By Christian Schaeffer
By Daniel Hill
By Joseph Hess
By Joseph Hess
By Allison Babka
By Gina Tron
By Kelsey McClure
By Roy Kasten
No matter how you do things in your clan, people who refer to the holiday as "Turkey Day" should be drawn and quartered.
There aren't a lot of Thanksgiving carols, which in itself is something for which to be thankful. We don't have little moppets with apple cheeks walking down the street singing "Turkey Makes Me Sleepy" or "The Indians Fed Us (Then We Killed 'Em)." (Check in next week for the beginning of Christmas articles.)
But it also means most people aren't too focused on music this week. So here's an amuse bouche of music to read between courses. Enjoy.
There is one party that actually picks up speed this week. The Science is typically one of the best places in the Lou to see hip-hop. Usually cloistered down in the Duck Room, this week it moves over to the Pageant again for its Thanksgiving Leftovers show on Friday. Part of the Science's appeal is the packed-in crowd in Blueberry Hill's basement, where it feels like a backspinning dancer might take your head off. So get out there and fill up the Pageant. With folks like the Midwest Avengers and DJ Needles rocking the mic and spinning, this might be the one way to get your cottage-cheese ass moving again after the holiday. And it's going to need it, lard butt.
"I think you suck a big fuckin' dick."
Well, hello to you too, Gentle Readers. It's been a banner month for reader input here in the music section. Far be it from me to deny our fans a chance to join the Great Conversation.
The first real treat popped into my voicemail a few weeks ago, from some anonymous dude who left the above comment (and lots more, none of it proposing marriage). The week after, he called to let me know that for the current week "I give you a C," which, though I'm not sure about this, sounds better than sucking a big fuckin' dick. A message to the dude: I suspect you're in a band. Tell me its name and when it's playing, and I'll cover it right here in glorious, cock-chugging Radar Station. Promise. (This is a one-time offer. Music Editor Abuse will not become a Golden Ticket to coverage.) Much better was a nice lady from the county who took issue with a little joke I made about Jay Farrar sacrificing for his family. "I don't usually allow the RFT inside my house because of the gratuitous violence (see June 19-25, 2002) and promiscuous sex (see any issue!)" Now, that's the way to start a letter. Other choice tidbits from this defender of the family:
"I suggested you probably were not happily married either."
"And a baby will double its weight in six months; a baby will learn a new trick on a daily basis. If you haven't seen it for a week or two, it's like a whole new kid! It's almost like the cute little guy you have known and loved -- has died!"
"Worse than that the cute little guy you haven't seen for a while will turn his head, or run from you, or even cry! They have forgotten you.... I have a friend whose cat will hide from the family after they return from a vacation."
"Your column is certainly NOT the worst thing that is in the RFT [score!] and is probably better than most. It was simply pointed out to me and you are having to suffer for my pent-up irritation with the great, and frequently ill-used, power of the press."
And my favorite, from a follow-up letter: "Remember, the terrorists hate us for our pornography almost as much as for our support of Israel."
Take that, terrorists!
Radar Station completists will want to check out rocknrollshoes.com, where I am the Shoe of the Month contributor (it's my write-up, not my shoe, sad to say). The folks at that fine Web site are continuing their mission to take pictures of musicians' leather-clad feet, one pair at a time. If you've never dug around the site, spend some time on it. For one thing, you'll quickly learn that most guys' shoes are boring, even if the dudes are rock stars. It must be fun to be a girl, what with thigh-high leather boots and platform heels. Cross-dressing dreams aside, I was glad to lend a hand. Plus, they sent me a boss Pabst Blue Ribbon T-shirt. I learned last week that wearing it to a bar makes you want to order anything but Pabst, lest you look like "the Pabst guy."
The folks at Pabst might want to work on that.