Rally, Rally, Rally

Tonight was supposed to be a rally. Three shows. Four bands. One car. A large city. Go.

But the best laid plans end with me in front of Largo, a girl drinking from a flask, and Jon Brion's soundman and I trading war stories.

Not to say there wasn't some great stuff in between 7pm and that. TV on The Radio, for one, have really grown into their sound; opening for Franz at the Greek they busted that soul-noise-breakdown stuff on some new songs that sounded both lovely and destructive at once. Score.

And: Score for Franz Ferdinand, who looked and sounded better at the Greek than they did at the Wiltern last year. And you know what, Weigel? I get where you're going with that "this record is their pinkerton" thing, but I don't think you're right. I think their new songs are obviously stronger than the stuff on the last record -- less straight-ahead dance-punk, more polished musically. Pinkerton snuck up on you. This one hits you over the head.

But: We missed Devandra Banhardt. Oh well. I'll wait for vegas.

Dropped three girls off. Then: Rally.

To El Cid, for this band Two Gallants, reccommended to me last night. They were great. New signing to saddle creek and they sound like it, a two-piece roots-rock band (not unlike the Black Keys) with some emo-worthy lovelorn vocals and lyrics. Nice. Ran into Danny Schatz from Oakwood there, had some beers with him and his girlfriend, tried to convince them to Xingolati. No dice.

I'm on my way home and I pass largo. And I remember Jenn saying that I could just go there tonight instead. It's 1:30. What do I have to lose?

Nothing, apparantly. I talk to Sammy, Jon's right-hand man, about vocoders. This girl comes out with a flask. I laugh. She giggles. I say goodbye. I go home. I watch "My Name Is Earl." I type on my computer to people who may or may never read this. I maybe laugh some more.

I maybe scream.

Rally, Rally, Rally....

until next time,
Jeff