Currently viewing the tag: "musica"
I’ve been called a snob many times in my life. But I’ll get back to that.
As a budding adult, in weird‘s last true gasp, I found transitional identities that touched each of my developing ideals. Being straightedge was more than a penchant for guys with shaved heads, it was a declaration. Just like punk, indierock, Riot Grrrl–they all had a stance, a declared point of view. Their battle cries were my own as I wrestled with what the world was and who I was as a young adult in that world. My tastes were born of thought–critical thought–and an obsessive dissection of feeling. The offshoot, predominantly my taste in music, was the most important part of my growing up. To feel at home in a song, to feel confusion captured, mitigated and delivered back to me, soothingly, through the grainy threads of an uneven vinyl disc…that was everything. I spent hours in record stores, seeking the musical accompaniment for the marked chaos of my late teens. The reward was discord, validation, the expansion of thought and of feeling: growth. And you needed skill and time and instinct for that reward. (Which is why the internet generation suffers from a severe lack of “cool,” for lack of a better word. Google search surface-level savants, they are!) So… if you listened to crap, to me, it meant you didn’t think enough or your thoughts were simple enough to be appeased by mass-produced, trite pop music… I know, I know. I’ve been called a snob before. Because I connected one’s cerebral functioning and emotional depth with his/her taste in music. It was generalization, admitedly. But it was corroborated often enough to hold water.
Now I know very well that musical taste is, in fact, telling, I also know that so are a million other things–the combinations of which are endlessly fascinating in another being. Although I am more open and adaptable than my teenage self, I must admit that my experiences have given way to more specific anecdotal observations, though more tongue-in-cheek: “I’ve never disliked anyone who liked Leonard Cohen.” (It’s true.) “Plastic surgery kills credibility.” (It does.) “Personality microcosm: The style in which ones drives an automobile.” (Mostly true.) These observations are lighter. However, still, embedded in each is a little bit of declaration. I am still analytical, after all. And as an introvert, I think a lot more than I find opportunity to express. (Hence, this blog)
This takes me to “You are what you eat,” which I believe to be very true. It is here where my passion for good food, my disdain for the industrial food system, and my frustration in what others find to be acceptable sources of nourishment join forces to rial me up considerably, just as they did when I was 15, almost 20 years ago, when I went vegetarian. So I’ve been called a snob again… And, in a way, I see the connection. Like my teenage self, I think about things thoroughly and adapt my choices to align with my values. And also like my teenage self, I adamantly disagree with the mass majority. It matters what you eat. For your health, the health of the environment, the health of your family; for the billions of abused and mistreated animals, for the billions of slaughtered animals; for sustainable and fair business practices, for real and safe food choices, to fight nutritionally void processed food pushed onto with deceptive labeling and advertising–it matters what you eat. I embrace this inarguable fact. I think I deserve better food. So I guess I am a snob. But you deserve better food, too. We should all be snobs about what we put in our bodies.
Nothing would supplement this post more appropriately than the rest of my farmers market goodies. Golden beets. Yes, they are “Earthy” but why is that fantastic? I feel like Scarlett O’Hara eating that little carrot from the ground when I eat a beet, a pivotal turning point in the film. Sure, I am romanticizing it a bit but I do feel a bit of triumph.
Beet, with your tentacles long and your distributary roots many, I kind of love you.
With huge sugar-snap peas, blanched and coated lightly, you get two veggies in one: the firm container and the innards, a row of peas perfectly untouched by man. With my beets, a quick whip of organic potatoes, and a protein piece on the most gloriously bitter arugula, a well-balanced meal. Diversity, goodness, pure sustenance- I am what I eat!
With two pints of local berries to utilize, one can flirt with decadence freely. I adapted the Natural Gourmet Institue‘s recipe for vanilla blueberry cupcakes to make these little baby pancake cupcakes, trying out my Babycakes small appliance for the first time since my mom bought it for for Christmas a while ago. These little babies have the reminiscent bite of Entemann’s Little Bites blueberry muffins. Must be the sweetness factor: there’s cane sugar, maple syrup and agave nectar that’s in the recipe. Triple sweet but cut with organic whole wheat-I am what I eat!
I used the rest of the batter in the traditional cupcake tin. Gorgeous.
Rainer cherries were born in Washington, named for the mighty Mount Rainier. I find it kind of neat that 1/3 of Rainer cherries are eaten by birds (Thanks, wiki).
I, however, used them in scones, cherry-blueberry-almond scones, though I probably wouldn’t bake with them again. They are sweet and subdued, way less tart than Bing cherries, traditionally in cherry pies.
Last day in May, the afternoon: remember?
Black marks off charcoal from the dune: remember?
I thought it wouldn’t be too soon; we’d wait at least until its June.
The twenty-ninth of March it rained: remember?
You looked so sad that I explained: remember?
You knew it wouldn’t be too soon; we’ll have to wait until its June.
I’ve been waiting since I don’t know when and now it finally seems about to start.
I swear, I swear, that I will do my part.
December dark at six o’clock: remember?
The freezing wind gives you a shock: remember?
You knew it wouldn’t be too soon; we’ll have to wait until its June.
October damp on down the street: remember?
The sodden leaves stuck to your feet: remember?
You knew it wouldn’t be too soon; we’ll have to wait until its June.
I’ve been waiting since I don’t know when and now it finally seems about to start.
I swear, I swear, that I will do my part.
July the third we stayed up late: remember?
And thought how long we’d have to wait: remember?
It’ll be so long until it’s soon; it’ll be so long until its June.
Strong Hearts Cafe is an all-vegan cafe in Syracuse, New York. I’ve been eying their menu for some time, attempted a trip once but fell ill enroute. Since, it has sat in my bookmarks in the folder To Do, subfolder To Go & Eat. Here, finally, I get a taste of Syracuse’s only exclusively vegan eatery.
Strong Hearts Cafe has full menu of sandwich favorites, breakfast bites available all day and a slew of other goodies–salads, baked goods and a mouth-watering list of shakes named after a cast of social and animal activists. Try the homage to the hardline straightedgers Earth Crisis (peanut butter & chocolate), a band I hadn’t thought of since I last saw them at Wetlands in 1996, or The Sea Shepherds (coconut), marking owner Joel‘s Arctic stint with Sea Shepherds in 2005. Beyond their amazing menu, it is great to support the passionate causes that founded the cafe.
On to the food! Growing up on Long Island a local ma-n-pa delicatessen was never more than a few blocks away. I loved the potato salad, watching the big silver spoon dish out a huge portion for me, hoping for a piece of the upper layer’s garnish… Not many vegan eateries include potato salad on their menus. I knew Strong Hearts would do it right. Perfectly cooked potatoes, plenty of fresh dill, creamy with celery for texture. Yum.
I have problems with considering any other sandwich on the menu when a Reuben is offered. This one was delicious. The rye was grilled to a golden brown, there was perfect cabbage-to-seitan proportion and a tangy thousand islands dressing drizzled about. Next time I’d opt for none of the Daiya and add some pickles for some crunchy texture.
Of course, dessert. After a 5 hour ride and a bad case of Driver’s Knee (I’m getting old!), I think I earned it. The huge cupcake was their take on a creamsicle: vanilla cake (VCTOTW if I had to guess) and a sweet orange buttercream. Hubba hubba. Some serious piping up top. I’m curious about their sprinkles as I’ve never seen a vegan version (without the confectioners’ glaze) meet the texture and brightness of the non-vegan variety.
When I spoke of my childhood memories of the Jersey Shore I was remembering our visits to Seaside Heights, an amusement-filled length of boardwalk that stretches into the Atlantic ocean. I hadn’t been there since I was a little girl and was happy to see that the place still had Carny spirit, a palpable energy of timeless weirdness. Sure, the amusements were updated a bit but squint your eyes and you’re a kid again in a world where efforts were rewarded instantly by colorful, overstuffed plush objects, safety was a mitt-skinned man pull-testing your seatbelt and fun was bartered in colorful cardboard tickets.
My nostalgia for timeless weirdness is why I love taking pictures of amusement rides. I love the moving parts, the brightly painted machinery, the tiny bulbs, the man-made chaos on top of a bright blue sky.
Skee Ball
Everyone needs a Rastafarian banana.
Fiberglass Alfred E. Neuman knock-offs.
I was so disappointed to see that the Swing Ride I remembered, the one that swayed you out over the Atlantic ocean, had been replaced by this smaller one far from the pier’s edge. And I was all ready to tackle that ride that had made me cry hysterically 20+ years ago. This one would not do.
The water was off-limits, according to the roving 17 year-old beach patrol that rode back and forth pulling persistant crowds out of the water. Maybe it was the huge pink jellyfish, the strong undertow or that we did not purchase daily beach badges for the day ($10). We managed a few glorious dips however.
This is my favorite shot of the day.
Fun in the sun.
An aside, Bon Jovi’s ridiculous music video for In and Out of Love is my only Jersey Shore pop culture association. I’ve never seen Mtv’s Jersey Shore. This is a deliberate and conscious decision.
So I should mention something about food. Seaside Heights has standard amusement park fare: fried things. But they also have this great dairy-free frozen treat: Polish Water Ice.
This smooth, creamy treat is a water-based soft serve with texture that lasts thanks to its guar and xanthan gums. Sure, it is not the most natural treat, but it complements a sunny day at the beach–a welcome vegan option.
When the Bouncing Souls announced they’d be playing discography shows in New York, I was a bit giddy. The years surrounding The Good, the Bad and the Argyle and Maniacal Laughter marks the period in my life where every morsel of discretionary income when to buying and seeing music. And the Bouncing Souls were one of my favorite bands of that epoch. Though I never heard their music after these albums, they had already been cemented as a band that summated my youth and my emerging values: Antiestablishment but with a tongue in cheek. 
From the archives of 1997: Check out the price (and service charge) of the ticket. And my hair growing in from when I shaved it off.
Now, more than a decade later, it was time to revisit these two albums with a friend who was there with me back then. Since, we’ve branched off into two separate universes. But for the night, we were back–sharing glances of excited recognition as we heard the first notes of the songs that meant so much; songs that had shaped; songs that had offered a kindred, a momentary escape from an alienated youth. 
1999 with Josh, on one of the many photoshoots on my purple carpet.
Shows are hard in your 30′s. Especially with so many overgrown man-children “moshing” near the stage. I couldn’t see much of it, just fleeting glimpses of still-dreamy Greg Attonito who thankfully perked up in-between the two albums. The set was only about an hour, as both albums consisted of punk-short 2 minute wonders. Catching New Shirt/Heather Lewis from Weston‘s Got Beat Up was a nice start to the show but uptight, rampant security made it difficult to forget where you were, how old you are and how differently things were “back then”.
At shows now…there’s always a part of me that wants to be home, listening to the songs in comfort. Like Frankie and his Califone headphones.
But I made it through the show, thankful to the proximity of the venue to the L train. With a fished out Metrocard ready as I descended the stairs, I thought of how much has changed. And how much was the same.
An aside: Leadsinger Greg Attonito and his wife wrote a children’s book.
Thank you for playing the Williamsburg Hall of Music when so many hipsters were out of town, Sunday, July 3, 2011. With this recent Noah Lennox fix, I need not stand outside of Prospect Park’s Animal Collective show later in the month.
Panda Bear collaborated with Sonic Boom of Spacemen 3 fame last night, forefront to eerie projected images. This visual set-up seems to appease the multi-tasking Generation Mobile-Phone audience, some who reenacted vintage rave-party dance moves.
Panda Bear’s voice is complementary to the ambient melodies so characteristic to his music buuut… it mostly makes me miss the songs I love from Animal Collective.
The show was a dude-fest.
The highlight of the set, which was most if not all of his latest album Tomboy, was the familiar Comfy in Nautica, which energized the crowd to obediently pulse and pump along with the music.
I know I keep talking about Neutral Milk Hotel, but it’s April 8th. And April 8th is one of my favorites.
I feel like March is my least favorite month of the year. At this point, I am through with winter and impatient for April, when warmer and brighter weather is more consistent. March’s sunny teases leave me annoyed. And it’s a loooong month. Somehow, it is almost over. Bringing us into the second quarter of the year. Seems like yesterday I was nodding off on the couch waiting for the ball to drop. Before this year sweeps me up, let’s stop and savor the little details that begin to make up your life.
The toasted everything bagel from The Bagel Dock.
Early happy hour on one of the first warm days in months.
Kate’s Joint is like visiting an old friend, one in which you’ve grown apart from
Godspeed You! Black Emperor changed where the exclamation point falls in their name. Whoopie. Here they are at the Brooklyn Masonic Temple.
My kids won brought in the most Box Tops and earned themselves an ice cream party. That spread included a vegan ice cream treat for me! Thanks parents.
I did most of my growing up in the 90′s. I did a zine. Worked in record stores. Went vegetarian. Fell in love with misfits.. often who listened to The Misfits. Had an amazing record collection. Listened to Riot Grrrl. [Balanced that with Lou Barlow. Balanced that with Unwound.] Music was my everything, the score to a youth spent exploring, experiencing things, subcultures that have long since become exploited or extinct. I was cool, like Al Bundy was a high school football star.
Now, I am buried in time. Stunted in some capacities, I suppose. I still listen to 90′s indierock most prominently. {Maybe like my father listened to Do-wop while I was growing up.} I am out of the loop with new music. Maybe because I’d rather not listen to voices that represent this generation now [18-24 year olds]. To make a harsh, sweeping generalization, I find this world of young people to be trashy and spiritless for ladies and for guys, effeminate and arrogant. {To qualify this conclusion I must say that living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn grants me with credible empirical data.} Now everyone is a developed and tested marketing demographic, shallow multi-hybrids of confusion, while, in the 90′s, weird was still just weird. Industry did not [yet] know how to talk to us really… so they didn’t. {After Mogwai helped sell Levis and Spiritualized-several Volkswagons, a slew of indie musicians now branch to commercials. I guess in a world where Mtv no longer plays music, car commercials are the new video. And Nick Drake rolls in his grave. They’re trying to get us retroactively?}
That was a bit of a tangent, yes. And I sound like an old curmudgeon, yes. My point was that I find most current music empty and without a context. Maybe because music doesn’t play the same role in my life these days… or in anyone’s life really, save for those old souls still frequenting Bleecker Bob’s to complete their jazz collection. I used to scour record stores for b-sides and imports. That hunt was part of the pleasure, the investment–a requirement. Those with resources, intuition, perseverance and consistency won the prize. Now, in just a few clicks you can find what you are looking for. In a broader sense, I resent the instant gratification of the cyber-world because effort enriches; there’s lessons and experiences embedded along the paths that are being short-cut, creating shallow insta-experts in all walks of leisure life. And I am in no way a Luddite. Is this my equivalent of “When I was your age I used to walk to school”? Perhaps. When I was your age I had to dub a record to a cassette to play it in the car. When I was your age I use to love music, spend hours with it, discover it with my keen senses and it became my own in the process.
Through writing this I realize, I loved my time in the 90′s. Loved riding that last wave of counterculture before it all was fair game for advertisers, for every Tom, Dick and Harry, for anyone who could click a mouse. Beyond music I realize that most of my current best friends I met in the 90′s. I met my boyfriend in the 90′s. I went vegan in the 90′s. Maybe I live partly in the past. Maybe I am, for the first time, at the age of having enough adult history to draw from, to find patterns and reach hypotheses. Maybe I miss the love I had for bands, for songs like haunting ghosts who invade and tinker with my expectations–of music, of life. Whichever the case, this was all stirred up by nabbing Jeff Mangum tickets for his first 2011 tour date in Toronto, Canada. Mangum and Neutral Milk Hotel, who checked out of music in the hey-day 90′s, have since been buried and preserved in time. To time…
And quite possibly the best video on youtube:
Sometimes there are vegan options in unlikely places. Park Slope’s Puppets Jazz Bar being one of them. A seitan steak sandwich and jazz? Yes.
Can I say something about jazz? I enjoy the dance of musical elements that is jazz, enjoy watching inflated cheeks and pursed lips on brass, music face… but unfortunately I have negative connotations with the musical genre. Many I’ve seen attempt to fly close to the inherent coolness of jazz have mistaken that cool mutual by association. [Sure, sure, who cares about "cool" after the mid-to-late twenties? While its importance diminishes, it's there, always: proved by my grandmother... from cradle to the end.] Liking jazz seems to be one of those things people claim because they like the image and the intrigue. That being said, I like much of the jazz music I’ve heard but find there to be a forced effort behind the jazz enthusiast that seems a bit pretentious. Just as enjoy creative self-expression but balk at identifying myself as an artist, maybe this is just one of my quirks.
Back to the food. There are several options to choose! Two veggie burgers [original on right], a seitan sandwich [on left], veggie dogs, etc. The sandwiches and burgers are small but fixed right. With tofu mayo ketchup, pickle, onion, lettuce and tomato, it’s down right Big Mac-ish. They’re served with chips which makes for added percussion to the musicians. They also got a bar menu of some great sounding cocktails. With the hushed atmosphere and some great talent, be prepared to not talk too much. 
The cold weather means a weekly batch of soup. Soul-warming soup. We’re still here in autumn so here is a preview of my looming soup-a-thon, a scrumptious carrot and coconut milk soup in autumn’s color.
Acorn squash stuffed with wheat berry, pecans, cranberry and green onion. A hearty edible bowl. If I was a superhero or super villain, I’d throw acorn squashes.
And while we’re in autumn, in light of the sun’s new position, Devendra Banhart. Can I like Devendra Banhart again? He got kind of annoying at some point. Here, we won’t look at his strange headware.
Vegan Reporting By Location
