Skatopia: 88 Acres of Anarchy

by kevin on 11/12/2010 · 0 comments

From Huck Magazine, Issue 22

“Fear and loathing in Skatopia – a bad acid trip,” is Adam Alfaro’s take on Skatopia, an utterly fucked-up 88-acre skateboard wonderland in the middle of Appalachian, Ohio where cars seemingly burn and explode more frequently than fireworks shoot off at Disneyland. And Alf’s had his fair share of bad trips. Led by Brewce Martin and the Citizens Instigating Anarchy (CIA), Skatopia is, as skateboarder Chet Childress describes it, “a total Jim Jones experiment” where Brewce serves as cult leader to a flock of ragtag and disenchanted drifters seeking refuge from a system they just can’t accept – or, more accurately, won’t accept them.

Most retreat back to the reassuring predictability of the city after mere days, but an intrepid few set up camp in makeshift tree houses, permanently lending themselves to the cause. As the numbers grow, things occasionally get so damn sketchy that it makes you wonder if the commune’s going to have a similar outcome as Jonestown as well. But that doesn’t stop the crowd; if anything, it attracts more.

While navigating the bumpy and dirt-covered Appalachian back roads up to the woodsy 88 acres of anarchy, the general feeling of anxiety instantly sets in for all who make the pilgrimage. As Thrasher staff photographer Joe Brook says, Skatopia is “renegade DIY. It’s heaven for the brave; hell for the weak-minded.” So while sitting in that white elongated eight-seat passenger van, twiddling your thumbs and trying to keep the nervous butterflies at bay, you never know which side you’re going to fall into. Pray it’s not the latter; some lose their minds out there.

The distance from any real civilisation makes the car ride and corresponding stomach knots all the worse. “[Skatopia’s] in the middle of nowhere. The closest store was a gas station that was an hour away or some shit. And if something sketchy happened, no one would ever know,” explains Foundation am Abdias Rivera. The beads of sweat thicken after hearing rumours of inevitable injuries – the broken femurs and ruptured spleens. If the closest gas station’s an hour away, there’s no telling where the hospital is.

The land beyond Skatopia’s gates provides an immediate look inside Brewce Martin’s mind; it’s a demented mess that meets halfway between an anarchistic Mad Maxian Thunderdome and a utopian skateboard society. With everything out in the open, the first step on site confirms everything you’ve ever heard about the place. Don ‘Nuge’ Nguyen recalls: “My mind fell out when I got there. [It was] way gnarlier than I expected.” To top it off, Brewce maniacally notified Nuge and his gang of apprehensive travellers that he was locking the gates on their arrival; they’d have to stay at least until morning.

But what’s so sketchy about the area outside Rutland, Ohio? Massive wooden ramps and concrete bowls litter the acreage, indoors and out. Alcohol flows freer than water and when it runs out, “people come around and collect all your beer and put it in a huge pile. Dustin Dollin was telling me about it,” explains Lizard King, one skateboarder who’s never visited Skatopia, but anxiously awaits the day that he does (and Lord knows he’d thrive). In fact, shitty beer provides upwards of 95 per cent of daily caloric intake for most Skatopians.

Things get especially turbulent when Skatopia hosts events like its Bowl Bash, or most recently, its first annual American Skate Fest, which included musical performances by Gwar, Agent Orange and Meat Puppets among plenty of others. The concerts and skate jams draw lurkers from all walks of life for a taste of freedom and the chance to donate money to Skatopia (all proceeds from sponsored events go directly to buying more concrete and paying bills).

“Shit gets real chaotic out there during those parties. [There are] alien-looking lesbo sluts walking around with no shirts and saggy tits. It’s on another level,” says Chet. He snidely adds, “Please issue shirts to the inbred.”

But perhaps the craziest times at Skatopia involve the rash combination of cars, guns and explosions. “It was the first time I shot a car with a shotgun. I bought a truck off of [Brewce Martin] for three-hundred bucks and then blew it up,” recalls Nuge, whose experience with burning cars was fortunately tamer than Chet Childress’: “I got in a dumb car [Brewce] wrecked in the middle of a field that then caught on fire. I almost got scalped by the roof,” says Chet.

Luckily, Brewce has learned how to keep the local authorities off his back so that his denomination of misfits can revel in all the destruction and chaos they desire without compromise. “The cops bothered us for a minute but then I went to the county commissioners and asked if they’d ever heard of profiling. I said, ‘If your cops keep messing with people coming from my place, you’re going to find out that profiling is no joke.’ It then said in the paper, ‘Skaters allege police profiling,’ and it stopped instantly.”

In addition, says Brewce, “[The city] realised what a huge economic benefactor Skatopia is. Thousands upon thousands of people come here every year and [the city] makes a lot of money from them – from alcohol, to whatever else people buy to survive.” As long as Skatopia remains a viable source of income for the notoriously poor surrounding community, it should remain as free spirited as it is today.

For most of its visitors, the experience at Skatopia is incomparable – the only thing gnarlier might be the resulting hangover. “You can let all the evil out there since you’re in the middle of nowhere. It’s a great place; a historic landmark,” says Foundation and Circa am David Reyes. And above all, that’s what Skatopia has stood as since its inception in 1995 – a monumental homage to the skateboard deities; a place to fully capture the raucous and uncontainable spirit of skateboarding. The plot of land even houses a skateboard museum with over 2,000 boards spanning every era.

Despite the ostensible claim of anarchy, there are the obvious golden rules like any society. “[People think] that this is a place without any rules,” Brewce Martin explains in a dignified and paternal tone. “But that’s not the real truth. The real truth is that there are all kinds of rules and the number one rule is you want to respect other people and respect their stuff. The rules are really simple. They’re rules that you would teach a small child – rules for a community. We’re really trying to make this place amazing and blow people’s minds, so we all [need to] work together.”

While Brewce invites all likeminded individuals to stay as long as they please, self-sufficiency is highly preferred. “It’s a good idea if you can feed yourself,” Brewce explains. “If there’s work to be done, it really helps if you lend a hand or help out. I don’t like people who want to come here who have no money and no way of making money and don’t wanna help out and don’t skate.”

That’s not to say having money’s a requirement to stay at Skatopia though. “If you can’t feed yourself, but you’re a great worker, we’ll feed you. We’ll figure it out,” says a generous Brewce.

Some may say that Brewce faces a perpetual contradiction; with his anarchic dreams on one side, and the unavoidable need for money on the other. But at the end of the day, despite his unconventional and beyond rowdy lifestyle, Brewce Martin’s just a normal family guy with two kids, a college degree, and a larger-than-life vision. “I’ve been living the Skatopia lifestyle since the ’70s. I’ve always had ramps in my yard. I’ve always had parties in my yard,” says Brewce, who doesn’t see himself slowing down any time soon. “My destiny is pretty much wrapped up here. My goal is to make a skateboard monument so massive and permanent that it’s gonna be here for a long time. I’m gonna just stay here and keep building till the day I can’t move.”

And like any average head of the household, Brewce takes on the inescapable burden of responsibility imposed by a system that operates beyond Skatopia’s borders: “The sketchiest thing I’ve ever seen is just paying my bills and making it another month.” Really, Skatopia’s just an improvised version of The American Dream, only with the backyard pool emptied out and no picket fence.–Kevin Duffel

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Inadequately Adequate

by kevin on 08/12/2010 · 1 comment

In a strangely cheery mood for a dismally gray summer morning, I —resembling an over-medicated Orange County housewife— exited my friend’s San Francisco apartment and wandered about with smiles and an overly jaunty gait; trotting along aimlessly with nothing but the salty smell of the sea on my mind.

Left, right, straight, backwards? Who gives a shit – the direction of my trajectory was arbitrary; the seven square-miles, with all its zig-zags, one-ways, weaves and intersections were inundated with sparkly-eyed pedestrians, eclectic storefronts, and little green squares of park peaking through the urban sprawl; I’d be entertained for hours.

As I turned the corner onto Haight Street, a youthful yet bedraggled looking bum approached me. While his appearance was far from unusual (he would’ve inconspicuously meshed with the fabric of any Skid Row), his behavior was off kilter even by hobo mores. He incessantly pummeled the crown of his skull with his fist. Once. Twice. Three times, he hit himself. Then four… Five. Six. So relentless and unpredictable was his clobbering that I thought, with my luck, I’d soon be arrested on suspicion of murder.

But as soon as our eyes met, he retracted his hand and blushed like a schoolgirl whose skirt had fallen prey to an unexpected gust of wind in a crowd of boys. Ashamed and embarrassed, he hung his head low and simply muttered, almost inaudibly, “sorry.” He then gracefully picked up his pride and nonchalantly continued west as if nothing had happened.

I, on the other hand, was left incredulous and dumbfounded: what the fuck was that? Seriously? I’ve witnessed Tourette’s – profanities, vulgarities and four-letter words shouted, screamed, and randomly placed in sentences, disguised as adjectives, nouns or predicates. But never had I seen it in its brutal physical form (if that is indeed what I observed).

For whatever reason though, I began to think about other run-ins with the mentally ill or handicapped and the types of behaviors that are socially permissible only in so far as they’re performed by the mentally disabled. For instance, I once had a second cousin (or some other form of distant relative) with acute mental retardation who pleasured herself in public. It was near impossible to reprimand her, as she didn’t quite understand social norms and conventions, and therefore couldn’t see the fault of her action. Thus she’d go on rubbing it out wherever she became aroused – whether in the privacy of her bedroom or the not-so-private living room hosting a family gathering.

Sounds hedonistic, sure, but her mind couldn’t even wrap itself around the concept of hedonism. Instead, she thought in terms of sheer sensory excitement without any underlying philosophical principles. She, like a toddler, pursued whatever dazzled her senses at that very moment. In this case, it was sexual gratification.

Nobody acted surprised, nobody threw a fit, and most importantly, nobody tried to punish her.

Interfamily gatherings aren’t the only sanctuaries for socially questionable behavior; the law (and ostensibly therefore society at large) similarly tolerates unbalanced behavior so long as it stems from an equally unbalanced mind: a close friend of mine has been professionally diagnosed with just about every psychological disorder that’s graced the 886 pages of the DSM-IV – from psychosis to schizophrenia to bipolar to everything in between. He shovels an assortment of brightly colored pills into his mouth every morning; the confectionery of candy-coated pills realigns all his shoddy synapses and chemical imbalances and it’s only after taking them that he metamorphoses into a suitable member of society. Some eat fruit loops for breakfast to feel normal, some eat mind-altering chemicals. So be it.

During one of his unpredictable episodic rages, my friend fell into an altercation with a cop, punched him as hard as he could, and broke the guy’s jaw. Obviously any normal person would have suffered extreme repercussions (i.e., an inexplicably long stay in federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison), but he got off on 6 months house arrest – reason being he didn’t take his potpourri of pills that particular morning. To top it off, he was allowed to work and support himself; his job being a traveling photographer, he somehow circumvented the house arrest altogether. Not too bad.

I can only imagine the high jinks I would seek out if viewed in the same light. I, like my friend, would certainly tell cops and adversaries my true opinions of them, and more likely than not use my fist as the vessel to deliver the message. Why not? I could laugh it off with great jubilance, feeling independent of “the man,” radically unlike all my surrounding subordinate sorry saps of peers. I mean, if Harvey Milk’s assassinator can get off murder by ingesting too many twinkies, think of the possibilities. Have the sudden urge to play with myself in public? Nobody’s going to stop me. Indulge away. Oh the joy of being able to act outside society’s burdensome rules and guidelines! To feel free and transcend repercussion! Sign me up!

But why do we blindly shy our heads away from these types and their corresponding (and otherwise socially intolerable) behaviors? We tolerate all the public displays of indecency because we feel superior. As a token of our pity, we grant them get-out-of-jail-free cards because, well, we can only imagine how terrible it must be to live in similar conditions. No, it’s not by a stroke of political correctness or genuine kindness that we pretend to ignore this behavior; rather, we snidely look down upon our mentally or chemically inferior peers from our high and mighty thrones of normality and feel bad for them, opting to turn our heads out of comfort for ourselves. But why should we? In many respects they’re far superior to the average person – they certainly have more liberties and are freer from restrictive social conventions than most; they can pursue happiness whenever and wherever they please while I am typically required to oppress mine in many social settings.

Whatever the case, during my San Franciscan escapades I solicited one such special-needs girl for some insight. Much to my dismay, rather than the erudite and eloquent response filled to the brim with profound offerings into the mind of a sub-genius I had anticipated, I was accorded a much simpler, albeit equally prophetic, answer: a slew of incomprehensible utterances varying in volume. With a language as unsophisticated as a newly born, she indicated her happiness with all the sophistication in the world; I, on the other hand, had to laboriously scour the city and all its twisting streets high and low for entertainment. Who’s the retard now?

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The Postelles: Posterboys of Mediocrity

by kevin on 08/03/2010 · 0 comments

Historically speaking, Americans have often lagged behind the Brits in terms of musical ideas. Maybe it’s mainstream American culture in general that’s responsible – giant corporations (ie, Capitol Records in this case) typically finger their assholes until trends become cool enough to capitalize on before jumping on board, thus avoiding the investment of any real risk. Or perhaps it’s a lack of decent British orthodontists that forces the Brits to focus more so on creative endeavors than pure physical appearances alone to get laid with.

While I don’t know the real reasons behind the phenomenon – or much of anything for that matter – I do know this: The Postelles, a fully calculated and predictable group of New York charter school kids with trust funds and phone books as extensively fashionable as their wardrobes, have released the most formulaic, artistically void, and outdated take on modern brit-pop that I’ve ever heard.

Produced by fellow trust-fund scenester Albert Hammond Jr. of the Strokes, The Postelles’ White Night EP kicks off with the similarly named single “White Night.” While the song is undoubtedly catchy as hell, it sounds as if it’s just a Luke Prichard of The Kooks vocal track placed on top of a b-side from Is This It. Replete with Albert Hammond Jr.-esqe bright and chimey stabs of guitar, warm and hooky bass lines, and driving mid-tempo drums, the song is preposterously dialed-in and radio ready. Make no mistake: this is a pop tune through and through.

“I’ve got a problem and it drains my soul/Don’t tell, nobody knows,” belts lead singer Daniel Balk in a pseudo British accent to introduce the chorus. Well, if the problem is sounding terribly boring, then I’m afraid it’s painfully obvious. But unfortunately enough, like “Sex on Fire,” this is the type of shit that’s bound to bombard radio airwaves and Lower East Side pool parties all summer long.

With nothing much to say besides “Tell me what to do/I wanna feel ok,” Balk resorts to a medley of “whoas,” “oh-ohs,” and background vocals in an attempt to ostensibly distract from his vapid lyrics; it’s as if he’s holding a bunch of pretty bright objects in front of a baby.

But it gets worse: “I’m a systematic automatic city really dizzy track” rivals Bare Naked Ladies for worst string-of-shit-rapidly-sung-in-a-verse award.

The next track, “Sleep On The Dance Floor,” further showcases Balk’s impressive Prichard impersonations. Beginning with a slightly modulated guitar line, the song slowly eases into a feel good sing-along all too reminiscent of Razorlight’s worst moments (which can be downright awful). “Don’t you come around knockin’ on my door ‘cuz I fell asleep on the dance floor,” professes Balk. Well, Danny boy, let’s hope I don’t hear this one out or that’ll make two of us.

The third and final track, “Looking Glass,” moderately redeems the prior 5:41 of the EP, if only for its playful Motown tendencies and words of encouragement: “Let’s make a toast to self control,” shouts Balk. Whereas this EP is littered with annoyingly catchy hooks and feel-good major key progressions, I’ll surely try my best to stay away – thanks for the reminder.

The problem isn’t that The Postelles don’t know what they want — that’s quite the opposite. They know exactly how they want to sound. The problem is, however, that while they’ve perfectly achieved their aim, the result is one that should have been avoided in the first place; a lot has happened since Is This It and the Kooks’ Inside In, Inside Out, and as a result, The Postelles just sound dated. Hopefully they’ll wise up and visit their more inventive neighboring borough to reform their sound. If not, look out for the debut album in bargain bins everywhere.

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Revisiting The Smiths

by kevin on 07/28/2010 · 0 comments

History has a way of repeating itself every 20-30 years or so in music. The Brits took the delta blues of the 30s and 40s, revved it up with an appropriate dose of cocksureness, and made it rowdier than ever; the Stones injected Robert Johnson’s backyard Americana with more cocaine and sexual sleaze than a Patrick Bateman private party, and in turn, reinvented the blues record with 1968′s Beggar’s Banquet. Hirsute middle-class white boys imitating destitute blacks seemed fresh at the time — the way it did for Elvis 10 years before and for the Specials 10 years after. In the late 2000s, the 80s came back with more yuppie make out synthesizers and four-to-the floor beats than ever.

Saying all this, 20 years after the Smiths released their eponymous debut album (marking Morrissey’s stronghold over depressed and angst-ridden teen bedrooms), Morrissey’s interest peaked again. And hell if I know why — he’s written the same damn half-assed exercise in egotism for 25 years and counting.

But I can’t help but believe it’s all a facade. Steven Patrick – you’re 51-years-old and I know for damn sure you’re living the dream in your multi-million dollar estate. The jig’s over; I for one know you’re quite happy in your success. So I beg of you: please give up the fraudulent self-deprecation.

As a sixteen-year-old boy, full of pubescent ennui, I saw Morrissey open for a South American band called Jaguares. The thought of him opening sickened me — don’t these fucks know how influential this guy is? I used to idolize Moz. I thought “every day is like Sunday” was the greatest one liner since Oscar Wilde. Oh, the biting wit, the sardonic accuracy of those five words! All hail King MOZ!

But then again, I was sixteen. Looking back now, the shtick has run thin. If I so much as vocalize my opinion to my friends, I’m risking it all though. In fact, I might even get my ass beat: Echo Park’s full of Smiths-loving-hipsters who gladly pay money – and homage – for Smiths Night at the Echo every couple weeks.

Well, maybe I just haven’t listened to the Smiths in a while. Perhaps I’m missing something, just like when I couldn’t quite figure out Radiohead as an ignorant preteen too preoccupied with 90-second punk rock scorchers. So, I did what any self-respecting music snob would do and threw on the self-titled album to see why I haven’t crooned along to “Still Ill” in my bedroom for quite a while, only to find… well, it’s just too whiny.

The Smiths’ debut album opens with a down-tempo reverb laden drumbeat that sounds as if it were sampled straight from a karaoke track. A measure later and Morrissey’s partnership with guitarist Johnny Marr goes into full swing as delicately layered arpeggiated guitars accompany the melodramatic crooning of “It’s time the tale were told of how you took a child and you made him old.” Splashes of shimmery piano chime in. Every note and musical space is meticulously tended to. However, by the end of “Reel Around The Fountain,” which clocks at 5:57, Morrissey’s repetitive operatic tendencies start to wear thin.

With jumpy bass and somewhat spastic new wave guitar, the second track, “You’ve Got Everything Now,” proves that The Smiths work best when playing to a faster beat. However, once Morrissey declares, “I don’t want a lover, I just want to be seen… in the back of your car” with a notably long pause between the two phrasings, you can’t help but wonder if the extended break hints at a deeper narcissistic cry for attention, which is unfortunately evident throughout the entire record; his constant need to bask in the limelight typically overshadows Marr’s fastidious guitars and songwriting.

That’s not to say the album doesn’t have its highpoints though. The four successive tracks starting with “This Charming Man” and ending with “What Difference Does It Make?” would have made the best damned EP from the 80s, and possibly of all time: undeniably energetic and perfectly concise, there’s not a stray note.

But debut albums typically fall into two categories: the kind so good they forever outshine anything else the band ever releases again, and the types that serve as learning processes and stepping-stones for future greatness. As subsequent Smiths releases would indicate, The Smiths falls under the latter.

The Smiths always work best when Marr and Morrissey have equal voices. But it’s not often Morrissey backs down – which is unfortunate mainly because Marr’s proved to be the more interesting of the two throughout the years.

The tour I saw Morrissey was the first he’d performed Smiths songs since their breakup; Morrissey knows he was best with Marr. It’s just his ego wouldn’t previously allow him to admit it. Marr, the greater of the song-smiths, has consistently adapted to new styles since his infamous departure from The Smiths: he instantly collaborated with New Order’s Bernard Sumner to form Electronic, a total 180 from the Smiths, and has joined Modest Mouse and the Cribs in recent years.

Morrissey, on the other hand, has busied himself with writing the same pseudo-self-deprecating Oscar Wilde rip-off sung in the same obnoxious operatic croon since day one. He’s like the kid who shows up at every party only to do the robot on the dance floor. Yeah, it’s cool, nostalgic, and was the shit in its day, but c’mon, you’ve just gotta try a new move; it gets old after a while, ya know?

If this is the album that influenced every band after it, as NME stated (The Smiths were ranked the “most influential artist ever” in a 2002 poll) then great: Morrissey’s influenced 30 years of solipsistic and introverted indie shit. That is, unless everyone was actually listening to Marr.

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Russell Bland

by kevin on 06/15/2010 · 0 comments

Dear David Cameron, incumbent Prime Minster of Great Britain –

Airport Customs have failed their requisite duties, allowing your export Russell Brand (accurately dubbed Russell “Bland” by a far superior comedian, Aziz Ansari, at the MTV Awards this year) access into our country. He has consequently ruined my life. I demand reparations immediately in the form of 500,000 Pounds for mental damages incurred by yours truly.

Before that fateful April day in 2008, otherwise known to the rest of the unaffected world as the theatrical release of Forgetting Sarah Marshall (which, for the record, I quite enjoyed), my life was calm, pleasant, and peaceful. I could walk down a quaint suburban street in perfect tranquility, skipping along solely to the sounds of my own two feet and blasting ear buds. As a matter of fact, life was sweet. I was myself, and people viewed me in the same light — as an individual. Oh and what joy! To be oneself!

Now, my pragmatic Prime Minister pal, the public has reduced me to a mere “doppelganger” of sorts. Random passer-byers bombard me with the question. The dumbest question (they do exist despite your teacher’s denials) in existence: “Has anybody told you who you look like?” My underwhelmed and now mechanical response, “Let me guess… that one comedian with the accent and long hair?” They then give an affirming smile signifying we’re on the same page, turn around, and nonchalantly continue on with their days. I, on the other hand, kick rocks with slightly more force and vehemence than I did 5 minutes prior. Instead of casually skipping stones, I’m now bowling boulders, hoping they’ll crash into the 10 houses in front of me; a perfect Strike.

Well, that happens to people all the time, right? People occasionally use celebrity comparisons as forms of flattery, correct? I mean, if you look like a celebrity, you must be modestly good looking, yeah? They don’t plaster an ugly mug on a magazine cover (National Enquirer not withstanding); therefore the occasional compliment ought to boost the ego and be taken with a grain of salt. I get that; sounds logical. I’ve heard people compare fat chicks to Mary Kate Olsen (a fucking anorexic nonhuman alien), so judgments can obviously miss the mark. Indeed, he and I do share similar messy hair and rather rugged facial hair at times, so I’ll accept a rough resemblance, but as far as genetic makeup and facial structure is concerned… that’s another story. Unless, of course, my mother had a British mailman. She always did casually—and perhaps too casually—toss around that joke.

The day the Rolling Stone cover hit newsstands, coinciding with the release of Get Him To The Greek, my phone blew up with texts. Message: “congrats on the cover.” My own mom even surfaced as one of the unholy perpetrators, making my hit list for the first time since my long abandoned adolescent irrationality. And she’s supposed to know her son’s face better than anyone. If it’s any consolation, at least she confirmed, “He’s got more of a horse mouth than you.” Plus one for mother dearest. For an added bonus, my brother reiterated her observation. At least my family’s on my side; blood is thicker than water after all…

But this isn’t an overnight occurrence brought on by a magazine cover. It’s been a lasting annoyance. Ya see, I’m not just crying over spilt milk. Several months ago, one night around 3am, well after last call and hanging out with my restless one-time bosses* at the Chateau Marmont, my employers tried to barge the door with me as their battering ram: “Russell Brand just got off a 12 hour flight.” Luckily the doorman, either more sensible than the rest of my fellow Earth inhabitants or merely working by the books and according to California code, denied our entrance. I’ll assume he was of the former for my own sanity.

To ice the fucking cake, while writing this post, Facebook informed me of a new friend request – a random Midwesterner with no mutual friends. Momentarily after confirming the request to up my web cred, “You look like Russell Brand.” God above, if you exist, then you are indeed a twisted soul. I understand plagues as forms of population control, but this one? Really? I hope you got a good laugh or a closed mouth smile in the very least.

However, then again, maybe I do look like this guy. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, right? My family tree has firmly planted Anglo roots, only decorated with American soil. Could it be that our genetics coincidentally correlate – more so than the shared trait of long messy hair and slight beard? You make the call:
VS.
(Ok, I admit I chose a photo of myself that would downplay any resemblance… so be it.)

It’s a possibility. Perhaps I ought to be at ease with the fact then. At least I’m not being compared to Mickey Rourke (modern day of course!) or Carrot Top.

But I think the allegations have cut to a deeper bone. A sociological one. And for that reason, I’ve got a bone to pick with physical comparisons in general. It’s always “you look like so and so.” Why not the contrary? Humor my ego, good sirs, and reverse the order. Listen to this, “He looks like you.” See the difference — the way it nimbly rolls off the tongue, pleasures the ear canal ever so gently, and instantly reverses the roll? HE looks like me. YES, I am superior. I am the one they are likening him to. With the subtle shift in the order of the subjects, the emotional aftermath is spared. Not bad, eh?

Then again, I’m only writing this post as an attempt to win sympathy from British Parliament and therefore live a few years for free. As far as Russell Bland is concerned, I’ve already squared off with him in person. No, not in the form of an old-fashioned duel, which might have been more appropriate, but in an equally poignant manner. While driving by my neighborhood coffee shop, I met eyes with his. He, girl on either arm, gave me a faint smile. Me, on the other hand, yelled “jerk!” loud and clear out the window in passing. Who’s the real winner now? Silly Brits, you ought to have learned by now that we as Americans won’t back down.

*In fact, I halfway believe I got the job with said bosses because of my so-called resemblance. Whatever… In this economy you take what you can get.

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Tokyo Police Club: Champ

by kevin on 06/14/2010 · 0 comments

I remember trying to see a free Tokyo Police Club show right after their debut EP dropped. Whereas 2006’s A Lesson In Crime – a quirky and spastic cacophony of lo-fi sounds, energetic rhythms, and dystopian imagery – found its way on to every cool music blog and iPod around, I unfortunately found my penniless self outside the venue, staring at the never-ending line of people waiting to get in; looks like I’d have to sit this one out and sell a kidney or something to make enough money to see them at a proper show.

2 years later, the Canadian quartet released the album Elephant Shell to dismal reviews. It seemed Tokyo Police Club, like so many of their contemporaries, had fallen prey to the relentless hype beast: they’d been chewed up and spat out with nothing to show for besides a shitty plug on Desperate Housewives (which might be worse than nothing at all).

Well now, 2 years later, they’ve released their sophomore album, Champ. Tokyo Police Club’s always had a penchant for writing imaginative lyrics and clever hooks, but gone are the discussions of cyborgs and futuristic tendencies of A Lesson In Crime and Elephant Shell, and in are more mature discourses on a childhood long gone. (Hey man, you grow up quick when you’re thrown into the spot light at such a young age.)

Instead of feeling like Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska, an introspective and wistful coming-to-terms with aging, however, Champ captures playful nostalgia and generates the same fuzzy moods and tones of re-watching your favorite Saturday morning cartoons (Nicktoons of course!). And while this time around you’ve got work – not to mention a fuckwit boss to deal with – on Monday, no hopes of a summer vacation, and bills flooding your mailbox, you still feel like you’re 12 again.

From the dizzying opening synths of “Favourite Food” to the reverberating bass that closes “Frankenstein,” Champ remains a cohesive, engaging, and goddamned pleasurable album the whole way through. The only downfall, if any, could be attributed to its length (just over 36 minutes). But then again, by the time you reach the end, you’re yearning for that droning introductory organ that enraptured you in the first place – much like the beginning credits to those Saturday morning shows you’d wait the entire week to watch.

Judging by the all-too-fitting title, something tells me they know they’ve done right on this one.

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