Taken

Crikey, don't know how I missed this one, but Molly Kroon got married. Sorry to disappoint all the one-handed googlenauts that wash up here every day, but you can but hope Kafi Drexel is still available.

Still, the Times article linked above does explain one thing that always bothered us - why Molly Kroon does not have a staff profile at NY1. Turns out she's freelance. Might be a hard existence, but her father seems to be a man of reasonable means. Congratulations, Molly.

Primitive

Oh my word. I was flailing around looking for something to post about, and usually give up Fridays, what with the bar being so close. And then up cropped professional victim Michelle Malkin to talk about "jihad rap".

Michelle has this new, suspiciously well-funded videoblogging outfit called Hot Air. And before any of you say "the internet and electronics revolution has made all of us look like potential professional news anchors", go and look at this. I think after two minutes of that drunken Long Island housewife-style lunacy you'll be ready to agree that some crazy right-wing foundation indeed pays the big bucks to make Malkin look less crazy.

Malkin's a funny character, the sort of kid that grievously insults someone in the most sober tones possible, and then goes "what?" when the insults come flying back. Malkin once compiled a whole book of hurtful comments and emails left for her, without once explaining that it would require a whole lot more evidence to make us think it was anyone apart from her that left them there.

Her latest rant concerns a subject about which she knows nothing. We know that because the first band she calls up is Fun-Da-Mental, who have been unwise enough to call their latest album "All Is War: The Benefits Of G-Had" , and one of their singles "Why America will go to hell".

Inflammatory stuff, although those of us who have actually listened to their music will remember the "Dog Tribe" single (link to quicktime movie here), which posits the idea that minorities might get a little bit upset and violent at racist treatment, and includes an answerphone message left by neo-nazi thugs with them. Malkin, who has made a career of being blithely ignorant of the effects of racist treatment of minorities, played the video on her little vblog anyway.

You should probably watch it just to get a little snapshot about how angry rappers around the world are, and some of the beats are pretty good. You'll just have to grin through Malkin's snot-faced and risible appropriation of hip-hop argot, and her clueless distortions of the background of most of her subjects.

VOID "Dehumanized"
Buy "Flex Your Head" here. Make a fascist cry

Debbie Does Ballast

Marked increase in weirdos looking for info on Debbie DuHaime who manages to do the traffic reports on both ABC and NY1. Here's the best picture of her currently available on the web. She's on the right. You're welcome.

In other local news news, I'd like to point you towards the first ever, and currently only NY1 drinking game. Best appreciated by those of you without jobs.

That 70s Heist

lufthansa
Originally uploaded by Gringcorp.

About this time last night I was ambling around the nether regions of JFK airport, looking to pick up some Moroccan carpets. It was a strangely bracing experience, like having a backstage pass to a rock concert where the guitars are made of planes. JFK has a church, a Citibank, a bunch of parking lots for each airline, and a gigantic post office.

I saw all of these things because I was taking public transport around the place. It went like this, and please skip the following if you're not impressed by feats of train endurance, or are utterly confused by New York subway references. L Train from Union Square to 14th and 8th, waited there for 30 minutes for an A train. A train comes, only it's going to Lefferts rather than Rockaway. Wait for two more Lefferts As to go by, lose patience, jump on Lefferts A, jump off after an hour at 88th street in Queens, wait two more trains for a Rockaway A, go two stops to Howard Beach. Take a $5 Airtrain to Federal Circle. Jump on Cargo shuttle bus to Lufthansa cargo terminal, pick up customs documents. Jump back on Cargo shuttle to Federal Circle after a ten minute wait, change to Post Office shuttle after a ten minute wait, jump off Post Office shuttle one stop too early, am directed around the entire cargo area by kindly postal worker with a Bahston accent, amble round to Customs building, exchange cheery banter with armed customs agent behind a desk. Wait at chuttle station for 15 minutes watching the cargo planes take off, take Post Office back to Federal Circle, wait another ten minutes for Cargo shuttle, return to Lufthansa cargo terminal, wait around ten minutes, hand over a large amount of cash, hang around another 15 minutes watching the sketchy cargo couriers go by, pick up huge bag of carpet, wait ten minutes for the cargo shuttle, back to Federal Circle, back on frankly sucktastic Airtrain, this time to Jamaica, thence to the Long Island Railroad, and the 15 minute wait for a train to Flatbush, and a ten-minute walk home. Nice. At least I got a cool sticker out of it.

I'm sure it wasn't always this time consuming and difficult. I blame top top Robert Deniro role Jimmy Conway and his dashing Lufthansa job.

Total pussies next to the Pelham 123 boys, obviously. I've recently discovered that the best solution to the problem of subway noise and open-backed Grado SR60 headphones is not to buy a new pair of noise-isolating headphones, but to listen to and watch only subway-themed media. Cheers!

David Shire - "End Title"
Buy "The Taking Of Pelham 1-2-3 OST" here. Don''t ask City Hall first. Just do it

This Is Its Significance

I always suspected that Maury Povich was a sick old nutbar. But I could never find the proof. But here it is, via Gawker. Maury torments the world's least qualified waitress with green vegetables, and provides me with an excuse to post one of Arlo's sillier works.

Arlo Guthrie - Motorcycle (Signficance Of The Pickle) Song"
Buy "Arlo" here. Daddy never understood. Nor did Bob Dylan

Doctor Marten's Boots

I'm a bit late to this, but I just got round to finding out the Siren festival line-up. Not from the official site, but from brooklynvegan. Top stuff. Siren, should you be foreign, is the Village Voice-organised free festival down in Coney Island - a chance to get plastered and sunburnt.

Here are Gari's picks for the day's entertainment, done in a considerably more earnest style than Miguel did last year.

The first thing to remember is that there are two stages and that in theory the sets are staggered so you can catch all the bands. In practice it's too far and too crowded to get between the two. But that shouldn't stop you from trying, not least because Misshapes are DJing between sets, and I'm sure you'd rather grab a beer or a rollercoaster ride or sunstroke than be anywhere near THAT cultural trainwreck.

As I mentioned elsewhere last year, Stillwell, the second stage, is a little more fun, and where you're more likely to get a jump on next year's aural dreck. Exhibit A: Morningwood last year (quick aside there, the nifty graphics on the band's homepage are utterly ruined by the transparent use of such cultural signifiers as the Village Voice and Serge Gainsbourgh covers artfully littered around the bedroom).

True to form, the official Gumby Fresh top pick is Priestess, Canadian stoner rock, on the Stillwell Stage at 1.30pm July 15. Their set will feature heaviosity, and if they work out how to do it in the open air on a blisteringly hot day they will charm utterly. They're up against official openers deadboy and the elephantmen, who seem a little boring.

The midafternoon brings us Man Man (bizarre antidiluvian pop, with extra violin, nice), the Rogers Sisters (me likey), Dirty on Purpose (much more polite than their name might suggest), and Celebration, who may indeed want to be Dexy's Midnight Runners.

Tapes N Tapes and Sereena Maneesh are far from absorbing critical favourites that we have whined about extensively previously, and are loath to link to again. Time for a union-mandated Nathan's break. The Cribs are more evil than The Stills. We shall make them viceroy.

Art Brut, like 80% of the day's line-up, see no shame in sounding like a band that could have been booked to play on the Young Ones. They're the only ones that are right. You hear that, She Wants Revenge? No one likes you. You sound like Alexei Sayle's fake Trotskyite band.

The Stars look intriguing, and were I to be oiled enough might work splendidly. You'd need to pay me to watch Scissor Sisters, and judging from the thought I've put into this little run-down that's hardly likely is it?

I Tell You, It's Bloody Narnia

I'm the biggest, stinkiest, most compulsive map geek ever. I love maps, globes (especially the ones that open up into drinks cabinets - super classy!), and books of maps, or Atlases, as absolutely no-one needs explaining. In fact, if the internet was around to any great degree in 1993, you'd have discovered that I was a finalist in the Geography Worldwise quiz and received a mug from Michael Fish as a tribute to my skillz (at this point, my internal monologue troll would point out that all the children got them, but he's somewhat hamstrung by the point that you don't know enough about my backstory to verify the above tale to any great degree. Hah! Take that, manifestation of mild psychosis!).

But I digress. The BBC just unleashed a fake map on my office, bundled in with the FT. Not that this would deter me for long - the fake maps are even better, mythical countries where I can lose what remains of my precious sh*t. Possibly my favourite book ever during childhood was The Journeys Of Frodo which presented the travels of Lord of the Rings as a series of Ordnance Survey-type maps.

But this one made no sense. Like a regular folded map, only none of the countries looked familiar. Until I unleashed the awesome power of google. Through which I found this post, which has disabled comments, and this from Newsday. In them, we learn that the Beeb has created a series of fake maps where, if you step back a bit from them, you discern that the shapes of the countries make out scenes from the news.

At first I thought that this might be a dig at Americans' oft-criticised but actually overstated ignorance of the geography of the rest of the world. But it is in fact just one of those tedious calls to see things from a new perspective. Am I cross that I couldn't make out the figures, that I am maybe a map fundamentalist, or indeed one of those people that never could see the pictures in Magic Eye? Yes to all of the above.

But I will add one observation. BBC World is making its debut in the US on iO, the rebranded digital operation of the sucktastic Dolans' sucktastic Cablevision empire. Cablevision is rather strong in Long Island, hence the interest from Newsday in the stunt. We wish the venture well - during our stints overseas we have come to regard it as a soothing presence - good for summaries of the news, but too heavy on boring magazine programmes and possessed of really boring fillers between the programmes.

But, as this rather perceptive report notes, a BBC World offering would scare the crap out of CNN, which picks up a lot of the more broad-minded news junkies almost by default. Who owns CNN? Time Warner, which also owns Time Warner Cable of New York, serving the rest of the Metropolitan area, as well as its more prosperous urban sections. We'll see whether the FT readers bite.

Oh, and apparently this Atlas of Middle Earth is even better.

Map pinched from here

Vibert On Vibes

The reason for my absence was a short trip to Vancouver, a trip that involved few chances to walk around, and still fewer to take pictures. There were some demonstrators around, but their attention was less of a hindrance to posting than the sheer amount of work. [Still, one quick note to the gnomes at CUPE - the meeting wasn't secret, you just weren't invited. Why weren't you invited? Because, judging from your screed, you don't know how to finance a road.]

I could have taken the standard shot out of my hotel window, but the Crowne Plaza where I was staying was awesomely cramped, had an L-shaped bathroom that was difficult to navigate for non-oompa-loompas. The view itself, mind you, was of one of downtown's busiest intersections, and there was an interesting display of First Nations culture in the park opposite. But I lacked the will to take out my camera.

Perhaps the more deep-rooted reason for my staying away from the blogosphere was this whole "A Grand Does Come For Free". This grand-piano shaped albatross round my neck, begetter of such bad metaphors that it should not be allowed to live. Even though if it is a metaphorical albatross it already is dead.

Oh damn you to hell gringcorp, just post the stupid mp3 already, end our misery and that of all sensitive right-thinking men. Well said, internal monologue, although I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. It's by Wagon Christ, or Luke Vibert as he's known to the child protection unit, and is the only successful fusion to date of grand pianos and mentalism.

I'll be back in a minute to discuss the beeb, but for now it's good to put this ivory-encrusted madness behind me.

Wagon Christ - "Piano Playa Hata"
Buy "Tally ho!" at Buy.com. Partly for the music, and partly because buy.com's CEO sounds like he escaped from Valley Girl

The Glue Factory Beckons

By now you will all have realised that I have the mp3blogging skillz of a child. While the elites tend to scour soulseek and cultivate at least a few record labels in their search for something curious, I prefer to rely on the same small circle of hokey late nineties compilations for "rarities". When I persist in mining the aesthetically barren and stylistically constrained seam of themed posts my deficiencies become all the more glaring.

So, a few weeks back I posted this from the Lost Highway soundtrack, in, er, celebration, of me nuptials. Thought little of it. And then "A Grand Does Come For Free" starts biting at my heels like the Gods' ugliest hellhound. And I cannot find anything with a certain plonk on it bar some stolid house music and some alt.rock stabs at melancholy.

So back to the Lost Highway soundtrack. Wherein you may find a storming saxophone and piano freakout from Angelo Badalamenti. Thelonious sounds almost sedate by comparison.

Angelo Badalamenti - "Red Bats With Wings"
Buy "Lost Highway" soundtrack here. Perfect for pedestrian D-list music blogs.

Vancouver beckons, as well as, with luck, an end to this grand piano-propelled misery

Would You Like Some Candy?

You probably hoped that Day Three of the uncritically-monickered "A Grand Does Come For Free" would have taken forever to arrive. Never fear, for this installment of the piano-themed post-frenzy has been delayed by intensive scientific plinky-plonky analysis. Or has been waiting for me to spend a few hours in the dark drinking wine and listening to the sad, sad songs.

This evening's pick is lugubrious and far from self-pitying. While there will definitely be room for one more indie-rock power ballad, tonight will not be its stage. Not when Faith No More is the lucky debutante's mother. vand a particularly bats one she is too.

The golden age of Faith No More piano was definitely their second album, The Real Thing, although I'm prepared to hear out anyone with the nuts to put forward Album of the Year.

The Real Thing, for one thing, marked the apotheosis of the blissfully monickered Roddy Bottum, the band's keyboardist. There are several great synthesised keyboard tunes scattered around("From Out Of Nowhere", "Underwater Love"), but only two out and out piano beatings, and one of those is famous enough already.

Which leaves us with that legendary hymn to dirty old manhood, Edge Of The World. Being a sick old f*** never sounded so smooth. Fortunately, vocalist Mike Patton's voice hadn't reached the husky depths of later recordings, so the song never quite reached its true potential as a NAMBLA recruiting anthem. A deeply creepy ditty.

I thought, really rather seriously, about closing down my wedding with this song. But sanity intervened. Anyway, why would anyone want to close down their own wedding?

Faith No More - "Edge Of The World"
"The Real Thing". Fetch it. Admire the old-skool cover art. Touch it

Changing the subject, you may be mystified as to my objections to the Atlantic Yards project. I thought as much. Why don't you read what a proper novelist has to say about it instead?

Turf wars

So, Community Average Folk 101 has arrived to put the genuine voice of the grassroots supporter of a gigantic real estate scam into the blogosphere. The author, Benjamin Casadine, does not show up anywhere on google, and the site does not have the slick authoring that one would expect from a Ratner PR move. So we'll assume it's genuine, while noting that the garbled syntax and use of bold, delarative and ultimately meaningless non-sequiturs means that it could have been written by Marty Markowitz (apropos that last link, why does that worthless little buffoon have to drag Junior's into his every paltry photo-op?).

[Crikey buggery bugger. Not ten seconds after I posted this did I learn that Markowitz just received treatment for heart trouble. Best wishes and get well soon, you horrible little man.]

Still in the spirit of lively debate we left a bunch of comments in response to his opening post. Since a few of them are sarcastic, and many of them do not reflect the author's positive spin on the development, we'll assume they don't make it past the blog's moderation process. So we'll post them here:

Hey Average chap who never met James Stuckey ever, below some comments:
1. Should average "regular" community folks opinions count? Of course, we shouldn't let the extremely high-priced PR professionals employed by Forest City Ratner dominate discussion of the project.
2. How does one determine whose opinion(s) are more urgent and/or significant than others? I think the groups that raise the greatest sums from the developer probably have the most valid opinions.
3. What makes folk think that they have all the answers? That's a zen, right? Oh no, it's not, is it? It's the first recorded use of a Markowitzism
4. How do you feel about the Atlantic Yards Project (AYP)? Like "The Warriors", it makes me nostalgic for the 70s, when such stupidity was cutting edge. Quite often I've lain awake at night and wondered "what if all of Brooklyn looked like Metro Tech?"
5. What do you think it will do for the area? Increase sewage flows into the Gowanus canal, thus preventing Mr Ratner's rivals at Toll Brothers building stupid McMansions down there for yuppie scumbags.
6. How will you personally benefit from the project? A great deal of shade in the summer for when I'm ambling down Flatbush choosing between sports bars.
7. What do you feel the Community Benefits Agreement (CBA) is? Perhaps the greatest innovation in astroturf creation since the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth.
8. What would you like to see the CBA accomplish? A high ratio of affordable housing; sustainable, and rewarding job opportunities; consideration of the traffic impact of a project; and plentiful and accessible green paces. Failing that though, providing just enough affordable housing to cover the backs of spineless politicians; a couple of one-off construction jobs to buy off the unions; some mumbling about the subways; and private rooftop parks will do
9. What changes will occur in the area as a result of the CBA? A trick question, right? A properly written CBA mitigates the worst effects of the project, but is the project that actually does the neighborhood-destroying.
10. Do you think you will still be in the community without the AYP or do you think you will be priced out? I dunno, those condos Mr. Ratner wants to build seem awfully expensive too. But I'll probably line up behind the yuppies whose homes he destroyed to get one. Just as soon as I sell my children to raise the down payment

[Update: What up, nolandgrab massive. I should also note at this point that Mr. Casadine did post the comments on his blog. Probably classier behaviour than my deluge of snark]

Sterling's Rise Means Rhythmic Scuzz

It's Day Two of our unnaturally seminal "A Grand Does Come For Free" series of grand piano-drenched posts. This one also from the import version of a well-loved album, in this case Beck's Odelay.

I'm not being an asscake, though, it just happens that the strength of the UK pound against the dollar has often led US artists to tack extra tracks onto UK releases. Nirvana even called their In Utero bonus track, "Gallons Of Rubbing Alcohol Flow Through The Strip", a "devalued American dollar purchase incentive track".

"Gallons...", though, is meandering tosh. Not so this Odelay bonus. Features production from the Dust Brothers and Jon Spencer on "keychain". Has this lovely piano riff that, when accompanied by some alt.shouting, serves as the chorus, although I'll grant you the verse consists of some rather clunky rapping.

I used to listen to this rather a lot when drunk.

Beck - "Diskobox"
Is "Odelay"'s Japanese version, and this song, worth an extra eight bucks? HELL YEAH

Suds N' Roderer

So, easing back into the Brooklyn life we bring you the Best. Beef. Ever. Talented and apparently pretty cool rapper who happens to want to wreck my neighbourhood against snotty French champagne merchant. What's weirder is that the first diss went out not from the studios of Hot 97 but the pages of the Economist. I'll quote from All Hip-Hop here:

Frédéric Rouzaud, the managing director of Cristal, stated that the company observes its association with the rap world with "curiosity and serenity."

Despite importing over 50,000 cases of the champagne per year, Rouzaud was less than thrilled at rappers' fondness for the posh drink.

"What can we do?" Rouzaud told The Economist. "We can't forbid people from buying it. I'm sure Dom Perignon or Krug would be delighted to have their business."

The article further labeled the constant Cristal patronage by rappers as "unwelcome attention."

Jay-Z has responded by branding the comments racist and promising to stop serving Cristal in any of his business ventures, including, presumably, the Atlantic Yards Nets arena.

Now, the deliciously snotty M. Rouzaud has probably done his calculations, and has decided that he can live without the rappers' contribution to the 50,000 cases he shifts in the US. He's assuming, I'd imagine that by appealing to the lower instincts of his white clientele he'll make up the loss. And make no mistake, no champagne house ever lost money by appealing to the most disgustingly snobbish and antiquated instincts of its customers. But it's hardly a very enlightened way to do business.

But to Mr. Z we say boo-goddamn hoo. I'll show you a proper boycott. Stop trying to flatten my sodding bar.

Not Your Roger Rabbit Ivories

Sharp-eyed readers would note that I did not, as I had promised, post some tracks in the week leading up to my wedding, so as to illuminate my relationship with Cutesome (sorry, Mrs. Cutesome, or the Gringwife, as the boy Reynolds would have it). The nature of my internet connection, and the fact that I didn't have the choons accessible, scuppered that plan (for what it's worth, the last song would have been "If I Were King" by Cave Catt Sammy).

Anyway, the demise of this plot did not dampen my ardour for posting relatively well-known songs linked by tenuous thematic similarities. Not by a long chalk. Indeed, while sunning myself on the Atlantic coast of Morocco, I had the idea for my most ambitious post of five songs ever.

What came to me first was the name for this series. It occurred to me that the grand piano, a big, great booming grand piano, is one of the overlooked weapons of rock. I'm not talking about the Hammond Organ, or, god forbid, the keytar. And I'm not talking about how Ben Folds deploys it. Nor even always how Jerry Lee Lewis deploys it (if you sniggered at the phrase "Jerry Lee Lewis deploys it" you should be ashamed.)

Anyway, I shall create this new piano series, and I shall name it "A Grand Does Come For Free". Yes I did just do that. Kneel!

First in the series is this from the RZA, and was what popped on the iPod while rocking Essaouira the other day. I already posted something from the album in question, the Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai soundtrack. The import one, obviously.

Features mad duelling scary pianos, and was the sandpit where the RZA learned to be orchestral. I have indeed posted from the album before ("Samurai Theme", if I recall correctly), but this tune does not appear to show up even on that many of the import instrumental versions of the soundtrack, whose listing seems to vary according to who was doing the pressing that day. In fact, of the merchants selling the disc, only CD Universe has a version with this song appearing. Pretty anal, non?

RZA - "Untitled #12 (Free Jazz)"
Buy "Ghost Dog: Way Of The Samurai Soundtrack [IMPORT]" here. Even then I can't promise the song will actually be there.

Not BK You've Got It

It's been a while since we mentioned how awful it is that Brooklyn has an idiot for a Borough President. And then Christopher Ketcham reposts the most elegant take-down of the Markowitz fool we've ever read:

Picture Ron Jeremy without the dick, Buddy Hackett without the laughs, and you have Brooklyn B.P. Marty Markowitz. Why this porcine oaf with the eerie resemblance to your insane grinning uncle continues to occupy Borough Hall is beyond reason.

Go read the rest. That's why he gets paid the some bucks.

Not, mind you, that he's the only timewaster drawing too much money from the public purse in New York.

Sad bar news, courtesy of the Migster. Lillies, the site of one birthday party and maybe two other drinking binges, is no more. More loony beer gardens must sprout elsewhere.

Qualified good bar news - that Voodoo place on fifth avenue at the end of my street is now open. It's been quiet so far.

Probably good news. Floyd's sister joint on Union and Fifth is probably almost open, and the Black Sheep on Bergen Street is showing the world cup. Phew. So much drinking, so little time to explore married life....

The Unthinkable Posting The Unspeakable

So, here goes on the old travelogue:

From bliss to blistering...Heathrow Airport cabbies even scummier than other cab monopolies - screamed at for terminal confusion...tricked out pool on the Barcelona skyline...Captain Birdseye might have renounced farmed salmon, but he's alive and well in Barceloneta...Goliard, the Catalan love-child of Clinton Street, was more fun...Gaudi shards litter the streets of the classier neighbourhoods...and the peculiar Catalonian bank keeps his legacy alive at La Pedrera...while the flag carrier engages in rude and wretched behaviour with our reservations...order is resumed, though our luuggage goes on an adventure...Fes is dusty and cramped, like the basement at the Delancey...but it is rather sleepy...and the Sofitel is rather divine...CHARLOTTE RAMPLING IN THE HIZZLE...well, by the pool, and it might just be Helen Mirren...the googling, it sez Rampling is there (French required, you dirty little sans culottes)...Mohammed the carpet pimp, he earns his pay, Amin the train huistler, he is bang out of luck...the Nouvelle Ville shines...and we go to Marrakesh, where the streets are wider, but the pimps are more persistent...Amin commutes between the two, maybe he is a new breed of pimp...we get the carpets retail this time round...and get pimped a Riad dining experience by the owner...the streets are wide enough for thugs on scooters...we are merely dazed...but Essouaira is relaxed, covered in hippies, kids, expats and drinkers...and the Medina is so small that no guide is required ever!...the grilled fish is good, yet the salad, it haunts me still...Marrakesh has become more intimidating in our absence...the food this time is excellent, but the scooters they plague us still....a poor but dishonest taxi driver gets it in the neck...and we return to Barcelona, and Casa Camper is in fact in the campest part of town...and Restaurant ES has the bestest campest waiters ever...and then we went home.

Well, It's More Like A Paste

Ya know, I really did think that I'd be back online before Fafblog. But twas not to be. This is, I must stress, not going to be a full-fledged return to form, much less a gonzo-travelogue of the last two weeks. I've been pitched back face-first into dayjobland, with deadlines a-go-go, and some copy just in from the freeelance drones that oozes evil.

What did we bring back from our travels, besides many carpets and some amusing intestinal bacteria? A serious craving for Chinese food and METOL.

More soon, hopefully. Did we post this tune already? Possibly.

The Hellacopters - "Holiday Cramps"
Buy "Cream Of The Crap, Vol 2" here. Not the first exhortation, I know, but it really is good