Getting Misty-Eyed Over The Milkmen

I had a really great thought the other day for a post. I was driving and mapped the whole thing out in my head. Trust me, it was a fantastically interesting idea.

And, now that I'm in front of my computer, I've forgotten it.

Age?

Seasonal affective disorder?

Or maybe it could be that I haven't been to a live show in almost two months. I feel like I'm crawling out of my skin. I'm feeding myself a steady stream of live recordings but it's just not the same.

I was supposed to see Father John Misty in November. But I've been spending a good part of my life recently on the road for work. I don't think this would have gone over too well: "Honey, great to see you and the kids. Boy it's been a long week of traveling. I missed you all. And, I'm going out tonight for a show."

As great as Father John Misty (and previous incarnations) is, a stable home life is better.*



I'm only writing a blog and I've never run down the street with my pants to my knees (as far as I know). But I still love this song and the entire album; it's up there with Jack White and Neil Young for album of the year.

Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band also played Denver earlier this week. Normally I would've been there and spent the day waiting for a pit wristband. But I was in Florida. Here's a picture from the Dry Tortugas. I know, boo-f'n-hoo...

Alice Cooper also played Denver this week. Again, I was in Florida. See the above picture and loathe me.  Especially if it's cold where you are. It wasn't cold in Florida. Just weird.

So I'm looking for a December show. The NYE runs are an option (Yonder in Boulder, SCI in Broomfield, etc.). But that's another whole month away. I need something now. I'm reduced to trolling Pollstar.

In the meantime, an all-time great band has released some new music. The Dead Milkmen are blowing up keyboards now. I don't know what I prefer more - the snotty anger of "Dark Clouds Gather Over Middlemarch" or the snotty angry humor of "Ronald Reagan Killed The Black Dahlia."



I love listening to music made by people old enough to remember the Reagan era as one giant joke and not the gauzy hero-worship we're too often force-fed. Give it a listen. Then go buy it so the band can make more than $0.000000000000001 off your Spotify listen.


*Sorry the clip has an ad attached to it. But it's really a fine version of the song. Down with the man, though. Except the man who made all the stuff I own. That man is OK. It's just all the other corporate mans I want to down. 

Shake Your Rebooty

Time to reboot this blog. We're going dark and edgy. Think Clooney to Bale. Brosnan to Craig. Bugs Bunny to Bugs Bunny in drag.

OK, so reboot means time to return to the blog. Two things.

First, sigur ros is finally coming to Colorado again. I know, there's supposed to be the little thing above the "o." Sorry, can't figure that out on my computer. I'm a heathen.

Anyway, sigur ros on April 6 at the 1st Bank Center. A perfectly fine venue. But too bad it's not a month later kicking off the summer season at Red Rocks. A chilly spring evening outdoors there would be perfect for sigur ros. Probably too perfect. Maybe even so perfect it becomes a cliche.

Then again, I saw sigur ros on a blistering Chicago afternoon with about 20,000 people in a field. I've never experienced quiet like that. At times the crowd was so silent the typical concert goings on came to a dead halt. No one said a f'n word; no drunk bros hollering and shotgunning beers; no annoying cellphone gabbers; no friends "catching up" and ignoring the band. Just 20,000 people in rapture at some of the most amazing noise I've ever heard.



Second, thanks to OpenAir CPR (yes, that station again), I now love Artichoke. Horns, sitars, garage psychedelia about such things as Jesus and Satan on a reunion tour.



Somewhere the Chocolate Watchband is thinking "dammit, we should have used more sitar." Or played the guitar with a bow.