the lovely way the sunshine bends

The wait between shows wasn't supposed to be this long, but stuff happens. I mean, there was one gig in Portland back in July, but it didn't feel like blog material. Anyway, I can promise at least a few updates coming up, starting with -- for better or worse -- familiar names.

Wilco, Greek Theatre, September 21-22, 2012: As stated ad nauseum in this blog, there's only one reason I'll go to the Greek Theatre these days, but that didn't mean I necessarily looked forward to these shows. Fortunately, I'm happy to say I was completely wrong, as there's so much more to a concert than stage height and proximity to my apartment. In short, Wilco put on a great two-night stand, adding up to fantastic weekend all around.

Let's hit the tangibles first. As this was Wilco's only multishow appearance in any city on this touring run, the Berkeley audience got a varied setlist that included tracks heard less often, including "Laminated Cat," "Wishful Thinking," and "Company in My Back," to name a few. The track list alone would've made this set of gigs a highlight in any touring year, but there was so much more.

Early in the first night, "Sunken Treasure" jumped out at me. Of course, it's a staple of Wilco's set, but longtime observers may have noticed the band's ongoing tinkering with one of its more seminal tracks. I honestly think you could write a whole 33 1/3 book on this song alone. A number of years ago, I recall a loping, jazzy treatment; you could practically hear the song breathe as it progressed. This time, the band seemed to take the opposite tack, with a tauter, more menacing approach that reminded me strongly of the desperation I heard when I first listened to the song.

I've heard most Wilco songs more than any human being needs to, so I can't claim ignorance or lack of exposure to the band's catalog. For whatever reason, however, two more titles hit me in a way that are so obvious I shouldn't bother typing out my thoughts -- but I will!

The first was "Say You Miss Me," which I've always loved, but my ears finally registered the Rolling Stones influence. Maybe it was the electric guitar? Anyway, it drove home the wistfulness, as if I needed another reason to totally dig that song.

It happened once more toward the end of the second night with "Kicking Television." Yeah, the tune's roots hide in plain view, but dammit, even the desiccated husk of Iggy and Co. would have to smile at this volcanic rendition. You could feel that lowdown guitar/drum/bass rumble all the way to your core.

The other highlights of the show are a little harder to quantify; all I can really say is that the two-night span felt like a big celebration. Jeff was in a great mood, bringing his guitar tech out for a joke referencing his son Spencer's appearance at the Greek a few years back, cracking the obligatory marijuana jokes, and unbuttoning Josh's shirt when the tech at first resisted the move for his customary cameo on "Hoodoo Voodoo."

However, a better indication of the mutual appreciation flowing between the audience and the band had to be the sheer number of singalongs. Not surprising, we kicked in with "Shot in the Arm" and "Hummingbird," but even Jeff noted our stronger than usual contributions on the latter. I don't think any of us could've predicted that Jeff would hand over the entire first verse of "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart" to the fans -- who came through beautifully, if I say so myself. You might've foreseen the collective effort on "Misunderstood," but that doesn't take away from the simple fact that probably thousands of fans were united in roaring out verse after verse of their angst in rock form.

Jeff registered a couple of sassy comments about the uneven ticket sales over the two nights. Though the second night felt full enough, the first evening drew a sparser crowd. The head count felt respectable to me, especially considering the faithful had already turned out for the band's extended visit earlier this year. But in case you had any suspicions Jeff was joshing us, he gushed over the Bay Area fans, calling us the best audience anywhere and crediting us with inventing the rock crowd. He even noted our knowledge of "deep album cuts," a sure sign of dedication. It wasn't the first time he's shared these sentiments, but it never gets old to these local ears.

Cibo Matto opened for Wilco the first night, and Jonathan Richman took the mantle the second night. On both nights, the respective opener's fans made themselves known. Cibo Matto probably held the edge with Wilco fans, as every single Wilco band member joined Cibo Matto during their set, including Jeff lending vocals to "Sugar Water." Jonathan Richman reprised his opener role with Wilco, as he did in 2001. By the end of the evening, Jeff cited Jonathan as one of the dozen most important American musicians of all time, alongside the likes of Little Richard and Woody Guthrie (he didn't flesh out all 12).

Music aside, this tour also became an excuse to visit a few of California's finer bakeries, and we kicked off the carbo loading with one of the best in the country: Tartine. You don't need to know my complete lack of restraint at my first sighting ever of the fable Tartine croissants (the hazards of being a late, lazy riser who lives on the other side of town). All you need to know is that two croissants -- and the banana cream pie, I suppose -- are but a fraction of the final order.



See also:
» can't find the time to write my mind
» i've run out of metaphors
» tired of being exposed to the cold

can't find the time to write my mind

In my rush to get us to Bakesale Betty before Wilco's Berkeley show, I forgot my camera at home. At the time, it didn't matter so much, since the stage at the Greek Theatre is notoriously tall and imposing. Little did I know, however, that the night would include some prime photo ops. The photo-free account, then, will have to do instead.

Wilco, Greek Theatre, June 27, 2009: Berkeley, unlike Saratoga, I have some claims on, and I'd better get used to it, as it appears that the Greek Theatre may be Wilco's new Bay Area home for a while, barring platinum-level sales and/or prominent placement in an Apple ad.

Two years ago, someone teetered at the edge of the big 4-0 at the Greek, but early on, we heard indications that this show could surpass that night. A staffer mentioned that the show was fully sold out of all 8,000 tickets, and the scalpers seemed to have no luck scoring extras. Up front, we pitied the photographers stuffed into the rather narrow workspace, the barriers pushed as far forward as possible to accommodate all the ticketholders ready to take over the hillside.

Bottom line, Berkeley shaped up as an antidote and repudiation of the Saratoga experience. Though double the capacity, the Greek felt substantially more like a rock show and not, in the words of a couple of witnesses, a corporate gig. Or perhaps, squeezed in as we were, we had no choice but to pay attention.

Simply, everything clicked between the audience and the band. Jeff remarked that it was their favorite place to play and didn't seem to hold it against us that the city had turned his oldest son into a hippie. (On a more pedantic note, let me say I'm pretty sure he meant the Bay Area in general and not the Greek specifically, as I've heard him testify to the same effect at other local venues.) In any case, it didn't feel at all like scripted stage banter, and I'm confident it wasn't.

When we first stumbled into the pit, we welcome a new addition: a young boy who, earlier that day, had arrived with his family and took their place in line after us. I recalled them from the last show at the Greek, and we urged him to come to the front between Brianne and myself. B and I held strong suspicions about what might happen, but I don't think either of us wanted to make any promises. Also, there was the matter of the high stage and the contortions necessary to make it work. We offered Jamie a small warning, but I'm pretty sure it didn't register.

Of course, we were right on the money. Jamie helped the cause greatly by locating the pick tossed down at him, and we got confirmation that he was the night's chosen soloist. Even with Jeff sprawled on his side and hanging half off the stage, it became apparent that Jamie would need a helping hand, and B and I sprung into action, each grabbing one of Jamie's legs and lifting him up. The funny thing is that B and I shared maybe a moment's communication but didn't consult with the liftee at all. He didn't seem to mind, though, distracted by bigger events. As his reward, Jamie's solo was deemed "tasteful" by the songwriter--high praise indeed.

For the first time in this string of shows, I could actually hear the vocals, thanks to the audience-mix monitors placed at the edge of the stage. Thus, Jeff's dedications to Susie came through, and the lyrics to the new songs, which were still mostly mysteries to me, finally registered. As if "Spiders" weren't already loaded enough, something about this gig fired up the band even more, moving both Jeff and John to get some air in the course of the song. Closing out, Nels and Pat left everyone with an impressive parting shot of their guitar rivalry on "Hoodoo Voodoo."

See also:
» when nobody gives a fuck
» it's become so obvious
» back in your old neighborhood

some shakin' and some record playin'

Now that my freelance career is effectively over, I'm coming around to the idea that I don't need to get on a plane to attend shows. This My Morning Jacket concert is, I hope, the first in a series of gigs I see at home. Don't worry, though--those L.A. trips aren't drying up too soon.

My Morning Jacket, Greek Theatre, September 19, 2008: My East Bay excursions continue to dwindle. First, Amoeba Records opened a San Francisco store. Then Mod Lang pulled up roots to El Cerrito. And now Southwest flies out of SFO. At least Bakesale Betty is still over the bridge.

But if you really want to get me to the East Bay, there's one surefire strategy: Let me play hostess and tour guide around the university. I'm not exactly brimming with school spirit, but the arbitrary sense of pride that comes from having spent 4.5 years at an institution (that I was sorta forced to attend) kicks in from time to time. Go Bears--conveniently poised onstage tonight!



That's one of the reasons I ventured out for the My Morning Jacket show at the Greek Theatre. The venue remains low on my list of favorite local concert spots, but I wanted to reciprocate the endless hospitality Evonne shows me in SoCal. Besides, My Morning Jacket is always good for a bit of a spectacle, along with tons of tunage. I didn't even mind the drizzly mist that soaked us just enough to deflate hairstyles and smear makeup--though mercifully stopping short of the "drowned rat" aesthetic.

I have a hard enough time wrapping my brain around the sight of my most beloved bands playing bigger venues, but it's even weirder when you blink and discover the heights that other bands of interest have climbed. This show wasn't sold out, and we got decent spots on the rail well after doors opened, but a reasonably sized crowd showed up by the time the gig started. It wasn't the Fillmore, that's for sure.

The Fillmore also trumped the Greek Theatre in terms of decor, but I suppose you can't pull that whole doomed-settlers-on-the-move schtick at every appearance. One thing that hasn't changed, however, is the band's undeniable fire on stage. They didn't relent at any point in the three-hour show, moving from the would-be arena fillers to the white-boy soul to those selections no other band can carry off. I also love that the band is still weird, perfectly personified by Jimmy James as he flung his cape around, kicked the air, and of course, whipped that mane all over the place.



I say this as a casual fan, so take it as you like, but despite the band's goofy energy, the pacing of the extended set suffered at times. I'm not asking for the hits, but a couple of segments felt dragged out and left me wanting a pick-me-up. Fortunately, the band has plenty of scorchers, and those barn burners dominated the encore. They closed with "One Big Holiday" for the perfect send-off.

See also:
» the way that he sings

back in your old neighborhood

I've been waiting two years to use that subject line, but that's how long it took for Wilco to return to one of my former stomping grounds and play the specific song with the necessary lyric--no groveling required.

Wilco, Greek Theatre (Berkeley), August 24, 2007: As I volunteered to anyone who'd listen, I would've walked across the stage of the Greek Theatre if I had attended my graduation ceremony. Instead, I skipped it and, without fanfare, picked up my flimsy diploma over the summer at the registrar's office.

This lack of school spirit, coupled with my venue snobbery, tends to keep me away from the Greek Theatre. Not even bands such as Belle and Sebastian, Arcade Fire, and the Flaming Lips can convince me to make the trip over the bridge. However, Wilco does not stand as just any band in my book.

For some reason, I had a very clear picture in my mind of Wilco opening with "Sunken Treasure" last time they were at the Greek in Berkeley, so I was a little surprised that they'd reprise the same number this time out. I was wrong--according to WilcoBase, they started off with "Misunderstood" that night, so I'm obviously mixing up my cathartic Being There tracks.

I'm pretty fixated on Nels under the best of circumstances, but I noticed more than a small note of drama on his side of the stage tonight. There was, for example, a tiny misstep in "Pot Kettle Black" that saw him grimacing and backing off slowly, in hopes that no one had noticed, though he recovered beautifully. Later, he nearly toppled over one of his monitors, the threat of a good eight-foot drop over the edge looming, and he seemed to have broken a nail and could be seen tending to it on several instances. It didn't affect his playing, but there was some concern from his bandmates. By the end of the night, though, I assume he had administered to it because he bestowed upon "California Stars" his distinctive treatment, the kind that neither Seattle's nor Portland's guest players could manage.



Speaking of Portland, Jeff tried to instigate a feud between the two cities' pot smokers, but it was an apples-and-oranges tossup. Berkeley's bigger space and brisk air cut through the haze a lot more effectively than Portland's pleasant climate. Even down in the trenches, our senses weren't assaulted nearly as forcibly as they had been in Portland.

"Misunderstood," besides furnishing the title of this blog entry, started off the first encore and hammered through to the customary barrage of "nothing"s. I gave, as usual, not a thought to the count until Jeff looked over and asked if that was 40. Trish had the total: 42. He checked in with the rest of the audience, and they corroborated the tally, but he didn't publicly come clean with his reasons, citing only something "personal."



One point over which there was no doubt was the Bay Area's sustained love for Wilco, which Jeff acknowledged with a heartfelt thanks for all our support over the years. Being a longtime Wilco fan in the United States has had its ups and downs these days, especially if you've seen them in clubs and other intimate spaces. The Greek Theatre will never be my favorite spot (hell, it wasn't even when I lived there), but I'll take it over another half-dozen similar venues in San Francisco and beyond.

See also:
» much too busy to worry
» don't let anyone say it's wrong

load it, check it, quick rewrite it

This has shaped up to be another "I Love the '90s" week, with back-to-back posts about Smashing Pumpkins and, now, Daft Punk. I'll always be an '80s girl at heart, but the '90s weren't too shabby.

Daft Punk, Greek Theatre, July 27, 2007: As a venue snob, I'm contractually obliged to bust out the "I first saw Daft Punk" story, so here goes--the exact date was March 29, 1997 (thanks to The List for the info), when I lived by the rule that I had to see all groups that came from England and charged less than $10 for a concert ticket. Daft Punk, though French, qualified, by virtue of the fact that the U.K. music magazines were practically offering to have their babies, based on the strength of their debut album Homework, which had come out earlier that year.

The locale was the tiny Mission Rock Resort, a low-key restaurant/club that made you feel like you were at someone's house party with DJs spinning on the back patio. I didn't realize it until much later, but I saw a fairly unique show that night. That is, neither Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo nor Thomas Bangalter donned their usual media-obfuscating masks, helmets, hoods, or any other manner of disguise. Instead, we got two fairly young, unassuming fellows devoting themselves to working the turntables, mixers, sequencers, and paraphernalia that comprise their craft. Though other factors were swirling through my bloodstream, I loved the show, and I saw them once more when they returned to the Fillmore several months down the line. A decade on, I still adore Homework too.

In the intervening years, my interest in dance music and culture has dipped considerably. Truth be told, I didn't even think I was going to this show; though Annie suggested we check it out (a friend piqued her interest by hyping up their Coachella appearance), she neglected to get tickets before the gig sold out. Fortunately, we were able to take her friend's extras.

We continued to come up lucky, finding a great parking space on a side street, missing the Rapture's opening slot, and settling in at a decent spot partway up the stone benches. The human parade was a little drab, especially compared to the club scene, much less the former rave scene, but there were bright spots--almost literally! From our spot, we spied a group of a dozen or so people in the pit, all dressed in white and sporting some sort of incandescent lights. Taken together, they were like a small, bright galaxy among the masses. You couldn't miss them, and they made for entertaining viewing.



Elsewhere, we noticed wigs and glowsticks, as well as plenty of dancing while Sebastian and Kavinksky spun their tunes, including their Rage Against the Machine remix that had the crowd banging their heads and pumping their fists in unison--just like you'd see at a rock show. In fact, I was glad to see that the dance-rock divide isn't as dramatic as it used to be, but then again, this show by definition spurned pigeonholing.

The human spectacle soon gave way to an architectural one, as the lights went down, the curtains swung back, and the glowing pyramid--the world's coolest DJ booth ever--caught our eye. Equal parts I.M. Pei, Pink Floyd, and Tutankhamun, the pyramid cradled Daft Punk (presumably), who, with shiny helmets affixed, climbed inside. Then the music began.



This is actually a good case when it's ridiculous to be a venue snob. Let's face it--unless you're one yourself, DJs are not known for providing incredible visual appeal. DJ acts often supplement their shows with all forms of ocular stimuli, but Daft Punk takes this gameplan to the extreme. Sure, I once saw their faces, and this setup raises the question of whether Guy and Thomas are really on the decks and whether the experience is a "live" show as most people know it. I don't really care, to tell you the truth--part of the gig's appeal is being swept up in the atmosphere and the groove. And the pyramid is really that cool. Even better, the vibe among the fans was just as welcoming, and I can say this with some conviction, given my clean bill of health for this outing.

Apparently, Daft Punk's performance was a carbon copy of their Coachella set, which is not unusual for a lot of big-name DJs, but it was new to me--and mind-blowing to witness. The pyramid, the light show, the digital readouts, the projected images--they all commanded attention, while the music moved our bodies, almost without our realizing it. I perked up every time they inserted so much as a hint of their Homework-era numbers into the set, but to my surprise, the biggest cheers of the night came for the newer stuff, most notably "One More Time," which was so popular that you could hear the crowd belting out its ridiculous (and repeatable) refrains, even before the beat dropped.



When they came back for the encore and finally pumped out "Da Funk," I was euphoric. It's been a long time since I've been dancing, and though I didn't realize it, my body needed the mental workout. Daft Punk facilitated that release with their deep grooves, hypnotic rhythms, and shamelessly populist hooks.

A lot has been said about the striking visual element of Daft Punk's show, and I can understand why they'd want to bring in all that hardware. After all, our attention spans aren't getting any longer. Even for a teetotaler like me, it was great fun to watch, and I was a little envious of how the chemically enhanced members of the audience might've viewed the gig. I just hope that the eye candy doesn't distract from the music, which was a force of its own. The joy and energy that infused me after the gig was no different from what I feel after any great show, regardless of genre.



I can sort of verbalize the alluring elements of a pop song, but I lose my bearings when it comes to instrumentals, regardless of the genre. I can't for the life of me tell you what in Daft Punk's music moves me, but in the end, all I can say is that at their best, Daft Punk's tunes require no drugs of any sort to carry you aloft; just let your booty lead the way.

penny rich & dollar dumb

Whoa, I have a lot of ground to cover this time. Another big update to follow.

Aqualung, Great American Music Hall, June 6, 2005: I asked Lila if she wanted to go this show, as I figured it was right up her alley in terms of wimpy British music, but she didn't come. Granted, she might have been a little tired from her four-month Glasgow adventure, but I didn't sell the band too hard. I still think she would've liked it, but maybe she'll realize it later.

The opener was a guy named Cary Brothers--well, him and another guy on guitar, but the guitarist stated early on that they were not brothers. He too understood how confusing his name could be and commented on that early in the set. He played very earnest folky stuff, and he sounded pretty good. He seemed an odd match with Aqualung, but the guys from Aqualung joined him for his last song, so there must've been some connection.

I've heard a few Aqualung songs on KEXP, and I liked them, though I haven't run out to buy the albums. They've come to San Francisco a number of times now, but I've always had other plans, so this was my first chance to check them out. Overall, the show was OK. The faster songs were pretty good, but the quieter songs were precipitously wimpy. The main guy, Matt Hales, talked a lot between songs, but he never raised his voice above a mellow whisper--not exactly filling the room and almost encouraging me to fall asleep on my feet. One woman yelled out a request for a song he had written about the Castro last time they were in town playing the Swedish American Hall. Instead, he asked what neighborhood we were in and responded with a song about the Tenderloin, rhyming "meat" and "meet" in the process.

I hate lazy music journalism and the need to lump bands in with one another, but even as I took in the show, I realized how easy it would be to group Aqualung in with the current batch of post-Coldplay bands getting much more attention they deserve--Keane being the most disturbing example. I'm old enough to remember, for example, the supposed post-Oasis flurry of UK guitar bands and how bad they were, not to mention their overwhelming commercial thud in the United States. I'm reluctant to join the knee-jerk reaction of filing them in the same category, but then again, I can hear the similarities too.

Wilco, Greek Theatre (Berkeley), June 11, 2005: It was as much a surprise to me as anyone that Wilco was coming back to California, much less the Bay Area, so soon and in so big a venue, but who am I to refuse when they're playing my former campus? It's yet another testament to my dementia that I willingly chose to see them in a amphitheater I have skipped many, many times in the last few years, even when bands I like have played there.

We had a good group of people at the show, including a visit from the Canadian branch of our sect, and I was so happy to see that we could welcome them to our fair city while the sun was shining and the birds were singing. It was a warm day by Bay Area standards, and I'm sure all of us got a nice glow from sitting out in the sun, waiting for the gates to open. I love Berkeley in the summertime, and we managed to squeeze in a trip to Caffe Intermezzo and the original Amoeba.

I was absolutely delighted to hear "Misunderstood" as the opener, just because I was back in my old neighborhood. Other highlights include "Sunken Treasure," which is the perfect song when you want those gorgeous, lonesome notes to hang in the lovely summer night air; and "Just a Kid," which was the first time I've heard a proper full-band version of the song. Jeff was in an incredibly goofy mood and started yakking from the get go, barely letting up through the course of the gig. Not surprisingly, he flubbed the lyrics to "Shot in the Arm," but in a completely unexpected move, he missed the first line from "Sunken Treasure," as well. Also, Nels was in a great mood, smiling and laughing quite a bit throughout the show. Because of the height of the stage, I could barely see Glenn or Mike. At the very end, after "Heavy Metal Drummer," Nels stood by, looking at Jeff and holding his guitar lead held out expectantly, ready to break into another song. Though we had 15 minutes left before curfew, they cut the gig short and left the stage. Ah well, I had a good time, and as a bonus, I got to show off my old campus.

Wilco, Greek Theater (Los Angeles), June 14, 2005: In recent years, I've been surprised at how much I really dig Los Angeles. As a Northern Californian, you're practically required to hate LA, but I've seen a lot of good shows there not spoiled by the supposedly jaded and self-serving crowd. Sometimes, it makes me think that our NoCal reserve is an embarrassment. I was hoping that by the end of this trip, Maudie and Paul would feel the same.

We got to the Greek Theater at a ridiculous time and, with nothing else to do, sunned and took in the gorgeous surroundings. Griffith Park is a huge, woodsy area slightly up the hill. I believe you can hike up to the Hollywood sign via one of the paths; however, according to the posted warning signs, you need to be careful of mountain lions and rattlesnakes. Eeek! I couldn't get over how gorgeous the weather has been lately. The Bay Area was warmer than I expected, and LA was cooler--both hitting the perfect equilibrium. I have no complaints on either end.

I had told my pals that, according to some old videos I've seen, the pit area is very, very close to the stage, and we would have a great vantage point. When they finally let us in, my prediction turned out to be exactly right. The pit was tiny, you needed to have your ticket stub and a staff-issued wristband to get in, there was no barrier at the front, and the stage was only waist high. We soon realized that despite the size of the venue, this was the most intimate GA gig we had seen in a long time. Yeehaw!

The Roots came on first, around 7:30. They were ostensibly the main reason I had chosen to hit this gig. I really wanted to check them out, and a double bill seemed like the perfect solution. They put on a great, energetic show, but the Greek was, at most, 1/3 full. We appreciated their set, but I can't say the same about many of our neighbors. I'd really like to see them with a crowd of their fans, someday. We had a great view of ?estlove, who called out musical cues to the rest of the band. The MC called him the "maestro," and there was no arguing with that. Also, Vernon Reid, formerly of Living Colour, joined them on guitar, and he was every bit as smoking as I remembered. It was a pleasure and a privilege to check them out.

I don't go into shows with expectations about what I want to hear and what the band is required to play. There are some songs I don't like, there are many songs I've heard countless times, and there are sometimes those transcendent experiences. But regardless, I try to take home a memory or two that is unique to that one show, whether it's an ad-lib, a different course of guitar noodling, or crowd interaction, and I believe that Wilco is still capable of that, regardless of the number of times I've seen them live. For this show, it had to do with the undeniably family-friendly atmosphere. Jeff dedicated "Remember the Mountain Bed" to Nels's mom because [paraphrased] she's his hero and to Nels, because he's the band's hero. Nels, ever so elegant, acknowledged the applause and did his usual amazing work on the steel pedal. Later in the show, you could see Jeff staring out into a specific point in the audience. He told the crowd that he could see that his five-year-old was asleep and apologized for what he had to do next, which went against all his instincts as a parent. With that, he launched into the scorching intro to "I'm the Man Who Loves You."

For the "second" encore, during "Hummingbird," Jeff jumped off the stage and into the pit, where his family had been watching the show. He took Sam from Susan's arms and danced around with him, kissing his forehead, and holding him gently. The whole family, along with their friends and extended family, danced as well. With some effort, Jeff came back onstage at the end of the song, but by then, Susan, the boys, and their crew had made their way to the front of the stage. Susan let Sam sit on the edge of the stage, and he looked very much like he had just been awoken from a sound sleep. Jeff commented that Family Services would be along soon, and those of us up front can verify that it was incredibly loud at the edge. Jeff pretty much played to them for the rest of the show, and at the end, he scooped Sam up in his arms and took him backstage, with Spencer trotting after them.

And once again, I stand by my conviction that LA can be a great place to catch a show.

Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks, the Fillmore, June 15, 2005: I was back on the first flight out of LA, spent about 10 hours in the office, managed to squeeze in a 30-minute power nap at home, then off to the Fillmore to catch Steve Malkmus and the Jicks. Cuong decided to join me tonight--totally weird but always welcome. Can you believe it was his first time at the Fillmore ever? Who are these people, and how are they related to me???

Martha Wainwright opened, this time with a full band. She seemed slightly out of it, but I quite like her, though I have yet to buy any of her music. It's funny how "Bloodymotherfuckingasshole" sneaks up on you. You think you're listening to some soothing folksy ballad, then you realize she's cursing up a storm. I wish her the best of luck. It's probably not easy trying to get a piece of the spotlight when you're in such illustrious family company.

I was so happy to see that the Jicks are intact. I thought that maybe they had lost John Moen for good after he signed up with the Decemberists, but it turns out that he was on the hook for only a temp assignment. They opened with "Jenny and the Ess-Dog," everyone's favorite. Obviously, there was a huge emphasis on the new album tracks, and the record has grown on me over the last few weeks, due in no small part to Cuong's appreciation of it. Even the Pig Lib songs sounded good. Steve started out sounding like his usual laconic self, but by the end of the show, I couldn't decide if he was stoned or drunk. I was delighted to see John take the mike and the guitar (while Steve played drums) for one of his own songs, though I think he admonished someone for being asleep during his turn at the front. He's a good foil for Steve, though there's no denying who runs the show. I came away thinking that Steve is a really cool guitar player, and his vocals have improved drastically over the years. Perhaps the tension that helped make Pavement so great to see isn't there anymore, but that's not a fair comparison, is it?

Whenever I see the Jicks or PSOI, I always wonder if this is how the old Uncle Tupelo fans feel about the split, that no matter how either player continues to evolve, it won't ever be the same as the original. I'll buy Malkmus and Kannberg CDs as long as they continue to release them, and I don't want to rain on any of the new fans' parades, but man, if they only knew the glory of Pavement when they were still around.