WHERE IS MY SEXUALITY?
Maroon 5 @ Air Canada Centre, Toronto, ON, 10.4.07
10/10
by Andrew Blake
In the on-going, ever-tiring personal feat of challenging my own sexuality, I entertained the idea of attending a performance by the Los Angeles quintet Maroon 5 last Thursday in Toronto. Sure, I had heard the songs on the radio, and yes, I may have even danced in my car, but was I really ready to commit myself to an international trek? Once tickets were secured, the only thing keeping me from front man Adam Levine’s gyrating pelvis was the US/Canada Border Control.
And, oh, how they tried me! Forty-five minute delay on the Lewiston-Queenston Bridge, I laugh at you! While the delay did prevent me from watching The Hives open up the show, the lackluster Ontario Provincial Police along the QEW ensured that as long as I maintained a steady speed of 88 mph, exactly the speed required to travel back in time, it would be moments before I ascended the stairs into the Air Canada Centre to await my crooning king.
Adam Levine is Maroon 5. The LA band has been performing for over a decade now, but ask almost anyone, he is the star and he knows it. His personal performance, which alternated between belting melodies from all sides of the stage and taking the spotlight in the center, with just a ribbed Express shirt and a Fender Stratocaster keeping my skin from his, is borrowed from all the best before him.
With his guitar, his dancing hips swayed to his own rhythm just as Prince has been doing for twenty years. Without his axe, Levine galloped (I swear, he fucking galloped) from side to side and led the audience in call-and -response chants straight from the book of Freddie Mercury. Though making time to introduce the rest of the Five, Levine took center stage and clearly knew he was the reason thousands of fifteen-year-old girls, pregnant women, and sexually-unconfident men were there.
Maroon 5 entertained the Canadian crowd just as you would expect an internationally touring Top 40 band to do. They thanked the audience, praised Canada, asked for a hand every now and then, and gave them what they wanted. From “This Love” off 2002’s Songs About Jane, to tunes off of this year’s It Won’t Be Soon Before Long, Levine and company dazzled the crowd with hit after hit, leaving room for the occasional slow pop ballad and even a borrowed ‘80s faux-funk song. Perhaps feeling out of place in the far-from-sold out arena, songs often melded into covers of some reputable groups, including a White Stripes and even a brief Phil Collins number, which had the crowd out of their chairs.
From my seat on Thursday night, I tried figure out what it was about Adam Levine that mesmerized me. His appearance is uncannily similar to Backstreet Boy Kevin Richardson, perhaps with a touch of Morrissey—if the two had a baby, registered their baby shower at American Apparel, and the kid was totally hot, it would be Adam Levine. Regardless, he won the hearts of several thousands Canadian women, and even this lucky American boy last week.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS ARE EVERYTHING
O’Connell’s American Bistro
9/10
by Adam Silkworth
If there is a place that the older middle-class crowd and the college students can agree on, it’s O’Connell’s American Bistro, located at 981 Kenmore Avenue. Its appeal stems from the warm décor and its sweet daily specials. O’Connell’s American Bistro is fine dining with an ambiance fit for a romantic night out.
To start off, I had a bottle of Stella Artois ($4) and my date went with the French martini, the cheapest of the Bistro Cocktails at $8. The wines by the glass will run you anywhere from $5 for New York Riesling to $15 for the exquisite Napa Valley Newton Unfiltered. They also offer a very extensive bottled variety—divided by region and country.
Appetizers cost anywhere from $5 for a salad to $19.50 for Lobster gnocchi. The menu consists of steaks, chicken, duck, and pork, but they also offer a few fish dishes like their roasted sea bass with strawberry mint salad and lemon hollandaise. Entrees range from $16 for the French chicken breast with capers, tomato, lemon and white wine—which was delicious, to $58 for the 20 oz. American Kobe Steak. Expect to spend around an average of $25 a plate if you come for dinner.
The lunch menu, however, is where it’s at. Offering two courses for $12 and three courses for $15, you have a choice of ridiculously exquisite food for a price everyone can afford. Even more delicious is their Tuesday lunch special, offering two courses for two people for $20. You can choose between pan-fried crab cakes and tomato salad, and duck confit with Brussels sprouts and mustard sauce, among many other worthy and succulent options. If your taste buds aren’t tingling yet, some of the appetizers include fresh mozzarella, heirloom tomato, basil, and olive oil, or smoked king salmon with hardboiled egg, chive, capers, and cream cheese. You can check out their entire menu at their website, oconnellsamericanbistro.com.
Every day of the week, O’Connell’s offers different money-saving specials. On Mondays, you can chill out at the bar for drink and appetizer specials while watching football on their 37” flat screen. Tuesday is their lunch special. Wednesday, by sitting at the bar and ordering two appetizers, you earn a free decanter of wine, and Thursday’s special appeal is the discounted bottled wines. Fridays, you can enjoy live piano music by Adam Murphy.
The service was excellent. If you’re going for dinner, just remember to dress accordingly—slacks and nice shirt are a must. It’s dimly lit, but not too dark, providing the perfect atmosphere for quiet conversation and footsies if you’re lucky. A mural of a French town is plastered across the main dining area with French terminology accentuating the room. If you really want to show her you care, brush up on your French and tell her what it all means. According to Mr. O’Connell himself, “Next to being in Paris…it doesn’t get much better than this.” I would have to agree.
...The New sing
Man Man @ the Tralf, 10.7.07
8/10
by Peter Scheck
About halfway through Man Man’s set last Sunday, the rumors started spreading around the audience. The band was supposed to be coming out after the show, to an “afterparty” at a predetermined location in an art space across town. Normally I wouldn’t have cared—a bunch of posturing dudes in blazers and sideways haircuts? I could just talk to myself. But this was Man Man, a five-man band that sounds like they’d be more comfortable playing as a circus sideshow than on the stage of the Tralf. I said it sounded fun, and looked up to find the singer and drummer at the foot of the stage, hammering at their instruments and howling in each other’s white-painted faces.
Man Man plays melodies that are as often led by keyboard as by kazoo—rhythms are drummed sometimes with sticks, sometimes feet. They aren’t important by themselves but together form a strange concoction of sound. “Black Mission Goggles” is a note-for-note replica of The Beatles’ “Come Together,” but with Man Man, it doesn’t seem to matter. If anything, it sounds like the Beatles on less acid and more speed, like Abbey Road on 45 RPM. Every song sounds like you’ve heard it before, whether it’s a cabaret sounding croon with organ accompaniment or a chorus of baritones singing the opening track to their album Six Demon Bag, “Feathers.” Lyrics to the band’s work, though available online, are like trying to fit a circular block through a square hole. They give you the unique experience of being able to sing a song, dance to a song, and feel like you really know a song, even if you don’t know more than a few of the sounds that come out of the singer’s mouth.
The crowd was a whirlpool, screaming melodies that they felt like they’d heard a million times, but which were still new. Man Man is a sing-along campfire band turned up to 11—enough to make you scream to be heard among the chorus:“When anything that’s anything becomes nothing that’s everything and nothing is the only thing that you ever seem to have…” (At least, that’s how it sounded from where I was standing).
Did I mention they smile the whole time? They switch instruments out of a pile of crap that looks like a picked-over yard sale, and make a sound Phil Specter made millions for. Not that the band sounds like the Beatles, but it is remarkable that the face of pop music has changed so much since their time. The way we listened to a band even ten years ago is different than the way we listen to—and sing with—and try to be a part of—Man Man.
They never showed up to be the stars of the afterparty that night. They’d make lousy rock stars, anyway.
IN DA CLUB
We Own The Night
8/10
by Elina Vaysbeyn
The ‘80s is a decade that refuses to be forgotten. Its notoriety is widespread. We Own The Night begins with a series of freeze frames of old school-looking cops, busting some way old school-looking criminals, smothered in acid wash denim, and getting the search of a lifetime. Intrigued yet? I was. Then, they shoot to a club scene: Blondie is playing in the background while people are doing drugs that those unlucky enough to be born in the new millennium have never heard about.
The setting is the Coney Island boardwalk in Brooklyn, commonly known as “Sodom by the Sea.” The club is El Caribe. The year is 1988. Bobby Green, played by Joaquin Phoenix, runs the venue. He’s got friends in high places, he’s got a beautiful girl (Eva Mendes)— he’s doin’ good, real good. In fact, Bobby is so slick that no one in El Caribe even knows that he comes from a family full of cops. Green operates under Marat Buzhayev, his Russian superior, and the real owner of El Caribe. Multiple large scale illegal trade-offs occur in the club daily, but Green stays out of it, having only a recreational interest in the world of narcotics— staging a coke party every now and again for his wild comrades and knockout girlfriend, Amada.
Green’s brother, Joseph, played by the enchantingly handsome Mark Wahlberg, is a police officer hot on the trail of El Caribe’s drug lords. He stages a bust at the club and the adventure rolls from there. The two brothers become entangled in a dangerous web, chasing after Vadim Nezhinski, a Russian kingpin who transports and sells cocaine. Bobby and Amada are compelled by the police to travel from hotel to hotel, running from the Russian mob, until Bobby, faced with a “fight or flight” situation, straps on his honorary police badge and gives the bad guys a run for their money.
We Own The Night is colorful and flashy, just like the ‘80s. The depiction of the Brooklyn party scene and the even more localized Coney Island boardwalk is nostalgic in nature. It situates itself well within the decade— thick Brooklyn accents, the idealistic “We Own The Night” police badge campaign, and the migration of Russian émigrés towards the New York City coastline.
We Own The Night glorifies police officers in a way that doesn’t inspire resentment. The “pig” stereotype gradually slips away and we end up wholeheartedly rooting for the NYPD. We Own The Night is a memorable glance over the shoulder into the past.
THEY DID, MADE, SAID, THOUGHT
Do Make Say Think @ Soundlab 10.6.07
10/10
by Victoria Burhams
Waiting patiently for a band you love to play a show nearby is hard enough, but Do Make Say Think fans have been waiting for months to see the Toronto natives perform after the cancellation of their concert earlier this year. Fans packed in like sardines at Soundlab, located at 110 Pearl St., on Saturday October 6, to see Do Make Say Think and Buffalo’s own Bare Flames put on one hell of a show.
When billed to open for an act like Do Make, it’s almost impossible to make an impression upon the audience. Bare Flames did, however, manage to put on an interesting show, using screwdrivers and electric knife carvers to produce experimental, noisy beats. They made sounds that have never graced my ears before and amused the crowd with their unconventional technique. Their antics turned ear-wrenching at moments, but were at the very least, memorable. Dark, trippy, and forceful like the sounds of the apocalypse, this trio was an adequate time-killer until the main attraction.
Do Make Say Think put on a show as intense and grandiose as their name implies. Fusing jazzy saxophones, trumpets, pounding drums, bass lines, violin, keyboards, and even a piano recorder makes their sound as vast as the philharmonic. Together they became full and melodic. It felt like a concert in outer space.
Their set went on for almost two hours, playing songs like “In Mind,” “When Day Chokes Night,” “Fredericia,” and the rousing “Horns of a Rabbit,” during which everyone’s metal horns were waving high in the air.
With every song they played, the crowd grew more and more entranced with their post-rock symphonies. Swaying in unison, dancing as if each instrument was a puppet master, the crowd soon became a joint collective, feeling all the same movements in their body. I rocked, swayed, and danced as if each song was pouring out of me. This explosion of sound went into the wee hours of the morning.
They ended the first part of their North American tour that night, heading home to Toronto, but the group will be touring until the end of the year for the release of their latest album You, You’re a History in Rust. Full-out instrumental pieces are often easily dismissed, yet one thing is certain—Do Make Say Think knows how to bring down the house. Mashing violin solos, jazz-riddled tunes, and loud bass-driven songs, they filled up every inch of Soundlab with music and put on a masterpiece of a performance.
A Little Something Extra
Lagniappe Restaurant
7/10
by Lisa Strand
After walking into the tiny dining room I had mixed feelings about eating at the miniscule restaurant tucked away on the far side of Allen Street. Despite the appearance, I grabbed a menu and sat down at one of the three tables—I suddenly found a reason to stay. Lagniappe, located at 244 Allen Street, offers New Orleans Cajun and Creole style food that was definitely worth the trip from Amherst. The tiny quarters were traditionally decorated with deep red walls and abstract artwork, along with voodoo masks and plenty of candles that gave it an eerie feel. Although a little kitschy, the magic eight ball, skulls, and Mardi Gras beads helped give the otherwise drab space a Big Easy feel.
There was jambalaya and gumbo, po-boys, chicken, and seafood (crawfish and shrimp mostly) on the menu; everything came in a no-frills to-go container, perfect to take home your leftovers. I ordered some Cajun wings ($8) that were fried then grilled with a spicy Cajun rub—the taste was drastically different from Buffalo wings and was refreshingly tangy. The chicken, sausage, and crawfish jambalaya ($8) came with rice and a spicy, thick Creole sauce. This dish was fantastic.
Their variety of po-boys was endless, ranging from fried seafood ($8) to pesto chicken ($7) to smoked pulled pork ($7). The portabello club po-boy ($7) was mouth-watering, served on toasted multi-grain bread layered with mushrooms, cucumbers, romaine lettuce, sprouts, red onion and Dijon mayo. The penne pasta entree with sautéed crawfish and andouille sausage tossed in a Cajun cream sauce was also a great choice. Other entrees included almond crusted shrimp served with a mango salsa, catfish—fried or blackened (your pick)—served with rice and Creole sauce. My Creole Meatloaf po-boy ($7) was huge and piping hot with a Louisiana style spicy tomato based sauce mixed into it. They also had an extensive list of sides ($1.50 each) to go with the sandwiches and entrees that include southern favorites like baked mac and cheese, okra, mashed sweet potatoes, fries, and coleslaw.
Our orders took a while to come out because they had only one cook making all of the entrees. They also don’t have a liquor license yet, and the nearest bathroom is way across the street in Allen Street Hardware Cafe. What little space they have is utilized well to cater to take out orders. Although the facility itself is less than adequate, it makes do with what it has and promises a brilliant meal for a very affordable price. My advice is to call ahead—far ahead—and go pick up your order rather than eat in to get a taste of authentic N’aw-leans.
FREE MUSIC!
Radiohead - In Rainbows
8/10
by Andrew Blake
The news started traveling in the morning hours of October 1, from blog to message board and quickly onto radio. The message, which was as unexpected as the return of autumn itself, proclaimed that the new Radiohead album would be out in only a week. Radiohead, the English rock innovators who have arguably made more of a contribution to their genre than perhaps any other group in the last decade, not only had a new album, In Rainbows, but they were putting it out themselves, online, for any price the consumer saw fit.
In the 14 years since Pablo Honey, their major label debut, Thom Yorke’s Radiohead had released half a dozen albums under Capitol Records. Since 1993, the output of the band has gradually shifted from over-produced, critically acclaimed indie rock to the catastrophic noise of the art-rock Ok Computer in 1997. It wasn’t until the band’s newer releases that they seemed to find an appropriate niche for their post-grunge sound. So far, their discograpy peaks with last week’s In Rainbows. Combining the acoustic subtleties of their earliest work with the mechanical ambiance of more recent projects, In Rainbows is their best yet.
With a download being accessible for a donation of any price, In Rainbows sold over 1.2 million in its first three days alone. While the brief hype that prefaced the release no doubt increased sales, once the album became available, word quickly surfaced: it’s fucking good.
A large portion of In Rainbows’ tracks had been previewed during the last two years. From the band’s 28-song set at Bonnaroo ’06 to a worldwide theatre tour, the last two years have given the band time to preview their songs in concert in order to work on them for the new album.
Their hard work is demonstrated in the high quality of each track. Like the six releases that came before it, In Rainbows is produced so heavily in layers that it is hard to separate each track into its instrumental counterparts without confusion. “15 Step,” the album opener, features an automated clacking rhythm that hypnotizes the listener into a toe-tapping frenzy throughout the tune. Coming only two tracks later, “Nude” is an ambient waltz whose crystal clear guitar arpeggios are outshined by nothing short of what might be Yorke’s best vocal work to date. The album’s closing track, “Videotape,” begins nearly forty minutes into the album, and the syncopated snare rolls and haunting minor piano chords create a morbid conclusion to a perfect album.
In Rainbows lacks the optimism of earlier Radiohead albums, which though sparse, were always somewhat accessible. What the new album does bring to the table is another chilling chapter into alternative rock, which, if the ominous harmonies and mechanical drums say anything, might be its last.
Come on Out
LBGTA’s Amateur Drag Show
9/10
by Emily de Beer
On Monday, October 8, University at Buffalo’s Amateur Drag Show started off shakily. The event was scheduled to begin at 7 p.m. but was running over a half an hour late. A small but enthusiastic audience grew impatient and I wondered if I was going to miss The Hills—however, something far more fabulous was about to happen in the Student Union Theater.
Fantasee Island, a professional drag queen and the host of the show, was certainly the belle of the ball. He, I mean…she, spent a majority of the show swearing like a sailor, hitting on any poor guy who happened to walk in late, reading dirty text messages she was receiving, and calling out some of the flaws in the performance. She even spoke directly to me, as I sat in the front row, saying that she’s been doing shows at UB for ten years and after hours of interviews, The Spectrum has failed to give her any honorable mentions. Well, Fantasee Island, on behalf of Generation, I’d like to give you a resounding, “You go, girl!”
The event was a pretty good kick-off for the national “Coming Out Week” at UB, hosted by the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Association. The organization itself, however, was relatively “closeted,” as president Christian Soto made only a few opening remarks. The focus of the drag show was not necessarily about spreading awareness, but it was certainly about homosexuals, bisexuals, and “try-sexuals” coming together to have fun. The show started with some gender-bending as boys dressed like the Spice Girls and girls dressed as the Backstreet Boys flooded the stage with a lip-syncing and dance battle. Some following crowd pleasers included drag queens and kings impersonating Angel from the musical RENT, performing a dance to “Fergilicious,” and even doing a rendition of SNL’s famous “Dick in a Box” skit.
The show was just as open about its disorganization as it was about its sexual orientation, but overall, the amateur qualities of the show gave it a laid-back, playful vibe, making you feel like it was one of the drag shows you hosted in your basement. Admit it, we know you did.
Fantasee Island wrapped things up by explaining the origin of the term “drag” (Shakespeare used “DR. AG.” as a denotation of an actor being Dressed As Girl), and encouraged the audience to be themselves and be safe, and politely waited for everyone to get the fuck out so she could meet up with the sender on the other end of those dirty text messages. Unfortunately, I’m giving it to you straight: LGBTA’s amateur drag show was a blast!
