~Albert Hammond Jr.
While I was back home, in California, I had the opportunity to see Albert Hammond Jr. at the late Galaxy Theater…newly named “Observatory”. It was, fortunately, or unfortunately, the same dirty, hole-in-the-wall venue, that held so many punk shows of my past, with thus, a less-than original namesake. Oh well. ‘Twas an interesting drive in my brother’s euro van to start. Being the catastrophically large Strokes fan that I am (didn’t I tell you? must of slipped my mind…), I found it imperative that I drag my Connecticut-born boyfriend, from the beach, and far down Harbor Blvd, into the depths of Santa Ana, to said show. Albert Hammond Jr., may I say, did not dissapoint. Waka Floka's roudy audience, just the night before, had drawn out, not one, but two stabbings: I'm here to report that Hammond Jr.'s Strokes-like guitar-ings, and equally influenced, yet original compositions drew out just the opposite; the audience, more or less, was in a blissful trance. I think it's safe to say, that both Josh and I were to. Given that Albert Hammond Jr. is on tour right now, I'd offer you this: SEE HIM, before he gets to much bigger, and we'll all be grabbing at nosebleed seats, from the same arenas he plays with his former band The Strokes.
Back to Boston, and always, “In Transit”
Love Your Friends, Die Laughing
~ Man Overboard
So, I’m sitting in the cold, in the south end, outside…waiting for my boyfriend. I am surprisingly okay with this. Why? You might ask. Well. I’m actually pretty warm. My reasoning? I just bought, last minute, tickets to go see Man Overboard, at The House of Rules tonight. We all know my love for that summer fling, season of teenage lust, makes your cheek turn bright red pop punk kind of music. Hence the internally bottle warmth. I’m an admitted addict. I tried PPA (pop punk anonymous), and I just couldn’t quit it. Like the bottle, this genre warms my body, and makes me lust or more like yearn for my formative days. Although high school for me, was like many of high school stereotypes, shitty, Man Overboard brings about the few favorable feelings and memories of “crushing” from the past. It’s too cheesy. It’s too good. It’s too Madi. I’ll see you all there, tonight. Enter cheap beer, and cigarettes…puhleez.
"I left my heart with my phone in my center console. I left my feelings with my wallet and my keys. I feel so stupid because I came here without anything, but I’m finally at ease…"
Shape of My Heart
~Noah and The Whale
You want to talk about Nostalgia? I’ll tell you all about it. I think, for the first time ever, I finally, truly, know what it’s like…you know, to be old. Ok not REALLY old (my mom would be steaming reading this), but rather, overcome with a feeling like, you may never have what you “had”, and the music of your past (or your “youth”), is really all you can cherish; for, time catapults you, sometimes, faster than what feels like the speed of life…I mean speed of light.
Let’s rewind. The year was 2009, and in what could be likened to the peak of my awkward, insecure, and budding sophomore year of high school, I clung to the sappy lyrics, and melodic…possibly, really, actually, symphonic stylings of a band that knew love, knew heart break, but most importantly knew loneliness. They were beautiful. They were also British…and what American 15 year-old doesn’t love a good British accent? Cue so brooding, right meow.
The band was Noah and The Whale. The record was Peaceful, The World Lays Me Down. This was the soundtrack to a lot of my teenage heartbreak. I hope your blushing. I’m blushing. I wish I still dealt with “teenage heartbreak”. That was a lot cleaner, a lot naive-er, a lot innocent-er (my high school English teacher’s ear is burning, somewhere in California, by my blatant miss use of grammar…sorry Mrs. Dunlap).
I stood, shoved up against a couple thousand people- a couple thousand hot, sweaty bodies. It was two in-the-afternoon, give or take, and I was in the beating, summer sun. I was in the middle of the desert- in California, at fifteen, with my appropriately named friend, Noah. Coachella Music Festival drew me in to see the pinnacle of my now, formative mind, Noah and The Whale, play their set. A band, who then, had a debut album, solely to perform. Uh. A debut album was all they needed.
My friend Noah stood next to me, confused on what the fuss was about…I can’t really remember, but I’m pretty sure he might still be confused on what the fuss is still about; but, I will give Noah this, only a real friend would of waited an hour in the blistering heat, with me, post performance, so I could “meet the band”…aka get a picture with them. Thank you Noah (Barker).
The band took the stage, clad in cowboy-inspired garb, and had me melting by hello. Front man Charlie Fink was the defining “wet dream” to my “teenage fantasy”. I was a little caught up in this fantasy, to of been told, by the band, afterwards, that Charlie was in fact, sick, and their performance was less-than up to the group’s standards. Whoops, I was too enraptured by British beauty and British grace, to of really known the difference. I had an appreciation for their music. I mouthed the words to each and every song, but my ear’s were tuned to the message, and I functioned on an admittedly deeper level then. Or not so deep, depending on who your talking to.
So, then came Noah and The Whale’s The First Days of Spring, a film and record, that brings back memories of myself (a then, freshmen in college, in Boston) and my former boyfriend, kicking back cheap beer and smoking even cheaper pot, in the basement of said former boyfriend’s house, out in the middle of Western Mass. It was almost habitual or ritual during that Winter’s (2011) record-breaking snowfall, to light up a joint and marvel in Noah’s sophomore album.
It’s a record that, like the first, spoke to me. It still speaks to me.
Unfortunately, their third album did not. Neither did their fourth, so much.
But hey, you win some, you lose some.
Their performance last night; however, made up for lost time, and shitty records, and as I stood in The House of Blues, in Boston, far from my first home, and my first steps into independence, I shouted, confidently, back, to the band, the words to, Two Atoms in a Molecule. It was a song, the rest of the audience seemed paralyzed in unfamiliarity by.
That’s when I realized, I was entering long-time fan territory. I felt suddenly lonely, as I realized, no one in here, had anything CLOSE to the attachment, that I did, for a band that played a huge role, in my past. Maybe I’m generalizing. But although the performance was brilliant, I now know why, the crowd was not rejoicing, was not reveling- they didn’t get it. They weren’t in high school, be it, middle school when they started out with Noah and The Whale. They hadn’t opened up their mind. They didn’t feel innocence from their first two records. They were their for the indie-pop, bubblegum songs that echoed their third album’s namesake.
Maybe it’s just about the music, and not the memories. For, the music was fantastic. But, as the lights came up, and I trudged out of the sea of people, into the street, and home, to bed, I felt a little sad, that the best times, were in the past, and that everything else would just be surface, just like the night’s audience, and therefore just not nostalgic or rather, all embodying.
Or maybe, it’s just my “new” naiveté.
"Hold my hand, as I’m lowered,"
VVVVVVVV House of Blues Last night (Monday October, 21st 2013)
VVVVVVV Killing it in 2009.
Good to See You
~ Neil Young
I’ve been listening to a lot of Neil Young, recently. To be honest, I get the feeling everyone is. I mean, everyone has been. I’m just a little late on the Neil Young train, my parents first boarded…and so did yours. Sure, I’m a sucker for Harvest Moon, but I found the rest of Young’s “surface hit” discography, brooding, poetic, but brooding.
My boyfriend introduced me to Silver and Gold. I’ve done extensive research since, and well, Neil Young, “Good to See You”.
"It’s better than silver and gold…"
The Golden Age
I feel like, well, okay, actually, I know…every time I post on here, it’s been a long time since the previous (time I posted on here). As if I didn’t feel guilty enough, I knew, it was a sign, when perched upon my new, and improved laptop, in the corner window of Starbucks, a man from the archives of The ‘stache, banged on the glass before me, eager to hear what I was writing. I was embarrassed to admit, I had no idea, quite yet. I’m trying to “rediscover” so to speak, my voice. How does one do such a thing? I used to be, self-proclaimed (keep in mind), an absolute genius. Something happened though. I don’t know what, perhaps my confidence. Perhaps, even, the man in question, Nigel. So, now, I stand, to get my groove back. Kind of like, Stella, or Star Jones, that enormously large black chick, did so long ago: Less, a turns out gay, lover.
It’s not that I’ve lost a passion for music, nor a new absence acquired in the appreciation of sound, but that life has taken me on an interesting road, and now, I find myself, back, almost exactly where I started. Keep in mind, I have a list, of epic concert-like experiences, and rockstar-esque run-ins from my “sabbatical”, that I’m now, dying to fill you all in on.
This time, however, I come better equipped than ever. Call it convenient, fitting, or even ironic; however, I’ve been on one of my many Beck kicks, and I give you without further ado, The Golden Age, off of “Dutch-boy Paint’s” flawless contribution to humanity, Sea Change. For, it’s time, I feel as though, I might be approaching such an era, in my own life, and it’s probably about time, that you did too.
"Put your hands on the wheel
Let the golden age begin…”
I’ll Take You There
- The Staple Singers
LSD is good for two things:
A. enriching and expanding your drawing
B. carrying out a sick, twisted, and undoubtedly sinful affair with The Staple Singers and Dusty Springfield
~ It should be noted, that both of the above mentioned recording artists/groups…are the pinnacle of what’s right, in the world- I’m telling you, candidly, do not turn your back on them.
(lucy in tthe sky of her doodle-drawn horizons)
~ Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Okay, it’s July fourth, and I know…it’s been a long time (since you’ve heard from me). Fear not, I have been prolific, nonetheless. By prolific, I mean, even though, I’ve been innactive to interweb, but in excess, still practicing the three major (and only) principles that rule Madiland and her Musicstache. I’ve been , prolific in my writing, worshipping (all things music), and fantasizing (about cute boys with facial hair), in lame men’s terms. So, keep reading, for there’s much to come, and more in store, for this modest, simpleton web url, pinky promise. With this said, tonight, I’m writing in the afterglow of surprisingly impressive fireworks via surprisingly impressive (Jewish) boy in a surprisingly impressive part of Massachusetts…surprisingly not in the city of Boston- but in surprisingly impressive suburb (I never thought I’d hear myself say that). Of course, this was all a surprisingly impressive group of factors, that led me to seek the warm, cozy, and thus ever so nostalgia-inducing record of a lifetime as the means in which I process all these, finally, great feelings. Fever To Tell, the debut record from Yeah Yeah Yeahs (circa 2003) was defining for the 5th grade (give or take) version of yours truly- it made me believe, that Karen O was current, and just as cool as Gwen and Debbie…her contemporaries. It was the gateway drug to more modern punk, from my own generations. It was the pinnacle of a light, I saw, for myself, at the end of a dark tunnel…inevetibly to come. I hope that was middle-school girl angsty enough for you, because it definetelt painted the picture well on my end (lolz). Anyways, perspective boys, big night outs, and a steady, promising, and forward-moving streak, in my current dabblings, feel a lot like, the first time I saw YYY’s front lady, singing, sopping wet, in an empty auditorium, Maps (aka the music video for said track). Both of these vintage and current events felt and tonight, feel, a lot like the potential for “home”. I like it. I like Maps. I like you.
So, revel in my thirteen-year-old tendencies….because, I’m almost twenty one, and, I’m a little less scared, this way: the soundtrack to the beginning of the beginning, in the world of ehm-dog, silver fox, Madi, jew bagel, Madison sil**** always within an arms reach, appropriately, as well,
Your proud patriot,
More Than This
~ Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music
I went into Allston’s favorite record store, In Your Ear, in search of…something along the lines of “New Order”-ish. I came out, however, with something, arguably, just as good: Roxy Music’s Avalon record, for…get this…three bucks.
I also got my new friend’s behind the counter, to play it for me, before I even walked out of the store.
So…heres to new records, sweet deals, and analog love~
The ‘Stache hearts Roxy Music, more than this (blog could love sexy men in mustaches)!
I will always love you.
- Richie Havens
At Six O’clock, in the afternoon, yesterday, I was sitting on the mass pike, in traffic, pissed off-
-when the hell am I going to finally -make- sweet, sweet love to my one and only, true love…Crab Rangoon (well, ok, fine, crab Rangoon is my second “truest” love, the preemptive being, obviously, pizza)?
The radio was on. The radio was the only thing, keeping me from Chinese food withdrawal- an MSG related, psychiatric break, really.
Then, the DJ, had to kill that to. Somewhere Between Wilco and Greenday, (and my blissful ignorance) the bitch up and stole my appetite, along with devoured any potential for revitalizing my positive vibrations- my happy face.
So, maybe this is a little morbid; but deep down, I think the person in question, or rather, the legend, that is, would of found comfort, in my lightness: the man had a flawless smile; one of which, offers security, in my beliefs, that “he” had a sense of humor. The ease in which his smile, flooded his whole body, transfused through his fingertips, and like lightning, hitting the ground, instantaneously awoke his instrument, is telling, whether you, my dear reader, like it or not. Richie Havens, at 72 years old, died today, well, yesterday (excuse my tardiness, and the traffic), and music, will never be the same. He was a god. A profit. A pioneer. Havens’, as one could only expect, being the wee one I am, was introduced to me, by my dad, via the notorious documentary, reliving, now, for all generations and ones to come, the notorious “three days” of “love, peace, and music”, and by that I mean, the notorious, Woodstock Festival and subsequent film. Yah, it sucks I wasn’t even the inkling of a thought, in my mother’s mind, back in 1969, let alone, alive, but what I am, is a devout fan, and fellow appreciator of the late Richie Havens; and that, my friends, was the result of the talent’s awe-inducing performance. He comes alive on film. He speaks, even through prerecorded, analog media. He defines, and then redefines what it means to be a musician…a writer…a performer. He will always be the act that pulled me into the whole film, and the hero, that soundtrack’s, a good portion, of my life.
So…when I finally found myself, back in Boston, and sitting, cheek to window, chopsticks in hand, at one of many of my regular Chinatown-inhabiting joints, I ordered, two of the Rangoon, and ate enough for Richie Havens’, and I combined. I hope that, despite all the gluttony I emit, this guru, of all things rhythmic, is somewhere above us all, comfortable knowing…or really reading, that even some of us bratty, thumb-sucking kids, out in New England, will never forget the man, he seems to sincerely be.
Forever in love, Forever a fan,
Rest in something, a little bit more original than peace: rest in serenity, Richie,
I’ve been busy slaying fire-breathing dragons and dystopian, water monsters, in the name of MUSIC and MUSTACHES. Duh. What happened to you?
Madi’s Superstache Tracks of LE Week ~
So, I’ve been much more proactive, these days, in regards to finding new music. I never was good at reading blogs, and understanding the basic jargon. I’ve learned a lot, however, from my own endeavors, in music journalism. Therefore, I’ve become much more acute in the whole oh-my-god-I-will-die-if-I-don’t-find-something-new-to-listen-to realm of things. The internet, and all these cool music blogs, engines, and websites have begun to cater to “not-so-smart-blonde” types, like myself, and now, folks, I can uncover miracles in music, from the safety of my room! Okay, let me clarify something: when I say “new music”, don’t confuse my personal discoveries, with the common association, most have, when pairing the words, new, and music, together. Yes, I am aware, that most of the groups, and accompanying tracks I’m about to share are, decades, years, and months old; but, to me, it’s all the same. To me, you see, it’s something new, to be excited over. It’s something, I found upon my own discovery. It’s something, I didn’t know I liked, or even could like. This is the music that came to me, probably, when I heard a song that spawned a whole onslaught of “new” bands, albums, EP’s, genres, and scenes. So, there’s my shpeal: maybe you’ve already been there and done that, a million times over. Maybe, I’m behind the times. Maybe, I’m completely naïve, in my music taste, or is it unrefined? Either way let me be clear: I give zero fucks. Meaning I give zero fucks in what you think, even if I decided to put a Mandy Moore track, up on this bitch, be it serious, or for shits and giggles: I own my childhood nostalgia, and I revel in all things Blink 182. Thus, without further ado, here are my “new” to my iTunes, new to my ears, and new to my heart, and by that, I mean, my own, latest, musical indulgences. Here are Madi’s SUPERSTACHE tracks, of the week, y’all!
- M Dizzle
1. Dreams – The Cranberries
2. I Can Change – LCD Soundsystem
3. Straight Edge – Minor Threat
4. Skulls – The Misfits
5. Irrevocable, Motherfucker – Glocca Morra
6. Sail To The Sun – Wavves
7. What’s The Altitude? – Cut Chemist (Ft. Hymnal)
8. Roadrunner (Once) – The Modern Lovers
9. Eternally Teenage – Tomorrow’s Tulips
10. You Gonna Get It – The Coachwhips
Punk Rock Girl
- The Dead Milkmen
I’m eating chilaquiles and watching X men: I think it’s time to go home. Dear Bostonians, desperately seeking roommate- preferably fans of The Dead Milkmen- preferably, young, male, and sexy.
I’m a creep.
"It was California Dreamin’, so we started screamin’, on such a Winter’s dayyyyyy…."
Ya’ll Boots Hats? (Die Angry)
- Glocca Morra
Today, I sat, alone, in the backyard, of a house, in Western Massachusetts- and I cried. Today, I finally felt, the consequences, of a life I’ve lived, skating. I’ve skated, since I can last remember. So, today…well, I guess, really, yesterday, being that it is, 4 am, now- I felt, what I can only imagine, was something close to my “call”. You know- that same moment, Holden Caulfield faces, above the football field, of his boarding school: that feeling like, if something doesn’t change, you might, actually, die. I’m pretty sure, that, at twenty years old- alone, once again: it’s time for me to cut the crap. It’s time for me to find, within myself, what it is, that makes life worth living.
Last January, late January, specifically, I found myself, with two boys, in Framingham, on a drive, to nowhere- but really, it felt like somewhere (I’m sorry for the cliché: it’s the best 4:23 am could offer me). I remember, as the sun began to set, the sky took a purplish-pink hue, and blanketed the snowy outskirts of Boston, in a warm, almost surreal, and thus, ethereal glow. I remember feeling happy. I remember feeling sober: I remember feeling scared.
I remember Glocca Morra, and the words to their track, Ya’ll Boots Hats? (Which, were oddly fitting, for the moment, now that I think about it), as the night had finally, truly taken the formative day. I remember anxiously, unclipping my seatbelt, rolling down my window, and pulling my tired, cold body through the window of said back seat, and resting the bottom half, of my bottom half, on the sill: leaving my upper exposed to the outside- as the car below, continued to barrel down a narrow, dark road, in the middle of “somewhere”.
I don’t know if it was the same wind hitting my face, or Alex, turning down the music, or myself, hitting mute, unconsciously trying to tell me something, I couldn’t hear, in any other way, but in the silence; but, the outside, and my place, in it, at the time, met silence, in a way, that felt, unbelievably, okay. I threw my head back, and I took in the winter’s night- the sky, an infinite pool of glitter- a barrage of stars. I remember being happy.
I remember, pulling my gaze down from above’s impressive vista, expecting a view, on my own plane, to be much less spectacular- to be of nothing…at all. I expected, to return, to this reality, alone, once again. However, my eyes met opposite to me, another set of eyes: these ones belonging to a boy, whom, in that moment, complimented the night’s stars, in a way that, well, I guess, you can infer for yourself.
I will tell you this though- on the walk back to reality, that night, he grabbed my hand, and I felt like, finally I was going home. Home, however, felt, at the time, like everything else in my life, until then: fleeting. Call it immature, irresponsible, or call it whatever you’d like. I dealt with this feeling, however, like I deal with all my fears- all my problems, really, and I let this moment, this boy, and this opportunity for home, or at least the figurative sense of the term, slip away.
I hate to admit that a boy led me to where I am now: alone, yes; but, more importantly, painfully aware of my own need to change.
I didn’t understand, what he meant, when he said, that he didn’t want to be with someone that he cared about more, than they cared for them self, until a few days ago. I didn’t get that all the self-medicating, was only me, fooling myself, into believing, that my life, and my choices, were okay. I didn’t get, that only I was responsible for my unhappiness: I didn’t want to be alone: I didn’t want to feel anything at all. I let the fear of having to finally feel something- the fear of feeling alone lead me down a path that has ironically, made it impossible for me to be anything else, but alone. I’ve destroyed countless friendships, and relationships because of my insecurities.
To be honest, I moved on, from all these failed ventures, however sedated I probably was, nearly unscathed- and I was fine with it.
I knew deep down, someone, or something, would finally surface, and at some point, I’d be forced to leave something, that wasn’t so leave-able.
Well, here I am. I’m alone. I’m scared. I’m upset with myself. I miss every moment, and regret every time; I instinctively picked a coping mechanism (a defense mechanism, even) over myself. I’m nobody’s problem, but my own, and I’m scared.
I miss that car ride.
I’m tired of letting life slip away. I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of crying- of feeling empty.
I’ve been here before, and been okay with it- because the assets lost weren’t worth the original investment: they were far less. Unfortunately, I finally struck gold. The only problem was I came equipped with nothing, and now, someone else- someone with a little less pathetic of an existence, will get to profit, from these riches, specifically. I’m disappointed.
I’m ready, however, to take my call. I’m ready to be alone. I’m ready to make choices that are healthy for myself, and the future- my place, consequently in it.
I’m ready to be great:
not just in the company of greatness.
“I remember going broke at the bar. I remember doing drugs in my car. Please don’t hold my hand, I need to get up. Derrida. I don’t know what I’m doing. Derrida. I don’t know where I am. I remember you were moving back home. I remember coming home all alone. I’ll be dying angry. I need to get out of the city. Carolina. We share the same blood. I’m not your brother. I miss you…”