the pill documentary

UPDATE: New, non YouTube link for the doc, updated slightly from the previous version: http://www.mocaz.com/movies.php

The Russell Lowke and Anne Hjortshoj documentary of "the pill: History of a Boston Club Night" has been posted on YouTube in two parts.

Part I - the early years
Part II - The recent years, from about 2002 on after getting the boot from the Upstairs Lounge.

Should I celebrate this, or be terrified? Courtney Taylor did cockblock my efforts to take home Justine Frischmann, after all. And hearing about my run-in with the Bravery douchebag is always entertaining.

Natalie Portman's Shaved Head

Nevermind that my motivation lately has hit the ground faster than Mariah Carey’s first pitch in Japan, because I am wikkid psyched about this:

Natalie Portman’s Shaved Head
Live @ the pill
Friday, Aug. 8, 2008
Great Scott
1222 Comm Ave., Allston
9pm / 21-plus / $5

The Seattle-based electro-pop quartet will be touring with CSS and the Go Team in July and August, and will fill an open date in the schedule with us at the pill. Fucking dopeness.

They don't make Memorial Cups like they used to

So the Spokane Chiefs won the Memorial Cup on Monday, which is basically the minor league equivalent of the Stanley Cup. That's all purple fine and pink dandy, but what happened during the post-game ceremony is right out of Southwest Airlines' "Wanna Get Away?" ad campaign. This is fucking redonkulous.

Hotline: Weezer enlists web-celebs

On Friday, it dawned on me that I don't have a life. Someone forwarded me a link to the new Weezer video for "Pork and Beans" and with one eye towards the three-day weekend I immediately wrote my column about it, showing up in today's paper. I thought it was pretty cool the video cameo'd more than a dozen YouTube stars, -- ahem, "web-celebs" -- like Tay Zonday, Chris Crocker and Jr. Miss South Carolina. Evs City, Population Vanya, right?

Well, then a press release shows up, detailing everyone who is involved. Motherfuck. I asked my editor if it was disheartening that I could pick out these people on my own, and the reply was a solemn "yes."

But anyway, along comes another cool Weezer video, and I don't care if South Park recently did this. People who watch South Park need to be shot.

New Le Castle Vania remix. Head asplodez.

It’s been a pretty quiet holiday weekend at Le Barrows, spending most of the time either drinking too much of this while playing too much of this. There was a dance party and afternoon bbq mixed in there somewhere.

But I've finally come-to, and what could be a better Memorial Day present then a new remix by motherfucking Le Castle Vania? Nothing. Over the weekend, LCV dropped a new remix of Grum’s “Go Back” via Myspace.

It's more sleazy mechanical electro from Atlanta’s king of the lazer beat, DJ Dylan Eiland. And this shit absolutely kills, just like everything he mixes and spins. His Lies in Disguise side project, with Blake Miller of Moving Units, is worth a look as well. “Poker Face” debuted at the pill this week mixed into Boys Noize “& Down” and the Flostradomus remix of “CYOA” by HeartsRevolution. Fucking slayed.

Listen to the new remix, then peep some live footage of LCV in LA last year:

Hidden patio drinking spots

Anyone can stroll up to Great Scott patio and pound a few on the pavement. So in today's Herald, I uncovered some of the better outdoor drinking spots tucked away from the masses. On my clock: the CommonGround and Deep Ellum of Allston and Daedalus in Harvard Square. Drink up.

On a related note, BBQ at Great Scott sometime this weekend (I think Sunday, gotta double-check). Those are always fun.

Say it ain't so, Navarro.

Online gossip bible D-Listed tells me that my beloved just-about-washed-up Miss Daisy de la Hoya is chillaxin with Dave Navarro. Daisy's not exactly the "Classic Girl" Jane's sang about on "Ritual" when it was ok to listen to "Ritual," but fucking christ Daisy, DAVE NAVARRO?!?! Really?

In the fast-paced world of fey, straight dudes pretending to be gay, there is really one golden rule: Never wear makeup, particularly around the eyes, if you have facial hair, particularly a beard, or in human toolbag Navarro's case, A FUCKING GOATEE. How is this allowed? Christ, someone pack a bowl or something.

Vanya vs the Rat King of le Barrows

Things are usually pretty quiet in the back alley of the Barrows after nightfall. The dark air rings silent when the blonde ditz upstairs isn’t getting railed by some shell-necklace wearing Todd, or if Max and Jennifer aren’t yelling at each other in the kitchen (and they haven’t lately!! Love truly conquers all!!).

So imagine my horror to hear the most devilish shriek in all the land around 11pm last night, as I tried to lull myself to sleep between the soothing sounds of Vin Scully calling the Dodgers game and Quagmire making date rape jokes on Family Guy. It truly was the sound of bedtime creeping into the Purple Room of Hotel Borrows.

But then. This shriek. This high-pitched howl. This sadistic cry out from Hades pierced the night’s innocence.

If Satan himself in Charlie Daniels’ “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” had a giant rabies-infested rat in its fiddle-playing band of demons, this shriek alone might have earned him Johnny’s famed fiddle made of gold.

“You’ve got a nerve, to be asking a favor,” it called out in its hipster rat language, the sound slicing through the darkness and reflecting tersely on Latino graffiti that has, actually, fancied up the place a bit. This shriek, however, came from the ugliest of women, the fattest of men, the most grotesque of lonely redheaded college professors in landlocked suburban towns. It cried out. It yelled. It called unto nothing. It called upon me.

And then it ran. Scurrying off into the distance, it employed more of gallop than a simple hop. It was the Eight Belles of the rat world, a broken nappy-haired monster fueled and augmented exponentially by the sky-high garbage of Allston Village. It was the size of an adult cat, with fangs stretched down like the most venomous of vipers. It looked back at me, like the great Nicodemus oh Nihm, like the aged wonder Master Splinter down in the sewers, like a ravenous capybara trapped in this unforgiving city of hate and despair. Then it confronted me.

This beast, this monster, stared right into my eyes. It asked me for a show. It asked to be on the guest list. It gave me a rat demo. It asked to eat Lola. We shot glances back and forth, communicating with facial expressions and hand movements that in the rat community, mean nothing short of danger. Gang signs on rat claws, traded in for whiskers on kittens. It scoffed at my demands, it laughed at my past and snickered at my present. Lola locked herself in my closet like a furry Elian Gonzalez, trapped between two worlds colliding together where the beasts that walk on four can grow to sizes unheard of in this human dominated landscape. It was the Battle at Kruger played out off Cambridge Street.

This rat, this beast, this mongrel, jumped up upon my windowsill, and mocked me. It threw down several pogs, and flipped them all. It played C-Lo, and the Trip-6 dice were weighted. It pulled out a Will Clark 1986 Topps Traded baseball card, and ripped it to shreds. It called my girlfriend a whore, and said it beat my father at golf. It pulled up the tattered burgundy shirt from its needle-pinged forearm and flashed a perfectly crafted New York Rangers tattoo within a shaved circle of its gray, color-less flesh. It spoke highly of Sean Avery.

I tried to barter with it, but it wanted none of my possessions. It looked at me with its yellow eyes, its evil-bred dark brown fur clung together like dreds on a college-aged white girl from Pittsburgh, and yawned violently. It told me to escape, to flee, to find solace in a far away land, where the Rat King can not find me. It mapped out a route more ambitious than the Oregon Trail, presiding over the treasure map like a virgin Floridian about to win at Risk. It cracked its whip down on the dirty pavement outside my window, and spoke only a few words. Mustering enough English with a long, drawn out dialect that can only be picked up in the rural lands of 1800s Russia, it said to me, cold and slowly and without respect for my surroundings: Go west, young fucked up boy. Go west.

And then it left, a trail of ooze simmering in its wake, up the stairs and back to feed on the piles of garbage left by the Hispanic cult on Floor 2.

And then silence returned. And I went to bed, too scared to even watch Robot Chicken.

(Ok, but seriously, this fucking rat is HUGE.)

Palm Meow

I can has retirement plan?

Neil Diamond vs. Real Diamond

Nothing like having a Page 3 story and front-page tease. But if you had $10,000 to kill, would you buy tickets to see Neil Diamond at Fenway, or an actual, real 1.5 karat diamond? These are the answers I seek.

And wait until the world reads my feature on Palm Meow, a cat-exclusive "retirement community" in Florida. Journalism revolution hits newsstands tomorrow.

Thing 2!!!!!!

THING 2 wins motherfucking Flavor of Love 3. Got-damn. I woulda been rip-shit if some trifling ass hoe like Black, who came along what, three-quarters of the way into the season, took Flav's love love. I still can't tell Thing 2 apart from Thing 1, but still, Thing 2 came all sorts of correct.

Haha, "Thing 2." What is wrong with me?

Obscure LA band to Miley: "Hear You Again"

So in my Herald column today I detailed how LA-band Lustra claims Miley Cyrus ripped them off. I'm too lazy to post links to Lustra's crap-tastic forgotten hit "Scotty Doesn't Know" and Cyrus' "Rockstar," but trust me they are similar in the same way everything I hear on 'BCN sounds like that annoying-as-fuck Lit song.

But in other, more important Miley Cyrus news, uber-hit "See You Again" is approaching "Since U Been Gone"-levels of Vanya euphoria. I don't give a fizz-tittie-tuck that it came out late last year, competition for Song of the Year 2008 is effectively over. Le Castle Vania needs to get an electro banger remix of that up ASAP.

Topanga gets slutty at McFadden's

I saw a listing for this, but didn't think anything of it. Fine, Topanga from "Boy Meets World" was going to serve drinks at some Todd bar. Evs City, cause she ain't no Rider Strong.

But, as it turns out, she got full-frontal-shitfaced, then started dancing on the bar while causing a ruckus. I always miss the good shit. Boston really brings out the best in people, huh?

Great Scott appresh

Despite being my Friday night haven, I think I certainly take Great Scott for granted. Having a venue within walking distance of Le Barrows where drinks are cheap and the clientele, for the most part, is mad chill is a pretty rare bird. The upcoming summer calendar is just silly. Some Vanya highlights:

May 18: Snowden - Cool Atlanta indie band, given the dope remix treatment of Le Castle Vania, the best electro DJ in the country. They played the pill a while back, and are one good single away from stardom. I think it arrives on the next album.
May 19: The Long Blondes - Latest UK indie folks to go synth-heavy. Lead vocalist is a doll.
June 8: Lightspeed Champion - Solo project from the dude in Test Icicles, with varying results.
June 9: These New Puritans - Show of the year, and not just because I'm DJing and Passion Pit opens. But kinda.
June 19: The Ting Tings - "Great DJ" is in the lead for Song Of The Year. Worth a walk down the street.
Aug. 3: The Enemy - British band, sounds like everyone before them, with good results for the non-jaded. Finally sorted out their name issues, I see.

The Rock in Allston. Good shit.

Chappelle show meets 8 Mile

Today I've declared my unabashed whiteness, as in a short piecde about this summer's World Series of Hip Hop I've equated it to Dave Chappelle's World Series of Dice and the final rap battle between B. Rabbit and Papa Doc in "8 Mile." Know your audience, people.

Back on the scene, crispy and LOLclean

Back from Florida, all tan and relaxed, and welcomed to the newsroom by the Herald's FRONT PAGE APOLOGY to the New England Patriots, and an angry Christian rock band from Georgia questioning my status as a "reporter." (I love it when people use quotation marks, especially religious folk from Hotlanta).

So what could bring a smile to my devilish, I <3 Boston (Cuz I do, I really do!!) shit-eating face this morning? Oh, Jezebel to the rescue! LOLcats are so fucking 2007. LOLvogue is where it's at this season. Moddles be dammed!

Florida. Not Flo Rida.

POST DELETED BY AUTHOR DUE TO OFFENSIVE CONTENT.

Pretty much sums it up

Music stuff: Dossier, Ting Tings, Taxpayer, Santogold

Some random music ramblings on a Wednesday, as I debate whether to see the Daily Pravda tonight at TTs:

- You may recall Saintface, a pill stage veteran beloved by Ken, Terence and I. Well, vocalist Peter Riley and keyboardist Michael Parkin have teamed up to create The Dossier, which is essentially a synthpop version of Saintface. So in other words, it fucking rules. There are few songwriting storytellers out there quite like Mr. Riley. Expect a pill date this summer, but listen up to hold you over. "Sunrise" and "Another Night Another Day" are Vanyalicious.

- Despite not wanting to, I really dig Salford duo the Ting Ting's new jam "Great DJ." They're at Great Scott on June 19, which is a make-up date for when they blew Boston off to jerk off on industry folk at a free show in NYC last month. Warning: the Boston date is sandwiched between a NYC date June 18 and a Brooklyn date June 20, so it's entirely possible they may just stay in the Dirty Apple on the off-day and get fucked up. Remember when you needed two good songs to say fuck you to a thriving modern metropolis? God bless this Modern Age.

- Taxpayer, who return to the pill next Friday, is currently busy at Camp Street studio in Cambridge (the site formerly called Fort Apache) working on a full-length follow-up to 2005’s “Bones & Lungs” album. Tentatively called “Don’t Steal My Night Vision,” it's being recording under the watch of producer Paul Q. Kolderie, who has worked with the Pixies, Radiohead and the Information. Taxpayer is now a quintet, having added former Bang Camaro guitarist Maclaine Diemer into the mix. He “plays everything,” the band says.

- I still don't know if I love Santogold or hate her. Judge for me. But I am getting this weird assed 'Til Tuesday vibe, which along with the MIA comparisons, should fast track this cat to stardom. Or faux-stardom, which I hear is all the rage in the oh-ate.

- Lastly, I'm DJing the These New Puritans and Passion Pit show on June 9 at Great Scott. FYI and shit.

Jesus fuck, Belinda.

My first crush has morphed into Julianne Moore with down syndrome. I knew making out with that dude in the "Heaven is a Place on Earth" video would damage her skin. I knew it.

the Bon Savants

In celebration of Cinco de Mayo, the Bon Savants are playing an uber-last-minute gig at O'Brien's in Allston around 6pm, perfect for a little post-work libation. The show comes with BBQ on the back patio. If I'm not still wombat-shit crazy once 6pm rolls around, I might be at this, looking to score scripts and acting inappropriate.

New pill flyers for summer

This Friday at le pill we'll augment the dance party with a summer calendar flyer launch. Both images feature the lovely miss Deborah Seide and were shot by this here Michael V. earlier last week at Hotel Barrows in Allston, Mass.

Summer Calendar Flyer:


Alt Summer Calendar Flyer:

Curse of the pill

The pill has had many homes in its 10+ years of dance parties:

The Upstairs Lounge -- closed years ago.
The Hideaway -- closed years ago.
The Paradise Lounge -- closed last month
The Milky Way -- closing as early as August and if a deal with the city and landlord is reached, will stay open for one year before closing.

Great Scott, take notice.

Burritos only show up when you want one

Found this gem thanks to Sledge Hammer to the Face dot com. Sheesh Wal-Mart, clearly it's not an infant baby if there's no wire hanger missing from the plus size department.