One of the perks of bartending is that I get to people-watch during lulls. People-watching in a bar gives you insight into relationships that no psychology class could accomplish. Couples who come into the bar generally fit into a few types, and I have found they are by far the most entertaining people to watch.
Do you know what my favorite part about Thanksgiving is? It's not the food or the good company or even the days off of school. It's Black Friday. For the fashion unaware, Black Friday is the Friday after Thanksgiving when almost everything goes on sale. Electronics, clothing, you name it. Chances are, there is something seriously discounted. Black Friday is a vicious battle, and it is every man, woman and child for himself or herself.
Last week I think everyone had a WTF moment. Cold? In October? In Florida? No way! It was definitely a surprise to wake up and have it be 30 degrees outside. I mean come on, Mother Nature, we're not North Carolina. We're Florida - it shouldn't get cold here. Thankfully, it seems to have warmed up for now, but the cold weather got me thinking: Winter is approaching. And what better way to celebrate the upcoming winter season than discussing one of my favorite accessories: scarves.
In "Zack and Miri Make a Porno," lifelong friends Zack (Seth Rogen) and Miri (Elizabeth Banks) find themselves on the verge of bankruptcy and can't seem to make the awkward newly adult years work for them. Barely able to keep a roof over their heads, the two find themselves working minimum wage jobs just to cover expenses. Left without any other option, they decide to make, as the title would suggest, a porno. With the help of a strangely assorted cast and crew assembled from the bottom tier of society, the two set to work, finding out along the way that they might have feelings for each other beyond friendship.
America has voted. These long months of political tumult and impassioned debate have finally culminated into a moment of truth, reaching a climax of presidential proportions.
Tall and bulky under a mess of red hair, Brett Dennen looks like the guy who used to stuff you in your locker in the sixth grade- and then serenade you with gentle, acoustic lullabies. On "Hope for the Hopeless," the former camp counselor and current Bay Area folkie uses his powers - expressive wordplay, hippie guitar - to spread West Coast peace and love. He claims this record was inspired by "Exile on Main St." Yes, and this review was inspired by "The Grapes of Wrath." Not buying it: "San Francisco" and "Heaven" are breezy, Stones-free odes to diversity. "Hope" works as a sermon to the converted - music for sandaled peaceniks. As for lingering misconceptions, Dennen clears things up on the effortless "Wrong About Me." He's a lover, not a fighter.
Bravado by any other name is Electric Six. The opening cut from "Flashy" not only self-references a past "classic" but actually features the a cappella chorus "Gay Bar Part Two," which gives you some idea of how unabashedly cheeky this band really is. Amidst a barrage of guitar fire and trumpet riffs, Detroit's "Full Monty" punk troupe dishes an unending slew of one-liners in preparation for showtime at The Apollo. There's a little Chris Rock - "In the event of a water landing / you can use my body as a flotation device." There's a lot of Krusty the Clown - "You never want to find yourself trapped in heavy woman's thighs." So bust out your best heckle routine and a box of tomatoes. If you don't think it's funny, then the joke's on them.
Crammed into Nick Greene's sound-proof bedroom, Boss Lady and the Company played a few of their original tracks Thursday night. Instead of awkwardly standing around explaining what they're about, the band members decided to show it.
Via a lucrative contract, "Black Ice" sells exclusively through Wal-Mart and Sam's Club. No big deal - we already knew AC/DC was in tight with Satan. Of more importance, after an eight-year sabbatical, the Australian metal titans still rest their laurels on a time-tested principle as fundamental to rock 'n' roll as the band itself: play three chords and let the truth do the rest. "Rock 'N Roll Train" sounds like the classic here, aiming for and achieving a big thrills, no frills anthem best played loud. Likewise, the power-chord manifestos "War Machine" and "Rock N Roll Dream" reaffirm the Young brothers' status atop the riff-rock hierarchy. There are no variations, no pointless detours and, really, no need. The Highway to Hell is a one-way street.
Earlier this year, Rehab's "Bartender Song (Sittin' At a Bar)" made the leap from jukebox phenomenon to Hot 100 entry. Now Danny Boone, mastermind of the honky hip-hoppers, finds himself on the cusp of fame. On Nov. 8, Rehab will play alongside bands such as Hinder and Red Jumpsuit Apparatus at the Planetfest, a music festival in Jacksonville. Has life changed? How could it not? Says Boone, "We've got more beer than we've ever had in our life."
Lots of chatter coming out of Montreal these days. With Arcade Fire on hiatus and Of Montreal not actually of Montreal, Land of Talk now generate the most noise in this ice-cold indie hotbed with dense, groove-oriented music evocative of Neil Young in all his "Ragged Glory." On "Some Are Lakes," atop layers of distortion and heavy-handed drumming, Elizabeth Powell offers up cryptic poetry about the perils of darkness in a gentle, inflection-free tone. Perhaps her singing lacks emotional resonance, or maybe the pounding rhythms simply drown her out. In this case, it lacks volume, though she does speak up on "Young Bridge." Chiming guitars and harmony galore give way to the line "There's no light underneath you," another mystery phrase that deserves a follow-up question: Is Land of Talk in fact saying anything?
The legendary reggae-punk band Sublime may have collapsed in 1996, but their legacy is far from dead.
After the first hint of the holiday season, I'm beginning to notice that girlfriend-shaped empty space by my side. Sure, Halloween may not be the most romantic of all holidays, but something about seeing all those girls in slutty cat costumes awakened my companionship instinct.
Google recently released a feature known as Mail Goggles in an effort to prevent Gmail users from firing out drunken e-mails, which they might regret sending soon after it arrives in an ex's inbox - "i luv u babie, take me bac."
It's that time of the year again. Get ready to see tattoo-clad, mohawked music fans roaming the streets of downtown Gainesville this weekend for the seventh incarnation of The Fest.
I am a true believer in the Mean Girls Halloween philosophy: "Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut, and no other girls can say anything about it." I don't normally condone dressing like a whore, but on Halloween, anything goes. Halloween is the time to be something you're not, so if you want to dress up as a sexy nun or a sexy nurse, go ahead. No one has the right to judge you on that night.
Fresh off a full Canadian Tour, Less Than Jake drummer Vinnie Fiorello talked to the Alligator about life on the road and returning home to play a special Halloween show at The Fest. First stop Gainesville, and then it's onto Europe for a six-week tour.
I always play it safe with a simple "Hello" because the rare few misinterpret "Hi, how you doing?" as "Hi, tell me how crappy your day was in the context of your life story." Lucinda Williams - a.k.a. Debbie Downer - is one of these people. With "Little Honey," the aging country maven spills her guts with songs about stalling Chevys and drunken lovers, all in a self-ingratiating attempt to fulfill a patience-trying time quota. Williams has a cheese grater for a voice, and on the inebriated "Jailhouse Tears," she sings in down-home Southernisms that twist the life out of unsuspecting vowels. It briefly occurred to me this record could be collaborated to sound perfectly tuneful if you're actually hung over, so start drinking or just nod your head and pretend like you're listening.
The comparisons between the Secret Machines and Joe the Plumber are all but unavoidable with said band's self-titled third album. Both phenomena receive way more attention than they deserve, have prominent direct articles in their names and now specialize in releasing crap. Things weren't always this way for the once-promising New York space-rockers. "Last Believer, Drop Dead" - addressed to their fan, perhaps? - showcases a fleeting bit of potential with appropriate grandiosity built by big, fuzzy guitar lines and a truly exhilarating chorus. "Have I Run Out" is more typical fare, as it sets psychedelic Dungeons-and-Dragons-styled ramblings to blunt-riffed agro-noise. The song mercifully ends at around eight minutes; the band's fame at fifteen.
Economy in crisis. Russia flexing military muscle. Metallica kicking ass. Yeah baby, it's the 80s all over again. Keane's look could use a perm and spandex, but their neon-flecked sound is already primped for the Jazzercise age. On "Perfect Symmetry," the British three-piece swaps their emo-piano fetish for synth-spiked, Ric Ocasek-approved retro goodness. The way-back machine takes full effect on the shockingly melodic "You Haven't Told Me Anything," which floats on breezy harmonies and hip-shaking new wave guitar. "Again & Again" only ups the pop ante with an absolutely explosive chorus. The bridge alone could erase the memory of "Is It Any Wonder?" Hell, it could single-handedly take down the Berlin Wall and vindicate Reaganomics: the good-idea trickle-down effect at last reaches Keane.
Solutions by The State News
