So yes, in case you missed the news, David Beckham has come to America to play for the Los Angeles Galaxy. NBC even aired a 60-minute reality TV primetime special on his wife, Victoria “Posh Spice” Beckham.  I didn’t watch the special (I was relacing all my shoes), but haven’t been able to escape the Beckhams. TV is flooded with David Beckham commercials, ESPN coverage and CNN and E! Channel commentary alike.

One of Posh’s first duties in America? Throwing the opening pitch at a Dodgers game…

Well I dreamt up a better scenario, appropriately timed given today’s field trip… I wish I was making this stuff up…

In this dream, Editor-at-Large, Jay Sweet, called the Paste team up to his stomping grounds in New England.  It was time for the summer wood bat baseball leagues to begin! This year New England was hosting a very special league: “The Rock’n’Roll Sluggers.”

My coworkers and I boarded a charter bus and arrived for this special event.  We walked around the bus parking lot and saw a bunch of bands had already arrived, including The National, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and Of Montreal. They all had their press pictures on the sides of their buses.

The Paste team walked out to the field and saw all the bands sitting in the bleachers behind homeplate.  The league commissioner was providing instructions and rules for the league, amongst them:

1) Only five players per team on the field at any time
2) Games last for six, not nine, innings
3) A loss eliminates a team from the tournament

Associate Editor, Steve LaBate, was enfuriated by these rules.  As a real-life, out-of-dream baseball enthusiast and Fantasy Baseball League team manager, Steve thought these rules were bogus and told the commissioner as much.  The Rock’n’Roll Sluggers commissioner told him to be quiet or else Steve would be thrown out of the league… Steve got quiet.

While the commissioner went over some more rules, I talked to Jay. “We’re not a band,” I whispered.

“That’s okay, we’re uniting under a fake band name. Everyone on our team actually plays a musical instrument, so we count,” he explained. Fair enough.

First up: Paste’s Imaginary Band vs Straylight Run.

But before the game could begin, someone had to sing the National Anthem and throw out the opening pitch!

Enter: Leslie Feist. 

Wearing a bright blue sequenced leotard, much like the one she dons in her latest music video, Feist walked out onto the field with a microphone and sang the National Anthem… of Canada, her homeland.

Then she threw the opening pitch. Feist had a great arm and got the pitch over the plate at 50mph! “Let the games begin!” yelled the commissioner.

Rather than “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and other standard tunes playing over the speakers, fans were treated to live music from The Polyphonic Spree.  Following Tim DeLaughter’s lead, the band danced through the bleachers while playing their magnificent tunes.

Straylight Run was the home team and took the field first, while Paste’s Imaginary Band went to bat. There was immediately some trash talking from Michelle of Straylight Run, which surprised us because she looked so sweet.  Competition does funny things to people… even in dreams.

That was the extent of the dream, though.  Baseball, blue sequence and lots of cameos.

Hey, NBC! Next time you wanna do a 60-minute reality TV special program, do I have a fantastic idea for you....

I am a Beatlemaniac, which is saying a lot because I was born after The Beatles era.  The lads from Liverpool will get some love from Paste in our upcoming July issue, in which we ask: “Can Rock Save the World?”

One of the articles in this issue will look back at John Lennon & Yoko Ono‘s ”Bed-Ins." I blame this on my latest bizarre dream.

My dream takes me to 1972.  I am in New York City, where John Lennon is the musical guest on Saturday Night Live.  I am charged with writing an article about the event.

I arrive at 30 Rockefeller Center on Saturday afternoon, before the evening dress rehersal. There I pick up my media credentials and head over to my hotel to check-in.  I am shocked to find out that I will be sharing a room with John & Yoko, and their publicist.  It seems John & Yoko have brought their “Bed-In” to Manhattan, but that John will get out of bed in order to play SNL.  His publicist is there to make sure of it.  But no one is in the room when I open the door.  There are posters for the “Bed-In” but nothing else.  I shrug and return to SNL studios.

The SNL cast is there, ready to practice.  (Since SNL did not air until 1975, I made up my own cast).  John Belushi, Dan Akroyd and Amy Poehler pass by me.  The producer looks frantic because John Lennon is nowhere to be found.

“I think he is at dinner,” I tell the producer.  “His publicist mentioned something about it.” So I offer to locate John ("investigatory journalism") for the SNL crew.  My first step is to call the hotel and see if the concierge knows where John & Yoko went.  He tells me they are at a restaurant on the West End, near Central Park.  I call the restaurant and ask to speak to John Lennon.  I suddenly get nervous, wondering what I should call him—“John”? “Mr. Lennon”? 

John answers the phone and seems peeved that I am interupting his meal.

“Excuse me Mr. Lennon, I’m the reporter sharing your hotel room.  Saturday Night Live is looking for you.”

John tells me that he is at dinner with some old friends who have just moved to New York from San Francisco.  His friends are very sad and disheartened in New York.  “It doesn’t have the same energy, you know?” Seems his friends wanted to start a big peace movement in New York, but have had little success.  John has offered to help them (thus explaining the “Bed In").

“You have to be at the studio, though.  Can’t they come with you?”

John is mad that I am trying to rush him, but the publicist agrees with me.  We decide to meet at the studio.

The show goes live at 11pm.  John Lennon performs “Give Peace a Chance.” He is scheduled to perform another song but leaves the studio before his curtain call.  The producer is freaking out again and decides to take the cameras outside.  They will tape the Metropolitan Opera performing outdoors since John has disappeared.  Opera singers and some ballerinas congregate in the plaza and perform “Beauty in the Beast”—the Disney version.

John Belushi is standing next to me.  “What the hell is this?” he asks.

“Beauty and the Beast!  But Disney doesn’t make it until the 1990s!”

“You’re from the future?!” he screams. 

With my cover blown, I make a dash for the hotel.  No one is in the hotel room when I get there.  I decide that I should watch the last bit of SNL on TV but can’t find the remote control.  I turn over all the pillows and sheets looking for it.  Unfortunately, there is no way to turn on the TV without this remote.

I call the West End restaurant again, in case John has gone back.  The hostess says he is having drinks with friends, and brings him the phone.

“What is it this time?” he asks me.

“Did you take the remote control for the TV?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Can I have it back?  I need to watch the rest of SNL so I can finish the story about you.”

“No, TV is bad for you.”

“But you were just on TV.”

“I know.” Click.  Our interview is clearly over.

--------]]> tag:www.pastemagazine.com,2007:/blogs/dream//12.3282 2007-05-17T13:42:00Z 2008-04-29T22:14:35Z

A few years ago I attended a conference in Atlanta and was introduced to a young songwriter out of Nashville named Matt Wertz.  He was fronting the house band for the conference.  Wertz had just completed his first full length record and played some of his songs later that evening for about 75 folks in the hotel conference room.  Over the next few years I saw him perform at a variety of small venues (often sold out) as his popularity grew.

Flash forward a few years to 2007 and I see Wertz’s name on the marquee of Variety Playhouse (capacity of appx 1,400).  I didn’t catch the show, but I thought it was nice to see he went from humble beginnings to larger venues. Good for you, Matt.

It must have been on my mind, because I had a dream about the show earlier this week.  Well, actually, it was a nightmare in which I started my musical “career” in the opposite manner. Bad idea.

In this nightmare, I am driving by Variety on my way to work, just like I do every waking day.  I look up at the marquee to see a shocking sight:

CAREN KELLEHER
w/MATT WERTZ, NATHAN ANGELO
THIS FRIDAY!

I immediately call Variety’s main office. A woman answers the phone and tells me that the show was booked by longtime Paste friend and fantastic independent promoter, Alex Weiss, of OK Productions.  I call Alex in a panic.

“Hey Caren, did you see the marquee?” he asks.  “Cool, huh?”

“I can’t play a show, Alex! I don’t even play an instrument!”

“I thought you owned a guitar?” (true story)

“Yeah, but I don’t play very well!”

“Well, this is a great way to make your debut,” he argues.

“You’re not listening, I can’t play --”

“Okay, see you Friday~” Click.

Thinking this to be a cruel joke, I forget about my phone call with Alex and the marquee board with my name on it.  Until Friday comes around and Alex calls again.  He asks me to show up at 5:00pm for soundcheck. 

I decide that there is no turning back.  The show must go on.  And I’ll need a backing band.

First I call Paste Music Editor, Jason Killingsworth, who has conquered Guitar Hero II on every level of difficulty and plays in a band, Music In the Glen.  I ask Jason to help me by playing guitar at my show—“just look up some tabs online.” But Jason tells me I’m too late; he’s got a gig with Music In the Glen.  I invite them to play, too, but Jason refuses.

Next I call Paste Associate Editor, Steve LaBate, also a solo artist and member of the much discussed Atlanta rock band, Attractive Eighties Women.  But Steve and the AEW also have a gig and can’t play with me.

My last call is to Paste Editor-in-Chief, Josh Jackson, who plays a mean mandolin.  Josh doesn’t pick up my phone call.

Panic sets in.  I have horrible stagefright when it comes to performing and/or singing, though I can rock a Microsoft Powerpoint presentation.  I arrive at soundcheck with my dusty Yamaha Pacifica in hand, and run into Matt Wertz.  I ask him if he will help me by playing back-up. 

“I’ll sing if you play guitar,” I offer.

“How come you are billed first if you can’t even play?” he asks.

“I don’t know, someone booked me?” Wertz walks off to tune his guitar without giving me his answer. 

Atlanta’s own Nathan Angelo takes the stage first to a packed (mostly female) crowd.  He plays some tunes on the keyboard and I think, Hmm, I can play the keyboard… maybe I should do that instead of guitar.....  Wertz goes on next and the crowd cheers.  I can hear their screams from downstairs in the Green Room, where I am now tuning my guitar.  In a last ditch effort to save myself humiliation, I look up a few guitar tabs online—Brandi Carlile, The Weepies, Dave Matthews…

When Wertz gets off stage he is clearly exhausted and he collapses on a couch, throwing a towel on his head.  I see that I will have to brave this one on my own. 

Alex comes to get me and says it is time to go on.  I take the stage and everyone looks confused and starts whispering and/or yelling.  “Who is that?” “Do you know her?” “Play a song already!”

I slowly work my way through a basic song.  My voice cracks when I try to sing.  The crowd turns on me.

Alex leaps on stage to prevent rioting.  “I’m sorry, everyone!  I’m so sorry! Please see me for a full refund at the front door if you would like one!” There is a mass exodus from the venue.  My career starts and ends in an instant.

----

Last night I went to 500 Songs for Kids, a charitable concert series where 500 artists perform Rolling Stone‘s 500 Greatest Songs of All Time.  Just seeing the stage gave me the chills and reminded me of my nightmare. I don’t know how you do it, Musicians of the World… I salute you for your bravery.  Keep up the good work.

For Paste,
CK

It seems that all this talk of dreams has inspired my colleagues to have rock (or in this case, hip hop) dreams of their own.  Today I happily turn Sleep to Dream over to guest blogger and Paste Associate Editor, Steve LaBate, who shares his very detailed visions of Outkast, ?uestlove, an 18-wheeler, and the YMCA. Commence dream sequence:

by Steve LaBate

I’ve just arrived at some swank studio in some unknown town to interview Outkast’s André 3000 and Big Boi, and I can’t help but notice the tasteful, deep-brown wood trim. “Hmmm… nice trim,” I think as I walk down the long hallway toward my interview subjects. For some reason, I haven’t prepared for this assignment, and also left my tape recorder a few blocks away in my car. When I meet up with the dynamic duo, we sit at a wooden table, and I sift through my backpack for the tape recorder (even though I know it’s in my car). Finally I settle on a pen and notepad, a method I haven’t used since my college-newspaper days, since it’s often hard to keep up, makes the conversation awkward and lends itself to inaccuracies. But, shit, I’m a pro. I can handle it. Off the cuff, I ask Andre 3000 this really smart, insightful question - something about how he feels about his creativity and refusal to conform often being dismissed as eccentricity. He launches into this witty, telling monologue (about what I can’t remember - but he manages to completely dodge my question while being poignant and funny and plenty insightful himself). I scribble his pearls as furiously as I can, but I’m still missing stuff. “Damn it!” I think. “How could I have forgotten my tape recorder!” After a minute, I give up on taking notes. When André finally finishes - I address him by his full first name, but he says, “Hey, Call me Dré or Andre 3000 - there’s too many Andres around here, and it’s easy to get mixed up.”

I’ve yet to improv my question for Big Boi (who I’ve actually interviewed in waking life before), so I tell him, “Look, I thought I’d be cool without it, but I really need to go grab my tape recorder.”

“Alright,” he says. “But hurry, we’ve got some things to take care of today.”

Shamed at my lack of professionalism, I turn to hurry back out into the hallway toward my car, when I run into ?uestlove and the rest of The Roots. (I’ve only met ?uestlove for a five-second handshake at one of our issue-launch parties in New York, where he was Dj-ing that night, but in my dream we are, apparently, good buddies.) We exchange a spirited, chummy greeting, like good buddies often do, and he tells me he’s going to be performing later, and asks if I could keep an eye on the band’s truck full of gear for him. I gladly oblige, forgetting about my interview (or perhaps chalking it up to complete failure and deciding to bail), and head over to the show, which happens to be at, of course, my gym. Well, it’s my gym, but it’s not my gym - in that peculiar dreamlike way. I mean, I know it’s my gym, but it actually looks like some dilapidated YMCA I’ve never been to. The Roots are set up on the concrete deck by the swimming pool, and as I watch them rock the party in front of bleachers full of unlikely fans, I think, “Wow, this is pretty cool. I’m usually lifting weights right over there...” (yeah, sure you are, Dream Steve - let’s not forget we haven’t actually been to the gym in two months… just ‘cause you pay the fee doesn’t mean you get to claim you actually excercise) ... and, lo and behold, where I’m usually pumping serious iron, ?uestlove is pounding the skins. “Far out!”

Midway through the show, ?uestlove gives me the signal that it’s time for me to pull the band’s truck around, so they can load out later. When I find the thing outside the venue, I see they’ve parked it on this utterly ridiculous incline. At first, I can’t quite fathom how in the hell it’s staying in place, but then then I notice it’s chained to the pavement. “I can’t back this thing out,” I think. “I’ve never driven anything close to this big, and it’s sitting at about a 70-degree angle!” Luckily, Paste publisher and - in this dream, at least - expert truck driver Tim “Bandit” Porter materializes out of nowhere to pull me out of a jam (though his partner “Snowman” and basset hound, Fred, were conspicuously absent). Throwing all caution to the wind, Tim hops behind the wheel of The Roots’ 18-wheeler, unlatches the e-brake and guns it. The tires spin on the sandy blacktop, then they catch and screech, smoldering rubber smoke filling the air.  I look over and… “Oh, shit! Wait! Stop! I forgot to unchain the truck!” I scream.  But it’s too late, Tim’s foot is heavy on the gas pedal, the engine is howling and the chain is as taught as Big Boi’s flow. Suddenly, the chain snaps, and at the same moment, so do the laws of physics. I watch as Tim and the truck shoot like a rocket up the hill, into the air and over the YMCA (which has since morphed into a picturesque little house on a hilltop). I hear the truck come crashing down on the other side of the house, but somehow when it hits, it bounces back over the house and lands in a twisted, shrieking scrap heap not far from where it was parked. Luckily, miraculously, a nonplussed Tim crawls from the wreckage unscathed, and dusts himself off.

By now, ?uestlove and company have finished their set, and come strolling out to discover this flaming scene of havoc and destruction.  My boy is pissed, and he lets me know about it - “You couldn’t keep an eye on it without shit exploding all over the place, could you?!?!” ?uestlove yells. “Not even for an hour?!?!”

Well, in just a few blundering seconds of R.E.M. sleep, I’ve miserably let down the hip-hop world not once but twice. Now, I will go face my failure… and, in monk-like atonement, beat my forehead repeatedly with a used copy of ATLiens while monotone chanting, “Throw your hands in the ayer, and wave ‘em like you just don’t cayer / and if ya like fish & grits & all dat pimp shit, then everybody say o’yayer.”

But last night I had a baby rock dream that gives me renewed hope in the powers of my imagination!  This was the dream…

... just a concert poster.  I dreamt that I was walking into the local coffee shop and spotted this poster on the door.  I was suddenly overcome with joy. 

Why? you ask?

Because for some unknown (and unacceptable) reason, both Andrew Bird and The Shins have bypassed Atlanta on their tours.  Neither artist has played here in over a year… maybe longer. As you may recall, I’ve already dreamt about both of these artists.  Andrew Bird and I crashed a wedding together, while The Shins tried to show me that they could sing underwater with Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.  How many more dreams must I have before these artists play for me?!?!

As for the inclusion of Man Man on the poster, the band came through town with Modest Mouse last Saturday, so that’s probably why I was thinking about it.

Well, here’s hoping for more dreams in the near future. (And I’m keeping May 25th open, just in case this dream comes true).

For Paste,
Caren

Though Decatur, GA, and big sister city, Atlanta, can’t compare to Manhattan, we have some pretty special concert venues within “The 404”—The EARL, Eddie’s Attic, Smith’s Olde Bar, CW Midtown Complex, The Drunken Unicorn, and Variety Playhouse (conveniently in walking distance from my apartment), just to name a few.

Yet when it comes to planning events here in Atlanta, I seem to strike out about 50% of the time with finding a venue to use.  Atlanta city ordinances make outdoor events difficult, too. 

That might explain why I recently had a dream concerning this predicament.  Commence Dream Sequence…

Paste was thowing a benefit concert in Decatur for some unknown cause.  We all agreed that we would figure out the charity after the fact. 

Music Sales Director, Nate Douglas, and Music Editor, Jason Killingsworth, were helping me with day-of preparations, including a VIP house party before the concert.  Jason had booked one of his favorite bands (and Paste 4 To Watch artist), Modern Skirts, for the gig.  We couldn’t find a bar to host the VIP party, though, so we took over our editor Josh Jackson’s house.  His wife was less than pleased.

Nate was responsible for keeping us to our schedule while I set-up the stage in Josh’s backyard.  I was assembling a microphone stand when Nate came running outside, yelling for me.

“Caren! Where is the band?  They haven’t checked in yet!”

“Man… they were supposed to be here at 5pm!” I sighed.

“I know. I can’t get a hold of them.  Are you sure they are coming?”

Yes, I was sure they were coming.  What band would turn down a charitable backyard gig for a TBD cause????

Nate and I ran into the VIP house party and tried to call JoJo, one of the band members.  No answer on the phone.  And Jason was nowhere to be found either.

“You look for the band, I’ll look for Jason,” I told Nate.  We split ways.  Just then I was stopped by a member of the Decatur City Council.

“Are you the party organizer?” she asked.  I nodded my head.  “Well you cannot have this concert.  You are too close to an elementary school—the noise ordinance says you can’t have a concert here.”

“But we attended the City Council meeting—everyone said it was okay!”

“They were wrong.” And with that, our concert plan was ruined.  I ran upstairs to the second floor of Josh’s house feeling very down.  Until I saw…

“Jason! Modern Skirts! What are you doing up here?”

The men were all huddled around a television set holding Nintendo controllers.

“Just playing some Zelda before the gig,” said the Skirts’ lead singer, Jay. 

“Well there isn’t going to be a gig… the city shut down our stage.”

“That’s ok,” said Jay.  “We can play in the neighbhorhood pool.  It’s drained for winter.”

“Yeah, and the sound will contain itself then,” added Jason.  “Good idea.”

Without any discussion, the band stood up and grabbed their gear.  They headed towards the neighborhood pool.  I chased after them and the crowd of VIPs followed me.

“No, turn around! It’s not time yet!” But the VIPs really wanted to see Modern Skirts.

We got to the pool and found it filled with skateboarding teenagers who were using the pool as a halfpipe.  But when Modern Skirts climbed down the pool ladder and got into the empty pool, the skateboarders stopped what they were doing and sat down for the concert.  All the VIPs jumped down into the pool, too.  Nate brought all of the sound equipment over from the house and Modern Skirts had their concert afterall.  They opened with “New York Song” and said, “We might not be in New York, but it’s Greater in Decatur!” The crowd errupted into cheers, especially the City Council member… Modern Skirts had won over the opposition.

------

Maybe I should think about hosting an event in a cement parking garage, too… I had never considered cement spaces before this dream… and I wonder what a concert in a pool would really look like… probably a lot like the end (starting at 2:19) of this All-American Rejects video…

The dream—inspired by the Albert Hammond Jr. show at the Blender Bar for SXSW—goes like this…

I’m in a warehouse space, where lots of folding chairs are set-up.  It feels like a Town Hall meeting.  There is a podium and stage at the front of the room, too.  Slowly people start filing in.

Our advertising sales director, Julian, walks up to me with our publisher, Tim, by his side.

“We’ve got some seats reserved over here,” Julian says, pointing to an empty row.

“For what?” I ask.

“For the auction.  It’s about to start.  Come on!”

We take our seats on the left side of the room.  “What is the auction for?” I whisper to Tim.

“To buy Albert Hammond Jr.”

Completely befuddled by this, I ask Tim to explain what he means by “buy.”

“New Line Records is selling him as a mascot to the highest bidder—brilliant marketing idea.”

“You can’t sell a person,” I counter. “That’s slavery!”

“It’s no different than a date auction, if you think about it,” explains Julian.  “Except we would own the rights to him.”

A auctioneer takes the stage, looking straight out of a county fair.  Then AHJ steps up, looking straight out of bed.  The bidding begins.

Julian and Tim and I pow-wow about what to do.

“It would be good for the Paste brand if we own a band,” says Julian.

“But this isn’t a band,” I argue, “it’s Albert Hammond Jr.”

“He’s part of The Strokes,” Tim reminds me.

“Yeah, but wouldn’t he be worth more with The Strokes?”

“But The Strokes aren’t for sale,” argues Julian.

Meanwhile the bids are getting larger and larger.  Other magazines—Filter, Harp, Rolling Stone—are duking it out in the bidding war.

“We should hold out and see if The Strokes go up for sale,” I conclude.  “It’d be better for us to own all five of The Strokes than just Albert Hammond Jr.  And it’s very church-and-state between editorial and marketing… we couldn’t guarentee him coverage.”

Tim and Julian are reluctant… but I stand firm in my conviction.  The bidding is about to close and we scramble to make a decision.  But before we can come to that decision we hear --

“Sold! To Relix Magazine!”

Wes Orshoski, managing editor at Relix and contributing writer to Paste, goes up on stage and shakes hands with AHJ.  The rocker doesn’t seem to care that his record label just sold him.  Orshoski poses for a photo with the auctioneer and AHJ.

The Paste team exits the warehouse feeling a bit down.  Maybe we should have bid... I think to myself.  Too late now...

“And come back tomorrow for Regina Spektor!” the auctioneer yells after us.

“Well,” says Tim, “there’s always next time.”

Just returned from Austin, where the annual South By Southwest conferences and music festival are held.  Hard to believe that a year has passed since I was last in Austin.  Last year was my first SXSW experience and I was lucky to catch some great shows, including the 2006 Paste SXSW Party where Josh Ritter, Alejandro Escovedo, Manchester Orchestra, Over the Rhine, Jamie Cullum, Modern Skirts and Midlake graced us with wonderful performances.

Reminiscing about this on the plane ride back to Atlanta made me recall the first indie-inspired dream I ever had.  It’s too good not to document, so let me share it with you:

Josh Ritter was getting ready to play a big show at Town Lake for SXSW 2006.  The Paste team was on-hand to see and sponsor the show.  In this dream, I was backstage with Paste’s associate editor, Steve LaBate, and editor-in-chief, Josh Jackson.

Ritter took the stage wearing his velvet vest, white button-down shirt, and fantastic belt buckle.  He smiled and started to play “Me & Jiggs” when the high string on his guitar snapped.  He kept on playing anyway, but when the song was over he quickly tossed the guitar to a security guard who looked straight out of the WWE.  The guard ran over to me and said, “Get him another guitar.”

“I don’t see another guitar....”

“Then fix it!”

“I’m just the sponsor,” I said. “I don’t know how to restring a guitar.”

“Then figure it out!”

Luckily I remembered that Steve was backstage, too.  As a musican himself, Steve surely knew how to restring a guitar.  I handed him the guitar and he got working on it. 

But the crowd was starting to turn on Ritter.  “Come on, man! Play another!” they yelled.  Our own Josh Jackson was quick to react, and rolled a catering cart out onto the stage.  On the cart was a cake with sparklers stuck in it, as well as a chilled bottle of champagne.  Jackson took to the microphone…

“I’m Josh Jackson from Paste Magazine, and we’d like to congratulate Josh Ritter on a great new album.  Cheers to Animal Years!” Ritter and Jackson clinked glasses and guzzled down the bubbly. Then some stagehands started distributing cake to the audience.

“Hurry, Steve!” I whispered backstage.  “They can’t last much longer.” Steve worked furiously and finally had the guitar restrung.  He handed it to the security guard, who handed it to Ritter.

Ritter slung the guitar strap over his shoulder and smiled (like always).  He broke into the second song and the crowd cheered.  But something didn’t sound right.  The chords sounded too low.  Which is when I realized…

“Steve! I forgot to tell you! Josh Ritter is left-handed! That means...”

“You gave me a low E string instead of a high E string!” snapped Ritter. 

“But… I’ve seen him write before,” said a befuddled Steve. “He’s right-handed.”

“Only when he writes,” grunted the security guard.

Ritter walked off stage.  The crowd began to boo.  Then Norah Jones appeared, fresh off a show with The Little Willies.  She handed Ritter a new acoustic guitar.  He played a few notes to make sure it was strung properly, then took the stage again.  But the crowd kept booing.

After the show, I felt that I needed to apologize.  It was the only way to salvage our relationship with Ritter.

“Josh! I’m so sorry! He didn’t know you were left-handed!” Ritter walked away with Norah.  “We were just the sponsors! Why didn’t you have a production team?” Ritter kept walking.  In a last ditch effort to save face, I yelled “Okay, well… we still love Animal Years!!”

END SCENE.

Ever since then, I’ve had a plethora of indie-inspired dreams (see previous posts) and/or dreams where Steve messes things up (sorry, Steve… it’s nothing personal).  As for Josh Ritter being left-handed—I’m pretty sure that’s a lie.  But I’ll still raise a glass to Animal Years, another great SXSW, and working with a staff that I like enough to dream about.

Rhea Douglas, Josh Ritter, Nate Douglas, and Caren at SXSW 2006

As you might have read here on PasteMagazine.com, we are hosting a secret show in NYC on 2/22/07 as part of our ongoing “Paste Presents” concert series.  The first of these shows at the Knitting Factory featured surprise performances from Beck, HEM, Hymns, and ?uestlove (who served as house DJ).  Jay Sweet and I have been planning the upcoming show and were interested to read a thread about the show over at BrooklynVegan.com (recently named “Blog of the Year” at the PLUG Awards).  Within the thread, BrooklynVegan and its readers were trying to guess the show’s line-up.  I read it before going to bed last night and ended up having a dream about it.  Goes something like this…

I was in NYC for business calls and getting ready for the party.  For some reason, I took a bus over to a pier on the West Side.  When I got off the bus my cellphone rang so I took the call. It said “PRIVATE/UNKNOWN” on the caller ID. Shady… I answered anyway and was greeted by a woman claiming to be a reporter for BrooklynVegan.

“You’re a reporter for a blog?” I asked.  “I didn’t know they had those. What’s your name then?”

“I can’t tell you that,” she said, “but I can tell you that I’ve figured out who is playing your party.”

“Really? Who do you think it is?” I asked.

“We know you’re having a solo show from one of the Cold War Kids.  And everyone in Brooklyn has seen them before… so we’re not coming.”

This made no sense to me.  “Why would we have only one Cold War Kid?  And we already told you that two of the artists performing at the show made Paste‘s 100 Greatest Living Songwriters list.”

The reporter was sneaky and wanted answers so she used a tactic that was sure to work—silence. 

“Hello? Are you still there??” I asked.  The reporter let me know she was still on the phone, but said nothing else.  Like a bumbling idiot, I started talking to fill the silence…

“Look, it’s not a Cold War Kid.  And you should plan on coming because it’s going to be a great show.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you the line-up, but it will be an awesome night—you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Silence.

Then I cracked.  “Fine… if I tell you the truth, will you promise not to tell anyone else?”

“Alright...” she said.  I could tell that she was smiling on the other end of the phone.  Oh no!, I thought, I’ve fallen into her trap!

That’s when I woke up.  Seems that subconciously I feel guilty about keeping secrets.  But you gotta do what you gotta do. 

The party is invite-only, but our readers can enter for a chance to win a pair of tickets to the real show.  Just don’t expect me to tell you who is playing… fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me…

One of my roles at Paste is to oversee operations and planning for the Rock’n’Reel Festival each fall… not a bad gig.  However, I have what Paste co-founder, Nick Purdy, calls the GSD (Get Stuff Done) gene, and that means a lot of logistical details stay in the back of my mind, even in my sleep.

The other night I had a dream about the 2007 festival.  It goes like this:

Editor-in-Chief, Josh Jackson, walked into the office and was happier than normal.  “I got us a media sponsor for the festival!” he said.

“Josh, we’re a magazine,” I reminded him. “We don’t need a media sponsor.”

“No, no, I mean I got us a newspaper sponsor!”

Since Rock’n’Reel is currently an Atlanta-based festival with online components, I assumed the sponsor would be the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

“It’s the daily paper in Norman, Oklahoma, where Flaming Lips live. And look! They already ran a story about the festival!” he exclaimed.  Josh pulled a newspaper out of his overcoat pocket and showed me the headline:

Paste Rock’n’Reel dates announced; Snow Patrol to headline

“Josh, we haven’t set the dates yet! And I haven’t even talked to Snow Patrol!!”

“But we were discussing dates the other day....” he said.  “I thought it was set?”

Josh and I had just encountered what corporations call a “communication breakdown.” Josh quickly called the paper and told them to retract the story.  The paper’s editor was pretty upset.  Josh stayed on the phone with him for a few minutes.  When he hung up, he called the staff together.

“In exchange for sponsorship and the error, we’re going to have to go to Norman to help with the city-wide picnic.”

Seemed strange, but Josh insisted we go to Oklahoma as a value-trade for the sponsorship.  So the Paste team got on a plane bound for Oklahoma.  We were then bused to a big field – a pumpkin patch to be exact.  A greeter was there to meet us.  She gave each Paste staffer a little red wagon -– “So you can pick pumpkins and bring them back to the site. The town kids are going to paint them.”

I got paired up with Paste’s web architect, Brian Gorby.  The two of us set off into the pumpkin patch feeling much like The Peanuts in It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. “Maybe Flaming Lips will be here… (Borat-like pause)… “NOT!”

NOT was right.  No Lips.  No townspeople for that matter.  So we picked out our pumpkins and headed back to the pavilion in the middle of the site.  Pizza was waiting for us – multiple pizzas brought in from the local pizzeria.  But they had weird toppings on them – zucchini, squash, eggplant, asparagus.  (I’m a picky eater so this worried me).  I saw one cheese pizza and went to grab a slice.  But music editor, Jason Killingsworth, beat me there.  He grabbed the whole pie and ate it – every last piece.

“Why did you do that, Jason? You don’t even like pizza!” (true story).

He swallowed his last bite and said, “Gotta do what you gotta do.”

I told Nick about this dream since he understands the GSD gene.  He said I must subconsciously feel out of control… maybe so… or maybe I was listening to Snow Patrol before bed and really craved cheese pizza (and felt out of control).  Whatever the reason, you can rest assured that Paste will be the first to report news and developments on the Rock’n’Reel Festival.  Hope to see you there, even you pumpkin growers in Norman....

I’ve reached the age where a lot of my friends are starting to get married (congrats to April & Conrad, the latest to tie the knot).  Luckily, I love a good wedding.  Music, dancing, drunk relatives, and cake… mmm, cake…

Know what else I love?  The new Andrew Bird album, Armchair Apocrypha, due out later this spring.  Lucky for me, Paste was sent an advance so we could review the album.  iTunes tells me I’ve listened to one of its songs, “Scythian Empires,” 32 times already.  If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

So over the weekend I dreamt that I was not invited to a wedding for one of my casual friends.  Normally I wouldn’t care so much, but this was a big outdoor wedding at a Dallas country club and all of my other friends were going.  Didn’t matter how I felt about it though; the wedding was during SXSW so I would be in Austin and unable to attend.

In this dream, I was having a lot of fun in Austin (I have a lot of fun there in real life, too) but something wasn’t right….  I was at showcase after showcase, but felt like I had to be at that wedding.  At one of the showcases I met Andrew Bird.  He was backstage tuning his violin and invited me to come talk to him.  “You look sad,” he said. 

I told Andrew about my dilemma.  He completely understood.  Turns out he liked weddings, too, and suggested we crash the country club wedding after he finished his set.  Move over, Vince and Owen – we were going to refine the art of wedding crashing.

We took Bird’s tour bus to Dallas and arrived at the wedding.  It was very classy – yellow daffodils, white daises, and Tiger lilies adorned all of the tables. There was a security guard checking invitations, which meant we would have to sneak in.  Bird and I formulated the perfect plan…

Andrew grabbed his violin case and walked up to the doors of the country club.  The security guard assumed he was with the band, and let him in.  Bird pulled out his violin and played a few tunes while guests were arriving.  Meanwhile, I went in through the service entrance and pretended to be a waitress.  When the party got going, Bird and I joined in on the fun until he had to take off for another gig.  I waved goodbye and took a seat at one of the tables in the reception hall.  The bride saw me and walked over.  “Why are you at my wedding?? It’s costing my parents $250 a head!”

I smiled and offered a simple explanation. “Free cake.”

And they all lived happily ever after.  The End.

From reading Paste and a slew of other music pubs, I’ve learned a lot of things I didn’t know about The Shins and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.  In particular, I’ve learned more about the creative processes implored by their frontmen, James Mercer and Alec Ounsworth.  In a Filter interview conducted by actor John Krasinski (a.k.a Jim Halpert of “The Office"), Mercer explained that “Sea Legs” includes the sounds of a smashed plastic bag and bottlecaps on the amps.  And in Issue 27 of Paste, Ounsworth explains the method to his madness, following the completion of CYHSY’s new record, “Some Loud Thunder,” and the song “Underwater (You & Me).”

So I got to thinking… wouldn’t it be cool if these guys collaborated?

“In your dreams, Caren.”

Exactly… here is my dream as best as I can recall it…

I was on a plane heading towards New York.  John Krasinski had the seat next to me.  John was very excited to hear that I worked at Paste, because he was in Christopher Guest’s latest project, “For Your Consideration” (the cover subject of Issue 27), and he loved The Shins (the cover subject of Issue 28). We had lots to talk about.  But first we had to clear some things up and make nice. He forgave me for failing to invite him to be on the Issue 27 cover with the rest of the “For Your Consideration” cast; I forgave him for doing the Filter interview.  The rest of plane ride was quite nice. 

When I was leaving the plane, he said, “Do you want to meet The Shins?”

Of course I wanted to meet The Shins! I heard from Natalie Portman that they’ll change my life!

John told me that the band was going to be in Central Park and that he would take me there to meet them (how kind of him).  So we went to the park, and sure enough, The Shins were waiting there.  We talked for a bit, then saw a familiar face.  It was Alec Ounsworth, walking around the park with his Discman (which he is known to do in real life).  Mercer stopped Ounsworth and asked him about the new album.  Krasinski had to take off, so I was left with the musicians.  The conversation went like this:

Ounsworth: “I like what you did with that song...”
Mercer: “The one with the bottlecaps?”
Ounsworth: “Yeah. That’s the one.”
Mercer: “What do you do?”
Ounsworth: “I sing underwater.”
Mercer: “You can sing underwater??”
Ounsworth: “Yeah, I’ll show you how.”

They walked off together, but not before Mercer looked at me and asked, “Can you record this?” Then he and Ounsworth dove into one of the ponds in the middle of Central Park. 

How was I supposed to record underwater??  None of the land-loving Shins could help me!  Sure enough, I could see the two musicians playing guitars underwater, but couldn’t get to them.  Then Mercer popped his head above the water and looked at me.

“Oh, and can you throw us some bottlecaps?” he asked.

That’s the end of the dream.  How cool would it be if that really happened? Especially the singing underwater bit…

James and Alec—think about it.  I could be on to something…

Fact: highly anticipated albums = highly protected albums. 

And since each issue of Paste goes to print well in advance of its street date, we have to get advances of these albums in order to deliver timely reviews.  Most of the time these popular albums are “watermarked” and carry FBI warning labels on them. Sometimes they don’t play in computers. Editor-at-Large, Jay Sweet, encountered this problem because of the “ultra-sensitive copyright protection” used on Thom Yorke’s solo album, “The Eraser” (read the Issue 23 cover story here).

Once in awhile, though, albums are so carefully guarded that the only way to hear them is to visit a record label, which is how Paste was introduced to the upcoming Modest Mouse release, “We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank.” Managing Editor, Reid Davis, and Program Sales Director, Nate Douglas, got to hear the disc in November when they visited Epic’s New York offices.  This, of course, got the rest of the staff pretty jealous since we would have to wait until February to hear the disc.

That just wasn’t soon enough for me, which explains this dream:

Senior Contributing Editor, Bud Scoppa, was invited to hear the only copy of the new disc. Apparently the band was so nervous about tracks leaking to the internet that they only pressed one disc (no back-up copies).  Bud was happy to oblige and promised to report back.  Reid, Nate, and I went up to NY to meet him and hear all about the album.

[Note: I’ve never met Bud. But as we’ve seen already, its not unusual for me to dream about people I don’t know.]

Bud sat in a soundproof room and listened to the disc, while Reid, Nate and I waited outside the room. When his time was up, though, Bud wasn’t ready to turn the disc back over to the label reps.  It was so good that he didn’t want anyone else to have it.  So he ate it.  That’s right, Bud swallowed that disc in one gulp. 

Well that made Reid very angry.  How were we supposed to review the disc if the only copy was in Bud’s stomach?! Bud offered a Cheshire cat grin. Reid started yelling and when Bud went to speak a very strange thing happened… we could hear music coming out of his mouth! Bud shut his mouth and the music stopped.  When he opened it again, we could hear Isaac Brock’s voice.

Bud was a human CD player!!

Reid ran off and returned with duct tape.  He asked me and Nate to hold Bud down. We did so, while Reid taped him to an office chair.

“Open up!” Reid yelled.  When Bud went to yell, “No!,” all we heard was Modest Mouse. Reid somehow managed to tape Bud’s mouth open so we could hear the whole CD.  It was not unlike a scene in Clockwork Orange. And like the good music journalist that he is, Reid pulled out an iRock recording device to capture the sounds coming out of Bud’s mouth.  Even if it meant torture, we would be the first (and only) magazine to review the album.

END SCENE

A moral for this story?  Help feed starving artists. Buy their albums, don’t eat them.

And maybe we should just bring back the 8-track…

So it seems appropriate that I would have a dream about The Hold Steady after listening to their album, Boys and Girls In America, more than a few times.  The dream went something like this:

The Hold Steady announced they were holding a concert at the local community center.  All proceeds would benefit charity.  The press release explained that the band would set-up a stage in the community center auditorium and play for 100 lucky fans that snagged tickets online.  Palmer managed to get four tickets and gave me one.  He was mad that I hadn’t listened to the album and said this show would change my life.  He gave the other two tickets to Paste‘s assistant editor, Kate Kiefer, and Paste web warrior, Austin L. Ray.

The four of us went to the community center and found a high school symphonic band opening up for The Hold Steady.  The stage was pretty plain and there were no fancy lights or special effects. 

When The Hold Steady took the stage, Palmer, Austin and Kate went nuts.  The band was rockin’ that community center auditorium like it was Lollapalooza.  But then, the unexpected happened. The drummer, Bobby Drake, spontaneously combusted… Spinal Tap style.  The crowd went silent.  “Did that really just happen?” I asked my friends.  The band quickly exited the stage, so we concluded that, yes, the drummer had spontaneously combusted.  We were very sad and decided to leave. 

But then the lead singer, Craig Finn, came back out and yelled, “You all came to see us play, so the show must go on!” The band was going to play a second concert at 10pm; “Bobby would want it that way,” said Finn.

At 10pm, we continued to rock out with The Hold Steady (minus a drummer).  As we were leaving the auditorium, Palmer went up to meet the band and offer his condolences.  He invited them back to his house to hang out.  The band accepted and agreed to meet us all at Palmer’s house—a treehouse, to be exact.  We were just like the Swiss Family Robinson.  There were bunk beds and hammocks where all of us could sleep.  Even a pet monkey.  We were sure The Hold Steady would love to see the pet monkey. 

But I never got that far in the dream.  Two concerts and a treehouse were all my brain could muster up in one night of slumber. 

To The Hold Steady’s publicist (should you find this post via Technorati or Google)—I’m sorry for scaring you into thinking a member of The Hold Steady died.

And to The Hold Steady—I’m sorry I didn’t get to see your show when you came to Atlanta.  I promise to make it to the next one. Even my subconscious knows what I’ve been missing.