2002-08-05 - 3:20 p.m.

Last night we saw the American Analog Set play in a dark, crowded, asphyxiating cube called the main stage at the Knitting Factory. Going to shows shouldn't be some endurance test or freaky vision quest. Hallucinations were imminent after standing through two mediocre opening acts. The Dears, a ragtag group of recorderists and whatnot from Montreal, played cleaned-up Stooges jams as sung by Morissey. Better in theory than practice, I assure. Her Space Holiday booted up the ol' laptop, pressed play, and filled in the sound with live bass. Great. I'm sure their CD is pretty decent in that electronic-via-indie way, but a light show doesn't cover up blatant abuses of laptoppery. There's a reason the Beatles never toured their later material -- it would be impossible to recreate it live. Same thing with laptop muzak.

The amanogset (i don't think "amanset" is fluid enough on the tongue) played pretty decent, but in the end it was heat one, amanogset zero.

Show review as a pretext for having something to talk about -- did anyone else pick up on that?

Well, I've been writing a hell of a lot lately, just not here. I'm sick of writing about music, and yet I write about the Dears. I have been going to a good number of shows this summer (five in the last month or so -- pretty impressive for me), and that trend should continues with the upcoming GBV redo at Irving and then the rumored Ted Leo appearance at a new place on the fringes of the Park Slope (yet another potential "walker," joining the Yo La show and anything else at Prospect Park).

Oh yeah, Nami and I also got sold out of the Datsuns at the Mercury Lounge, but I'm blaming the headlining Drive-By Truckers for that one. Because New York ain't hip to the Datsuns yet (me included -- I'm just going on word of Detroit mouth).

But yeah, writing, tapping away. My first interview for Skyscraper is being shorn down to a third of its bulky taped weight. That's a good thing, and the second tape of my interview proves why you shouldn't let bands speak for more than 45 minutes. The conversation quickly devolves into one band member predicting that another member's kids will come out retarded. Tonight I pick up photos I shot of said band (not that I said which band it is; all my entries are googleproof) and cut, cut, cut. And write an intro that fills in the multitude of blanks within the convo. So my free writing has easily outstripped my paid writing over the past few weeks. Whatever. Either of those word counts demolish my diaryland output, of course.

There was some talk of a trip this past weekend, but that didn't happen. Oh yeah, last week Davidde came and visited for a few days and left me a few presents. Here's a list.

1. Maxim with Beyonce on the cover. Left in the bathroom.

2. Shot-and-a-beer set (big glass mug and a replica tiny mug...cute!) engraved with the name "Stella." Coffee table.

3. Dirty white Perry Ellis dress shirt, size 15 (you're a 14.5, Davidde, just like me). Slung over a kitchen chair.

4. Receipt for tux. Floor.

5. Roll of film, given to me just as he was leaving for the train. For some reason I have to develop this thing and send the negatives in a plain manilla folder to Davidde in Paris. Something about "those fascists in customs." I hope I'm not being used as the patsy in some kiddie-porn ring.

Davidde was all apologetic last Monday, coming home really late after a night of drinking. But it didn't matter. I was up writing reviews. Ultimately I was the one dragging him out to the bar for a nightcap. After tonight, my pro-bono tappity-tapping will be over for a bit. That'll be nice.

I'm out.