tired old git complaining about the kids

C and S and I arrived at a new-to-me hole-in-the-wall pub in Cambridge at around 11:30 and began to consume mass quantities. And nachos. When the rains came, we retreated from the patio into the bar and said "well, that settles it" and had another round. By the time we began to be a little sensitive about having outlasted multiple rounds of other patrons, the idea came up to go see the 4:15 of the new Angie Jolie shoot 'em up, Wanted.

This is the kind of movie that, upon seeing previews, prompts my ladyfriend and I to turn to each other and start a low, slowly accelerating chant of "brew and view, Brew and View, BREW and VIEW! BREW AND VIEW!!!" Ah, the Brew and View; another thing to miss about Chicago and wonder why exactly there's nothing like it in Boston (in fairness, the theater near my house serves beer, but it's no B&V). There are certain movies that lend themselves so well to this concept that I want to view them at the Brew and View, even though I wouldn't see them in any other circumstance (in a regular theater, at home, on a plane, at a friend's house...). Summer dreck fares especially well paired with beers, G&Ts, and cheap popcorn swiped off the abandoned table of the couple who are not staying for the second feature.

(I'm reprinting this from my actual blog, seeing as KPunk (I think) had something nice to say about it, and it may be of interest to some of you. It originally came at the end of a series of entries about my favourite records of the year)

...It’s interesting to me that this selection features a lot of instrumental music.I’m thinking this reflects a malaise in the contemporary scene, because it sure looks to me like no one has anything to say anymore.
The US is saddled with one of the worst administrations in their history, a horrendous gaggle of corporate whores with their noses in the trough, their eyes blinded with corrupt ideology and their hands giving you the finger. A similar situation under Reagan threw up Husker Du, Big Black, The Minutemen, Black Flag, a thriving underground full of fire and passion who railed against these charlatans. It was similiar in the UK as well. Okay, so Crass were unlistenable and Red Wedge was an embarrassment, but at least people were trying to do something positive.

Looking at the latest issue of Music Week, I note that The Kooks are still hanging around the top 20 album chart, with whatever their pissweak excuse for a record is called. Don’t this unpleasant bunch of stage school brats sum up everything wrong with the term “indie” in 2006? A world where multinational lager companies sponsor alternative rock festivals, emo has somehow traveled from Rites Of Spring and Texas Is The Reason to Panic (and no, I’m not putting the exclamation mark in, you tossers) At The Fucking Disco and any bad metal band with their fingernails painted black, while the NME is doing advertorial spreads with Topman? Oh yes, the NME. Where to start? Their relentless quest to persuade the readership that New Rave means anything outside of a few East London art school students seized with an ironic nostalgia for Altern8? The Klaxons are the musical equivalent of sitting around the sixth form common room talking about the TV programmes you used to watch when you were a kid, and don’t you forget it. Listen, mate, I’ve been round the block a few times, I remember Romo, and Fraggle for that matter. You’re not fooling anyone. Or how about the championing of a –what is it? third, fourth, fifth generation? – Cramps tribute act?* Or the whoring out of reviews to whatever’s got a good promo plot this week? Nine out of the ten for the Kasabian album? It’s okay, but it’s not all that, is it? I’m not sure if this your actual editorial interference from record companies with big advertising budgets to withhold, or just the writers being scared of missing the boat as spectacularly as they did with the second Oasis album, which received lukewarm reviews all round, only to be declared Best Thing Ever when everyone in the UK went and bought 37 copies each. Of course, this trend started with the third Oasis album, which was greeted more rapturously than a busload of orphans taking a wrong turn into the Catholic Priests’ Country Awayday Weekend, but was actually one long evil burst of cocaine flatulence. I am aware that criticising the NME as an act of cultural subversion is about on a par with saying that racism is bad, but these things all need to be said.