Running with the lions

It was time to get a new pair of running shoes. And since normal running shoes that are non-leather don't really exist - unless you are fine with Saucony's (after straining a tendon(s) in my foot that took a month to heal, I am not) - trail runners are the way to go. So this evening at REI, I snagged those beasts above: La Sportiva's Wildcat. Since I'm normally something of minimalist with my Chucks, I'm still getting used to the gaudy appearance; there's a bit of NASCAR typography going on down the side and the tread is so aggro it looks like they scaled Godzilla. But all that is irrelevant. Running is no fashion show. These babies have the best support I've ever experienced in a shoe. Will be trying them out tomorrow for a 5 mile rage.

So when was the last time I talked about Converge on here? A few months ago? Well, that's quite a hiatus. I'll keep it short this time, letting the following Facebook post by the band and accompanying picture tell most of the story.

A cop moshed and a pregnant girl did a backflip!!! CT was straight up animalistic!!!
Thank you thank you thank you!!!

Accompanying caption read, "Moshcop buying Converge merchandise after slaying kids in the pit."

The things that don't happen at a Bright Eyes show. Just another example of what makes punk/hardcore so unique. And why it certainly isn't "dead". (Okay. I see Jane Doe on vinyl in the picture and am about to have a coronary. Please stay in print. A record player is coming down the pipe.)

Phantoms of the hardwood and the injured reserve

I was the last person on the planet to get a cellphone, a debit card, as well as try sushi (and I'm referring to the vegetable rolls). So it makes sense that I only just now watched Sonicsgate. If there is an individual who lives under larger rock than I do, it's a documentary about how the city of Seattle lost the SuperSonics. Between the years of 2004 and 2008, I did not have cable and lost touch with what was happening with the team. During the latter of those years, I lived with a now ex-girlfriend who harbored a deep-seeded hatred for any sort of athletic competition besides horse racing (if that even qualifies). Combining the factors of estrangement from broadcast media and exposure to a significant other's contagion of negativity, I simply stopped caring about the Sonics. I remember being on campus at WWU, hearing the rumors of the team moving and thinking with indifference, "business is business."

But after watching the documentary, I've realized how deep the roots run. Seeing vintage footage of Payton, Kemp and Schrempf, along with some of the other more historically underappreciated players like Sam Perkins and Hersey Hawkins, it's pure nostalgia. It made me realize how big a Sonics fan I was when I was young. The Seahawks were annual disasters and the Mariners only had a few memorable years (which both the organization and city still try to unsuccessfully cling to). The Sonics were the real deal and regularly contended in the playoffs. So they were easy for a kid to get into. And those games in May and June were intense; I'd be cursing Karl Malone and the rest of the Utah Jazz in my mind for all four quarters.

Now that I've seen how everything went down, it depresses me. Mismanagement of players, poor draft picks, bumbling local ownership and politicking, deceitful buyers...and a plethora of other things the film does a good job of outlining/explaining. I don't know man, it bums a dude out. (And you know who else got bummed out? Ex-season ticked holder, Sherman Alexie. That's who.) The worst part has to be that the Oklahoma City Thunder, the team that the Sonics became, is right now playing in the Western Conference finals. Good game.

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Think I screwed up my elbow. Too much working out. Took the week off. No lifting. Don't want tendinitis. But I think I'm going to lose my mind if I don't engage with some iron soon.

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To capture the essence of this post, I give you Harvey Milk. The album the song below is off of is A Small Turn of Human Kindness. (It came out last year and really should have made my "best of" list.) Most artists just front with the "you guys, I am really sad and I need to sing these songs" and end up sounding too catchy to actually be sad about anything. Harvey Milk, on the other hand, don't sugarcoat despair. While on past releases they've definitely played around with some blues rock and have been known to cover an entire R.E.M. album live, nothing of the sort exists here. Crushing sludge and doom. Exclusively. I don't think I've ever heard anything that so poignantly characterizes the sense of completely bottoming out. Makes Elliott Smith sound like he just needed a Xanax.

Tong Po vs. Billy Pilgrim vs. Goblin-esque beats

Spending my Saturday evening watching Kickboxer and getting stoked. It reminds me of how when my brother and I were kids we used to put on snow gloves, go out to the backyard and box. And I do mean box. Full contact. Just no face hits. Kicks may or may not have been thrown. I believe a few other dudes from the neighborhood got in on the action too. How my parents allowed this to go on, in their own backyard of all places, I cannot explain. It's not like we were inconspicuous about it. We were out there yelling and screaming and beating the shit out of each other. Granted, we were between the ages of 7 and 11; the worst damage we could do was knocking the wind out of the other guy. Still, we had a sort of "fight club" a good three years before that Palahniuk guy had anything to say about it. A curious memory, for sure. One I haven't recalled in years and which is at odds with much of my childhood. Thanks be to Jean-Claude Van Damme for the memento.

My mom gave me quite a surprise this week when she walked past me carrying my copy of Slaughterhouse-Five in her hand. I didn't really know how to react. I said something like, "Are you sure? He's pretty weird." Better that than Breakfast of Champions, though; she wouldn't have gotten past Vonnegut's illustrations. Well, I hope she sticks with it.

Been jamming a lot of Zombi lately. For those not in the know, they are an instrumental two-piece consisting solely of drums and synths. They play in the progressive vein a la Rush and Yes, but are clearly influenced by the scores of classic 70's/80's B-horror films of the Italian persuasion. Their new album, Escape Velocity, is way rad. Now if you listen to the track below and think, "this one's for the nerds," you would be correct. I am a nerd. And I see/hear no shame in it.

The Bueno

Indie singer-songwriters. What's really all that "independent" about most of them? Acoustic guitar, hooky folk songs, Beatles melodies thrown in to feign diversity. These are the necessary elements for the cardigan crew to get bout it, bout it. I'm not trying to be overly cynical here; I've just described a handful of artists that I enjoy listening to. I won't go so far as to claim that every songwriter has to sound completely different from one another to attain originality or merit. But there is definite irony in the generally formulaic nature of this music, causing me to roll my eyes and shake my head at the "independent" minstrel show of songwriting.

Then I hear The Grime and The Glow by Chelsea Wolfe. It has little to nothing to do with what I described in the paragraph. So I'm rightfully captivated by what I hear. That is not to say she isn't without comparison; PJ Harvey comes to mind. But it feels fresh. There's incredible variance in the material: subdued poppy post-punk, end-time folk, discordant funeral blues, something that sounds like a whale song filtered through a guitar, etc. And it'd probably be a lo-fi mess of an album if it weren't tied together by Wolfe's hauntingly beautiful vocals, which - with somber bewitchment - create harmony amongst the discordant. 2011 may not be half over yet, but this is my current AOTY.

EDIT: This album actually came out at the end of last year. Whoops. She does have a new one, Ἀποκάλυψις ("Apokalypsis"). Will be checking it out shortly.