This pint-size teenage Chinese-Canadian girl has an axe, and damn, can she ever wield it. This is woman-kind's answer to Joe Satriani. A plugged-in Kaki King. It just took the span of one song for me to become a fan of hers. Her music's delicate and shimmering and yet full of heavy electric crunch.
And my longtime friend Frank. I recently did a favor for Frank: I bought a $5 guitar strap and painted it with a design inspired by a conversation we had about guitar straps and a blog he made about Korean dating.
He finally paid me back, in form of this video. It's about time is all I can say.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The House of Bernarda Alba - BADA in London
What's this? A rock fan reviewing a play? Since when are they supposed to have any culture?
Suck it up, I like rock and I like the symphony and I like plays. So this is my review/write-up of the British American Drama Academy's production of "The House of Bernarda Alba" a play about an abusive mother and oppressive gender roles set in some inspecific "past" probably the 1800s or so.
First off I'll say it was a student play. What this meant was, to maximize the experience for the young actors, the entire cast (save the title character) would switch their roles at the end of each act. This, and the simularity of the costumes to each other, made it hard to keep the characters straight. This made the majority of the cast largely irrelevent: it sent the message that casting didn't matter and counted on the writing itself to keep the audience informed about who was who, and I'm not sure how successful it was. You form a bond to one character given a good scene or moving moment, and next thing you know, the character is literally someone else. It made the crucial suspention of disbelief really hard.
Two characters didn't have that problem: the vicious title character, played with a dark brand of bitchy that went beyond the pale... Sonia Acosta might have some momma issues, but she sold the audience on a brand of evil and opression born out of utter desperation and heartbreak. Bernarda's mother, Maria Josefa, was the gem of the show: the madwoman with a playful side, who'se nurosis is her answer to the stiffling confines of her world and who'se gentle affection for her family provides the contrast to the dark storm of Bernarda's rule.
This is a play all about that storm. But the storm itself is also the problem. It's a play full of characters who are trapped: by circumstance, by rules of gender and society and since it's well illustrated that death awaits any who break the rules, the sensation of being stiffled is tangible. It gives the story it's edge, but it also means no character, not even the wicked Bernarda, has any power over it's outcome. The most powerful force in the story is Pacco, the handsome young suitor who plans to marry the oldest sister for her inheritance while sleeping with the youngest; his influence is what drives the story to it's conclusion, and he's never actually seen in the play. The overall effect is a plot that isn't really a plot, it's a series of events that can only really end one way. The voice-of-reason housekeeper comments sadly that the problem is that "They are women without men," and all the girls yern for the release of sex and for freedom from their house, both of which can only come from a marrige. I'm glad I didn't live back then.
It's one of those plays with an awkward curtain call. No one wants to cheer once the inevitable has happened. Thought provoking as it is, it's not what anyone would call uplifting. Though I guess I can be thankful that I didn't live back then. The age of drawing rooms and dowreys sounds utterly miserable.
Suck it up, I like rock and I like the symphony and I like plays. So this is my review/write-up of the British American Drama Academy's production of "The House of Bernarda Alba" a play about an abusive mother and oppressive gender roles set in some inspecific "past" probably the 1800s or so.
First off I'll say it was a student play. What this meant was, to maximize the experience for the young actors, the entire cast (save the title character) would switch their roles at the end of each act. This, and the simularity of the costumes to each other, made it hard to keep the characters straight. This made the majority of the cast largely irrelevent: it sent the message that casting didn't matter and counted on the writing itself to keep the audience informed about who was who, and I'm not sure how successful it was. You form a bond to one character given a good scene or moving moment, and next thing you know, the character is literally someone else. It made the crucial suspention of disbelief really hard.
Two characters didn't have that problem: the vicious title character, played with a dark brand of bitchy that went beyond the pale... Sonia Acosta might have some momma issues, but she sold the audience on a brand of evil and opression born out of utter desperation and heartbreak. Bernarda's mother, Maria Josefa, was the gem of the show: the madwoman with a playful side, who'se nurosis is her answer to the stiffling confines of her world and who'se gentle affection for her family provides the contrast to the dark storm of Bernarda's rule.
This is a play all about that storm. But the storm itself is also the problem. It's a play full of characters who are trapped: by circumstance, by rules of gender and society and since it's well illustrated that death awaits any who break the rules, the sensation of being stiffled is tangible. It gives the story it's edge, but it also means no character, not even the wicked Bernarda, has any power over it's outcome. The most powerful force in the story is Pacco, the handsome young suitor who plans to marry the oldest sister for her inheritance while sleeping with the youngest; his influence is what drives the story to it's conclusion, and he's never actually seen in the play. The overall effect is a plot that isn't really a plot, it's a series of events that can only really end one way. The voice-of-reason housekeeper comments sadly that the problem is that "They are women without men," and all the girls yern for the release of sex and for freedom from their house, both of which can only come from a marrige. I'm glad I didn't live back then.
It's one of those plays with an awkward curtain call. No one wants to cheer once the inevitable has happened. Thought provoking as it is, it's not what anyone would call uplifting. Though I guess I can be thankful that I didn't live back then. The age of drawing rooms and dowreys sounds utterly miserable.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Dir En Grey at the Grand Ballroom
I normally don't go to shows like this. I was on the way back from shopping when I saw this huge long line going around the block. Turned out the cause was a visit from a Japanese hard rock band called Dir En Grey, which I'd actually heard of. I don't know much about them except that they were a Visual Kei band, they sing ONLY in Japanese, and I've been unable to really get into what I've heard of them...
But hey: I knew of them. They were right there. They're a Japanese band, so who knows when they'll be in town again, and besides, I havn't gone to a show in a few weeks: after the lackluster night at Kimos, in fact. I can't let that stand, can I?
So into the line I went, shopping goods and all. The dude directly in front of me was a douche. The lady he was with (?) wasn't. He spent the whole time chatting someone's ear off about everything. It took ages. The crowd was mostly young-ish goth kids, nerdy looking j-pop or anime fans and their parents. The group wasn't particularly friendly, and after finally getting inside, stashing my stuff at the coat-check, and heading into the dark grand ballroom, I was fully prepaired to not like this scene, just as I didn't like it's denizens.
That said, I actually went home fairly pleased.
An American band opened for Dir En Gray; "The Human Abstract" was a typical six man lineup with a singer who'se haircut was so emo it made Pete Wendz look like Lars Ulrich, though he sounded like a demonic Chester Bennington. He was a remarkably pure-voiced tenor when he wasn't bellowing like a demon. This group were plainly very used to touring, and they were a tight rocking unit: the keyboardist was a little waif of a guy with another emo cut who headbanged at his keyboards so hard it was like his joints were made of rubber. He got some decent solos, and he gave the band some class in it's quieter moments, which I thought had more character their usual metalic bombastic onslaught. This was a band of almost schizophrenic contradictions, but it's an experienced kind of schitzo, and it was full of forceful personalities. The bass player was a huge slab of humanity with a mohawk who handled his massive, six-stringed instrument effortlessly and looked as proud as a lion. The dreadlocked lead guitarist spun his hair like a weapon and provided the more forceful back-up roars that the lead singer's voice was apparently too sweet to handle. The other guitarist was taller, blonder, and kept vanishing from the stage. The drummer had fizzy hair and a black t-shirt and looked relatively normal, for a drummer, and he was definatley one of the hardest working members of that band. That guy got no breaks and by the time the set was over he was so drenched it looked like he'd been swimming. The sound alternated between sweet Linkin Park-esque interludes and high-pitched metalic thrashing. They never relent long enough for the hook to take hold, and I'm not sure how much the stone-faced audience was feeling them, despite the fact it was a good show.
Time for Dir En Grey. I didn't know much about them, besides that they were part of the Visual Kei movement in Japan in the 90s, so I imagined gender ambigity and flamboyant outfits. What I got were five long-haired and thin but normal-looking Japanese guys in black t-shirts and jeans (on the band) and green track-suit (on the singer). So they've changed their image somewhat from the days of fishnets and eyeliner. Maybe it's because they don't want to wierd out the new American fans, or maybe they've just outgrown that stuff. But these guys can rock. They rock very hard and very loud, and in a more balanced way then their opening act.
Their backdrop logo is a big eye with a Mayan calender in the center of it, and it actually fits, because their sound-scape plunges primal a surprising number of times for a brand of rock this heavy, though I should have seen it coming when I saw that their drum kit looks like a fighting cage with, well, drums all over it. And the lead singer can only be described as a human jaguar: prowling, glaring, and yowling at inhuman pitches. I swear he even produced a perfect feminine scream at least a couple times. Dude has got some serious pipes, and he's quite a showman: doubling over and singing from the gut, even taking the stage (almost) solo twice to enact musical scenes: a man possessed, alternately pathetic and vicious, and a shaman beconing you to ruin, both aided by the lighted table his short self climbed on so that the audience could see him. His lyrics aren't in english, but since I've yet to attend one of these shows were the lyrics are at all coherent anyway, that didn't make much of a difference. Stage banter was limited to the "rast songu!" repeated in increasingly frantic voice until, well, the band launched right into their last song of the night which, like all the songs before it, full of roaring guitars, relentless percussion and that inhuman catterwalling that was just melodic enough that the song itself wasn't lost in all of the volume. These guys can play.
In spite of, or perhaps because of this band's lack of English, the communication between the crowd and the musicians was impeccible. Dir En Grey is a Japanese band with Japanese lyrics, which means radio play isn't in the cards for them, and if they want to break the American market, they've got to do it by relying on the rock powers that transend language. Not only do these guys play loud and hard, they play with personality: the bassist made one part of the audience his own and kept looking to them during the performance, grinning and spinning his hair every time they answered his beconed calls for more noise. He would throw up his long, thin arms for applause, shrug off his bass strap and hold the instrument above his head like a triumphant warrior, even sat down on one of the speakers, took his bass into his lap, and played directly to us in a very winning way. Since he was right in front of me and so engaging, I had to remind myself sometimes to look at the other band members from time to time, which was as rewarding.
Because they don't sing in english, radio play and local promotion will be limited, but if they keep up this kind of transendant communication, they might well break here in America.
But hey: I knew of them. They were right there. They're a Japanese band, so who knows when they'll be in town again, and besides, I havn't gone to a show in a few weeks: after the lackluster night at Kimos, in fact. I can't let that stand, can I?
So into the line I went, shopping goods and all. The dude directly in front of me was a douche. The lady he was with (?) wasn't. He spent the whole time chatting someone's ear off about everything. It took ages. The crowd was mostly young-ish goth kids, nerdy looking j-pop or anime fans and their parents. The group wasn't particularly friendly, and after finally getting inside, stashing my stuff at the coat-check, and heading into the dark grand ballroom, I was fully prepaired to not like this scene, just as I didn't like it's denizens.
That said, I actually went home fairly pleased.
An American band opened for Dir En Gray; "The Human Abstract" was a typical six man lineup with a singer who'se haircut was so emo it made Pete Wendz look like Lars Ulrich, though he sounded like a demonic Chester Bennington. He was a remarkably pure-voiced tenor when he wasn't bellowing like a demon. This group were plainly very used to touring, and they were a tight rocking unit: the keyboardist was a little waif of a guy with another emo cut who headbanged at his keyboards so hard it was like his joints were made of rubber. He got some decent solos, and he gave the band some class in it's quieter moments, which I thought had more character their usual metalic bombastic onslaught. This was a band of almost schizophrenic contradictions, but it's an experienced kind of schitzo, and it was full of forceful personalities. The bass player was a huge slab of humanity with a mohawk who handled his massive, six-stringed instrument effortlessly and looked as proud as a lion. The dreadlocked lead guitarist spun his hair like a weapon and provided the more forceful back-up roars that the lead singer's voice was apparently too sweet to handle. The other guitarist was taller, blonder, and kept vanishing from the stage. The drummer had fizzy hair and a black t-shirt and looked relatively normal, for a drummer, and he was definatley one of the hardest working members of that band. That guy got no breaks and by the time the set was over he was so drenched it looked like he'd been swimming. The sound alternated between sweet Linkin Park-esque interludes and high-pitched metalic thrashing. They never relent long enough for the hook to take hold, and I'm not sure how much the stone-faced audience was feeling them, despite the fact it was a good show.
Time for Dir En Grey. I didn't know much about them, besides that they were part of the Visual Kei movement in Japan in the 90s, so I imagined gender ambigity and flamboyant outfits. What I got were five long-haired and thin but normal-looking Japanese guys in black t-shirts and jeans (on the band) and green track-suit (on the singer). So they've changed their image somewhat from the days of fishnets and eyeliner. Maybe it's because they don't want to wierd out the new American fans, or maybe they've just outgrown that stuff. But these guys can rock. They rock very hard and very loud, and in a more balanced way then their opening act.
Their backdrop logo is a big eye with a Mayan calender in the center of it, and it actually fits, because their sound-scape plunges primal a surprising number of times for a brand of rock this heavy, though I should have seen it coming when I saw that their drum kit looks like a fighting cage with, well, drums all over it. And the lead singer can only be described as a human jaguar: prowling, glaring, and yowling at inhuman pitches. I swear he even produced a perfect feminine scream at least a couple times. Dude has got some serious pipes, and he's quite a showman: doubling over and singing from the gut, even taking the stage (almost) solo twice to enact musical scenes: a man possessed, alternately pathetic and vicious, and a shaman beconing you to ruin, both aided by the lighted table his short self climbed on so that the audience could see him. His lyrics aren't in english, but since I've yet to attend one of these shows were the lyrics are at all coherent anyway, that didn't make much of a difference. Stage banter was limited to the "rast songu!" repeated in increasingly frantic voice until, well, the band launched right into their last song of the night which, like all the songs before it, full of roaring guitars, relentless percussion and that inhuman catterwalling that was just melodic enough that the song itself wasn't lost in all of the volume. These guys can play.
In spite of, or perhaps because of this band's lack of English, the communication between the crowd and the musicians was impeccible. Dir En Grey is a Japanese band with Japanese lyrics, which means radio play isn't in the cards for them, and if they want to break the American market, they've got to do it by relying on the rock powers that transend language. Not only do these guys play loud and hard, they play with personality: the bassist made one part of the audience his own and kept looking to them during the performance, grinning and spinning his hair every time they answered his beconed calls for more noise. He would throw up his long, thin arms for applause, shrug off his bass strap and hold the instrument above his head like a triumphant warrior, even sat down on one of the speakers, took his bass into his lap, and played directly to us in a very winning way. Since he was right in front of me and so engaging, I had to remind myself sometimes to look at the other band members from time to time, which was as rewarding.
Because they don't sing in english, radio play and local promotion will be limited, but if they keep up this kind of transendant communication, they might well break here in America.
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