Music All Over!

I woke up Thursday morning craving music and NYC was there to give me my fix. On the way, I got serenaded by honking horns and clicking heels on the pavement and played a subway lullyby a Union Square crew before I even got to the indie concert I was headed to. The address I was headed to said BKI Union Square, but it meant the basement of Brooklyn Industries’ 13th & Broadway location. I dashed in the shop 3 minutes before show time and hopped in the spiraling line. I started shopping around the boutique with my greedy little eyes.

Before the event even began it had made my night by surrounding me with funky fashion and giddy, hipster people. The first set by the band “Living Days” propeled the already enthused crowd even further into “happy land.” The “click, click click” of the sticks resounded off the walls of the intimate space. The only things adorning the walls were shoulder bag and sponsorship banners. Then the echoy vocals and keys came in with the bass and guitar. The sound pouring out the amps overwhelmed the cozy space, but it was just what the doctor ordered to fix the Thursday blues.

Every member of this band brought the heat–from the groovy keys player who worked the smoke machine to the lead singer who worked the crowd, weaving through the crowd with her mic singing and dancing. The set was great! We cheered so loud we got an encore & I got to meet the lead singer after the set  Their album drops August 24. For more on the band go to myspace.com/livingdays

I wish I could say the same about The Rassle. By the time The Rassle took the stage, the open bar had closed and the crowd was thinning. Spilled sodas on the floor and jumping guys in the back where all signs of a good rave. The final sign was a tipsy second act, buzzed off the free soda and their personal imports. The vibe shifted to a totally different zone.

Dressed in Chucks and packed with energy, these rockers went to work on their set. Strangely, it felt more like a “Dirty Heads” show or a college concert than an indie rock show in a NY basement. The set was fun yet intimate (since I was in the front row with the lead singer and his tipsy mic stand). And we jumped and jammed til the set wrapped then headed back into the musical city I know and love–urban surround sound and all

Check It Out!

Check out the gallery & the updated Musicians page

Cheers!

-Rebecca

Williamsburgthriftyhippie Syndrome 1

I contracted a case of “WilliamsburgThriftyHippie Syndrome” this weekend and decided I must go vintage shopping all over town. There is no way to do vintage therepy justice with just words, but the sales associates threatened to take away my camera if I took any pictures, so I will have to try my best to make this experience as vivid as a 1970′s disco party.

Imagine a land where rubbish is golden–I mean literally golden (Gold lame is a luxury item in vintage shops). A land where all that is recent fades away and the fashion faupaux of Vogue covers past come back to haunt you. These magical locations can be found across the country, hidden in the dingy corners of town that everyone secretly frequents (just like Walmart). Thanks to the movement the hippies in Williamsburg, Brooklyn started, though–with their homemade flannel onesies, overpriced vintage boots, and faded fendora hats, vintage shops may grace the major thoroughfares of New York City, free of undesired solitude. That is, however, only if the prices are right.

I strolled into the infamous “Cheap Jack’s” at 31st Street & 5th Avenue at 11 a.m. The store was already humming with eager little vintage junkies hovering over the racks of insanity. The smell of moth balls tranquilized me in the door of the store. Pleasantly surprised that I did not pass out, I proceeded into the store where the first crazy saleswoman berated me. This is one of the only jobs in New York where you can wear a floral printed muu muu be considered chic. I tried really hard not to wince or giggle (The flood gates opened up later on when my little sister got on the phone with me. Oh the joys of siblinghood.).  She showed me the specials then turned me lose–with a short plaid leash. She already knew what she wanted me to purchase; she wanted me to take home the whole “small/medium” section of romper rack. Now if “Cheap Jack’s” was actually cheap, I might have been able to help her with her surplus inventory; however, “Cheap Jack’s” is more like “Cap’n Jack,” in that the prices are like robbery. I was not sick enough with Williamsburgthrifyhippie Syndrome to pay close to $200 for an old romper. I could buy an outrageous new romper for that much–more like >10 in SoHo/Chinatown or >15 at Forever 21 or >20 on a New Jersey clearance rack where the fashion would be just as retro (Trust me).

Just when I was ready to admit defeat and move on to the next shop, though, a bright yellow romper called out to me from the rack, “You need me.” I grabbed it from the rack and began to inspect it. No holes, check. No moths or other insects, check. No feathers or itchy acryllic, check. What’s the catch already?!? I look at the tag. $18. Sold to the woman who does squats all the time in hopes of finding a super fun get-up like this! It fit like a lost glove that was ready to come home.

With my fabulous romper in tow, I headed back to the subway. Time to go to the origins of this disease, Brooklyn. I dashed down to Brooklyn like a pro, only looking slightly perplexed as I exited the subway station. The street men whistled, but I plowed on towards the shop. Tucked next to the Foot Locker, the doors of the brand new thrift store “Unique” shined bright. I checked my shopping bag at the door then headed into the maze of racks and shelving.

The women looked weary as they shopped, but they were just as excited as I was when they started finding winners. From running shoes to vintage gowns, the shop had it all. My only critic is that their clothes were a tad too practical for my purposes. I needed rock tour ready attire (loooong story). So I grabbed my bag, headed back to my shining underground coach, and dashed Uptown again.

Once back in Manhattan, I found my way to 2nd Ave on the Lower East Side. I walked up and down the street in search of the address to no avail–so I thought. As I headed back to the subway, though, I spotted a rack of clothes on the sidewalk. Vintage shop alert!

To be Continued…

Dear Front(wo)man, please don’t suck (Siren Music Festival (7/17))

The speakers were turned up so load I still can’t hear myself think; and I don’t regret a minute of this crazy Coney Island music festival experience–for the most part.

I came in on the 2nd half of the “Screaming Females” set. Their outfits looked like they came straight from a Williamsburg thrift shop (but the mannequins wore the threads better).  The moment the music gushed out the speakers, however, nothing else mattered. The lead singer was a crazy vocalist and a master shredder on the electric guitar. She mixed fits of harmonized screaming portions with the typical rock/punk vocals. At times the lyrics were unclearly articulated, but that can be expected when you are rocking so hard that you are screaming and shredding on your knees in front of a roaring crowd. Yes, the performance really rocked that hard. And the rest of the band complemented her crazy with eccentric. To check out some of their studio material, click the album cover below.

A Screaming Females Album Cover

And just when the crowd hit an indie rock high, the set ended and this awkward group of turkeys from Florida took the stage. Actually, to say they took the stage would be an overstatement. It was more like the atmosphere took them and swallowed them up in the brightly colored backdrop, noisy old roller coaster, and screaming revellers at the Budweiser beer tent. The technical difficulties they experienced did not help their case–especially since they could not make small talk with the crowd during the radio silence points to save their lives (Note: If you are playing a lukewarm concert when it is almost 100 degrees Fahrenheit, do not talk about the weather. Your audience is already fixated on it and its affects on their bodies more than your music.) Needless to say, the sun shined brighter than this set.

The next set felt like a long overdue can of super Red Bull. The “self proclaimed inventors of ass kicking rock n’ roll” stormed through their set with back to back jams with a strong front man leading the charge. The guys were older, but more experienced and refined than the earlier acts, plus their sound was timelessly rock n’ roll–with a little kick of midlife crisis. My only complaint is that the instruments were so loud that I could not hear their lyrics. To check out some of their studio material, click the album cover below.

Night Marchers Album Cover

Exhausted from moshing, crowd surfing, and screaming, the crowd and I cleared the area to seek relief from the heat. Most of us had been rocking since the Screaming Females at 2 pm. Add intense sun exposure and mild dehydration and you will see why we all needed a break. During my hiatus I discovered the magic of pistachio soft serve ice cream at Denny’s Delights. Perfectly green, perfectly creamy, perfectly summer

Refreshed, I returned for another lackluster set by some punks singing love songs to the same rock beat. The crowd was bored to tears after the first couple songs. “The Pains of Being Pure at Heart” tortured us with this deja vu feeling until the 6 pm band came on. I ecstatically screamed as “Ted Leo & the Pharmacists” took over. They were the reason I hiked all the way to the backside of Brooklyn–and trust me, after my last adventure to the back of Brooklyn, it took a lot to get me to go back. Ted climbed on stage in black keds, white jeans, and a navy tunic; yelled “Cheers” into the mic; then started jamming away on his guitar, making silly faces to get the notes out just right as he sang (like John Mayer used to do in the good old days).

With every song I came to love them more. Their musicianship and cohesion were impecable; their lyrics and vibe were 1000% positive. Every melody flowed out the amps and reverberated in the crowd to the point that it felt like the whole crowd hit indie rock nirvana all over again–together. It terrified the security guards that at least 3 people were crowd surfing at all times (Note: Crowd surfing while intoxicated and dehydrated is a bad idea no matter how “light” you are feeling.). For more Ted Leo & the Pharmacists, click on the album cover below:

A Ted Leo & the Pharmacists Album Cover

When the set finally wrapped, I didn’t want to risk losing my joy by going all in on another lead singer. My heart just couldn’t take it. I had to “leave well enough alone,” as the crazy culinary arts teacher always said.  

So floating on cloud 9, I inched my way towards the subway with sunburned cheeks, sore feet, and a permanent smile melted on my face. I wouldn’t have traded this day for the world. Best music festival ever.

Lessons from the Back Side of Staten Island

A couple weeks ago I took a tour through the back side of Staten Island. For $4.50 I got a tour of the side of the Island  the tour guide strategically omitted. The side packed with multi-family homes squished together like sardines in a can; the side where the only sky scrapers are the government housing projects and the major department stores are Lowe’s and Kohl’s. I saw fields of weeds and exotic cattails coexisting with a rundown shopping center and corner stores that take EBT cards in the furthest corner of the isle. A couple of the fancy stores lined on  major thoroughfare (i.e. Baskin Robbins & Checkers), but the people I saw were not at the stores; instead they were enjoying the day outside at either the neighborhood basketball courts or the benches outside their compact quarters.

On the bus with me, though, was an intriguing young woman. No more than 21 years of age, she boarded the bus with 4 kids and one on the way. Her tone implied she was not the mother of these munchkins, but she cared for each one as best as she could while riding the shaking contraption to the end of the line. At the end of the route, she disembarked happily with the kids, now worn out from the long ride, and marched towards the Chuck E Cheese in the back of the run down plaza. The only landmark near this seemingly deserted shopping center at the back of this lost borough was an abandoned bread outlet idling next to the train tracks.

Seeing her and the kids scurry towards the building as if it were some kind of paradise made my heart break. Manhattan taught me to take care of myself; Staten Island made it impossible for me to trade my humanity for security ever again.