So, tiki's basically a sucker for overpriced music mags that come with a CD. We've often picked up The Oxford American at the newsstand, but haven't ventured to buy one yet. Well, this month, they have a double CD, so our resistance = crumbled. And, it's an awesome mix! If you're looking for some crazy stuff to stick on your pod, this is it. tiki's one of those horrible people with 52 weeks of music on the hard drive, but we don't think we have a single one of these tracks. The unifying theme is supposed to be "southern music," but the selection is crazy catholic, ranging from Mose Allison to Richard Hell and the Voidoids. There's a cover of Sunshine of Your Love by Ella Fitzgerald that's nearly worth the price of the mag right there.
We know we're being Luddite, but this is just kind of awesome....
Some retailers give vinyl records a spin
PORTLAND, ORE. -- It was a fortuitous typo for the Fred Meyer retail chain.
This spring, an employee intending to order a special CD-DVD edition of R.E.M.'s latest release "Accelerate" inadvertently entered the "LP" code instead. Soon boxes of vinyl discs showed up at several stores.
Some sent them back. But a handful put them on the shelves, and 20 LPs sold the first day.
The Portland-based company, owned by the Kroger Co., realized the error might not be so bad after all. Fred Meyer is now testing vinyl sales at 60 of its stores in Oregon, Washington and Alaska. The company says it plans to roll out vinyl in July in all its stores that sell music.
We just found these sitting all abandoned in the used record bin. So of course, they followed us home. How long has it been since we've heard the Comsat Angels. Or Medium Medium? And why do we suddenly wanna drop by Bartell's on the way home from work to pick up some pink hair dye?
...Actually, we lie. Just the ones from Marysville, a cousins-marrying burg a few miles north.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves.
To be brief, we arranged to attend The Boss's concert tonight at Key Arena with the Jersey-bred Mr. Tikistitch, on the assumption that such a venture would be fun.
The first sign of trouble was our seating (or rather, "seating," with scare quotes - but more on that later). "General admission." Now, maybe you're not as ancient as the tiki, but to us, the words general admission scream "Who concert," and the associated horrible trampling death. Do concerts actually do such arrangements nowadays? Even in the perposterously polite Northwest?
The security detail's performance tonight did not reassure. We had evidently missed the critical moment to obtain a wristband for early entry, and so were shunted over to a side entrance, to stand in the rain for an hour whilst security guards howled epithets at the buffoonish Jesus nuts hanging around the top of the stairs. And, yes, members of the uniformed security detail were literally howling. Time passed, and a Who concert-like mob began to gather behind us, and we became nervous at our position roughly between and increasingly impatient crowd and a bunch of glass doors. We told Mr. Tiki, we were thankful that Bruce's crowd was a bit older and more mellow. (Ha!) When we were finally let in, some 45 minutes after the stated time for doors opening, we were a bit taken aback that no one even attempted to search our bag. We then stumbled over to find we needed to stand in yet another line in order to gain entrance to the floor.
That was the next big, unhappy surprise: GA on the floor meant literally that, you were standing on the floor. For, however long a Springsteen concert might last. We found some handy Star Wars friends (we're everywhere, clearly!) and spread out our jackets on a patch of basketball court to wait for The Boss and his crew. They ended up coming on an hour behind schedule. Which somewhat, we fear, added to the tension. At some point, a group of three or four roughly spherical and quite loud middle-aged women gathered just to one side of us. They seemed completely oblivous to thte fact that their large shoes hurt when they trampled on tiki's hands. The resaon for the social dysfunction became clear when one of them spilled an airline-sized bottle of vodka noisily to the floor. We finally said a word to one of the globular maidens, something along the lines of "Hey!" In response, a man we hadn't noticed before leaned over Mr. Tikistitch (who hadn't said anything) and slurred, "You look like John Belushi! Do you have any heroin?"
( Things continue to go downhill )
We just bought I'm Not There, the soundtrack to that artsy-fartsy Dylan movie with a million billion Dylans? And we just realized, one of the Dylans was Heath! He's a Dead Dylan!
(As for the CD, it seems kinda subdued so far. You might be able to listen along if you go to our last.fm page, we've heard you can actually hear whole songs there now.)