Dan Mooney

The two kinds of concerts I normally attend: 1) Those at which I know every song, with few surprises and those tucked neatly at the front of the encore, usually in the form of a cover. And 2) Those at which I will know about half the songs, often the band’s newer, more mainstream stuff, i.e. what they did after selling out, or in order to do so. It’s the pull of the familiar that leads me to see bands I know well, the same pull that generally leads me to a pint of Guinness instead of some new microbrew that I’ve heard good things about but that might be objectively overrated, or merely not to my taste.

Few concerts are fresh experiences for me, with little expectations to fulfill or exceed. This is mostly because of the cost, in time or money or both. But with Bon Iver, I tried to do something a little different, and not just because it was my first time ever in Prospect Park. I had the band’s two albums on my computer, ready to listen, but I got through twenty seconds of the newer record’s first track when I shut it off and decided to be surprised.

The genre is what did it: Beautiful, gorgeous, shimmering, nearly ambient – whatever adjectives other people were tossing around to describe this music told me I wouldn’t feel left out as at a punk show knowing no lyrics to shout along with. I could let it be about the music, being outside, in the summer, alongside a small group of my own friends and a few thousand of the generation just younger than mine. For once I tried to welcome the immediacy of the unknown.

Compared to regular reviews, I can’t speak to what the band did, specifically. It sounded okay, whatever songs they did from whichever release. Most of it was down-tempo, I can say. It was down-tempo enough such that when singer/leader Justin Vernon put on an electric guitar and dropped to his knees for a solo I wanted to run up and steal the guitar and give him the finger for having the nerve to show himself being temporarily overwhelmed by the ferocity of the electric guitar while otherwise ignoring it and pussyfooting around up there and in his upper register.

The band was enormous, which is an automatic red flag for me. I’m still not a fan of huge bands, not since the last time I complained about it. Bruce Springsteen’s comes to mind, with people on stage mostly for the sake of having people on stage (though this excludes Clarence Clemons, who before his passing contributed to the sound on a dominant instrument unique in the band). That fourth acoustic guitar part will make no headway and sound no different than the third, I’m sorry to say for your best friend’s cousin up there, and for Bon Iver the scattered assortment of random instruments was just too random, the sound too subtle for a concert of this size. I prefer the happy medium of variety and power and efficiency of three- and four-man groups, Bon Iver among others looking and acting more like a commune, people chipping in a single note here and there and otherwise merely fleshing out the production design.

There were two drummers. I don’t know how two drummers add up to a sound that has no pulse, but I suppose they might have insisted on being called “percussionists.” I did get there late.

In a way I’m not surprised that my favorite song of the evening was in fact a cover, of the Björk song “Who Is It.” Finally, a song with rhythm! Each band member seemed fully committed during that one, the stage full of spinning plates and humming like the engine these musicians were capable of being. As always, this display of potential was as infuriating as the drony drag was – actually – kind of soothing.

Yes, despite these transgressions, it was a pleasant time. I know not every band has to be a rock band, but I refuse to be fooled into thinking this type of music is supposed to hit the same spots or more importantly receive the same level and kind of adulation. The music for me didn’t have the slow burning intensity that electrified the cores of my plaid-shirted friends, but as the background for a summer outing it was superficially fine. More than fine, actually – it was good. But not that good.

SET LIST
Don’t Know
Don’t Care
Look It Up
I Don’t Mean To Be a Dick
Where Have All The Rockstars Gone?
(Not My) Cup of Tea
A Step Up from Crickets
Good Enough
It’s Not You, It’s Me

Encore:
Who Is It (Björk cover)
We Could Have Left on a High Note
So Long, and Thanks for All the Cash

Moon is one of those movies that are tremendously satisfying to finally get the hell off your Netflix queue. It helps that it’s also quite good, but I’d heard such positive nerdy word-of-mouth about it that it made my queue instantly and stayed there long enough to eventually only be available on DVD, which I guess is something. It’s directed by Duncan Jones, the enthusiastic director more recently of Source Code, and for a smaller, self-contained little film it aims high. It’s set on the Moon where Sam Rockwell’s character maintains a fuel-harvesting outpost. There are shades of 2001 and Cast Away in his lonesome pursuit but while Moon also tackles the Big Questions, it didn’t leave me quite as cold as either of those two. At that rate, it’s not entirely lighthearted fare, which I might have sensed in letting it linger, but it was very worth having seen. The acting hits all the right spots and the special effects are very well done, nearly to the point now of being taken for granted. Included on the DVD I had was Jones’ 30-minute short Whistle, yet another clever foray into technology. It’s not quite as deep as Moon but it doesn’t have to be, and does the short film genre well as a thoughtful, appealing short-story-on-film.

Staying in space, I watched Star Trek, from 2009. I hadn’t seen it in theatres, in part because I was not yet neck-deep in J.J. Abrams (my crash course in LOST wouldn’t begin until early 2010). I did not grow up a fan of any iteration of Star Trek, so I wasn’t able to enjoy it on that level, though I understood some of the most blatant references as most people would. Given the pedigree of its makers, I should have figured for the plot to be as it was. For another thing, I don’t know why I expect Simon Pegg ever to play any role besides comic relief, at least in these major productions. Zoe Saldana, freed of the Avatar blues, is otherworldly beautiful. I still might not use this viewing as a springboard for catching up on past Star Trek movies, but I’d watch the upcoming sequel, sure.

Waking Ned Devine is a sweet movie about an Irish town, a lottery, and a couple of old friends trying to swindle their way into riches. The setting is gorgeous, even though it wasn’t actually filmed in Ireland. But it certainly has that small-town Irish charm, with plenty of countryside and laughing and scenes at pubs. It has the deft organization of a fable, or a centuries-old play where the plot moves along like clockwork. As a film, there is more space for the illustration of the friendship between the two main characters, a bond more touching than many simplified characterizations in similar stories. I was entirely charmed by the movie, though the Irish half of me felt it a little more deeply.

I felt no shame in having seen Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 the day it came out, nor in admitting this. The last installment was a long time coming and I looked forward to meeting it with enthusiasm, not falling ass-backwards into a theatre weeks later. I had already happily avoided any media buildup backlash and went in fresh, no rereading, no rewatching of the previous movie since seeing it in the theatre last fall. You could say this whole Harry Potter thing is kids’ stuff, and you wouldn’t be wrong, but I feel like I’ve been grandfathered in, having been caught up in the first wave of the phenomenon when the movies first started coming out in 2001. In fact, reading the last book of the series – done in one 13+ hour sitting, with meal breaks – remains the most focused I’ve been, certainly since, maybe ever. That this was four years ago and the endeavor was not of a professional or interpersonal nature is not lost on me, but I don’t give a shit: I’m not the first to point out that our culture is splintering and I’ll sign up for an enjoyable, mass-cultural event like this every time, especially since there might not be many of these kinds of things left for me to get away with as I hurtle towards the imaginary brick wall that is my 30th birthday. Hopefully there will be, or I will care proportionately less about what people think of what I do. Having said all that, the movie was one of the best of the series, though not without its flaws (including a certain death scene that I found a little underwhelming, considering).

I was told Midnight in Paris was “a lit major’s wet dream.” And then some! I saw it at the right theatre, too: It was a Sunday afternoon on the Upper East Side, the theatre at 60th and 3rd. It was me and my two friends (a couple) and several pairs of little old lady bleeding hearts who laughed a little too hard at the anticonservative jokes, if that’s possible – not that I disagreed with them. I wasn’t told the premise and so won’t relate it forward, but it’s set in Paris, which is captured beautifully, and features a shameless amount of somewhere between faux- and genuine intellectualism. Fun was poked at the pedantic side of intelligence, but as I chuckled along with literary in-joke after literary in-joke, I feared the line I was straddling was slowly shrinking between my legs.

Nowadays, my insomnia is back or my rhythm is off, but any way you cut it I found myself watching My Cousin Vinny one overnight. You know how sometimes you might spent Sunday nights on facebook, seeing what your hometown friends are up to – the ones you haven’t seen since graduation, the ones you might never see again? Well, Ralph Macchio went to my elementary school so I think it was something like that. Eerie that I’m now about his age when he was in the movie, eerie only because I was 10 when the movie came out and this aging horse has been beaten to death already but I just remember how old he seemed, how much older than in the Karate Kid movies, like he was someone else entirely. Plus, the public defender was played by Austin Pendleton, who I saw as King Lear during my sophomore year of college. No stuttering, but a similar presence, and that is about as powerful as I’m willing to go regarding name-dropping.

Oh, and a week or so after seeing the last Harry Potter movie, I saw that Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire was on ABC Family, as usual – and as I told a friend of mine I would, I had to watch the end of it. And so then I watched the …the Order of the Phoenix, …the Half-Blood Prince, and …the Deathly Hallows: Part 1 again. And then I rounded out the month seeing Part 2 in theatres one more time. It’s like Cartman with “Come Sail Away” – sometimes you just feel helplessly compelled to finish what you start.

Petey’s Burger
30-17 30th Avenue
Astoria, NY 11102
Visited: June 10, 2011

Two funny things happened since I left Astoria: Most of my friends moved there, and more than a few hamburger places have joined them. I don’t want to cry conspiracy but if either (but really both) of those things happened sooner, I might never have left. But that’s all in the conditional past and there’s no changing it, so all I can do right now is keep an eye on the new blood.

Petey’s Burger is just west of the subway on 30th Avenue, my old and first thoroughfare. The seating area is arranged as simply as the food it produces: There are eight or ten metal tables, some big enough for groups of four or more, and a drink/condiment station. The turnaround and the turnover are quick, but with seats available it’s already points ahead of the reputable and relentlessly crowded burger places high on my list.

I got my standard cheeseburger with lettuce and pickles and onions, and fries. The fries were skinny and tasty, and I was given plenty of them. The burger I got was a double, two patties and two slices of cheese, which was in good proportion to the roll, a typical, thin variety of roll. Eagle-eyed viewers of this first picture will notice a pickle slice peeking out from beneath the burger. Good for you guys: The toppings were put on the bottom which, regardless of any logistical forethought, was an atypical but flavorful choice. The cool greens set the table for the meat and cheese, setting this burger, for better or worse, apart from its competitors.

The patties were about as thick as other favorites from Shake Shack and Burger Joint, for example. They were crisp but chewy, but also a bit wider around. You might see from the picture that the toppings were as thick as the goodness itself, which only slightly diluted the flavor. The extra surface area made the experience heartier than it otherwise would have been, but its depth could almost barely compete.

Petey’s Burger is still praiseworthy as being the best burger I’ve yet had in Astoria. I’d say it also outranks the burger from Donovan’s in Woodside, but that’s more of a clash in styles (thin vs. thick) than an objective take. It doesn’t pack the wallop of flavor and texture of the other New York City burgers of its type, but it’s nonetheless a fine and delicious option in that neck of the woods. Should I visit my friends there – or move back there – I’d make Petey’s a regular haunt. Absolutely worth a try.

How does this stop on the Great American Food Tour compare to the others? Check out the main page.

Sleep Walk as done by me

I’ve seen Ludo four times now, all in New York, all at the Highline Ballroom. I’ll always think it’s some of the best $15 you can spend in the city – more enjoyable than almost any movie, especially if ephemeral performances tickle your fancy more than films more comfortably seen at home (excepting event movies). With the band intact and the venue the same, it’s easier for me to compare show to show, to see where this fourth installment fits in.

This current tour sets itself apart with its rotation of themes. Called “Space Dracula’s Basketball Expo,” cities may experience one of the three themes included in the title, if not all three. Living in New York and therefore entitled to the best of everything, our audience was blessed with the trifecta. The one opener I saw wore basketball jerseys, the lead singer wearing stripes as a referee (though they were jailbird-horizontal). A less-than-regulation basketball hoop stage right contributed to the ambience. When Ludo came out – this after setting up their own instruments, deflating the suspense but demonstrating their humility – it was first to a long-darkened stage and good old Bach’s good old “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.” The band carried out a coffin over their heads, setting it down before 2 Unlimited’s “Get Ready for This” signalled the start of a 3-man basketball passing drill. More jerseys, spacesuits and Dracula capes gave it all a Halloweeny flair, a few months early (actually a nice mental break from the hundred-degree heat).

Decorations aside, the show was largely the same as the last one I saw, last year. Then it was to support their newest record Prepare the Preparations, though only a few of those newest tracks made it into the setlist. The lion’s share of this go-round featured songs from two records ago, most of which were offered as sing-alongs and all audience favorites. Much as I loved hearing these songs again, I was a little disappointed by the familiarity. With no new material to push, I could see them cherrypicking from their whole oeuvre. Two shows ago the band played their Broken Bride EP (one of the most poignant recordings I’ve ever heard, still, seriously), so I don’t doubt their capability to reproduce nearly everything they’ve recorded. I understand in theory that you have to give an audience what it wants – Aerosmith can’t escape the twin balls-and-chain of “Sweet Emotion” and “Walk This Way” – and a show full of people singing along can’t truly be called a disappointment. But displacing three or four songs with three or four others might have set the whole affair wonderfully apart. For a band with a following of a certain size, these fans would certainly know some of the rarer tracks. Not knowing how much rehearsal goes into any basically unfamiliar song, I can only be pleased with what I saw and heard.

The small differences, then, were very much appreciated. I was hoping to hear “Skeletons on Parade” – a Halloween song if ever there were one – and surely enough they incorporated the second half of it (beginning with the Dropkick Murphys-esque instrumental break) after “Rotten Town,” another favorite. But the most exciting change came at the end of the set, pre-encore. The band’s signature song is “Love Me Dead,” and we all sort of knew we’d hear it. But the band offered up a deal: If we would shut the hell up and be quiet, and not grope any of the band, they’d play an acoustic version in the middle of the audience. We agreed, and they did. And it was marvelous.

We snapped along, sang along, sat on the ground and behaved ourselves like the good little children we were. Twenty years of tight hamstrings have made Native American Indian-style an impossibility, but I came damn close. As powerful as the band can be on stage, their showmanship and musicianship translated well to the crowd around them. This ten minutes of the show was its defining moment, and will be how I remember this one a couple of reviews from now (goodness willing).

SETLIST
Lake Pontchartrain
Go-Getter Greg
Drunken Lament
Hum Along
Rotten Town/Skeletons on Parade (2nd half)
Topeka
Please
Anything for You
Part I: Broken Bride
Save Our City
The Horror of Our Love
Whipped Cream
Girls on Trampolines
Love Me Dead (acoustic)

ENCORE
Good Will Hunting By Myself