Stenchman DUBSTEP remix of Aimee Mann's cover of 'One' by Harry Nilsson
Bass in the place.
Brixton, London. On a bitterly cold March evening hundreds of expectant faces file into 3rd Base, a tiny club under St Matthew’s Church. The first birthday of dubstep night DMZ has attracted representatives from all over the UK and worldwide, including this evening’s party-starter, the hugely charismatic Baltimore DJ Joe Nice. Inside, the room rattles to a sound that incorporates UK garage’s sparse clipped beats, techno’s futurism, jungle’s skanking half-time rhythms and the sheer bass weight of dub reggae. The bass is the thing. “Chest bass” as DMZ host Sgt Pokes has it. That moment of delicious weightlessness before the b-line drops.
Kode 9: “The sub-bass is the thing that’s consistent. Anything goes on top of that”. For the Glaswegian producer that means cinematic samples and the booming tones of his vocalist, Spaceape. A Digital Mystikz tune can range from gnarly halfstep to uptempo 4/4. While Skream productions might mean fluttering arpeggio’d synths as on Midnight Request Line, arguably dubstep’s biggest tune thus far. As upcoming producer Burial notes, in an interview with key blogger Blackdown, the absence of an easily defined formula baffles bandwagon jumpers. Or: “There are no highway lights to attract rubbish producers. Everyone’s just off wandering.”
Joe Nice selects a dubplate, Loefah and Mala who (with Coki) run DMZ label/night.
Each of the principals are keen to stress that dubstep did not happen overnight. As with so many “new” dance genres, it evolved in increments, imperceptibly over time. It was born around the millennium, in the margins of the capital - places like Croydon’s Big Apple record shop where producers like Hatcha, Benga and Horsepower Productions became attracted to the sparser, dub end of UK garage; pirates like Rinse FM, where DJ Youngsta debuted aged 13, and any number of bedrooms illuminated by PCs running Fruityloops.
Kode 9, Joe Nice and Skream; Youngsta behind the counter at BM Soho.
Certainly there were markers announcing that dubstep had become more than a collection of like-minded producers: the three volumes of Tempa’s agenda-setting Dubstep Allstars mix CDs, Skream’s 'Request Line getting props from a range of producers as diverse as Wiley to Ricardo Villalobos throughout 2005, and Dubstep Warz, when long-time supporter and Radio 1 DJ Mary Anne Hobbs gave over her Breezeblock show to the cream of dubstep DJ/production talent. However, there’s no better illustration of the scene’s rapid expansion than DMZ’s first birthday. The club run by Mala & Coki (aka Digital Mystikz) and Loefah was interrupted mid-dance and ravers asked to file upstairs to the considerably larger Mass in order to accommodate the hundreds in the queue, snaking off into the night.
It’s a peculiar turn of events for a scene with such an apparent disinterest in crossover success. There’s none of grime’s chart-focused bling or the over-reaching ambition (albums, “proper” instruments) that dulled jungle. Anything that distracts from the music is ignored. The dancefloor at (Shoreditch club) FWD is pitch black, whilst DMZ consists of two monster speaker stacks and little else. Kode 9: “There’s one blue light. The sub-bass makes the air heavy. It’s like doing a rave 20,000 leagues underwater on the seabed. You might see some fish, sharks, maybe a dolphin.”
Loefah is more prosaic. “We just wanted a room with some big speakers and that’s that. You come down and you dance. If you don’t wanna dance, there’s nothing else to do.” Mala agrees, “We had lights once, but it didn’t work. It’s all about the darkness”.
By James Cowdery
Showing posts with label cool t shirts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cool t shirts. Show all posts
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
"Hello Katy Tour" Katy Perry @ the Wiltern 1-31-09
Let me start by saying this girl is sexy as hell!
iROCK shirt by dustyvinyldesign
Forget what you think you know about Katy Perry. Let go of any fluffy impressions formed from unavoidable run-ins with her breakout novelty "I Kissed a Girl," or its equally omnipresent (and infectious) follow-up "Hot N Cold" – or the many times the 24-year-old daughter of two pastors from Santa Barbara has turned up on television prancing in ill-fitting outfits, leaving her looking like a trampy, kinda-campy Bette Midler in training.
Saturday night before a capacity crowd at the Wiltern, in her first headlining L.A. appearance since becoming a bona fide pop star, Perry proved she's got legs. And I don't mean just the lengthy gams she flashed and strutted on Betty Boop-ishly while wearing a slip of a sparkly gold mini-dress and black pumps.
In a surprisingly strong performance, only the fourth date of her just-launched, cutely named Hello Katy Tour, Perry set herself apart from the teeming hordes of pop-tart princesses who have taken over mainstream radio this decade with a show that deftly displayed all of her winning traits.
She's an amalgamation, for sure; she makes no bones, for instance, about learning costumed theatricality from Freddie Mercury. Note how she began her show by strolling on to "Killer Queen" and kicked off her encore with a cover of "Don't Stop Me Now," having first changed into a skin-tight, leopard-print kitty-cat outfit, complete with a tail at the base of her plunging backline. Freddie surely would have approved.
But frankly that's the least (if most outwardly obvious) of her influences. At root Perry's approach is comprised of the vulnerable fierceness of early Alanis mixed with the free-spirited sass of Pink, the bark of Pat Benatar, the playfulness of early Madonna and no-nonsense attitude picked up from Shirley Manson and Joan Jett.
Combined with a gently bawdy aura of tarnished wholesomeness that gives her an allure all her own, she's quickly become colorfully refreshing the way Cyndi Lauper was in '84 – coincidentally the year Perry was born.
And Saturday the jiggling, hop-happy sexpot with rocker strength clearly came to impress by illuminating different aspects of that developing artistry.
Lest you think she's some overnight sensation, recall that prior to racing up the charts Perry earned her sensitivity merit badge while strumming heartbroken recovery aids at the tiny L.A. songwriters showcase the Hotel Café, presumably the birthplace of the emotionally adrift tune "Lost" and several softer leftovers like the ones she indulged here, "I'm Still Breathing" and "I Think I'm Ready." (Unlike your average Mileys and Hilarys, Katy pens or at least co-authors all of her material, enlisting pros like Desmond Child and Swedish pop master Max Martin to assist with execution, not formation of thoughts.)
Yet, when her Capitol Records debut (the undeniably catchy and well-crafted "One of the Boys") surfaced in mid-June, rather than abandon any realer identity by leaping headlong into a very vapid pool stuffed full of Pussycat Dolls and the like, Perry instead cut her more aggressive teeth alongside punks and emo kids on last summer's Warped Tour.
Such a sunburned baptism has served her well, for since then she's been determinedly fusing the basic strains of her sound – folksiness, fire and flash – into something mildly arresting. She's rapidly evolving into a glamorous but empowering dynamo, one that already has produced more panache in the past seven months than stuck-in-a-rut Avril Lavigne has displayed all decade.
In so many songs Saturday night, from the defiant yearning of "One of the Boys" to the bleary tale of "Waking Up in Vegas" to the young woman's lament of "Lost," Perry managed to walk a fine line between teenage folly and adult expression, in the process appealing to young girls, their moms and all the party babes that predominantly filled the Wiltern. Perry packs enough wit in her politely edgy, sometimes absurdly controversial turns-of-phrases – simple but effective hooks like "you're so gay and you don't even like boys" and "you change your mind like a girl changes clothes" – that you suspect she might grow into a uniquely interesting songwriter someday: an Alanis with a risqué sense of humor.
For now, she's still just getting her feet wet, and clearly having fun doing so, performing on this tour amid a backdrop of balloons, giant fruit and other props that allowed her to veer just enough into naughtiness without overdoing it – or seeming silly, for that matter.
When she concluded with a kicking rendition of "I Kissed a Girl," getting lightly lascivious with an oversized cherry Chapstick in much the same way Mick Jagger flirted with an even more phallic inflatable back in '75, the effect wasn't pop dross like we get from Britney and the Pussycats. As Perry stomped about the stage and leapt out into the crowd, her shtick became sweaty, all-out rock 'n' roll entertainment at an unexpectedly high skill level.
I didn't care before, but now I think it's a crying shame she didn't get a Grammy nomination for best new artist.
The day began early onstage as we began to inflate a giant Kitty head, massive vinyl cherrys, strawberrys and banannas for Katy Perry's backdrop. As you can imagine the humourous lewd comments flew and set the path for the show that was to follow. Boy does Katy inflate my bananna!
"Combining the lyrical vengeance of early Alanis Morissette with the rocker sass of Pink and Pat Benatar and flash learned from Freddie Mercury, Katy Perry set herself apart from the teeming hordes of pop-tart princesses this decade with a surprisingly strong performance Saturday night at the Wiltern Theatre, her first major headlining appearance in Southern California. "
ARMANDO BROWN, FOR THE OC REGISTER
... I couldn't have put it better myself. Katy Rocks, shes got pipes, stems, chops and what a looker.
iROCK shirt by dustyvinyldesign
Forget what you think you know about Katy Perry. Let go of any fluffy impressions formed from unavoidable run-ins with her breakout novelty "I Kissed a Girl," or its equally omnipresent (and infectious) follow-up "Hot N Cold" – or the many times the 24-year-old daughter of two pastors from Santa Barbara has turned up on television prancing in ill-fitting outfits, leaving her looking like a trampy, kinda-campy Bette Midler in training.
Saturday night before a capacity crowd at the Wiltern, in her first headlining L.A. appearance since becoming a bona fide pop star, Perry proved she's got legs. And I don't mean just the lengthy gams she flashed and strutted on Betty Boop-ishly while wearing a slip of a sparkly gold mini-dress and black pumps.
Katy is a full on GLAM JUNKIE
In a surprisingly strong performance, only the fourth date of her just-launched, cutely named Hello Katy Tour, Perry set herself apart from the teeming hordes of pop-tart princesses who have taken over mainstream radio this decade with a show that deftly displayed all of her winning traits.
She's an amalgamation, for sure; she makes no bones, for instance, about learning costumed theatricality from Freddie Mercury. Note how she began her show by strolling on to "Killer Queen" and kicked off her encore with a cover of "Don't Stop Me Now," having first changed into a skin-tight, leopard-print kitty-cat outfit, complete with a tail at the base of her plunging backline. Freddie surely would have approved.
But frankly that's the least (if most outwardly obvious) of her influences. At root Perry's approach is comprised of the vulnerable fierceness of early Alanis mixed with the free-spirited sass of Pink, the bark of Pat Benatar, the playfulness of early Madonna and no-nonsense attitude picked up from Shirley Manson and Joan Jett.
Combined with a gently bawdy aura of tarnished wholesomeness that gives her an allure all her own, she's quickly become colorfully refreshing the way Cyndi Lauper was in '84 – coincidentally the year Perry was born.
And Saturday the jiggling, hop-happy sexpot with rocker strength clearly came to impress by illuminating different aspects of that developing artistry.
Lest you think she's some overnight sensation, recall that prior to racing up the charts Perry earned her sensitivity merit badge while strumming heartbroken recovery aids at the tiny L.A. songwriters showcase the Hotel Café, presumably the birthplace of the emotionally adrift tune "Lost" and several softer leftovers like the ones she indulged here, "I'm Still Breathing" and "I Think I'm Ready." (Unlike your average Mileys and Hilarys, Katy pens or at least co-authors all of her material, enlisting pros like Desmond Child and Swedish pop master Max Martin to assist with execution, not formation of thoughts.)
Yet, when her Capitol Records debut (the undeniably catchy and well-crafted "One of the Boys") surfaced in mid-June, rather than abandon any realer identity by leaping headlong into a very vapid pool stuffed full of Pussycat Dolls and the like, Perry instead cut her more aggressive teeth alongside punks and emo kids on last summer's Warped Tour.
Such a sunburned baptism has served her well, for since then she's been determinedly fusing the basic strains of her sound – folksiness, fire and flash – into something mildly arresting. She's rapidly evolving into a glamorous but empowering dynamo, one that already has produced more panache in the past seven months than stuck-in-a-rut Avril Lavigne has displayed all decade.
In so many songs Saturday night, from the defiant yearning of "One of the Boys" to the bleary tale of "Waking Up in Vegas" to the young woman's lament of "Lost," Perry managed to walk a fine line between teenage folly and adult expression, in the process appealing to young girls, their moms and all the party babes that predominantly filled the Wiltern. Perry packs enough wit in her politely edgy, sometimes absurdly controversial turns-of-phrases – simple but effective hooks like "you're so gay and you don't even like boys" and "you change your mind like a girl changes clothes" – that you suspect she might grow into a uniquely interesting songwriter someday: an Alanis with a risqué sense of humor.
For now, she's still just getting her feet wet, and clearly having fun doing so, performing on this tour amid a backdrop of balloons, giant fruit and other props that allowed her to veer just enough into naughtiness without overdoing it – or seeming silly, for that matter.
When she concluded with a kicking rendition of "I Kissed a Girl," getting lightly lascivious with an oversized cherry Chapstick in much the same way Mick Jagger flirted with an even more phallic inflatable back in '75, the effect wasn't pop dross like we get from Britney and the Pussycats. As Perry stomped about the stage and leapt out into the crowd, her shtick became sweaty, all-out rock 'n' roll entertainment at an unexpectedly high skill level.
I didn't care before, but now I think it's a crying shame she didn't get a Grammy nomination for best new artist.
WRITER: bwener@ocregister.com
ARTICLE: OC Register
Katy gets my personal "Inflated bananna" award, All my love Katy, all my love.
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