So as far as main thoroughfares go, Packard Street in Ann Arbor is no Champs Elysees, but in our humble little burg it's quite something--cutting crosstown diagonally, like Broadway, terminating into precious little Main Street. My apartment overlooks Packard, and this evening I was indoors as the sound of amateur fireworks exploded into the night sky. Invariably, each incident was followed by a fire-truck or ambulance speeding down the street: cause, meet effect. Dunderheaded self-injury, I suppose, is as good a way as any to celebrate the replacement--231 years later--of British tyranny with a Texas-by-way-of-Connecticut one. I find this particular yoke of oppression chafes less.

The Rosebuds -- Blind Pig, 5/29/07

In an earlier post I took on Sasha Frere-Jones' hypothetical alter ego and commented on the state of indie rock. Last night I went to the Rosebuds' show at the Blind Pig, and was reminded anew why I care about the whole indie scene to begin with. You see, A2--like many college towns, I suppose--has been emptied of its sheepskin boots and Hollister t-shirts. It's just me, Sugarpockets, some other bar exam preppers, a few undergrad summer-schoolers, and the locals. (After four years, I've discovered there are some.) Given the depopulation of this place, the show, as expected, was maybe a quarter-full. 'Pockets and I pulled up stools right to the front of the stage and sat and watched. There wasn't much cigarette smoke. No elbows to the ribs. No obscured lines of sight. Just a band playing its heart out and a few appreciative souls. And that's why indie rock has flourished like it has: You can come to know intimately the band you love.

The Rosebuds--whose latest effort is a light disco-pop-tinged affair with melifluous lyrics, jangly guitars, and catchy keyboards--have been playing to packed houses throughout their current tour, but if they were disappointed with last night's showing, there was no telling. Ivan, the limping frontman, a guy whose principal interests are basketball and rocking out--they're mine too, but unlike him I engage with them from the comfort of my couch--strolled around the bar during the opening act, mingling with the little people. It was the strangest thing. He wasn't an aloof rock star. Eventually, he came our way, and I told him how 'Pockets wanted "Shake Our Tree" (below) to be our wedding song. He was clearly distressed by the undanceablity of the choice, but was flattered, talked to me about WXDU, and agreed that it's a drag getting old (and being at indie rock shows).

Then he and his wife/co-conspirator Kelly and the rest of the band played their set. At the end, Ivan grabbed a guitar, Kelly got her moraccas, and they moved all of us to the back hallway and opened up the doors. They closed the show with an acoustic version of "Shake Our Tree," which they dedicated to me and 'Pockets. Then they manned the t-shirt stands, and 'Pockets and I strolled home along an empty Main Street, thankful we're not the kind of people who think the pinnacle of live entertainment is 80-dollar nosebleeds at Madison Square Garden.

The Rosebuds -- Shake Our Tree.mp3
The Rosebuds -- Get up Get Out.mp3

A2, Brutus?: Frat House Hijinks Edition

We here at Interweb Detritus do have standards--cloaked in secrecy though they might be. We tend to avoid the scatological, the prurient, etc. But once in a while a story comes along that tests this policy. Such is the tale of Melissa, the wayward Eastern Michigan student who taught the boys at Pi Kappa Alpha a little lesson last week. Apparently, when frat boys wildest fantasies come true, all they can think of doing is to throw out the couches.

A2, Brutus?

This is the 5-day forecast in Ann Arbor. It's a useful tool since it also charts the state of my happiness. Right now--at the time of posting--the temperature is 71 degrees with sunny skies, which means I'm like Drew Barrymore after 5 espressos. Behold as my joy rots and dies from within over the next few days: The forecast for Saturday calls for snow and below freezing temperatures--that is, a 50% chance of my morphing into Rep. Obey (D-WI) after being confronted with people who want him to vote against the supplemental funding for the War or, much to his chagrin, use a filibuster in the House, an august body, in which of course there isn't one:

We All Gonna Die...Unless We Adorn Our Faces with Cheap-Ass One Ply

I saw one of these kids the other day walking along North University, and I wanted to punch him in the face, or at least cough on him with great vigor. I thought he was some flu-season paranoiac, or a foolio who took his fashion cues from all those absurd people, post-September 11th, who were walking around the Upper East Side--miles from Ground Zero--with surgical masks on. But I resisted teaching him a lesson. I simply glowered as I passed him by. Little did I know that he was blinded by science. My bad.