Throwing off the covers

No matter where I've lived or what stage of life I've been in, one thing has always remained the same: I'm always in some well-intentioned yet half-cooked musical project. In high school, playing Led Zeppelin in somebody's garage was just a reason to hang out. In college, having a band perform at school functions was a way to interest the girls. And now, a macho punk-rock cover band is my after-work stress outlet.

That is, until the band stopped practicing. We haven't met for over two months at this point, and the outlook is looking grim. Of course, Charlie and I saw this coming a few months ago and formed our own side project in response. (Bands are like habits. You don't quit, you just displace one with another.)

One of our main things is that we should play more original songs than covers. Sure, it's fun to play other people's music, crowds love it, and it's easier than being creative. But sometimes there's that itch (which can take many forms, up to and including a drunk guy in the back of the bar shouting "play your own stuff!").

To that end, I borrowed the keyboard and started plucking out melodies. Everything I produced ended up sounding like Coldplay, but I guess that's not a horrible start. I even got ambitious enough to write a couple of actual songs, words and all. (One of them is a stream of dialogue from a Law and Order episode I was watching. It works, really.)

Of course, beauty is in the ear of the beholder, so we had to make the side project official by performing at a friend's birthday party this last weekend. Although I stayed very nervous about intruding on the usual techno and hip-hop party dancefest
vibe, the reception we got pleasantly surprised me. I guess the fact that our slightly-tipsy host danced furiously in front of us for much of the performance helped capture the crowd's attention.

And I successfully played the drums and piano at the same time, like the pretentious Radiohead-aping drama-rocker I am. Watch out, Jake Slichter.

Next, we'll be taking auditions from Craigslist for bass and keyboard players. Any ideas for a name?

Putting miles on the bike

Saturday's high of 68 degrees gave me more than enough inspiration to get onto my new bike and ride around the city, literally (see map).

I started on the Embarcadero, headed down Market, and took Haight to Golden Gate Park and through to the ocean. I called to antagonize a couple of friends back in the Midwest. (Pointing out that I'm walking barefoot on a beach in the middle of February usually elicits one of two responses: "When can I visit?" or "Screw you." Sometimes both.)

After soaking in the salt and sand, I got back on the bike and headed up to Seacliff. Whenever I'm in that area I feel like I've stumbled onto the set of the O.C. — picturesque houses with picturesque views of the Golden Gate; picturesque luxury cars parked in front and picturesque girls in bikinis walking towards the picturesque beach. And cut! OK people, take five.

Up into the Presidio the road became much more vertical and the more serious bicyclists began to pass me. (You can tell they're serious because they wear the expensive jerseys that make it look like they're training for the Tour de France.)

One of my favorite parts of biking is weaving between people and cars on a wide sidewalk or street. I had plenty of chance to do that near Crissy Field, Fisherman's Wharf, and down the Embarcadero on my way back home. Of course, I made the requisite stop at In-N-Out before my trip came to an end.

Today I've got the day off and I think I'll ride around Berkeley. Gotta get in shape for the Tour de France, you know.

Three mile walk

Valentine's Day always used to give me a chance to demonstrate my theatric emo side, dressing up in black and declaring my singleness to the world. But since I moved to California, I've opted out of that particular tradition. It seems superfluous in a city full of single strangers who, like me, don't consider romance a big priority.

I'm trying to change, though. I've gone on several dates, the most recent of which was with a charming ex-Bostonian named Jess. A couple months ago, Jess ended up working as a temp at one of my clients. We got along well immediately and bonded over some shared interests, but my professionalism kept me from pursuing anything further.

Of course, the minute she left the agency, I asked her on a date.

We met on Sunday at a cafe in Oakland and grabbed some hot chocolate, then started walking aimlessly north towards Berkeley. One moment early on solidified my enthusiasm. I had painstakingly prepared a mix CD for her (as I often do to avoid using plain English to express myself to women). We hadn't planned an exchange, but I thought it would be a nice gesture. But before I could present it to her, though, she handed me a mix CD of her own. Ha!

Our short walk turned into a three mile stroll along College Avenue while we discussed music, movies, favorite architectural periods, and plenty else. After a couple of hours, we both agreed to extend our outing by grabbing some dinner and a movie (The Departed, of course). After the movie, I drove her back to her car and we promised to meet again soon.

I'm not sure what It is, where It's going, or whether It is what I think it should be. But that's the fun part of dating — the potential, the unknown. That and the mix CDs.

Two shows

NOFX

Charlie emailed me on Wednesday and said he had an extra ticket to a NOFX show, and would I like to go? It's my Kryptonite — I can't say no to live music. Of course I'd go. I went home and changed into my best impression of a Hot Topic model, and then we headed out to Slim's.

Upon arrival, it was apparent that I would be the recipient of the Poser Award for the night. When the music started, everyone sang along. Dyed hair, leather jackets, and chain wallets defined the fashion; and the spikes — spiked hair, spiked chokers, spiked bracelets, spiked belts, all black like their lonely hearts. And then there was me, who didn't know any of the songs and didn't have any spiky accessories.

As is the punk rock custom, a mosh pit quickly formed and began churning. The kids with the aforementioned spiky things began shoving, jumping, and twirling on, around, and into each other. Sometimes a human shock wave came my direction and compressed the people around me into a swaying mass of limbs. I spent most of the concert pressed between various cute punk girls trying to stay out of the nearby violence. (Not a bad situation to be in.)

What stuck me about this particular show was the strong sense of community displayed by the crowd. When somebody in the pit took an inevitable fall, all the nearby people immediately pulled them back up to their feet safely. It was like watching some kind of self-healing amoeba, constantly shifting, growing, and feeding itself. The energy of the crowd was tangible and contagious, and caused me to have a really great time despite being crushed, shoved, and spilled on.

Of Montreal and The Blow

I've been an Of Montreal fan for a few years now. Their way of melting electronic pop with progressive songwriting and stick-in-your-ear melodies hooked me quickly. The Sunlandic Twins was one of my favorite albums for a while, and their latest is working its way up on my playlist.

So when I learned that they'd be playing in SF, I immediately sought a ticket online. For some reason, the only ones I could find were listed at $60 and above. I wrote it off as too much and went on with life.

But this week I learned that The Blow, one of my favorite artists of 2006, would be opening for Of Montreal at the show. After a frantic search on Craigslist, I bought a ticket (at the face value of $16 plus charges, believe it or not).

Of Montreal was just as inexplicably bizarre as their music videos led me to expect. They were dressed (cross-dressed?) as a strange combination of the Three Musketeers in the 1620s and David Bowie in the 1970s. Projectors to the left, right, and above the stage displayed alternating images of psychedelic shapes and colors, live stage views, and an eclectic slide show of people taking various poses.

The really strange thing about this show was the audience of middle- and high-schoolers. Like, omigod.

Under curfew of BART, I didn't stay to see their requisite cover of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy," or their big hit "Wraith Pinned to the Mist," but I still enjoyed what I did hear.

The real highlight of the show for me was without a doubt the performance of Khaela Maricich as one half of tech-pop group The Blow. Every aspect of her performance radiated a sort of brave innocence. She made a meek entrance onto the stage and subsequently stared at the audience like a newborn exploring the delivery room, and then she began her first song accompanied only by the beat of her finger on the microphone.

From that point, she opened up a bit more and began to dance like a character in a stop-motion film, accompanied by the dismembered beats of her musical partner Jona Bechtolt like a karaoke singer. And karaoke was certainly the theme of the night; between songs Khaela told quirky rambling stories of running aimlessly from one Portland karaoke bar to another during a "strange state of mind." In fact, she confessed that she wrote one of her songs during one of these sprints, singing it into her voice mail as she ran.

Her performance of "Come On Petunia" (a tribute of sorts to "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic" by the Police) became my favorite moment of the night. I hadn't heard the song before, and her coy, shuffling style was enthralling.

At the end of her final song, the audience went wild. Khaela seemed genuinely surprised at their enthusiasm, but she had earned every bit of it if you ask me.