Cue Miami Vice Theme Song

Our twenties are wrapping up just as we planned, with a random Bijou Phillips spotting. Riding the high of our encounter with the recently accused party girl at a chic lounge (we were too drunk to remember the name of it) somewhere in the Meatpacking District, we're off to Miami to celebrate our 30th Birthday. If you will, try to fathom all the love we'll be bringing back with us to New York in a week. Until then, keep the house clean.

Just Keep Looking Ahead. You Don't See Here. She Doesn't Exist.

Blubox Singles Of The Week

One of these days we're going to sit down and write an essay about how, right at this very moment, we are living through a golden age of music. For the sheer volume of quality bands, this current age surpasses the grunge period of the early nineties, even if it hasn't yet spawned any blockbuster bands like Nirvana or Pearl Jam. This week alone, we discovered a half a dozen excellent artists. Here are a few promising discoveries:

Static On The Radio, Jim White, Drill a Hole in That Substrate & Tell Me What You

Meet Sue Be She, Miss Kitten, I Com

Nearer Than Heaven, Delays, Faded Seaside Glamour

Wacky Times On The Waterfront

For the first time, we went to the Seaport Music Festival. What convinced us to leave work early on Friday and head down to South Street? A free show by Ted Leo & The Pharmacists, who we had never seen before. Under a ballet of striking gray clouds, against a backdrop of antique schooners, and in the shadow of a glassy android-dream skyscraper, Ted Leo performed a zesty show for a small crowd of a couple of hundred. The rain came and the crowd stayed, electing to surrender to nature and get soaked to the bone. It felt good to stand in the crowd, watching the band play, too drenched to think, too powerless to care.

Don’t miss your second chance to catch Ted Leo for free this summer, when he plays at the East River Park Amphitheatre on Saturday, July 24th.

Far Fewer Ball And Crotch Jokes In The Terminal

We saw Dodgeball yesterday. Throughout the movie, we would laugh, then look over at the Blubox Intern, who would muster a pleasant grin. On the way out of the theater she said, “You owe me one. Next time we’re seeing The Notebook.”

She thinks we suckered her into seeing Dodgeball, which isn’t true. We thought it was a movie “for both of us.” What’s worse is that it’s going to be damn near impossible to sucker her into seeing Fahrenheit 9/11. And you can forget about Catwoman. So be warned, guys: See Dodgeball. It’s funny. But save it for the right day, i.e. the one where you’re girlfriend says "that would be a good day for you to hang out with one of your guy friends."

Musings On The 100 Best British Albums

Stone Roses? The Best British album of all time? According to a poll conducted by the UK Observer, you bet your bloody ass.

You would never see such a – what’s the word? — eclectic selection on an American list. That would be like Rolling Stone putting at #1 the Velvet Underground & Nico’s Banana Album.

If America picked the best British Albums, no doubt that at the top of the list would be Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (true to form, the British critics put the more understated, overlooked Revolver above it). Perhaps that’s the point: The British want to see themselves as understated and overlooked; that's their place in the modern world and they cherish it.

While this desire is clearly reflected in the Observer list, America has a different wish, and that’s to be seen as heroic and important. Thus, the most heroic and important album would also be the best American album; and that would be U2’s Joshua Tree.

Wait, you say. How can U2 be the best American band? They're from Ireland. True, but somehow they still managed to create the quintessential American album with their powerful 1987 release. But suppose we adhere to conventional rules. In that case, we're sure America would go with the next best thing: Bruce Springsteen. You don't get any more heroic and important than that.

The only problem is that his biggest selling album Born In The USA, is a searing critique of the American Dream and how idealistic youth must fight like hell not to be swallowed up in a vacuum of hypocrisy. Thank God for us a perfect alternative exists; the much less angry, but still epic Born To Run.

The American lack of understanding of the British music fan's mentality is actually encapsulated by this Chi town critic:

In general, you Brits really fall (and hard) for certain inexplicable cons! I mean, come on, now - is the Stone Roses' one brief, shining, but exceedingly overrated moment in the sun really the one disc you'd choose to put in a time capsule to introduce alien cultures to all that is great about British rock? You're going to champion that lame retread disco beat, that whiny singer, those oh-so-dated chiming guitars and all the lifted Simon and Garfunkelisms (it's OK with us, you can have 'em!)?

It’s interesting to see who the Observer panel members (Emma Bunton qualifies?) put on their personal top ten list. Actually, Baby Spice's list is shockingly sophisticated (Regatta de Blanc??) although there's a few scary moments (Wham!). Panelist Ozzy Osbourne votes Peter Gabriel's So as the 4th best British album; after all, who can't see Ozzy singing along with Kate Bush on "Don't Give Up"? Mr. Streets, God bless him, puts his own Original Pirates Material at #6 -- some might say picking your own album is slightly bad form. The best top ten list goes to Morrissey:

1. For Your Pleasure Roxy Music*
(*Morrissey claims he can only think of one truly great British album and that this is it)

What's your list? Off the top of my head, here’s ours. (Can I somehow avoid Exile on Main St. and still keep my cred, that is the question).

1. Hunky Dory David Bowie
2. Revolver The Beatles
3. Madman Across The Water Elton John
4. Moondance Van Morrison
5. Definitely Maybe Oasis
6. Louder Than Bombs The Smiths
7. Imperial Bedroom Elvis Costello
8. Parklife Blur
9. Houses of The Holy Led Zeppelin
10. OK Computer Radiohead/Rush Of Blood To The Head Coldplay

Rush Of Blood is just one of the albums that we can’t believe didn’t make The Observer’s top 100 list. For instance, Pulp’s Different Class got snubbed for the likes of Human League. Unbelievable. We also noticed that Sting gets no love from his fellow countrymen, and while we fully understand the urge to ignore him, he probably deserves to have atleast one of his album in the top 100. Our choice would be the ethereal, melancholy Soul Cages.

In the Observer special, Miranda Sawyer postulates why there aren't more women on the list:

"Why aren't there any more women in this list? Because mostly it's voted for by men who like lists, and voting, and spoddy men are traditionalists. They want their bands to have four male members, preferably singer/guitarist, guitarist, bass and drums, and they want nice tunes, a bit of a wig-out and some anger and wit, but not too much. Thus they like the Beatles and the Stone Roses and Oasis."

She can't be talking about us?

Dream Cover Album: Keb' Mo'

Track Listing

1. Never Die Young (James Taylor)
2. If You Love Somebody Set Them Free (Sting)
3. Limbo (Jimmy Cliff)
4. And It Stoned Me (Van Morrison)
5. Watching The Wheels (John Lennon)
6. What I Am (Eddie Brikell & The New Bohemians)
7. Bright Baby Blues (Jackson Browne)
8. Satisfy My Soul (Bob Marley)
9. Razorface (Elton John)
10. She Drives Me Crazy (Fine Young Canibals)
12. Tempted (Squeeze)
13. I Thought I Was A Child (Bonnie Raitt)
14. After The Gold Rush (Neil Young)
15. Crazy Love (Van Morrison)

Breaking News From Hollywood

Tom Cruise's publicist confirms that, in a situation almost identical to that which befell Collin Farrell, the actor's nude scene in his upcoming thriller Collateral had to be cut. When it was explained to the publicist that a nude scene was never in the movie, she responded that the scene still needed to be cut.

Aural Stimulation

We have no choice but to give hipster music a chance. After all, we don't want to be the just-turned-30 curmudgeon counting down the last days of Phish, viewing it as the symbolic end of our youth. We don't want to be discovering afro-jazz at the same time we're reminding Franz Ferdinand fans of the devotion once shown to a band called The Hives.

We would like to believe good can be found in everyone and everything, including electro pop/rock music. Like any other genre, you have bands that kick ass and bands that suck ass. For every excellent band like The Fever, there's a merely solid band like IMA Robot, as well as enough mediocre bands to fill the entire space of Ludlow Street from Houston to Rivington.

As a non-expert in, well, everything, but particularly cool things, we're careful not to wade too deeply in the hipster music waters, where music bloggers like Stereogum and Coolfer are forever backstroking. With that said, we do believe we've stumbled upon a band worthy of mention, one that’s been overlooked by the keyboard mortals of the nerdosphere. The name of the group is Stimulator and, yes, they do have a song called Let's Hook Up.

Purchased for four dollars at an outdoor stand across from Cooper Union, the album was well worth the gamble. With a sexy female singer, a summery New Wave sound, and stimulating (naturally) pop hooks, the band creates Garbage-y grooves perfect for getting sassy on the dancefloor from now until September.

This is the album the Cardigans would have made in 2004, had a fateful appearance at the Peach Pit After Dark not sent them into a downward career spiral. After sharing the same universe as Joe E. Tata, it was perhaps inevitable the group suffer a crisis of confidence.

Abandoning the mischievously marshmallow pop sound that made their album The First Band On The Moon a masterpiece, and determining to be taken serious, the Cardigans' music became dour and sad, instead of seductively fun. Gone was the grandiose European small village-ness; white peak Alps, girls in white fur boots, villains in 70s-style Ray Bans.

Stimulator is the whiskey summer in NYC to the vintage Cardigans' hot cocoa winter in Sweden. It’s the red lipstick residue on the ice filled glass left in the bathroom stall, where a pale girl in fishnets had been using her keys in naughty ways.

Hey, maybe these hipster kids are on to something?

Blu Box List Mid-June 2004

1. Elephunk
2. Keep It Simple
3. Drinking Dominican in 2004
4. Fahrenheit 9/11
5. A Ghost Is Born
6. I, Robot
7. Brooklyn Social
8. Sunburnt Cow
9. Pineapple Street
10. Gettin' More Adventurous
11. Coventary
12. Animal Collective
13. South Beach Over South Hampton
14. Spotted Ale
15. Pianos
16. Ted Leo
17. The Room
18. The Fever
19. Burnett's Rock Star
20. MisShapes

Blubox's 1st Birthday

A year ago today baby Blu was born. We dug deep into the archives and discovered our very first post, which appears to be some visionary pop culture list that is even beyond its author's own comprehension.

It's likely that 20 years from now Am. Civ. Students will be studying it the way archeologist analyze Egyptian hieroglyphics. Our guess is that it's some kind of "Paycheck-type" list we created to help ourselves in the future. All we have to do now is figure out the significance of our selection at #8.

Blu Box List Mid-June 2003
1. Electric Six
2. People @ Allen St.
3. Steve-0
4. Blu Boxers (perky-dark kindergoth Japanese-cute Blade Runner cybersexy
culture)
5. The Darkness
6. Hip-Hop Conversion by Electronaflirts (electronaflirts are former
alt-rock-indie listeners, hitting their thirties, who discovered electronic
music through Blue Lines and Portishead. Eminem and The Streets are the
gateway drug.)
7. Bondage Skirts
8. I'm With Busey
9. Broken Social Scene
10. Futureheads
11. Nublu
12. To Live and Date in New York 2
13. Can't Stop The Joy
14. Hawian Print Shirts
15. Grandaddy
16. Pianos
17. Ms. Dynamite
18. Paradise Island
19. Search for the golden Outdoor Garden in downtown NYC
20. Rock Your Body

Move Over Casual Fridays, It's Bomb Scare Thursdays!

We enjoyed some High Alert fun in midtown today courtesy of some schmuck who left behind his briefcase across the street from our office building. Cops taped off the sidewalk and the Bomb Squad was called into action. During the height of the scare, we were prevented from going out the front entrance of our building. While we waited in the lobby with about a dozen other people, no conversations took place.

Blubox Presents Who Said It?

What we've got here is failure to communicate. Some men you just can't reach, so you get what we had here last week which is the way he wants it. Well, he gets it. And I don't like it any more than you men.

Was it this guy?

Or this guy?

If you said the same person is in both photos -- you were right!

And The Oscar Goes To... Esther?

Our favorite Jewish Mystic In Training is performing six not-as-sold-out-as-you-would-think shows at Madison Square Garden starting tonight. Come on, dude. Take some to time to celebrate the Material Mom's arrival by going to the Loews Theater on 34th Street and watching her run circles around her costars. That's right, Joe Mantegna, we're talking to you.

The lineup: Who's That Girl, tonight; Body of Evidence next Wednesday, and Swept Away, on June 29.

No Shanghai Surprise? WTF?

Y Tu Monica Tambien

A few days ago we saw Monica Lewinsky at the movie theaters by Union Square, but it took us time to process the encounter in our heads, hence the belated post.

Here's what happened: moments after purchasing our tickets to see Harry Potter at the ticket kiosk, we heard an alarming noise, which turned out to be nothing serious. Just a kid falling down the escalators. The kid got up. Looked okay. Just then, Monica Lewinsky approached us with bulging eyes, apparently in a state of disbelief that a kid could fall down an escalator and not a single person would react.

"Did you see that?" she asked.

We gave her a look: "See what, Monica? You're talking crazy."

Here's what we should have told her: Monica! Wake up! You're in New York! People suck here!

At this stage in our little narrative, we were going to mention the current status of Monica's weight, but the Blubox Intern asked us not to. "Don't put that on your blog. It's mean," she said.

"Uh, I don't think Monica Lewinsky reads Blubox."

"You never know. Gawker could link to it. Then a friend of hers might see it
and tell her. You could hurt her feelings badly."

So, just in case today, suddenly, the blog world goes link-crazy on Blubox, why don't we talk about Harry Potter, instead. Rating the third installment, we give it high marks. We liked how Y Tu Mama Tambien director darkened it up. But the Harry/Hermione/Ron threeway -- perhaps going too far?

Natalie Portman Interrupts Young Man Moments Before Epiphany

"I was sitting on the sidewalk, reading The Alchemist, and apparently it was near the corner of her house. The police show up and they asked me for my ID and ran a check in their car. I asked, 'Is it a crime to read a book now?'

"And one of the officers said, 'Natalie Portman called because she was afraid you were a stalker.' The name didn't register with me."

Unveiling The Asshole Jock behind The Affable World Leader

Lately, we just want to cover our heads in a sleeping bag lying on the leafy floor of a forest. The stimulation of the city coupled with the discouraging state of humanity is having bad effects on our head. We need to sleep for a week. See no paved streets for a month. See no George Bush for a summer.

Watching Bush shower compliments on Bill Clinton at the unveiling of the former president's official portrait, made us want to blowtorch the smirky prick smile off his face.

Bush is the mean-spirited student leader who punches poor skinny Mahesh in the hall, torturing him daily. And when the teacher walks by and half-catches Bush in an act of hallway cruelty what does he do? Puts one arm around Mahesh and gives a big "we're all buddies here" smile. And when the teacher walks away, Bush tightly squeezes that arm around Mahesh, turning the moment of mock friendship into one of Darwinistic victimization.

The Clever-Cocky Prick never gets caught. The teachers will always recall him as a good kid that everyone liked. The pretty popular girl never sees him for the scumbag he is. And if she does somehow discover he's an asshole, it's long after he's added her to his "no longer a virgin" list.

We bet Bush, many years ago, had a good time telling his frat buddies, as he played ping pong, about all the "dumb Texas chicks" he cleverly persuaded into regretable first time sex. Hell, in a moment away from the wives, he probably shared an amusing locker room story or two with Bubba after the portrait unveiling.

But don't be suckered by his act, Bill. Don't be seduced by the dark side. Sure, he could be a fun guy to have a beer with. But we promise, your soul will be much better off if you hang out with Mahesh instead. We hear he's an environmental lawyer living in Atlanta, raising two beautiful daughters with his wife, a medical researcher who's working on a cure for multiple sclerosis.

Let your kind, caring side win out, Bill. And let's hope our country's kind, caring side wins out in November. Until then, we'll be in our cubicle daydreaming of starry skies and sleeping bags.

Soul Legend Hits The Road, Jack

Song: Born To Lose
Original Artist: Ray Charles
Cover Artist: PJ Harvey
At The Piano, One Last Time: While it's too bad that Harvey will not be on Charles' last album, Genius Loves Company, a collection of duets due out this summer, the CD will boast a dream lineup of partners, including Van Morrison, Bonnie Raitt, BB King, Willie Nelson, James Taylor, Norah Jones and Diana Krall. We eagerly await this final recording, one last gift from a profoundly soulful performer.

Self-Pitti


The bald fiftysomething maitre'de, who wore an air of benevolent authority on his sun-baked Italian face, told us it would be a 25-minute wait. 35-minutes later we were still gazing at the cluster of occupied tables from a park bench in front of Bar Pitti, an affordable Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village.

Some of the people dining outside in the warm summer night were scene-y, others were corporate-y, others were upwardly mobile-y; the Lamborghini of baby carriages was parked at the end of one table, quite possibly inhabited by yuppies from Sweden.

The Blubox Intern and my friend gabbed away about yoga as we leaned forward on the bench, sending a stream of uptight vibes to the maitre‘de, who was surveying the tables calmly like Mussolini looking out at a crowd of thousands from a balcony.

We told ourselves to forget about keeping on the maitre'de's radar. Instead, we should relax and enjoy "just being", appreciate the nice summer evening in Greenwich Village.

We glanced over at Famke Jansen, who was also waiting for a table. We'd been stealing looks at her for the past twenty minutes; a barely decent way to pass the time while we waited. We had to be subtle -- no googly eyes, if you catch my drift -- so as not to get caught by Famke, or worse, by the Blubox Intern.

A clean-cut Eric Stoltz. emerged from Bar Pitti with a friend and walked right by Famke Jansen, sitting on a bench, toying with one of her hot friend's little dog. Famke glanced over, recognized him, but didn't care enough to say anything.

A seat opened up. Who do you think the maitre ‘de sat first? Famke and her hot friends? Or us?

We were eventually seated and, with our perfectly indirect view of Famke, we began to unwind. Spotting her and Eric Stoltz in one night would have been thrilling enough. But who should stop by Famke Jansen's table to give a quick hello? Edward Norton.

Jansen, Stoltz, Norton: that's your cast right there. Find the right director and you have a classic New York movie in the making. Roll cameras, baby.

Then the make-or-break moment came, the moment that could have sent the evening into a fiery ball of flames. The dinner specials were written on a chalkboard that a waiter held up for everyone at his table to read, but when our gayer-than-gay waiter went inside to get our wine, he had the Blubox Intern and my friend hold the chalkboard at each end and balance it up on the table.

Blubox Intern didn't look happy. We knew what was wrong but we didn’t ask. Blubox Intern looked over at us with a pout: "Famke didn't have to hold up her chalkboard.”

She was right, of course. The waiter not only held the chalkboard up for Famke, but made a point of crouching down so that Famke wouldn't have to strain her precious eyes to read the specials, written in Italian we might add.

The waiter came back and The Blubox Intern said under her breath, "I didn't know I was going to be put to work."

The waiter said, "What was that?"

At that moment, my heart was racing. The Blubox Intern told the waiter what she said even though we all knew he had heard her clearly the first time.

The waiter then responded, "There's a first for everything, hun." Now, that was fabulous. Even Blubox Intern had to smile.

He added, "This isn't a restaurant, honey. It's a trattoria." Which sounded brilliant, even though we had no idea what it meant.

The dinner turned from that moment. We all felt a little more at ease. Then the food arrived, which was excellent. The eggplant parmigiana appetizer was especially tasty.

And as we ate our dinners, we spotted yet another celebrity, this time it was famous fashion photographer Terry McMillan. The Blubox Intern took special pleasure in this sighting, as it gave her the chance to point out that she had recognized him, while we had not.

In her mind, it also gave her the opportunity to make some disparaging remark about "all you little hipster bloggers" who are actually "dorks who wouldn't even know who Terry McMillan was if he sat in your lap".

As we finished our meal, Blubox Intern turned to us with a warm smile and asked: "Did my little starfucker have a nice meal?"

"Yes," we said, "But we feel like we need to see one more star for the night to be complete."

The Blubox Intern looked around vaguely. She turned back to us: "Will that do?"

We turn to where she had been looking. Sitting with an attractive girl at a tiny table for two was Vincent Gallo.

The next day we emailed our friend and personal architect TDM who suggested a deeper metaphysical meaning of my dinner in the West Village:

See, as life progresses, you strategically reduce that delay between when you leave and Famke and her hot posse arrives, until the time lag actually becomes an overlap, and you co-exist at the same table.

TDM also provided this final insight:

One we lived in an age in which every story ended, "and that boy grew up to be Henry Kissinger." Now every story must end, "and the dude with the cellphone turned out to be Vincent Gallo."

Perhaps one could debate this fact. But one thing is for sure: we had our director now. Roll cameras, baby.

Life Without Ipod: A Pathetic Battle To Stay In The Know

We lasted an hour in Virgin Records in Union Square, but on our 38th pair of listening station headphones, while speed-reviewing Nellie McKay, our girlfriend mouthed to us that “she was ready to go.”

Tragically, we did not get to the Blonde Redhead on the next
station, nor did we have adequate time to make a clear-headed
summation of Nellie McKay.

We calmed ourselves with this lie: we would be back. Deep down we
knew that by the time we did return, the listening stations would be
switched out and we we’d never know what Mission to Burma sounded like.

As you may have gathered from this tale of consumer desperation, we
don’t own an Ipod, we’re not wealthy or disciplined enough to have
internet access at home, and we don’t download at work because it
would be a distraction and because our computer doesn’t have a CD
burner.

Seeing the Walkmen on a listening station is thus a moment of
elation that download-addicted music bloggers will never experience.

But because my mission to Virgin was not a solo one, we had to move
efficiently through the store. Burning 15 minutes sampling tunes
from the new Modest Mouse CD might seem tempting, but it will cost you down the road, for example, when time is short and you come upon the CMJ Revolutionary Sounds section.

By then, the girlfriend is fading quicker than a Pierce Brosnan
romantic comedy from theaters. But, hun, don’t you understand, we’re
listening to sounds that could overthrow the cultural hegemony as we
know it.

If something good came out of the Virgin experience, then perhaps it
was this: a new system for reviewing music. The rating scale is
simple: the longer we spend at one listening station, the higher the
grade. If we stay at a listening station for 38 seconds, we’re not
giving the album our strongest endorsement.

Franz Ferdinand: 3 songs, 5:47

Why we pulled out: sounded great, undeniably so, but it reminded us
of the majority of our friendships in New York: completely
superficial. Where was the Live Forever tune, the Brit-pop ballad that made you feel heroically sad and triumphantly wronged?

Ambulance LTD.: 3 songs, 7:53

Why we pulled out: the first song, a crisp, eyelid-closing
instrumental, grabbed us. The second song Primitive (The Way I Treat
You) delivered with a hazy summer-y Luna (which really means Velvet Underground) riff. We seriously contemplated buying the album, if only so we could hear the whole thing, ideally on a late Friday night at our imaginary friend’s place, the one with the Metropolis poster and vintage jazz albums, while we sipped Red Stripes on a comfy, ratty sofa.

Modest Mouse:  2 songs, 3:39

Why we pulled out: We skipped to the single Float On after the first song failed to rock our world.  The song’s video had impressed us
with its creativity, but without the benefit of the visuals, the
song began to resemble those who we imagine worshiped it: wimpy yet
self-satisfied.

Stellastarr*: 1 song, 1:25

Why we pulled out: Remember the eighties? We do and they sounded
better than this.

Jamie Cullum: 4 songs, 12:23

Why we pulled out: A jazz-piano version of a Radiohead song -- didn’t Brad Mehldau already pull off that trick? Listening to Cullum’s take on High and Dry made us think of summer drives around lakes. His
style, equal parts sad and upbeat, reminded us of Vince Guaraldi
Trio’s Christmas Charlie Brown music. Making up roughly half the
album were originals: they should have comprised even more. Warning:
if you don’t fall squarely in the Billy Joel camp, this album will sicken you.

The Stills: 1 song, :34

Why we pulled out: Thrills, Kills, Chills, Hills: we’re feeling
scared and overwhelmed.

The Darkness: 3 songs, 3:39

Why we pulled out: This is the second time we’ve heard them on
a listening station. The joke still isn’t old. We’re nervous that as
soon as we bring the disc home, it will be.

Dizzy Rascal: 2 songs, :50

Why we pulled out: The expectations for this English rapper were
high. Could he top the Streets? Maybe it’s unfair for us to compare,
especially after only listening to Dizzy for less than a minute, but
life on the listening stations can be a cruel one.

Anthony Hamilton: 2 songs, :46

Why we pulled out: For years, we’ve been waiting for the next great
R&B singer. Shouldn’t it have been Lenny Kravitz? Damn you, VHI Fashion Awards and your seductive invites.

Jem:  1 song, 1:89

Why we pulled out:  Because we already went through our cute girl
voice trip hop period. And because our Goldfrapp and Ivy CDs haven’t been taken out of their cases since back when Ed Burns’ could still bother us.

Muse: 1 song 1:02

Why we pulled out: As we listened to the single, we studied the
label on the CD: it read Mercury Prize Winner. The British haven’t
been right about anything since Blur.

Blondie: 1 song, :56

Why we pulled out: we remarked how Debbie Harry will always be cool. Of course, this comment was made as we we’re walking away.

Mum: 1 song, 2:34

Why we pulled out: We were digging the dreamy, atmospheric music
until the Icelandic singer with a high-pitched voice came on and
gave me scary flashbacks of the humpback whale sonar from Star
Trek 4.

Snow Patrol: 2 songs :45

Why we pulled out: We thought there might be something here, but at
that point we were feeling the heat to wrap up, thus, we were left
undecided.

The Postal Service: 1 song, :34

Why we pulled out: Sounded promising, but with the clock ticking,
you needed to blow me away. And quickly.

Nellie McKay: 1 song, 1:56

Why we pulled out: Because our girlfriend wanted us to leave. Pronto.
We will not be forced into making a rushed decision. Nelly deserves better.

Final Verdict: How could Virgin, in good conscience, not have the
new Streets album on a listening station?  We purchased the
Jamie Cullum, the Ambulance LTD., and one non-listening station CD,
the Coffy Soundtrack. We then went to Tasti-D-Lite and bought our girlfriend a cup of ice cream with Carob chips on top to ease the
suffering she had just endured. In the end, her sacrifice was worth
it because now we could go to Lower East Side bars with cool people
and talk about music and not feel inadequte. We could write about
music on our blog and impress cool people that way. For the next
week, we would be safe.

Ultragrrrl Ruled The DJ Booth Last Night At The Delancey, But Where Were Her Blog Chick Roommates?

Song: Cracklin' Rosie
Original Artist: Neil Diamond
Cover Artist: Sleepy Jackson
What's the difference between Luke Steele and Lockhart Steele?:
It’s nearly impossible to pin him down in words, much less try to understand the mastermind behind the Sleepy Jackson (Curbed) on our own terms. Perhaps that’s why Luke (Lockhart) Steele has already been painted in the international media as a sort of other-worldly character—“difficult” and more than just a tad eccentric. Britain’s New Musical Express went as far as to label him “crazed,” refering to him as “the real Whacko Jacko.” The only thing is, Steele’s not really crazy… he’s just refreshingly different.

Gallagher Brother Deserves Praise For Choosing Dhani To Be In His Super Group. And Not Sean.

Song: Something
Original Artist: The Beatles
Cover Artist: Sting
What Sting Said To Us When We Went Up To Him At The El Ray And Suggested He Do This Cover: He said nothing, but a women in his entourage interjected by singing "something in the way I poop my pants", thereby mocking me, in addition to disrespecting George Harrison, who had died a few days earlier.

It's A Fine Line Between New Wave and New Jersey

Song: I'll Be There For You
Original Artist: Bon Jovi
Cover Artist: Elvis Costello
Imagine Elvis Costello singing in his manic, syncopated, Love, Peace and Understanding voice: I'll be there for you. These five words I swear to you. When you breathe I want to be the air for you. I'll be there for you.
Dream Cover Album: Slippery When Costello. The man in the black-rimmed glasses delivers booming heartfelt versions of such ballads as Never Say Goodbye and Always; he gives rockers like Runaway and Living On A Prayer his scathing, literate stamp.