A great day for new music...

Though it's just another rainy day in Athens, today is a rather interesting day in the land of music. Not only do we get a new single by Panic! at the Disco, but we get the first song from ex-Panic! members Ryan Ross and Jon Walker's band The Young Veins. Brendon and Spencer have blessed us with a "New Perspective" while Mr. Ross and Jon cry for "Change." I would hold the two up to the light, but as of there's really no basis for comparison whatsoever, we'll just break them down a bit. The Panic! split was both a definite shock and a definite 'saw it coming.' Though the four make ridiculously good music together, if you listen to their new projects you can quite easily see that they don't exactly see eye to eye on a strictly musical front. 

As a preface, however, and to not seem like I'm stepping on toes, I thoroughly enjoyed both songs. My musical tastes jump from Tom Waits to Ben Folds to basically anything, so I'm not saying a single word against what I've heard today. All four of these men are incredibly different and gifted individuals who have truly found their callings and I will buy everything they put out. Music is more important than food or making my car run or new lenses or discount fabric, so thank you to the ones who can supply my fix. But ok.

"New Perspective" has some wonderfully layered guitar lines and a twinkly piano bit complete with poppy "woo-hoos" and a super catchy melody, I was sold pretty quickly. It nearly has a nineties pop sound, but it's cleaner and better produced, complete with some fabulous lyrics; Brendon somehow managing to sing "Can we fast forward to go down on me?" while still sounding completely sweet yet completely serious about it. It's almost a la, "Let's get these teen hearts beating faster," but more grown-up and straight forward. 

There's a bit of a Jellyfish-esque build up and break and when the music drops you can appreciate just how talented a vocalist this band truly has. There's pieces about moving forward, new passions, and inching through beds that, if you know anything about the current situation, might prompt a raised eyebrow or smirk if you're that way inclined. He sings that he wants to be praised from a new perspective and how getting out now would be a good idea, both thoughts being highly applicable to what's been going on and far less cryptic than some of the lyrics Panic! fans have been used to in the past. The words sound like they're directed at the now-absent Mr. Ross, but who am I to judge? This is purely speculation since I, unfortunately, don't know any of these men. I'm sure any of them could set me straight.

On a different note, Spencer Smith is a seriously underrated drummer. He's complex without being overshadowing or unseemingly flashy and if you go back to the previous albums and actually pay attention, he's so beyond merely solid. Props. The song seems to be a nice blend between the first "A Fever You Can't Sweat Out" album  and the more recent "Pretty. Odd" while still managing to be something completely new. The chorus has been stuck in my head all day, I definitely recommend giving it a couple listens.

The Young Veins respond with "Change." Ryan has clearly gone back to roots he's too young to actually have and created something straight out of the sixties PopRockFolk era. I definitely don't mind, however, and have no room to talk since I'm the biggest Bowie fan you'll ever meet under the age of about fifty. The song has a pleasant, bouncy rhyme and I was totally sold at the hand claps and tambourines. It's stripped-down without being sparse and complex enough that it's nothing to scoff at. The harmony lines are rather distinctly Beatlesy at times, but you can tell they've probably been listening to The Kinks, The Move, The Monkees, and maybe a dash of Harry Nilsson. And The Small Faces. A lot. If Ryan decided to adopt a British accent, I think it'd fit in just fine. 

The song opens with a "Hard Day's Night" kind of hit before the lead in really starts, but there's no complaints here. The guitar tone has a nice vintage crunch on it and while Ryan has a very solid couple of solo measures, Jon's written a nice bass line that stands out enough to be really appreciated - there's a chromatic walkdown in there that you can feel in your chest, it's pretty wicked. The new lead singer avows that "some people never change, they just stay the same way" and I'd be lying if I said I thought this wasn't directed back at his old bandmates sliding into their harder sound as opposed to continuing to trip down the hippie path he helped pave in "Pretty. Odd." The end cries of "Change, change, change" might not have you jumping up and down or pumping your fist, but they'll definitely have you hitting your steering wheel or cafe table for emphasis.

Musically, there's not a whole lot alike about these songs. Both are by musicians I admire, both have quite good production, and both will have you singing along, and that's about the extent of it. Both lyricists are saying they want what's new and times are a-changing, but that'll never be a new idea or a too tired thought. I don't know what the guys are gonna pull out next, but suffice it to say that I'll be investing in both albums. Good work on both ends, teams!

The Pete-Patrick Lyrical Theory of Relativity

Hands down, Patrick Stump has one of the greatest voices this world has ever had the pleasure to experience. On a similar vein, Pete Wentz has one of the most lyrically gifted and clever minds out there (regardless of what some may say - we support you, Mr. Wentz). Or so we think.

If you've ever listened to FOB, you have doubtlessly been struck by the dilemma of figuring out what the mess Mr. Stump is actually singing about. It's not that he doesn't enunciate or that there's too much going on to understand him, it's just that there's occasionally the Ryan Ross problem of eighteen syllable words jammed together in the space meant for four or the fact that his voice just naturally does Great and Wonderful Things that we aren't meant to understand. Even upon looking up some of the lyrics, when trying to match them up to the sounds we can't recreate they don't seem to quite fit. 

This brings us to the "Pete-Patrick Lyrical Theory of Relativity": We know that Mr. Wentz writes a great deal, if not all, of the lyrics we've come to appreciate so much, but are they really what his adorable counterpart are singing? We say, No! This is what really happens - the band goes into the studio, Pete with notebook filled with pieces of lyrics in hand. Patrick then sings the parts that were already created and then when the musical holes come up, he just makes noise. Lots of beautiful noise. Pete then listens and translates what these sounds could possible be. So really, Pete only has to write a little bit, his job is more just to interpret what Patrick's singing.

It's brilliant, team, I don't know why everyone hasn't thought of this. More theories to come later, have no fear. As a side note, I have a pretty ok picture of Pete Wentz that I'll probably post as soon as I stick my name on it somewhere. :)

The Saporta Experience, Part II

So, I love my sister more than anything. If there's a way in my power to make her happy, I pretty much try and do that ... no matter how ridiculous. As you will find.

Setting: Believers Never Die, Part Deux tour

Protagonists: Liz and Katie Curry, Gabe Saporta

Antagonists: yellow caution tape, burly security guard

Kate and I agree that Mr. Saporta is kind of the jam, but as she had recently turned me onto the Cobra happiness, she was a little more of a fan than me at that point in time. Her goal for the night was a picture with G.A.B.E., which I totally supported but was not at all confident would happen.

The show in its entirety was amazing despite the fact that we were probably two of ten people there over the age of fifteen. We were right near the side of the stage and had managed to grab a couple of vacant seats several rows below where our tickets said we should be sitting, in the most legitimate sense. Anyway, we were rocking out to our FOB boys in the last set of the night and I took a break from flailing around to the awesome to idly people-watch for a few seconds. A few rows up from us and right across the aisle sat Mr. Saporta, taking in the show.

I grabbed my sister. Pointed. We freaked out for several minutes amidst crowd noise and strobe lights and all the while I was trying to brainstorm how I could get over there and get Kate the one thing she wanted but never thought would actually happen. Et voila ... my solution for nearly everything: alcohol.

"I'm gonna buy him a shot," I told her, "and ask him if he'll take a picture with you! Quick, what does he drink?"

"Agh!" she said. "I don't know! Tequila?"

"Well, I'll get a shot of tequila and a shot of whiskey and there's no way he can say no to both!" (By this point in time, boys and girls, I'd imbibed a mixed drink and a huge-ass beer myself so I was feeling a little more adventurous than I might have otherwise.) I grabbed the last of my cash and hauled ass up those freaking stairs, praying to whomever watches over Cobra Starship fans that he wouldn't decide to go backstage like a normal rock star before I got back.

So, I snatched up the shots -- seven dollars each, and for the record, Gabe, you are worth it and way more -- and headed back down the stairs and he was still there. I looked over at the tape and sort of motioned to him and at first he shook his head at me 'til I proferred alcohol in his direction. A-ha ... then I got a smile. I stepped over the tape.

"Tequila or whiskey?" I asked him, trying really hard to be audible over FOB but also not to spit in his face. (Which I may have done anyway, and in that case -- sorry, man.)

"Tequila!" he said. Score one for Katie!

"Take a picture with my sister?" I asked and he grinned at me.

"Sure!" he said. Score two for Katie!

Then, yes, I did a shot with Gabe Saporta, which is probably one of the cooler things I've ever initiated. And there was Kate, standing with her camera, ready to go, Mr. Saporta smilin' at her and then ... our goddamned antagonist. Mr. Burly Security Guard, who I tried to argue with for about thirty seconds before I realized it was fruitless and gave up with a shrug.

So -- the ultimate sister moment became the penultimate sister moment. We kicked back, enjoyed the rest of the show, and exited the venue disappointed but nonetheless exhilarated by our Gabe Saporta encounter (and the fact that soon after that, we were both pretty much smushed up against Pete Wentz's crotch -- also rad.)

Anyway, we've got these tickets to see Cobra Starship again in August. I'm putting it out there right now that if we're even in close proximity to Mr. Saporta again, I'm buying three shots of tequila this time and we're all gonna get to have a moment.

Guilty Pleasure...

So, here's the thing:

Gabe Saporta is not now, nor will he ever be one of my guilty pleasures. I would never feel guilty about something or someone who has caused me half so much joy as he and his band of Cobras have. Unfortunately, in a way he is also responsible for a great deal of sorrow.

A couple months ago, Liz and I caught the Believers Never Die, Part Deux tour. Easily one of the greatest nights of my life. Patrick Stump could sing the phonebook and I would fall down in rapture - boy's got pipes. I also got stared down by the incomparable Mr. Wentz while he rocked out. Literally, he was right in my face. Brilliant stuff. But not even this was the highlight of my evening.

For some reason, Cobra Starship only got to play like, four songs. While this could never be enough, it totally gave me my Gabe Saporta fix for life, or so I thought. *An amusing sidenote: Mr. Saporta wandered onto the stage during All Time Low's set and I recognized his from his back with him wearing a hat. He'd hurt his ankle a few days previously and you could totally tell from the way he carried it, but his walk is so wicked distinctive and I would know the shape of him anywhere. I about lost it, just from seeing him stand there. Not even doing anything. Anyways.*

During FOB's set, Liz and I danced it up. How can you listen to that and not thrash around? I've nearly wrecked before to them, you can't NOT dance. Sometime during my flailing, Liz grabs me and spins me around. I look directly to my right and who do I see? Yeah. One of my favorite artists of all freaking time, calmly observing the show - hopefully watching me dance. How could he not have been? I was the only one within a hundred yards over the age of fifteen *besides PrettyLiz* and Mr. Saporta is in no way a creeper. 

Cue minor heart attack. And by minor I mean I about had a seizure. Thankfully this looks remarkably like most of my dancing, so it probably didn't look all that out of place. After a quick conversation with Liz, she's taking the rest of our combined money and running to buy liquor while I'm praying he doesn't leave. On my advice, she comes back armed with a shot of whiskey and shot of tequila (the man's name is Gabe Saporta, he's gonna take the tequila), climbs over the flimsy little tape barring off that section of the stands and is making her way in the dark to my favorite musical badass. 

As she's doing a shot with him, I'm stumbling over. The moment I'm crossing the barrier and he's agreeing to taking a picture with me - security shows up. In no uncertain terms they make me leave while I'm visually communicating with someone I've admired from afar since I was barely a teenager. He seemed terribly apologetic about being dragged off while I merely flashed him a heart and played it off like no big thing while inside I was kinda breaking just a little. And by a little I mean I was very close to tears. All the while, Fall Out Boy is blaring through the arena and when we get back to our seats, the fourteen year olds in front of us are asking if "that was anybody important."

A note - if you have to ask if someone is important, you probably don't need to know who they are. I picked him out by his silhouette from across a dark room - that's important.

Now, I'm not a raving fangirl. I know I can seem like one, but it's not true. When actually faced with the objects of my affection, I'm not going to tackle them or cry or pass out. That would be silly. It's just, if I was an artist of any kind, I'd really love to hear that I had touched someone's life in a positive manner and I'd be more than thrilled to spend twelve seconds with a girl who's supported me in whatever way she can. 

But at least I know that for even just a minute, he knew that I was alive. I realize that this sounds ridiculous and totally little girl, but it's the truth. I know that a man I've made room in my life for - in however small a way - knew that I was there and that I cared. And for some reason this is important to me. No, I didn't have any kind of meaningful conversation with him or he didn't invite me back to the bus for a drink or ask me to dance, but he at least had the grace to look regretful to just one disappointed fan with red hair when he had to leave without letting me have the one thing I went to that show for.

So if you're out there, Gabe Saporta, know that you've been a huge part of my musical life and I don't know what I'd do without your brilliance. You seem like a really amazing and down to earth guy with a wicked sense of humor and some terribly refreshing wit. Some of my greatest memories are just being in the car with any number of my friends and playing your music way too loud for my crappy speakers to handle. I just got three tickets to the small venues tour for the Cobra's Hot Mess album (how I'm going to pay for them, I don't even know yet), so maybe if I'm lucky I'll get my picture there. But if not, I'll keep trying. And even if I do get it, I'll never stop going to their shows. 

So this is my starry-eyed Cobra Starship post. Every member of that band is beyond wonderful and I'd love nothing more than to be able to tell them all in person. Maybe one of these days they'll be asking for a picture with me instead of the other way around. And when that day comes I'm taking all of them out for a drink. But until then, Fangs Up! 

Back!

Okay, loves. Kate and I had to take a short sabbatical from our shameless barrage of random information to basically figure out what we actually want to do with this blog. (Also, we've been moving around. The parents to Augusta, Katie to a friend's house, and me across town.)

So here we are -- Independence Day, the Fourth, that crazy day in July where people are legally granted permission to set off explosives. They grill out, sunbathe by the poolside, and utterly forget the reason for the party because they are way too drunk and fascinated by the sparkly colors in the air. Which is not to say patriotism be damned, patriotism be un-damned, in fact -- it just so happens that the only red, white, and blue Kate and I are sporting today are our PBR bottle cap earrings. They count. Shut up.

So ... here, from now on out, these two sisters will be blogging solely on fashion and music, specifically the very unique mix of those two media we see on our music scene these days. We will try our best to get a new post up every other day. Thanks for being so patient while we worked out all the kinks here.