July 18, 2007
SIXTEEN GOLDEN GREATS
I walked in and he was just sitting there like this.
Kevin asked me to title this "Two rock critics and unidentified black man." His allegiance is to bikes, rather than any of this biz.
This year, Pitchfork had both a "VIP-ZONE" backstage and Vips were given burritos. Maybe they learned their lesson from last year, when it all they had was beer and a couple dozen bananas. Miles ate 100 burritos. I watched and counted.
Eyes up here, buddy. Agnew was there, of course, via some corpo-purloined shim sham. Last time he was here for a fest, we played the best worst trick on his Philly friends. Called them from his cell asking if they'd heard from him, because the last we heard, the Tortoise dudes had dropped him off, shoeless, at 4 am at Manhole, per his request, and that he was out of his mind on Kalpax, and had never come home. "Can he normally handle beer and Kalpax?" I asked. They didn't know what Kalpax was. Neither did I, but it sounded like it could of been a cow tranc, so we ran with it. Oh, the mean old days.
Master and the mealticket.
Married men. Impressarios.
Arief and Prince Valiants brother, Phillip.
Ryan Schrieber, myth, man, legend. The man who is turning indie rock into a multi-million dollar op with his Pitchfork webmachine.
Backseat Driver.
All I could see of Sonic Youth was Thurston's waggling lid and the PA rigging. I need to grow if I am ever going to see a big concert again. Or BYO Ladder.
Morgo and I went out to try and find funnel cakes. She was shooting for a magazine and the pics of Kim Gordons hair that she snapped were sensual, possibly classic.
JR texted us to meet him over by the portapotties. Family reunion in the dark.
Miles was still eating. JR had been selling ice cream all day. JR, is, to my estimation, one of the top 4 best, most spirited music writers working in the English language. Matt and I talk about how one day we'd like to have enough money that we can just pay JR to sit around and write. Books, fanzines, essays, whatever. Reading would be a better place.
Under the park lights and the jumbotron neon drunk kids careened towards one another, texting, crossing their Bambi-legs in line for the baking hot potties.
This kid was the best thing of the whole night. The picture hardly illustrates, but he was dressed in what could pass for a newsboy costume. He was maybe 17. He came up to me "Excuse me, excuse me, what are you doing here? You a journalist? You a performer? Did ya enjoy the show" as he pulls out a pen and a memo pad, licks the pen tip and starts scribbling. He was wearing a little hat and was dressed up and had what appeared to be credentials folded over his shirt pocket. Upon inspection, I noticed it was his wallet flipped inside out and the credential was actually his library card from the Oswego library. Just then, his friend, with a giant camera, same get up walks up to him and snaps our pic and says "Hey guy, didn't I met you at that, uh, spot?" --trying to bolster each others story. I was in awe and so excited by their stunt or performance or experiment. They had no laminates, no bracelets, no tickets, they straight up snuck in. As I was talking to the reporter kid, he was theatrically scribbling in his note book some fake notes. Repeating after me he said "RZA" and theatrically wrote it in cursive, then turned the page. He was awesome. He asked for some pointers for his burgeoning journo career. I wrote them down. They were "1. get paid 2. sneak in to concerts 3. don't lie". I hope that helps-- though I think he has no clue how on the money he already is.