Every Friday, we kick off your morning with a few videos, loosely gathered around a theme. This week, the theme is concerts Aaron and Mr. Fantastic saw, at the legendary 9:30 club!
Ratatat Mr. Fantastic was lucky enough to see one of my all-time-favorite bands. Spit hot fire at us, Mr. F:
I’ll FMM your mom. What does that mean? Whatevs… Yeh, I went to Ratatat at the 930 club last week (despite being sick as a punk-ass punk) and it was awesome. Highlights include two dudes with two guitars making the most bad-ass music ever with videos playing behind and in front of them (via stand-alone plexi-glass sheets with videos projected). Lowlights include DC dude-brahs dancing on my ass like it was their prom (the apex of their sad, sad lives…) and some chick asking me three times if I sold pot. No, I do not. I guess my attire (black t-shirt) or attitude (staring into space) indicates otherwise.
Wikipedia tells us that they recorded their first album in one of their Brooklyn apartments on a laptop, and that they are freakin’ awesome for having “toured with bands such as Björk, Daft Punk, Mouse on Mars(ed. Where Aaron saw them open, and they blew his mind), Interpol, Franz Ferdinand, CSS, The Faint, Super Furry Animals, Clinic,Panther and The Killers.”
If you liked dancing your balls off to epic guitars and some synths, you already love Ratatat.
For a friend’s birthday present, I took her to see Ingrid Michaelson. It was unquetionably the most lady-heavy concert crowd I’ve ever seen, which gave me a brief moment of paranoia; do I only like cock-rock? AM I SECRETLY MISOGYNISTIC? But no, I was assured, not all ‘Ingrid’ concerts are like that. A lot of the crowd called Ingrid by her first name, like they were old friends, which I found amusing. I had pegged her as a singer-songwriter type, halfway between Sara Bareilles and Lisa Loeb. Boy, was I wrong. She and her band came out, wearing long black hooded cloaks, to the intro to Zepplin’s Immigrant Song. One by one they threw off the cloaks, picked up instruments, and kicked off the set with a crowd-thumping AAAAAAAAAAAAA-AH!
Throughout the set, she kept up a solid banter throughout the set, and was much more driving, much harder, than the poppy fluff I’d associated her with. One song in particular, Die Alone, caught my attention.
In Niel Gaiman’s short story The Goldfish Pool and Other Stories, there’s a haunting line about John Belushi’s death; “He died alone, don’t matter a rats ass whether there was anyone with him or not. He died alone.” Ingrid said something similar before playing Die Alone.
Towards the end of the show, the entire band gathered around the mic, and while Ingrid “likes to think that I’m all dark and twisted, I get really pissed when people say I do ‘cute’ music. Cute music sucks. But that said, this song is undeniably cute.” She’s right, so enjoy You and I.