Final tally by album:
Lifes Rich Pageant: 5
Automatic for The People: 4 1/2*
Document: 3
Fables of the Reconstruction: 3
Green: 3
Out of Time: 3
Reckoning: 3
Chronic Town: 2
Murmur: 2
Monster: 2
Reveal: 2
Up:  2
Collapse Into Now: 1
Man on The Moon soundtrack: 1
Accelerate: 0
Around the Sun: 0
New Adventures in Hi-Fi: 0

Five songs that, really, no one thought to try covering?:
“So. Central Rain (I’m Sorry)”
“Fall On Me”
“Wind Out”
“Talk About the Passion”
“Carnival of Sorts (Box Cars)”

* Dive Poets’ keyboardist played a couple bars of “New Orleans Instrumental #1″ while the band was tuning up, but I didn’t count that in the official tally.

I tried to get back to NYC for this week’s shows honoring the 20th anniversary of Chickfactor zine.  My time living in Manhattan coincided perfectly with Gail O’Hara’s move to town and the beginning of her widely-read zine.  I started doing a new zine right around the same time, and I always considered Chickfactor to be friendly competition.  OK, that’s not entirely true; I hated on Chickfactor for the first two issues, maybe up to the third.  But Gail, Pam and cohorts were never anything less than friendly and welcoming to me, so at a certain point I had to drop the envy and just be glad it existed.  On the rare occasions I sat down to put together a copy of Caught in Flux, I had Chickfactor and Paul Lukas’ Beer Frame in mind.  Those were the zines whose writing styles and depth/breadth of coverage challenged me.  Those were the people I wanted to be my readers.

One thing I never had in common with Chickfactor was the ability to put on events.   I suppose I was well-connected in my CIF days, but it was mostly a far-flung virtual network of friends and readers in Scotland, Australia, Japan, and random pockets of North America.  (This is why the Internet made perfect sense to me immediately.)  On the other hand, there was Gail putting together marathon bills at places like Under Acme and Mercury Lounge, with nothing but quality acts the whole night through.  I think I went to every one of her shows.  It was at these and similar nights that I found my musical peer group.

So perhaps you can understand how disconsolate I am.  At this very moment – I know because the photos keep popping up on my Twitter and Facebook accounts – half the people I ever met in NYC are gathered at the Bell House waiting for Small Factory to perform.  Like me, most of the people at the Bell House have different lives.  Even if they’ve stayed in the NYC area, they’re not going out to rock shows on weeknights anymore.  I feel as if I’m missing a gathering of friendly faces that I’m not likely to ever see in one place again.  Intuitively, I understand why I’m not there – plane tickets are expensive when you’re on a strict family budget (I know, I checked), and the money just wasn’t there right now.  But it doesn’t take away the achy feeling in my chest right now, and I suspect YouTube clips are going to make me feel even more distant.

1)  My interview with Roger Miller.

I discovered college radio at the dawn of 1981, when I was 14 years old.  “That’s When I Reach for My Revolver” was an early discovery.  However, I wasn’t able to start seeing live shows until Mission of Burma were gone.  I did see Roger Miller’s Maximum Electric Piano at the Court Tavern once (he went down really well in that dank basement), and Peter Prescott with the Volcano Suns and Kustomized.  However, it all paled to seeing the original trio doing “Peking Spring” and “Academy Fight Song” in Seattle in 2002.  That was the moment when Burma went from a casual favorite to a band I admired and obsessed over.  So it was a big deal to prepare for an interview with Roger Miller.  I knew he’d be a fairly engaging interviewee, and he was – always nice when these things turn out as interesting conversations rather than press conferences.  What I didn’t expect, however, was how self-deprecating he would be.  Not that I’d expect him to sit around listening to Vs. and going, “man, I rule,” but the guy’s had a thirty-year history as a professional musician, but he still hasn’t identified just what Mission of Burma’s place is in the music world.  Perhaps that is one key to the band’s longevity – each of their post-reunion albums contain passages every bit as impressive as anything they did in the early ’80s, and that can only come from a refusal to get complacent and accept one’s place in history.  Otherwise you turn into the Pixies, touring year after year on the same group of oldies.  (Or Jeff Mangum, for that matter – it’s great that he’s found the courage to return to the stage, but I wish he’d record some new songs.  I don’t care if they’re “as good as” Aeroplane.  I want to know where his mind is now.)

2)  Review/setlist/pictures from their show at the Firebird, St. Louis, last night.

For this reason, I would have been happy if they’d just ignored “Revolver” and all their own well-known early material, and just played new stuff all night.  As it happens, the show was a satisfying and seamless mix of old and new.  This was a lot different from the Seattle show, which took place in the Experience Music Project’s Sky Church and felt very much like a concert, with a polite audience and a light show behind the band.  The Firebird was much more of a rock & roll event, complete with a small crowd going nuts from the first note of “Dust Devil.”  For that reason alone, I’d call last night’s show the better of my two Burma live experiences.  I mean, just check out these photos: you can practically feel the energy through the computer screen.  An absolutely amazing night, one of the top 10 shows I’ve seen since moving here, and something I feel lucky to have witnessed.  Given that Chickfactor zine is putting on a series of absolutely amazing concerts in NYC next week – an event I am not able to attend – I needed that feeling in my life.

Mitchell and Daniel Littleton started off in Ida, a quiet but dynamic group I saw a bunch of times in NYC.  The most memorable time I saw them (though not the best): at Tramps, a thankfully defunct Chelsea/Flatiron-area dive with inflated drink prices, terrible sight lines, transistor-radio-quality sound and obnoxious audiences.  They were playing as part of some marathon night, and I was standing there, quietly appreciating the music.  Out of nowhere, some drunk girl elbowed me – hard – in the side, and told me, “At least try to act like you’re having fun!”  Ida busted out their cover of Richard & Linda Thompson’s “I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight” shortly thereafter, by which time the drunk girl and her posse were on their way to the next stop on the bar crawl.  Fortunately, none of this will happen at their family-music show this weekend.

Pete & Pete memories, Sound of The City.

I’ve now written about the ’80s and ’90s for the Voice blog.  My next goal is to write an article for Maura about something that happened this century.

I’d be lying if I said this didn’t make my day.  I always consoled myself by thinking, “Well, maybe someone will discover it at random in a used bin someday and like it.”  That it happened in Singapore only cheers me up further.

You know, as much as I’ve been a raconteur of all things 1980s NJ lately, it distorts my actual role in that scene.  I had a radio show, wrote for the paper and occasionally published a fanzine, but none of these things necessarily placed me in high esteem.  It seemed like I’d unintentionally piss off one group of people or another at any given time, and I very nearly got beaten up once over a bad review.  Throughout college, I had a rare combination of unpleasant personality traits that made me come off, I see now with awful clarity, as annoying and unrelenting.  So while I was certainly a participant in the New Brunswick music scene, I wasn’t anywhere close to a mover and a shaker.  I’m just someone who saved all my flyers and stayed just sober enough to remember everything.

By the way, hidden within this site is one of my very earliest published works – a fanzine-review column from sometime in 1986.

Last night was the long-awaited Dear Nora show. I still love the serendipity of it all – that the show promoter also happens to be the office manager at my temp agency. Funny how things work out that way. The show was at her house, which is near the Hill neighborhood toward the south part of the city. When I got there, the show itself hadn’t gotten underway – there were just a bunch of people in the backyard hanging out, drinking PBR and barbecuing Morningstar Farms pizza burgers (my veggie burger of choice). Eventually everyone moved down to the basement for the show. The basement is at the end of a longish concrete slope from the backyard. Inside, there was music equipment, Christmas lights ringing the walls and ceilings, and flyers from past basement shows. Amy’s basement appears to be quite the hotspot for touring bands. The entire Candy-Ass Records roster seems to have played there at some point, as well as a big chunk of K, Mr. Lady and Kill Rock Stars.

First up was Cuando Greg and the Chives, which was just two young women on Casio, violin and guitar. Most of their songs were twenty-second snippets, with a longer foray into rap and a funny cover of Romeo Void’s “Never Say Never.” They handed out penny whistles, kazoos and fur-lined drums to the audience, so we all got to be honorary Chives for a little while. (I played a drum for a couple of songs.) I have no idea how this would translate to record, but for a basement show it was perfect. Local singer/songwriter Anna Roland followed with half a dozen songs of her own, and then Dear Nora took the makeshift stage.

Now, let me once again stress how happy I am that Katy Davidson and crew chose to stop in St. Louis. Still, I still must be honest: this was the least impressive of the three Dear Nora shows I’ve ever seen. Too many private jokes and too much goofing around in between songs, nearly obscuring Katy’s voice and great sing-songy melodies. I thought of the two Dear Nora shows I saw in Seattle: one was a tight, winsome set on a Sunday afternoon, the other was an intimate solo performance at a Capitol Hill clothing store. Both times, they had a similar casual stage demeanor, but it made the live show that much more personal and enjoyable. Tonight there was just something lacking. Having said that, I hope they’ll come back to St. Louis sometime soon – if there’s one constant about Dear Nora’s live shows, it’s that each of them is different.

A short break, and then Bellafea came on to close the show. A guitar/drum boy/girl duo from North Carolina, they put on the best set of the night, effortlessly swinging between Beat Happening fragility and Sleater-Kinney emotional workouts. The lead singer even occasionally used a quavering voice quite reminiscent of Corin Tucker’s. They stayed on just the right side of the line, though, never becoming too overbearing or melodramatic. They even threw in an excellent version of “No Depression” – possibly as a nod to St. Louis’ local legends Uncle Tupelo? Anyway, I enjoyed their set. Even bought their CD.

So it was great to see a show again. I haven’t been to one since early May. Hopefully more will follow. (I’m going to see Radiohead next month, but that’s pretty much all that’s on the schedule at the moment. I’m not even sure if that counts as a “show.”)

Though I’ve been writing for a Village Voice Media-owned publication for a few years now, this is my debut in the actual Voice.  I’ve been reading the Voice since high school and have fantasized about writing for it almost as long, so this is a big deal.  But that’s not what I want to focus on here.

I have a vice-like memory, which I apparently get from my mom.  Calling her yesterday to tell her about this, she remembered the Court Tavern as “the place where I almost had you arrested, right?”  Here’s what happened:

After my first semester at college, I lived at home for a few weeks during winter break.  During that time, I took my first-ever trip to the Court.  At least at the time, they were very strict about checking IDs, and I didn’t have a fake one.  However, sometimes – very rarely – I’d get snuck in.  That’s what happened this night, I’m sure.  If I remember correctly, it was a WRSU night.  I don’t remember who played; I want to say that Zoo Musick was the headliner, but I might be confusing my shows (oops, scratch that comment about a vice-like memory).  A night at the Court generally didn’t end until 2 am or so.  After the show, I went to a party at a friend’s house, and then drove home to Monroe.  I got home at about 5:00 am.

Having gotten acclimated to college, this didn’t seem like a big deal.  I’d forgotten, however, that my mom wasn’t used to this new schedule of mine.  Also, I hadn’t called her to tell her I’d be out late – this was years before cellphones.  So while I was out, she apparently called the New Brunswick police to report a missing person.  They told her that I had to be “missing” for at least 48 hours before they could start a search.  This was one of the few times I’d managed to actually freak out one of my parents.  I think I just shrugged it off when I got home and went to bed, feeling vaguely “adult” for one of the first times in my sheltered life.  I’m just lucky she didn’t call the Court itself.

The obvious question: How would I feel if one of my daughters pulled the same stunt?  Answer: we’d talk about how they needed to call us if they’d be later than a certain hour, and what penalties would result if they didn’t.  I’d hold off on the APB.

Neutral Milk Hotel in Missouri, 1996-1998.  Riverfront Times.  Sometimes you direct the story; sometimes the story directs you.  The original idea was to do an oral history about each of the four Missouri shows NMH played in the ’90s (three in STL, one in Columbia).  To my surprise, I could barely find anyone locally who had any memory at all of these shows.  I probably spent more time finding quotes/sources for this story than any other – I must have asked 25 or 30 people over a three or four-month period.  The people who did respond were all pretty articulate, luckily.  And with a couple days’ perspective, I would suggest that the story that emerges is closer than intended to the actual NMH showgoing experience.  Life as an indie-rock band, even a great one, is a tough road.  At the Side Door, half the band was audibly sick, the drummer didn’t even show up, and you can hear their ragged voices and performances.  It makes an inspired show, sure, but we weren’t the ones who had to pack up our gear, get up the next morning and drive to Chattanooga or Lawrence.  If it means my story was something more than yet another Jeff Mangum hagiograph, I’m happy.

Pazz and Jop 2011 picks.  Village Voice.  I’m long past the point where I have anything relevant to add to Pazz & Jop.  I haven’t even heard a big chunk of the top 20 albums.  Therefore, for the past few years I’ve done this, I’ve just listed a bunch of records that meant something to me in the previous 12 months.  Kind of surprised to be the only one to mention Seapony or Brave Irene (Rose Melberg’s most recent project, and her most upbeat since prime Go Sailor days).  Kind of relieved to see that other people felt as strongly as I about Grass Widow’s “Milo Minute” and Vivian Girls’ Share The Joy.  Very proud of my writer colleagues for not putting Rebecca Black’s “Friday” in the top 20 singles out of some annoying sociological impulse.  And no one’s more surprised than I am to have included two mashup projects – Wugazi‘s 13 Chambers and Ghostfunk – but apparently one can never have too many alternate mixes of “Daytona 500″ and “Da Mystery of Chessboxin’.”

New Brunswick, NJ’s Court Tavern closed “indefinitely”.  mycentraljersey.com.  The Court outlived rezoning, gentrification, rent hikes and unwelcome visits from liquor control, but if what I hear is correct, it might finally be gone for good.  I won’t lie about it: to me, the Court was often a frenemy in nightclub form.  I had some of my all-time favorite evenings there: endless Tiny Lights and Spiral Jetty sh0ws, Pavement’s first-ever show, the Butthole Surfers, so many hazy nights of Rolling Rock and thick smoke.  But there were an equal number of nights where I left the club feeling absolutely miserable and defeated.  I haven’t been there since the mid-1990s.  Still, it was always comforting to know it was still there, surviving us all.  So do I pay my tearful respects, or do I spit on its grave?  The obvious answer: both.  Cheers for lasting three decades, and may the Court’s spirit haunt whomever owns the property next.

Speaking of which, here’s a link to the infamous Summer 1986 Butthole Surfers show.  Kind of amazed it even exists.