. Let's hope they run for President someday.

A Day In The Life Of The Fool On The (MacWorld Conference & Expo) Hill

Future jailbird Steve Jobs has every citizen of the world at his denim-clad knees during this week's MacWorld Conference & Expo (well, at least those citizens of the world rich enough to afford a $500 phone), and when he's ready to coax a powerful tune from his latest technological innovation, he chooses...Lovely Rita, Meter Maid by The Beatles??? Wouldn't it have made more sense to choose Revolution? Hell, Tomorrow Never Knows would have carried more symbolic weight! By my estimates, over eleventy-billion-zillion songs have been written since recorded tape was invented and this is the one track you choose to play? At least you could have had fun with your musically-clueless image and picked something (anything!) more ear-grabbing off Flabby Road and Flabby Road II. Steve, if you want someone to provide better song recommendations for any future gadget unveilings, just give me a call. You know my name (look up the number.)

Cottage Industry

Scientists the world over agree: weepy feelings of nostalgia for the music of your youth makes one's brain turn to cottage cheese. So forgive me this curdled snack respite as I chuckle along to the way-stupid guffaw-fest music video of the Mondo Guano song, uh, Mondo Guano (unearthed for me by a devoted Disco:Very fan.) While we're already in this twisted neck of the forest, we might as well explore the unchartered lands of Fast Car and Pantano Del Fango (whose opening lines, "Going to the mudbog/Won't you come along?/I need to find the answer, I need to find the answer..." are probably brilliant, but who really knows for sure?) This was Bob Log before he became Bob Log. This was the sound of Young America gulping acid at midnight and taking 3 excrutiating hours to set up their instruments as a result. My hope is that attempts to resurrect those long-ago performances through pointless yearly reunion shows never come to fruition (I only like cottage cheese in small doses.)

My New Year's Resolutions

1. In 2007, I vow to finally "get" bands whose talents currently leave me scratching my head in utter dismay (i.e., The Raconteurs).

2. In 2007, I vow to finally learn to pronounce the word "raconteurs".

3. In 2007, I vow not to hate more bands but to intensify the anger over the bands I already hate (quality over quantity).

4. In 2007, I vow to find someone who can tell me if those recent Captain Beefheart reissues are worth buying if one already owns them as cheapo imports from 15 years ago (how many times do I have to re-purchase these things, anyway?)

5. In 2007, I vow to take TV On The Radio, grind them down into a fine microscopic dust, and have that dust analyzed by the world's top scientists as a means to figure out why everyone goes so fucking ga-ga over them, 'cuz dude, once I know the answer, I am so going to put that dust in my morning fruit shake and drink it.

6. In 2007, I vow to always surround the name Beck with the words Idiot Scientologist (as in, "The latest album by Beck, Idiot Scientologist, is a dull rehash of the lame white boy street funk schtick he's been shitting out for the last several years; or, It would be a shame if Idiot Scientologist Beck were to wake up one morning and realize his dumb-ass bad-sci-fi-novel religion has been a complete waste of time from the minute he was brainwashed into accepting it".)

7. Most of all, 2007 is the year I vow to download the billions and billions of albums this Napster-as-pig-face guy is offering at his website, despite the complicated subversive tactics which have been erected to avoid detection by the Filesharing Police. Just looking at the exhaustive list of everything he's got for the taking, I can tell 2007 is going to be a long year.

A Big Load of Down

Just like taxes and death, you simply cannot escape the mammoth bigness of the annual best-of year-end comp from your pal at Disco:Very. However, for the first time in history, you'll now have three choices: 1) if you're a fan of Joanna Newsom, you can ignore this offer completely, or, 2), if you prefer a 2-CD set in your postal box, you can toss me an e-mail (peecat[at]mac.com) with your name (fake is fine) and address, or, 3) you can download it directly from my hairless little hands right this very minute (Disc One is here, Disc Two is here; titles/names can be downloaded here.) Of course, you must consider carefully all of the ups/downs/pluses/minues of choosing a cold, heartless download over receiving a warm and fuzzy 2-CD set in the mail [click on image to embiggen]:

The fine print: If you choose to have a CD package mailed you you, please be assured that once you have received this free gift, your (real or fake) name and e-mail/home address will be thrown away and you will not be mailed anything by me ever again (unless you want me to). I will not send you spam (unless you want me to). Delivery time of a CD package can be anywhere between 5 days and 6 weeks, depending on my energy level. This offer is good until my patience runs out.

Y Kant Tori Kill Off Joanna?

The best part of 2006: a lot of superb reissued music made it to the marketplace, such as Crushed Butler's visceral, wigged-out It's My Life. The worst part of 2006: Joanna Newsom continued to wreak havoc on our ear canals with such mind-numbingly awful lyrics as, "Picking through your pocket linings/Well, what is this?/Scrap of sassafras/Eh, Sisyphus?" DO YOU SEE WHAT PROBLEMS YOU HAVE WROUGHT UPON THE HUMAN RACE, TORI AMOS??? Obviously, the unicorn-ness twaddle of Newsome's latest musical missive didn't make it onto my annual 2-CD year-end free giveaway Disco:Very 2006. Want to know who did? Want to know how to get a copy? Check back in a few hours and all shall be revealed.