Caryn Rose's jukeboxgraduate.com

So I read twitter from the “Our Band Could Be Your Life” show, and no one fucking said, “Craig Finn came out to do the ‘This is the Minneapolis police, the party is over…’ intro for ‘Kids Don’t Follow’”. They just said “Craig Finn came out in a police uniform to introduce Titus Andronicus.” DID NO ONE THERE GET THE REFERENCE?

Someone must’ve, because they yelled “FUCK YOU” exactly on cue (in the alleged Dave Pirner part. But in Minneapolis, everyone claims to be the person yelling FUCK YOU).

This is dead fucking on. Dead fucking on. Like, I would have probably exploded had I been there.

I owe a post on the Color Me Obsessed Minneapolis premiere. This week.

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One of the things I have always loved and appreciated about Greg Dulli is that he’s not ashamed to be a frontman. The word “showmanship” isn’t anathema to him. When he is on stage, he is ON STAGE. So on a night when he’s filming the show for what I can only assume is commercial release, he’s going to turn it all the way up, hard. I’ve seen him do this with the Afghan Whigs, I’ve seen him do it with the Twilight Singers – even on the solo tour or with Lanegan on the Gutter Twins tour, Dulli is a like a magician the way he can grab the energy, flip it around, find it if it’s hiding, beg for it if he has to, demand it if it’s not meeting his needs, cajole it out from a shy crowd.

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It was an album release show, where she played her new record from start to finish, only a hour, but I swear, I could listen to Emmylou cover Nickelback songs all night and find a way to enjoy it.

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I completely admit: I paid $75 (that’s with all the fees) to see Mick Jones. I didn’t care what he was going to do, but at least (unlike with the Gorillaz) I knew and liked Big Audio Dynamite and I was tired of kicking myself for missing the Mescaleros when I could have seen them and figuring a Clash reunion would happen one day and then one December morning I get off the plane from Seattle and my phone buzzes nonstop for 15 minutes and that was the end of that.

So I paid $75 to see Mick Jones and was completely okay with that–except that BAD were utterly fantastic.

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There is not much to say, not much that needs to be said. The night was about playing the songs, making them as big and bold and bright as the fantasies everyone had the first time they heard them, songs that made them pick up a guitar or write a song, take a chance.

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Jesse Malin with guests Tommy Stinson and Billie Joe Armstrong covering Johnny Thunders, 2/19/11

Jesse Malin performed two shows at City Winery last night which featured his first album, The Fine Art of Self-Destruction, played in its entirety. Tommy Stinson opened. (I will get to that in a bit.) It’s a great record, so getting up and playing it start to finish with a great band (imo Jesse’s best band ever) has to result in an amazing show. The performances were strong, every single one of them. I do wish that he had set the record up with one key story, and then just played the thing from beginning to end with no stops. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled by the performance, but I wish there had been less chat and more music on this one night.

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One of my favorite Neil Young quotes is his comment about Pearl Jam, back when they were working on Mirror Ball together, that they knew when *not* to play. That comment never made more sense to me than it did last night at Carnegie Hall, as a parade of artists came out to pay tribute to Young Neil.

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Standing outside St. Mark’s Church, shivering as I waited to get in, I turned as someone came up behind me. It was Patti, and Lenny. “Happy Anniversary!” I said. She giggled a little, the way she does these days, before thanking me and heading into warmth.

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The contest was announced on Friday: enter to be an audience member at an exclusive Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band (emphasis on E STREET BAND) video taping on Tuesday, December 7th, for a Springsteen webcast to be broadcast at a future date. Obviously, I entered; it was likely that this would be the only such sighting in 2010. I spent all Monday night hitting refresh on my phone, waiting to hear if I’d won, which I didn’t; only 15 people out of 2500+ entries got in. While it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve stood on the boardwalk in the cold hoping for a miracle, I wasn’t heading down the Shore this time without a way in; it was too uncertain, due to the small space, and it was too goddamn cold. The phone call extending me a way in came at 10:09am the next day; we had to be in Asbury by no later than 2:30. I put on tights, wool socks, jeans, tank top, thermal, long sleeve shirt, short sleeved shirt, sweater, hood, two scarves, a coat and a wool hat. (If you think this is unnecessary detail, you have clearly never stood in December cold in Asbury Park waiting for some Bruce Springsteen event.)

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After all these years, I finally got to see Leonard Cohen, at the last night of his 3-year tour in Las Vegas. He played 30 songs, and for over three hours (that’s excluding the 20 minute intermission). I am not exaggerating when I say there is not at Leonard Cohen song I wanted to hear that he didn’t sing, and then some.

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