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How Led Zep Got Their Name

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In trying to prove my theory that Maroon 5’s name is actually a subtle homage to Luke Skywalker’s X-Wing’s call signal during the Death Star attack stage of “Star Wars: Episode IV, A New Hope” (“…Red Leader, this is Red 5…”), I came across this simple and well worded explanation as to how Led Zeppelin, aka the greatest rock band eh-VER, got its name:

Keith Moon and John Entwistle of the Who were hanging out with Richard Cole (The Yardbirds road manager) one night at the disco “Salvation” in New York. Moon and Entwistle were burnt out on the whole scene with The Who and were talking about the desire to form a band with Jimmy Page and Steve Winwood. And Entwistle said “Yeah. We’ll call it Lead Zeppelin. Because it will go over like a fucking Lead Balloon.” Laughter followed and Cole told Jimmy about the discussion later. So when the time came to change the band’s name from The New Yardbirds they finally settled on “Led Zeppelin” after short stints as “Mad Dogs” and “Whoopee Cushion”. They changed the spelling of lead to “Led” so that people wouldn’t mispronounce the groups name as “Lead Zeppelin”.

If I ever form a band, I was going to name it Red 5. Now I can’t do that because of stupid Maroon 5. Now I have to go with my backup name – Field Order 15. This is the formal name for General Sherman’s order to give all freed blacks 40 acres and a mule, which in my opinion, while great sounding (Land to a former slave? Great!) added insult to injury. The mule, a cross between a donkey and a horse, is a sterile animal and can’t reproduce. Its used as a work animal and let’s face it, freed blacks in 1865 were used to working. So in reality, Sherman would have been much better off giving a plow to the freed slave to push instead of a mule. At least that way the field will get plowed and something might grow instead of just having a sterile animal sitting around, doing nothing except waiting to be fed by a freed slave that probably has no money for food. But that’s just my opinion.

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ROCK/DON’T ROCK

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New York Metro reports this week that on the WALK/DON’T WALK sign outside CBGB on the Bowery, the orange DON’T WALK hand has had its middle two fingers and thumb obliterated with black tape, turning it into a devil’s horns-the universal hand signal for “Rock!”

The white walking man is now wearing sideburns, a skull-and-bones T-shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of Converse. Across the street, the walking man has become a woman, with spiky hairdo, miniskirt, and high-heeled ankle boots. Nearby, at the intersection of Allen and Rivington, the man wears an Adidas tracksuit and Kangol hat, and carries a boom box. In all three cases, holes have been carefully punched in the pasted-on “clothing” (made from vinyl), so that the LED light still shines through.

Who has been doing this? Read the article to find out…

via Republica

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Dance Party Europa

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This video has been around for a while now – its a kid lip-syncing and rocking out in front of his web cam. I saw it back in 12/04 when Chris posted it to Blah Blah Blog. Since then, I forgot about it until someone else sent it to me last week when we were looking for the old hit “The Super Bowl Is Gay.”
So, please watch and enjoy. It helps if you make you window smaller as the flash file will shrink/expand based on the window size.

If you are wondering, the song is called “Dragsotea Din Tei” and its by a Romanian group called O-Zone. You can even buy it on iTunes if you want to thoroughly annoy your friends and neighbors. After the jump you can even read the lyrics.

Thanks Chris as the comments to your post provided the extra info

UPDATE (2/26):

Today there is an article in the NY Times about this kid. He’s actually from NJ. After the jump, you can read the entire NY Times article. Also, I found a link to the actual music video as well. There are many other versions floating around as well but I don’t think they are that good.

Translated Lyrics:

Hello [on a cellphone], greetings, it’s me, an outlaw,
I ask you, my love, to accept happiness.
Hello, hello, it’s me, Picasso,
I sent you a beep [cellphone signal], and I’m brave [or strong],
But you should know that I’m not asking for anything from you.
You want to leave but you don’t want don’t want to take me, don’t want don’t want to take me, don’t want don’t want don’t want to take me.
Your face and the love from the linden trees,
And I remember your eyes.
I call you [over the phone], to tell you what I feel right now,
Hello, my love, it’s me, your happiness.
Hello, hello, it’s me again, Picasso,
I sent you a beep [cellphone signal] and I’m brave [or strong],
But you should know that I’m not asking for anything from you.

Internet Fame Is Cruel Mistress for a Dancer of the Numa Numa

By ALAN FEUER and JASON GEORGE

There was a time when embarrassing talents were a purely private matter. If you could sing “The Star Spangled Banner” in the voice of Daffy Duck, no one but your friends and family would ever have to know.

But with the Internet, humiliation – like everything else – has now gone public. Upload a video of yourself playing flute with your nose or dancing in your underwear, and people from Toledo to Turkmenistan can watch.

Here, then, is the cautionary tale of Gary Brolsma, 19, amateur videographer and guy from New Jersey, who made the grave mistake of placing on the Internet a brief clip of himself dancing along to a Romanian pop song. Even in the bathroom mirror, Mr. Brolsma’s performance could only be described as earnest but painful.

His story suggests that the quaint days when cultural trinkets, like celebrity sex tapes, were passed around like novels in Soviet Russia are over. It says a little something of the lightning speed at which fame is made these days.

To begin at the beginning:

Mr. Brolsma, a pudgy guy from Saddle Brook, made a video of himself this fall performing a lip-synced version of “Dragostea Din Tei,” a Romanian pop tune, which roughly translates to “Love From the Linden Trees.” He not only mouthed the words, he bounced along in what he called the “Numa Numa Dance” – an arm-flailing, eyebrow-cocked performance executed without ever once leaving the chair.

In December, the Web site newgrounds.com, a clearinghouse for online videos and animation, placed a link to Mr. Brolsma on its home page and, soon, there was a river of attention. “Good Morning America” came calling and he appeared. CNN and VH1 broadcast the clip. Parodists tried their own Numa Numa dances online. By yesterday, the Brolsma rendition of “Love From the Linden Trees” had attracted nearly two million hits on the original Web site alone.

The video can be seen here.

It was just as Diane Sawyer said on her television program: “Who knows where this will lead?”

Nowhere, apparently. For, in Mr. Brolsma’s case, the river became a flood.

He has now sought refuge from his fame in his family’s small house on a gritty street in Saddle Brook. He has stopped taking phone calls from the news media, including The New York Times. He canceled an appearance on NBC’s “Today.” According to his relatives, he mopes around the house.
What’s worse is that no one seems to understand.

“I said, ‘Gary this is your one chance to be famous – embrace it,’ ” said Corey Dzielinski, who has known Mr. Brolsma since the fifth grade. Gary Brolsma is not the first guy to rocket out of anonymity on a starship of embarrassment. There was William Hung, the Hong Kong-born “American Idol” reject, who sang and danced so poorly he became a household name.

There was Ghyslain Raza, the teenage Quebecois, who taped himself in a mock light-saber duel and is now known as the Star Wars Kid.

In July 2003, Mr. Raza’s parents went so far as to sue four of his classmates, claiming they had placed the clip of him online without permission. “Ghyslain had to endure and still endures today, harassment and derision,” according to the lawsuit, first reported in The Globe and Mail of Toronto.
Mr. Brolsma has no plans to sue, his family said – mainly because he would have to sue himself. In fact, they wish he would bask a little in his celebrity.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” his grandfather, Kalman Telkes, a Hungarian immigrant, said the other day while taking out the trash.

The question remains why two million people would want to watch a doughy guy in glasses wave his arms around online to a Romanian pop song.

“It definitely has to be something different,” said Tom Fulp, president and Webmaster of newgrounds.com.

“It’s really time and place.”

“The Numa Numa dance,” he said, sounding impressed. “You see it and you kind of impulsively have to send it to your friends.”

There is no way to pinpoint the fancy of the Internet, but in an effort to gauge Mr. Brolsma’s allure, the Numa Numa dance was shown to a classroom of eighth graders at Saddle Brook Middle School – the same middle school that he attended, in fact.

The students’ reactions ranged from envious to unimpressed. “That’s stupid,” one of them said. “What else does he do?” a second asked. A third was a bit more generous: “I should make a video and become famous.”

The teacher, Susan Sommer, remembered Mr. Brolsma. He was a quiet kid, she said, with a good sense of humor and a flair for technology.

“Whenever there were computer problems, Gary and Corey would fix them for the school,” she said.

His friends say Mr. Brolsma has always had a creative side. He used to make satirical Prozac commercials on cassette tapes, for instance. He used to publish a newspaper with print so small you couldn’t read it with the naked eye.

“He was always very out there – he’s always been ambitious,” said Frank Gallo, a former classmate. “And he’s a big guy, but he’s never been ashamed.”

Another friend, Randal Reiman, said: “I’ve heard a lot of people say it’s not that impressive – it doesn’t have talent. But I say, Who cares?”

These days, Mr. Brolsma shuttles between the house and his job at Staples, his family said. He is distraught, embarrassed. His grandmother, Margaret Telkes, quoted him as saying, just the other day, “I want this to end.”

And yet the work lives on. Mr. Fulp, the Webmaster, continues to receive online homages to the Numa Numa dance. The most recent showed what seemed to be a class of computer students singing in Romanian and, in unison, waving their hands.

Mr. Reiman figures the larger world has finally caught on to Gary Brolsma.

“He’s been entertaining us for years,” he said, “so it’s kind of like the rest of the world is realizing that Gary can make you smile.”

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Long Live The Pixies

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I saw the Pixies on Monday night and they rocked so hard I couldn’t believe it. It was “Death to the Pixies” (their live double album that I burn for you – post a comment if you want it) 20X better. They played all of their old songs, they were laughing and enjoying each other’s company on stage (which was nice to see due to the public infighting that transpired the last decade while they have been broken up) and they simply just rocked the place OUT. The crowd was great, it was really into it and amped up and to top it all off, just when I thought that my voice was too hoarse and my neck was tired from thrashing, they encored with Debaser (my favorite song of theirs) and Gigantic which launched me into the air dancing and jumping like a fool.


Maybe as an homage to Channukah, they have been playing 8 shows in 8 nights. Tonight is the last night and they are so nice they are playing twice – one show is at 5:30 and the other one starts midnight. I may try and get a ticket to the midnight show. If it wasn’t for finals this week, I would have made it to one of the other shows and in fact, I wasn’t planning on going tonight but after reading a few reviews today, I’m so psyched to see them again that I’m probably going to suck it up and hit up the late show.

I would have to say that this was on of the top 10 shows I have ever seen. As Newsday put it, Their repertoire isn’t legendary, but now you see fans go crazy for ‘Bone Machine’ or ‘Gouge Away.’ You see 18-to-22-year-olds singing every single word of every song. What the whole audience wants is what was obscure. Because of the way the band broke up, most of these people never thought they would ever get the chance to see The Pixies. So now, if you care about credible music from the underground, you have to see The Pixies. You have to get that notch on your bedpost.”

If you have the time and you respect alt-rock, this is a show you have to see. The Pixies are dead! Long Live the Pixies!

Keep reading to read the NY Times and Newsday reviews of the Sunday, 12/12 show…

FROM NY TIMES

Once Upon a Time, There Was This Really Loud Band\By KELEFA SANNEH. Published: December 13, 2004

It’s not hard to envy the Pixies. After more than 10 years apart, the members reunite, only to find that fans (and, if anyone cares, pop critics) love them more than ever. There are sold-out shows, glowing profiles, ecstatic fans. By now you’ve probably read at least one article about how the Pixies helped inspire a generation of bands, about how much Kurt Cobain loved them, about how water tasted different before they came along, about how the sky used to be a slightly different shade of blue.
But despite all that build-up – or maybe because of it – Saturday’s Pixies concert at the Hammerstein Ballroom was a rude, often exhilarating shock. It had been all too easy to forget about the Pixies’ ugliness: how fast they played, how loud they were, how nasty they sounded. Compared with the old-timers, the appealing postpunk act that opened the show, TV on the Radio, seemed positively quaint, even polite.

The concert was the opening night of a weeklong, eight-concert engagement, a tribute not only to the continuing popularity of the Pixies but also to the ticket-buying power of the many 30-something fans who remember the band from their college years. (It would be interesting to know how many devotees end up seeing more than one of the eight concerts.) The opening acts are different every night, ranging from pre-Pixies veterans (the reunited Mission of Burma tonight, the pioneering punk bassist Mike Watt next Saturday) to post-Pixies alt-rock bands (the shaggy Canadian collective Broken Social Scene on Tuesday, the feminist new-wave trio Le Tigre on Wednesday). Don’t be surprised if the Pixies out-clamor them all.

In 1986, when the Pixies were formed, it made sense that an underground rock band would want to make lots of noise. Shrieked lyrics and guitar tantrums were two signs that you weren’t angling to become radio fodder, two signs that you were part of the American postpunk movement – waving the flag, even if you weren’t quite marching in step.

But sometime in the 1990’s, things changed. The success of Nirvana helped introduce Pixiesish chaos to mainstream listeners who decided that screaming singers and screaminger guitars weren’t so hard on the ears after all. From Nine Inch Nails to Korn, shriekers earned a place in overground rock ‘n’ roll, and the tradition continues today. Turn on your local modern-rock station and wait a few minutes; you’ll probably hear the kind of racket that once kept bands off commercial radio.

Not surprisingly, some underground bands responded by getting quieter and sweeter. Those looking for an alternative to the high-decibel ennui of, say, Linkin Park can throw on a CD by the Postal Service or Interpol (to name just two big-name alternative acts), losing themselves in something quieter and more restrained. Emo bands and Ozzfest perennials still scream their lungs out, but lots of bands following in the Pixies’ wake have decided to pipe down.

So where does that leave the Pixies? Exactly where they started: alone. On Saturday night, it was a relief to hear that they still sounded utterly and gloriously like themselves, barreling through songs full of elements that might once have seemed disparate but now seem inseparable: the ruthless, sometimes deadpan drumming of David Lovering (in “Bone Machine,” he makes it almost impossible to find the downbeat); the precise disruptions of Joey Santiago’s electric guitar; Kim Deal’s warm slow-motion bass lines; the frantic strumming and gorgeous yelping of Black Francis, a k a Frank Black.

Most startling of all is how little the band’s live show has changed over the years. The Pixies’ old record label, 4AD, recently released a great retrospective DVD (it’s called simply “Pixies”) that includes a performance from 1988: Mr. Santiago and Mr. Lovering have hair, Black Francis looks a bit more streamlined, and Ms. Deal looks less like someone you might trust with your car keys, but the furious, off-kilter energy is exactly the same.

Age hasn’t affected all of these songs the same way. When Black Francis sang “Where Is My Mind?” it was hard to remember that the phrase had once sounded vague and bitterly evocative; these days, it sounds more like someone making fun of the slacker-chic 1990’s. But most of the songs sounded as mysterious and elusive as they always have, from the gently swaying “Caribou” to Ms. Deal’s unsettling (and beautiful) sex song “Gigantic,” which might be the best thing the Pixies ever did.
If you had to pick a concert for the inevitable live reunion DVD, it probably wouldn’t be this one: the members sometimes seemed to be battling one another to establish the right tempo, and a few songs sounded even more ragged than they were supposed to. The band members didn’t look as if they were having the time of their lives. They looked like four people working hard to create a marvelous racket; even after watching them do it for 90 minutes, you weren’t quite sure how they did it. And as the fans filed out, ears ringing, no doubt some of them were already getting ready to return for another noisy night.

FROM NEWSDAY:

Pixies: enchanting after all these years

BY GLENN GAMBOA. December 13, 2004

There they were, The Pixies – a band that, for nearly a generation of alt-rock fans, had become mythic and almost as elusive as their name suggests – standing on a stage fittingly built to look like a post-industrial forest.

Before embarking on their current sold-out tour, singer Charles Thompson (aka Black Francis), guitarist Joey Santiago, bassist Kim Deal and drummer David Lovering had not played together in 12 years. The Boston band called it quits in 1992, just as the alternative-to-mainstream rock they helped build was about to take over the world thanks to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” a song Kurt Cobain said was his attempt at “ripping off The Pixies.”

It’s hard to compete with legend, especially when the audience is filled with folks waiting to see if the myth is true, if you are as great as nostalgia-clouded minds remember. But as soon as The Pixies launched into “Lady in the Radiator Song (In Heaven)” with Deal’s cooing promise, “In heaven, everything is fine,” it became clear: The Pixies were going to outperform their legend. Ripping through 29 songs in 90 minutes, that’s exactly what they did.

They started off slowly, with a restrained, downtempo version of “Wave of Mutilation” followed by a gorgeous cover of Neil Young’s “Winterlong” that showed how well Thompson and Deal’s voices still fit together. But like a rock-and-roll freight train, The Pixies started picking up speed with the raucous “Bone Machine” and an extra-prickly “Cactus,” where the combination of Thompson’s excitable vocals and Santiago’s stylish, elegant guitar riffs started to build momentum.

By the time they reached the meat of the set – the scorching-but-sweet “Debaser,” the anthemic “U-Mass,” where Thompson ended each line with a little extra snarl, the swooning “Levitate Me” and the off-kilter pop “Gouge Away,” where Deal’s bass lines eloquently explain why bassists are necessary in rock bands – The Pixies had made it clear that this was no greatest-hits cash-in. They were still emotionally invested in these songs and it showed.

The powerful version of “Tame” offered the proof of their influence on Nirvana, especially after stand-out versions of “Broken Face” and “Isla de Encanta” nicely displayed their hardcore roots, taking Husker Du’s speed and shrieks and adding their own twists. “Monkey Gone to Heaven” was equally passionate, as Thompson laid out the spiritual world view – “man is 5,” “the devil is 6” and “God is 7” – that hipsters have shrieked along with in countless dive bars around the world.

Pairing “Here Comes Your Man,” one of the poppiest moments of the evening, where The Pixies seem to channel Hamburg-era Beatles, with “Nimrod’s Son,” one of their most experimental songs, with wailing, feedback-driven guitars, showed how they have managed to build their following throughout their years of dormancy – equal parts of comfort and challenge.

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Blackalicious Shout-out

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I awoke this morning to find a nice little shout out to me about my current favorite rap group Blackalicious on Blah Blah Blog. Here is the first sentence of the post:

“Maybe I am old and out of the loop, but I just discovered the genius of Blackalicious, and it took a Jewish guy from Long Island to introduce me.”

My street cred has probably now increased at least 25% due to how I’ve helped spread the word about Blackalicious’s delicious rhymes and deft beats. I can go on and on about how amazing this group is but really Chris’s post says it all, plus, he provides an opportunity to download Alphabet Aerobics, the songs that first made me love the group, as well as Chemical Calisthenics, which actually makes physics sound gansta. As Chris put it, they are “like Kool Mo Dee with a master’s degree.”

Thanks Chris

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Flashback: State Song Lyrics

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I was going through a folder I have on my work PC which contains all sorts of random docs, such as a spreadsheet used to plan my bachelor party, a letter to my pediatrician requesting my immunization history, a list of places to eat around my office and a video, shot from the doomed Columbia Space Shuttle, of Israel from space (email me if you want this – I don’t want to post it and get hit with the bandwidth overages). I also found the lyrics to a song I learned in 5th grade which I sang in some concert: The 50 States in Rhyme Song. For all those who are nostalgic, especially for a time when we thought of states as just states, not red states or blue states, here is the song:

Alabama and Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, and Connecticut and more.

Delaware, Florida, Georgia and Hawaii, Idaho. Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, still 35 to go.

Kansas and Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine. Maryland, Massachusetts, and good ole Michigan. Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, and Montana, Nebraska’s 27, number 28’s Nevada.

Next, New Hampshire and New Jersey, And way down, New Mexico.

Then New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, O – Hi – O.

Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, now let’s see.

Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee.

Texas, then there’s Utah. Vermont, I’m almost through. Virginia, then there’s Washington and West Virginia, too.

Could Wisconsin be the last one in the 49?

No, Wyoming is the last state in the 50 states that rhyme.

I for one can sing from memory the song up till the “#28’s Nevada” part.