fiction & caffeine

I think with everything I write, you can tell that I start out trying to go somewhere, and then end up not having enough time to do my ideas justice. I’m working on it. In related news, Specter published my ramblings on Nine Inch Nails and tweendom in light of reading the Pretty Hate Machine 33 1/3 by Daphne Carr.

I was up at 5:30 a.m. yesterday to make it into the office, so that I could make it to the Radiohead show at Roseland Ballroom. I got home at 2:30 a.m. It was a very long day of working, waiting, and, finally, two glorious fucking hours of my favorite band of all-time. Luckily, my friend Doug was able to get on line at 2 in the afternoon, so we got in and were able to get into the second row of folks in front of Ed O’Brien’s spot. Jonny Greenwood’s (eternal rock star crush, whose presence on our side of the stage led to me grabbing for Doug and almost falling over) side was already ten rows deep, it looked like. But second row in a GA Radiohead show? I never thought this was going to happen.

After an extra-long DJ set from some DJs, Four Tet finally came on at 9 to do a lovely set that sort of made me forget that I’d been standing for three and a half hours at that point. They finished at 9:45 and Radiohead came on at 10:15. My back really stopped hurting. They played for two hours, gave two encores, played “Subterranean Homesick Alien” (a song I had no clue I was so attached to, but at the sound of the opening chords tears came), did this insanely great “Everything in Its Right Place.” It was just absolutely perfect and sounded so good. “National Anthem” was insane. “Myxomatosis”!  “STREET SPIRIT”! The full set list and gorgeous pics are at Brooklyn Vegan; the rest of my crappy pics are here. I was originally going to transcribe the hysterical thoughts I wrote in my notebook on the train ride home, but they’re too hysterical. Right now I’m still basking in the glow a bit, despite being insanely tired and annoyed I didn’t buy tickets for tonight’s show. RADIOHEAD!

I have no love for any season other than summer. Pumpkin pie is great, and I’m the farthest thing from a Scrooge about Christmas, but I prefer to wear shorts and sweat and go to the beach as much as humanly possible. This week the weather has been rainy, cloudy crap, and I’m feeling it today. I just can’t gather the energy to do what I need to do. It’s perfect Ataxia-listening weather, though. Life’s always gonna give you something.

Ataxia, “The Sides”

Rita Indiana only showed up on my Internet in the beginning of July, which was far too late. Apparently she’s been releasing tracks for a while, and her band’s first full-length, El Juidero, came out in the fall of last year. They call it “future merengue,” and it’s perfect.

She’s a gorgeous, tall dominicana whose videos, directed by her Puerto Rican partner Noelia Quintero, are subversive and freaky, in the best way. My introduction to her was the video for “La Hora de Volve,” which I watched over and over when I first came across it—wanting to feel the unease that the new sounds and bizarre visuals were producing, wanting to understand why I was feeling so blissfully weirded out. Lyrically, it’s a slangy, affecting call for the diaspora to return home. When I found out she’s primarily a novelist (as Rita Indiana Hernandez), I might’ve squealed.

The more I listened and watched and read, the more I loved, and I’ve spent weeks listening almost exclusively to the album. It begins with the sound of a siren on the title track and doesn’t let up. In the middle, there’s the anthemic “Da Pa Lo Do.” It would end a weaker album, but El Juidero never weakens. This despite the closer, “Equeibol,” being 15 and a half minutes long; by maintaining its dance rhythm and referencing “Gloria,” it makes for a completely satisfying end. (I’m no stranger to such long tracks, though, and that she isn’t afraid of them makes me giddily wonder when she’s going to collaborate with The Mars Volta and cause me a joyous heart attack.)

It brings me back to Puerto Rico, where I spent a week a month and a half ago, with every listen. This music, that country—I just want more.