Dear Diary,

I had reached a point where nothing did it for me anymore. It seemed all I could do was hole myself up in my room and ponder the uniqueness and isolation of the individual experience, and regard my existence as inexplicable in this antagonistically indifferent universe. I didn’t even enjoy crying into my vinyl collection anymore. Self-deprecation? Hah—could it be any more passé? I had even forgotten how to hate my parents!

No offense, Diary, but often times, when I felt these weathered pages couldn’t contain all my inner anguish, when I felt as though the aforementioned antagonistically indifferent universe would crush me into oblivion, I created an iPod playlist of expressionist piano music and went for long walks with hopes of clearing these troubled thoughts.

Even that, however, was proving futile. I felt directionless. Perhaps, I decided, I was looking up to the wrong people. I had admired Morrissey since Hot Topic started manufacturing those deck Smiths t-shirts, but when I found out he was a celibate vegan who practically melted from sunlight, I realized I was only further smothering myself with negativity.

So the other night I tagged along with brother Chuck to his tech job at Xcel Energy Center. Chuck’s alright. He’s 32 and still lives with our parents, but he seems to have life more figured out than I do, because he has a job and everything. So naturally I trusted his judgment when he told me I could use an evening away from pondering the uniqueness and isolation of the individual experience and regarding my existence as inexplicable in this antagonistically indifferent universe. Word, Chuck.

As it turns out, this musician named Kid Rock was playing a concert there on that same evening. I’ve been meaning to check out some of his older lo-fi underground experimental basement tapes that people have buzzed about, but I was really heavily into other bands at the time and everything, so I never got around to it. Regardless, his music blew me away, especially the selections from his genius record Kid Rock, which I think Pitchfork might have given an 8.4. I personally found it to be so emotionally naked. Like the brutally powerful tearjerker “Rock n’ Roll Pain Train,” where he laments that even American badasses get lonely? Or how about that poignant ballad, “Cadillac Pussy?” That shit cuts deep, Diary. Deep.

I could tell by the audience’s dry humping and middle finger flashing that all were equally moved. This was definitely a mindless fad near-religious way of thinking that I could really get into. By the end of the evening, things were really looking up. I met and exchanged numbers with this really sweet girl named Flossy who had just gotten tested for chlamydia and totally didn’t have it! How perfect is that? Also, I got an exclusive invitation from this guy named Scott Stapp to go play chess and discuss Nietzsche with him and Kid Rock and some of their really friendly female roadies in Kid Rock’s trailer. Apparently some of it might even be filmed for…I think they said a PBS documentary? Radical!

Well, that’s all I have for now, Diary. It’s always nice to know other people have been just as perturbed with their own mortality, but are choosing to elevate from it in really healthy, positive ways!

Bawitdaba,

Peter

Using epic gun battles to explore the emotionally stirring relationship of two Des Moines police officers, the new surefire blockbuster Partners in Passion is set to ignite screens with gratuitous car explosions and steamy romance.

John Steele (Samuel L. Jackson) is a battle-hardened cop forced to take on a new partner in Martin Lovejoy (Ben Affleck in a truly moving comeback role), the gentle and idealistic new recruit. In the opening scene we find out how John’s previous partner was brutally murdered by the new gang in town, the Little Ladies, a syndicate of cross-dressing midgets. John finds it hard to trust anyone after this emotional loss, but Martin soon unlocks his heart with his gentle companionship and smoldering good looks. Together they set out to track down these sadistic killers and show the world that gay people can kick some serious ass.

I can’t even think of a way to describe how original this film is. Except maybe to say it’s like all four Lethal Weapon movies rolled into one—if each had an artistically respectable amount of Mel Gibson / Danny Glover sex scenes. Hollywood has finally made the perfect film: an action spectacle with a gripping social conscience. Crash did a commendable job of showing racism but could have taken things to the next level by adding some kick-punch Jackie Chan-style action and maybe a wise cracking black cop—someone like Chris Tucker. And while Brokeback Mountain was a nice look at the special kind of love cowboys share, I felt it could have benefited from some well placed shootouts and maybe a cameo from Clint Eastwood.

In my opinion, there are simply not enough gay characters in today’s action films. I know I’m not alone when I say we’ve all been waiting for Jean-Claude Van Damme and Chuck Norris to not only exchange some roundhouse kicks, but some sensual kisses as well. With Partners in Passion, it was as if someone finally had the courage to explore the homosexual undertones of Bad Boys 1 and 2 while keeping the gratuitous explosions. I say bravo, nameless someone!

In the tradition of Waterworld and Cleopatra, Partners in Passion will be the single most expensive film of all time, with a reported budget of $300 million. However, with this year’s Oscar nominees fresh in mind, Hollywood is ready to make movies that matter again. But it wouldn’t make financial sense to craft multiple movies dealing with each topic individually when one massive blockbuster could be crafted to take on racism and sexuality while providing an excessive amount of machine gun fights in the crime riddled state of Iowa.

“People just don’t understand. If everyone would just close one eye for one day, maybe then they would fully realize the 2-D hell that I inhabit,” sculptor Edmund Auch laments. A single stream of tears rolls down his right cheek.

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. Sometimes I say stupid things on account of the eye.”

Auch is a true inspiration. Rejecting what society has deemed appropriate one-eyed careers (like pirate or ruggedly handsome soap opera star), Auch has decided to tackle his lack of depth perception head-on.

“I try to look at the bright side. I see this void in my head not as a disability, but rather a gift that has provided me with an entirely unique artistic perspective. I save a lot of money on contact lenses and Visine, and I’m at a 50 percent lower risk of developing an eye tumor. I bet that would be horrible…”

Auch’s asymmetrical face twists in uncomfortable remorse as he recalls that fateful day when he and “lefty” parted ways. “I was 10, full of 10-year-old dreams of hitting the next home run in the big game.” But after a freak accident with a Red Ryder BB gun, Auch’s batting average was soon dwarfed by the average number of times he “whiffed it.” But Auch was not easily defeated by his inability to gauge distance and momentum. With a seldom-paralleled bravery, Auch picked up the pieces of his broken field of dreams and reassembled them, defying all odds to pursue one of the world’s most three-dimensional of disciplines: sculpture.

Auch went on to describe his triumph over monoscopic vision in the world of 3-D art in moving detail, but unfortunately I folded that portion of the interview into a paper airplane. He totally didn’t see it coming.

“Well, we find it important to incorporate pentameter, as a sort of homage,” says M. Rich about his structured approach to songwriting. Like the other mainstream hip-hop artists of today, M. Rich and H. Money Fresh call on legends of the past for inspiration. Their personal muse: William Shakespeare.

“If you think about it, Bill was actually the original master of rhymes and beats,” says Fresh. Her five “remixes” of Sonnet 18 (“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”) have earned her a reputation as one of hip-hop’s most innovative and artistic women.

Meanwhile, her accomplice Rich has made a name for himself as the premiere free-style sonnet performer in the industry. Rich has come a long way from his troubled past in poetry class at the University of Minnesota. His fight towards the top is documented in his first feature-length film, To Battle Or Not To Battle: That is the Question.

As I’m sure we’ve all heard, Nelly has recently spoken out against Rich and Fresh, saying that ripping off Shakespeare is lame, and that being a “poetry-reading pansy” doesn’t make them good rappers. Besides, Nelly adds, “Fresh and Rich is just a rip-off of that lame-ass country band.” So when I sat down with the dynamic duo for their first interview in over six years, the first question I had was, “What is your response to Nelly’s allegations towards you?” Fresh and Rich looked at me, their eyes welling up in sadness. “Well,” said Fresh, “I just wish that he could get past his jealousy or anger, or whatever, and come hang out at a show. We just want to be friends.”

M. Rich had this to say: “If he doesn’t like my Bill Shakespeare stuff, well he can bite my thumb—I mean, it’s all about the seventeenth century if you ask me.”

I caught up with Rich and Fresh later in the week at their rehearsal space, the group study room at Wilson Library. The room was hot, and I could see that their wool sweater vests were beginning to confine them. Money had taken off her penny loafers and had her argyle-clad feet resting on a stack of books. While Rich’s trademark tweed newsboy cap, an Irish family heirloom, was resting snugly on top of his head, but I could see that beads of sweat were starting to form underneath his thick, brown beard. I got a chance to hear Rich do a little free-styling, part of his notorious creative process for writing new songs. “People are always asking for my lines / I give ‘em words so stylish and fine.”

Meanwhile, Money stood in the corner, lips pursed in concentration over her clarinet. As the first few notes emerged, I gasped. I had known about her incredible ability to play and beat box simultaneously, but seeing it in person was almost overwhelming.

As I left the library, I wondered what was ahead for Fresh and Rich. Certainly fame and fortune, but would they ever resolve their differences with the greater hip-hop community?

Recording an album using Italian and Latin phrases paired with references to Eastern European mythology and geography is quite an ambitious project for an American band. Pretty Girls Make Graves has done just that with Élan Vital, while still maintaining the sound that put them on the map.

Incorporating trumpets, saxophone, drum programming, piano and even whistles on Élan Vital, Pretty Girls Make Graves prove their multiple talents aren’t limited to their respective instruments. In fact, if the quintet’s instrumental repertoire were to be classified on a Terror-Alert chart, this album might very well put them at a threatening yellow.

After guitarist Nate Thelen left Pretty Girls Make Graves a few years back, it seemed as though a major player would be taken out of the band’s two-guitar volley dynamic. His absence in Élan Vital is duly forgotten by new member Leona Marrs. Demonstrating she isn’t a substitution for Thelen but rather a noteworthy addition, Marrs provides keyboards, accordion, piano, melodica and a little bit of backup vocals to complement lead singer Andrea Zollo.

Highlights of Élan Vital include the mystic “Selling The Wind,” the sorrowed keyboards concluding “Pearls On a Plate,” and guitar riff-happy “Wildcat.” The strongest song of the album, “Pictures Of a Night Scene,” ironically doesn’t sound like Pretty Girls Make Graves at all; it is sung entirely by bassist Derek Fudesco instead of Zollo.

Pretty Girls Make Graves has certainly developed an approach to songwriting to create one of the biggest surprises of 2006. And when they come to the Twin Cities in May, don’t forget to pick up a copy of Élan Vital. After all, they do have the best band name in music, if not the most true.

Pretty Girls Make Graves will be at the Triple Rock Social Club on May 3.

Even Calexico’s most loyal fans are likely to be thrown off-guard by the eclectic duo’s latest album Garden Ruin (Quarter Stick). Previously trademarked by an oddly striking blend of folk, mariachi and jazz, Calexico have chipped away at their distinctiveness and emerged with a new sound best described as, well, ‘rock.’ Maybe even ‘watered-down alt-country’ at times.

At first, I desperately wanted to retreat back to the sensual outlaw flamenco that was 2003’s Feast Of Wire. But though their change was initially unsettling, it was still intriguing enough to inspire the second, third and even sixth listen that proved redeemable.

Right away I noticed that Garden Ruin is Calexico’s first album free of their lush instrumental tracks, shifting from a once-familiar delicacy into the sinister minor-key opener “Cruel.” There is also now a bigger emphasis on frontman Joey Burns’ elegant voice, but it is slightly smothered and takes a few songs before he learns to convincingly overpower the empty space left in lieu of these adjustments in instrumentation.

And things certainly do heat up eventually. “Roka (Danza de la Muerte)” has an irresistibly sexy Spanish chorus and that ol’ Calexico feel. “Lucky Dime” is equally catchy and smooth, with addicting chord progressions and beautifully layered call and response vocals.

This time around, however, there is less emphasis on elaborate arrangements and instead an intense focus on underlying themes. Garden Ruin is a very real, emotionally raw record that ultimately impresses if given the chance. When the arrestingly epic final track “All Systems Red” swells from quiet to loud with heavy-hearted lyrics like, “Watching a horse running down its last legs / when you think it couldn’t get much worse / the numbers rise on the death toll,” you’ll trust Calexico to take you anywhere.

Drive-By Truckers – A Blessing and a Curse

The Drive-by Truckers win two awards in my book: first, they’ve got the funniest name I’ve ever heard, and second, they’re the only contemporary “southern rock” band that doesn’t make me cringe.

The key to the Truckers’ success is sincerity—I believe every word that singer Patterson Hood says. The same goes for Mike Cooley and Jason Isbell. That’s right, there are three songwriters in this group. And while a southern rock band with three singers sounds like a recipe for disaster, this Athens, Georgia band makes it work.

A Blessing and a Curse, the band’s latest release, finds the Drive-by Truckers continuing to craft their time tested, hard-rocking alt-country skills. As usual, the songs are full of melancholy and devastation, distorted guitars and twangy vocals. Tracks like “Feb. 14,” the CDs opener, have pop hooks that sound ready for radio while never compromising the style this band is known for.

The sound of A Blessing and a Curse is incredible. Mixing veteran mixer John Agnello manages to balance the massive sound created by this five-piece while maintaining something of a live feel.

As the summer rapidly approaches, everyone needs to find that loud, rowdy album that will get them through the warm months ahead. Luckily, the Drive-by Truckers’ A Blessing and a Curse has arrived just in time.

The Drive-by Truckers will be at First Avenue on May 17.

Rows of blinking lights illuminate a rectangular sign advertising the Triple Rock Social Club’s entrance. Underneath, a large, goateed bouncer guards the West Bank bar’s door, while inside a 21-plus crowd downs Amstel Lights and mixed drinks before lumbering outside to join the (mostly) underage crowd leaning against the entrance to the Triple Rock’s concert venue next door.

Tyler Likkel, a 22-year-old Augsburg student and rapper heads the line. Earmuff-like headphones blast the Beastie Boys from a plastic-wrapped iPod in his shorts pocket as he paces back and forth, impatient to get inside.

By the time the club’s door opens at 9:15 p.m. (15 minutes after they were slated to unlock), the sidewalk is lost under a jumble of young adults that stretches several blocks down Cedar Avenue, all waiting for the chance to catch Soul Position and One Be Low (a.k.a. OneManArmy) lay down tracks on a Wednesday night.

“I didn’t know Soul Position existed until a few weeks ago,” Likkel says. But judging by the crowd, soon packed shoulder to shoulder inside, and several sold-out shows at earlier stops on the duo’s 32-city tour, there are plenty of fans willing to throw down 10 bucks for a performance promoting the April 4 release of Soul Position’s sophomore CD, Things Go Better with RJ and Al.

If you’re not familiar with the group, don’t let the disc’s cover art—a two-tone picture featuring a pair of crinkly-skinned white guys shaking hands—fool you. The twosome is actually fronted by the decades-younger RJ, (RJD2), and Al, (Blueprint).

RJ is a celebrated producer whose roster of singles and CDs stretches as long as an unraveled fruit-by-the-foot, and includes collaborations with Aceyalone, Massive Attack, and PolyphonicSpree. Al has held it down as producer and rapper on his ’04 and ’05 records, “Chamber Music” and “1988,” as well as opening for Atmosphere at First Avenue in mid-November last year. Together, the super-duo has been hailed as “… two of the most talented artists making rap music today.”

On the surface RJ and Al’s pairing seems slightly off, like spying an elderly couple head-banging among a crowd of college students. RJ bobs behind Al on stage, alternately scratching albums and flipping switches on the turn-tables to release dance-club worthy tunes laden with old-school samples, while Al’s slick rhymes extol everything from the perils of tossing back Jager; “Every now and then I go out to the club and wake up with a girl who look like Dave Letterman,” (“Blame It On the Jager”), to dating advice for his niece; “You don’t need a kid. You need a paper route,” (“Priceless”).

The common denominator between the day and night twosome (besides talent) is their attitude. From the get-go, it’s clear by the warm smiles dancing across their faces that they’re both having fun—making it impossible for the hoodie-and-T-shirt-clad crowd to stand still. It’s an especially impressive feat considering this is there second show of the night, after dazzling an all-ages crowd at Fifth Element, the Rhymesayers Entertainment hip-hop shop in Uptown.

Although Soul Position promises “no gimmicks” on their best-selling album’s second track, the night was chalk full of them—from their matching button-up worker shirts with “RJ” and “Al” name patches in the upper left corner, to shaking water onto the crowd during an encore of “Unlimited,” when the lyrics call for “Throw(ing) water on the crowd if the show gets too hot.”

And then there’s Mo’ Buttons. After RJ sneaks backstage during “Hand Me Downs,” Al spits his technology rant into the mic. “Technology is taking over,” he says. “It’s like the technology arms race…Got your flip-top phone, Blackberry, Sidekick. Yo, you didn’t even like that shit ‘til you saw my shit.” Which is when RJ reappears as his alter-ego Mo’ Buttons, in a throw-back to the days of foot-long cell phones (think Zach Morris) and room-size computers.

Decked out in a long-sleeve tee covered in, yep, buttons, with the words “MO BUTTONS IN THIS BITCH,” stamped in black block letters on the back, a big rectangular box covered in smaller geometric buttons strapped on his chest, and a swiveling button pad attached to his head, obscuring his face, Mo’ dances a jig while spouting organ-like tunes from the machine on his chest.

“I don’t think they were ready for Mo’ Buttons,” Al says with a laugh.

Next the lights dim, and Al tells the audience, “Reach into the pocket at your hip. Pull out your cell phone. No one’s gonna steal it,” he continues. “We all got one. We don’t even answer our own shit.” A few hundred phones glowing white and blue lift towards the ceiling, the twenty-first century equivalent of lighters swaying in the air, as “I Need My Minutes,” an ode to Verizon Wireless, pumps forth.

Center stage, Mo’ keeps dancing up a storm; leaning to the left, than right; stepping back; and raising his arms in the air. “What you just witnessed was the minutes dance,” Al explains. “We’re teaching it one city at a time,” he adds, before the crowd attempts to sway in unison to a chorus of, “I need my minutes (slide left); I need my minutes (slide right); back up off my minutes (roll back); raise up off my minutes (arms up).”

After a two-song encore, RJ and Al head straight for the makeshift merch tables, where fans thrust posters and t-shirts forth to be stamped by the pair’s signatures. “My boyfriend loves you. Can you make it out to Rocky?” a girl asks RJ, while a guy slaps Al’s hand.

By the time the hyped-up crowd disperses into the night, it’s apparent. Gimmicks or not, things really are better with RJ and Al.

If Mattel packaged the Dresden Dolls, lead singer/pianist Amanda Palmer would be marketed as Barbie’s evil twin sister—her antithesis with dark hair, a purposefully pale face, and a penchant for black. Whereas drummer Brian Viglione would pose within the confines of his plastic packaging as Ken’s archenemy—a quiet menace with kohl-rimmed eyes.

The self-proclaimed “Brechtian punk cabaret” duo’s second studio album exudes emotion wrought from the throes of passion (“Dirty Business”) and the bottom of a barrel (“My Alcoholic Friends”). The acid-laced lyrics on “Backstabber,” “Shit lover! Off-brusher! / Jaded little joy crusher!” are offset by Palmer’s melodic piano playing, which provides a consistent toe-tapping backdrop for her insistent vocals. Meanwhile, Viglione is careful not to overshadow her (occasionally) frenetic playing, by punctuating her piercing vocals with just enough of a punch.

Not to be overlooked is the track “Shores of California”—in which the state of 10,000 lakes receives a shout out (“That’s the way it is in Minnesota”). More name-dropping ranges from Hiroshima and Chernobyl to Hitler (Mrs. O), while misguided relationships crop up as a recurring theme: “You thought you could change the world by opening your legs / Well it isn’t very hard, try kicking them instead.”

The only thing that is innocent about the disc is the title—pulled from an 1897 New York Sun article answering the age-old question: “Is there a Santa Claus?”

“Yes, Virginia,” was the response. “He lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.” As the Dresden Dolls’ cover art illustrates, that heart is black.

The music of Montreal outfit the Unicorns is most accurately remembered as smart but sporadic, a catalog of scattered lo-fi scuzz-pop filled with painfully precocious eruptions. They were delightful and difficult and destined to eventually combust.

Calling it quits in 2004 after the release of their sole LP, the genius Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone?, members Nick Diamonds and J’aime Tambeur dabbled briefly in obscure side projects. (Anyone remember Th’ Corn Gangg? Neither do we.) Now they’ve banded together again, sans guitarist Alden Penner, as the bright and hopefully long-term Islands.

“We noticed something glowing / and it was growing / things are about to change …” warbles Diamonds on Return To The Sea (Equator Records), Islands’ debut that strays from any prior awkwardness and instead unfolds like a well-mapped sailing of the seven seas. There are still traces of the Unicorns beloved quirks, but they’ve been seized and expanded upon with results a bit more structured and reassuring.

Anchoring somewhere between schtick and seriousness, Return To The Sea is an emotionally rich rock album with swelling orchestral arrangements, eclectic calypso undertones, and, in the case of the sexy-smooth “Where There’s A Will There’s A Whalebone,” hip-hop interludes. Diamonds and Tambeur keep the fumbling drums and messy guitars but turn them down and let the rest act as delicate instrumental padding for their tales of brittle bones, fleeting seasons, and fleeting hearts.

Return To The Sea opens with “Swans (Life After Death),” a ten-minute feel-good opus about climbing through the metaphorical blowhole to find the meaning of life within the belly. If not charmed by “Swans,” you’ll be taken by the bouncy, cheeky “Rough Gem” when you realize that is precisely what this album is.

Even if you remain a die-hard Unicorns fan, don’t be afraid to let Islands steal your heart and pawn it off for silver, pirate-style.