Battle Inner Demons with Kaiju Big Battel!

Every once in a while, in an attempt to remain somewhat three-dimensional and interesting, I like to partake in some sort of activity (softball games, vegan dining, lipstick and drinks in Rittenhouse) that really is not my thing at all.

So imagine my excitement when I stumbled upon this:


I'm not really a wrestling fan, and I don't think I've ever actually sat through Godzilla (I know, I know.) But Kaiju Big Battel is exactly the type of strange, frightening, and cultish event that I gravitate too, not to mention a perfect fit for the Troc. (Other strange, frightening cultish events I've attended there: animal-themed movie screenings/costume parties, hair band competitions, Of Montreal concerts.)

For those of you not in the know, Kaiju Big Battel is a strange American Phenomenon (ignore the Japanese characters all over their site - it was founded in Boston) in which competitors create elaborate monster costumes and battle each other -- using high tech kung fu moves, kitchen utensils and large buckets of goo, in order to protect Earth and save the universe. Popular characters include Silver Potato, (secret move: shooting melted butter at enemies!), Los Plantanos, the feisty Plantain Twins, and the mysterious Dr. Cube, an evil plastic surgeon and modern Dr. Frankenstein who manufactures new enemies to wreak havoc on all that is good.

My first experience with Kaiju Big Battel came freshman year in college, when some friends decided it would be fun to create our own KBB characters out of cardboard boxes and construction paper. Being 5'2", a total pacificist, and and one of the only chicks involved , I quickly volunteered to do costume design so as to avoid a good beating -- although in retrospect most of the dudes were skinny indie fuckers anyway, and probably not much tougher than me to begin with.


I don't really remember much of the evening (I'm not going to pretend for one second that somebody had this idea while sober), but you can tell from this photo that some serious ass-kicking went on:

Notice the male and female genitalia on the monster to the left!

The battle this weekend goes down on Sunday at 3 p.m. You know you don't have anything else to do at this time, so I expect I'll be seeing you there.

Oi Va Voi, the Soup is Burning!

Oi Va Voi is a British indie band who I first downloaded because I liked their name. (Other bands like this: Pants Yell!, Elf Power, Oh No! Oh My!) Loosely categorized as "world" music, their sound combines traditional and contemporary Jewish music with modern electronica. The band is most famous for propelling the career of throaty Scottish folkstress KT Tunstall, responsible for the overplayed ditty "Black Horse and the Cherry Tree" (which after Hoobastank's "The Reason" and Natasha Bedingfield's "Unwritten" might be the most annoying song of 2007). Yet Oi Va Voi are nonetheless a talented group of musicians who manage to craft kick-ass songs that don't sound like anyone else.

Consider, for example, "Yuri"



For some reason, whenever I hear this song, I have very clear visions of mice loading rocket boosters onto a space ship. I imagine it would look something like this:



The mice, of course, are hypnotized, and are helping to build the commanding dictator's new space army. They march fearlessly along, chanting the song's refrain as they go.

"We're heading out... to outer space.
We're going forth... for the human race."

On the surface, this song is about Major Yuri Alexeyevich Gagarin, a Russian air force pilot who in 1961, at the age of 27, became the first man in outer-space. His initial space trip lasted 108 minutes, and propelled Gagarin to the status of national hero. Unable to cope with the fame however, he took to heavy drinking, and was later killed in a second space flight in 1968, when his space ship mysteriously crashed. He is still widely revered in Russia however, and has a crater on the Moon named after him.

Newspaper clip of Gagarin's moon landing

Confessions of a Beer Drinker

I've been a beer drinker for less than 5 years. Really, it seems like much longer. In high school, I was "accidentally" straight-edge, not because I had no interest in the sweet stuff but because the group I hung out with (drama geeks, the debate team) was not so keen on imbibing. I did know a couple of kids senior year who would sneak in Kahlua flasks in their trumpet cases to football games (yes, my friends were in the marching band), but I myself was too busy trying to impress my crush, the Wall Street Journal-reading, young Republican head of the drama club, to even think about stepping off the path of the straight and narrow.

Instead, my first drink came in college. It was September 2003 and I was starting my freshmen year at the Ivy League university I convinced myself I had sacrificed my high school reputation to attend. I had just been cast in an experimental production of Hamlet and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead combined, preformed as multiple, simultaneously-occurring scenes in a West Philly church. It was Thursday night rehearsal and Horatio, real name Marc*, a lanky, Costello-obsessed, floppy-haired junior, had invited me to join some of the guys for a birthday party. The party was for Sasha (no last name required), a European-born jet-setter, known (by those in the know) for his killer raves and unique ability to never stop dancing.

The party took place on a roof, somewhere west of 40th and Baltimore. We arrived, settled in, and Marc offered me a beer, to which I coolly, responsibly replied, "Nah, I don't drink on school nights." He was clearly surprised but very polite about it, responding, "that's cool, you have an early class?" and then "you don't EVER drink on school nights?"

"Known for his killer raves and unique ability to never stop dancing"

--

I wish I could say I bust out of my shell right then and there, and balls to the wall got smashed and wreaked havoc on that party, but in reality, my introduction to alcohol was confusing, frantic and shamefully indulgent, like a middle-school student furtively dialing up porn on the internet when Mom's upstairs in the bath tub. First it started with jello shots (not really alcohol at all!) and blended drinks with my sexy but flamboyant hall-mate; before you knew it, I was attending Marc's house (a psychedelic-punk frat filled with artists and weirdos) every Thursday night for Happy Hour, downing PBRs and chatting up strangers in the dark, dirty, dilapidated basement.

I remember the first time I got drunk; it felt dizzy, but good, and I couldn't wipe the enormous grin off my face. I was in an emo phase and keen on wearing converse with a giant dark purple coat I felt was slimming and I couldn't stop chatting! --with everyone, any one, cute boys especially, winning them over with my confidence and charm (the beer was my magic!) and enticing them to walk me home and make out with me.

This was the season of Shane, the dark, mysterious, stone cold senior who smoked cigarettes like James Dean and talked in a low voice so you had to lean in to hear him. He seemed sultry and mysterious and everything I was not, and I became completely infatuated with him, and would drink 5 beers and flirt uncontrollably, taking his advances and compliments as signs of my destiny. Through him, I would learn 2 things, chiefly that 1.) I was cute and 2.) I could talk to anybody. I might have been a later bloomer, but I sure knew how to make up for lost time.

New Standards: the kitchen of Marc's House

--

Of course, my college days were not without drunken incident. There was the one time, at an all-day concert at the Church of Divine Energy, where I downed 4 or 5 Golden Monkeys really quickly, not realizing their high alcohol content and stumbled back to my dorm room obliterated. I passed out for a couple of hours, and determined to return, called the campus hotline and had a beefy security dude escort me back to 48th and Woodland.

Then there was the time I got smashed on Miller High Life, and ran into an ex-boyfriend in the street. I declared my love for him and drunkenly stumbled home, puked in a sink and slept for 2 days straight.

There were beers poured on me, beers poured on others, friends dressed in beer costumes attempting to buy beer, getting friends to date the beer guy to try to score free beer, beer and chicken nights, beer and Weezer jam session nights, beer-fueled power hours and all day beer festivals...but never, ever beer pong. (Have you ever watched the dust and germs those balls pick up rolling on the nasty floor?) By the time I was a senior in college, living in Marc's former home, there was almost always a keg of Yuengling tapped in the basement and I had become somewhat of a casual beer drinker.

Friends dressed as beer celebrating their beer purchase

These days, I'm out of college, and living next to one of the best beer stores in the city. I love hanging out at bars with my friends, but find my budget (that of an Editor/freelance writer) does not allow for this too often. My boyfriend John discovered that many of our favorites dives charge the same for a gin and tonic or a scotch as a brew, which always makes the Blueberry Ale a little harder to swallow. I'm generally willing to join in on happy hour, and will kill the $1 PBRs at the Khyber, or $3 Yards at National Mechs, but really these days I'm more interested in developing my knowledge of breweries and styles, so I can become a beer aficionado. As I write this now, I'm drinking a Summer Solstice from Anderson Valley, a small California brewery which never fails to deliver, and reveling in the light, spicy flavor. Understanding what goes into beer and where it comes from only heightens my enjoyment.

I know I won't live next to a super beer store forever, so I'm trying to make the best of it while I still can. And when I move on, who knows. Maybe it will be time to start a mini brewery in the basement.

*All names changed to protect the guilty.

Summer Soundtrack: 15 Bands You Need to Listen To, Now

My last blog for STYLE published today, and I have to admit, I'm a little sad. I'll be starting my new gig at Uwishunu next week, which is exciting, but I'll definitely miss the steady music-blogging gig. Thus, to keep myself (and all my readers!) sharp, I decided to end things with a sort of grand round-up: 15 bands you need to listen to, now.

---

Agent Moosehead
A unique Philly six-piece that sounds like a mix of smooth jazz and the soundtrack to Super Mario Brothers, served up with style and panache.

Aunt Dracula
Known for their outlandish experimental concoctions and trademark man-in-wolf-suit-serving-waffles-at-shows (yes!), Aunt Drac straddles the line between awesome and bizarre, with a definite leaning towards the former.

Aunt Drac's Waffle Wolf

The Cordova Academy Glee Club
I confess I hadn't really heard of these guys until they turned up as a top download on Libble and I realized, "Hey! That band's from Philly!" Think candy/pop punk to move your hips to. Delicious.

Dark Horse & the Carousels
DH&theC, along with fellow Philly rockers the Tough Shits, might be single-handedly responsible for ushering in the rebirth of raucous, psychedelic, 13th Floor Elevators-esque full throttle garage rock. Ideal for heavy drinking.

DH+C: rocking harder than any band you know

East Hundred
Beautifully-wrought, female-fronted indie rock, East Hundred offers haunting, floaty melodies reminiscent of Feist, Emily Haines or Cat Power, infused with layered electronica.

Gang
Hipster hip-hop/dance/pop, Gang is serious party music, especially if the party in question takes place in an abandoned warehouse filled with fast-talking hoodie-wearing scenesters who pledged to never stop dancing.

Too Cool for Hipster School

Gemini Wolf
Soulful synth-pop with moody vocals, excess reverberation, Eastern strings and a trippy, psych beat. Close your eyes for the full effect.

Jotto
Quirky indie rock with a touch of Dylan set against a backdrop of rolling drums and swinging beats.

Jotto: "Young in the City"

Like a Fox
Mellow noise pop sounds like a combination of Band of Horses and Belle & Sebastian. Delicate and infectious, with a hint of bittersweet charm.

Papertrigger
Self-described pirate bar-brawl music, Papertrigger is moody, indulgent and grandiose--full of tinkering keyboards and epic guitars. These guys rock live.

One of the greatest band portraits even taken, by Colin M. Lenton

The Parsnip Revolt
Earnest, wistful and undeniably radio-friendly, the Parsnip Revolt offer soulful feel-good rock melodies with widespread appeal.

RunRunner
Upbeat, gritty power pop with catchy beats and intense passion. Capable of inducing head-bobbing.

RunRunner: "Bad Timing"

Surgeon
The band formerly known as Bumrunner is all about intensity and attitude, with a visceral, nihilistic beautifully-executed prog metal sound that makes Kirk Hammett sound like the tooth fairy.

The Swimmers
One part '60s Brit pop (the Beatles, the Zombies), one part baroque pop, the Swimmers' dreamy melodies sound like exuberance encapsulated.

Swimmers' Family Portrait

Victor Victor Band
The winner of Style's first ever Best Unsigned Band contest, this garage-rock duo is the real deal, with swaggering, bluesy rock songs that are gutsy, rambunctious and free-wheeling. A must-see.

VVB Rocking the House

Philly STYLE 5-12-08: Music That Rocks, In All the Right Keys

Reluctant Explosions

I never intended to start a blog. I've always looked at bloggers as terribly annoying and indulgent - obsessed with their own voices. But after spending a year writing the Sound Check blog at Philly STYLE (RIP), I've become quite attached to the hype-making machine and I figured what the hell! --I'll write anyway and nobody has to read it if they don't want to.

The title of this blog comes from a Guided by Voices song, on the 1996 album Under the Bushes Under the Stars.


Guided by Voices has long been a favorite band of mine (favorite songs: Big School, Hot Freaks, Teenage FBI). They played their farewell tour September of my sophomore year of college and dopey me missed it because I wasn't paying attention. I actually remember walking down South Street that very day (September 10, 2004) hoping to add a little edge to my look with a new piercing from Infinite, when I noticed the marquee on at the TLA. Of course, by that time, the show had already long since sold out and I lamented my missed opportunity to catch the Master Pollard in action.

Luckily, these days there are sites like Tourfilter, which can help make sure you never miss a show again. Nevertheless, I use the term "underwater explosions" to refer to bands and shows that are making a splash, but only if you're tuned in enough to notice.

A underwater explosion bursts through the surface!

In this blog, I'll cover hot shows, cool bands, and other random musings from my life as an underpaid freelance writer trying to get by in the City O'Brotherly love. Enjoy!





Read Big School lyrics

Philly STYLE 5-8-08: Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me

Philly STYLE 5-5-08: Teenage Wasteland

Philly STYLE 5-1-08: Sounds from the Deep