My Bird Performs

Though there's still some time left in this year's Fourth of July weekend, the steady drizzle that's been falling since last night means that we've probably seen the best of the festivities already. However, after the hustle and bustle of this past weekend, the rest is actually welcome.



Friday, I headed south for the United States Grand Prix, the second half of the Formula 1's North American leg hosted at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Becky and her family had tickets to the race, and the chance to attend my first proper race in Indianapolis was too good to pass up.

A trip to Indy also meant another conquest of Luna Music, the spoils of which you'll experience in updates later this week. Since I had lots of time to kill before meeting up with Becky, I spent a good hour or so combing the shelves for potential must-buys. I also dropped more money on senseless plastic sculptures. I am very weak.

As far as the racing itself was concerned, the weekend had its highs and lows. When I arrived at the Speedway on Saturday, I decided to adopt Renault as my team based on a scientific analysis of relative design attractiveness. Say what you will about their policies or drivers, but Renault has some sharp-looking merchandise. The fact that they're the defending champions of both the Constructors and (via Fernando Alonso) Drivers Championships didn't hurt their appeal, either. Unfortunately, my support wasn't enough to keep Michael Shumacher and Ferrari away from Victory Lane. That guy's quite a piece of work. After such a disappointment, only the deliciousness of the grilled tenderloins at Union Jack was enough to salvage the day. Ah well. I guess there's always Magny-Cours.

All hyperbole aside, my first U.S. Grand Prix was a fine introduction to the world of Formula 1. It was telling that the only assholes that I ran into all weekend were Americans. To the yuppie knobs talking shit about the Midwest in the Speedway Museum: go ahead and fuck right off. If Indianapolis' woeful backwardness offends your sensibilities so much, watch the race on Speed. You could see more, sweat less, and piss off fewer bloggers. I mean, far be it from me to absolve Indiana from mockery. However, if you're going to do it, you might as well get a little creative. Take, for instance, soft drink company Red Bull, which owns two F1 teams and is on record in its support of returning a carefree attitude to the sport. At races, they publish and distribute the Red Bulletin, billed as the "almost independent newspaper" of the F1 community, during each day of the event. In the editions I received, Indiana and its speedway culture took some good-natured barbs; then again, so did almost everyone else. These commentaries were without the vitriol and, since they came in a package that was both attractive and free, gave us all something to do during down times in the action. In short, if you're going to bitch, either do it with a smile or save it for the ride back to the hotel.



Travis Morrison - 16 Types of People. Whenever I'm on the road and away from the most sources of music, I always rely on what I have on hand. This usually means fiilling a travel wallet with 20 or so sure-fire discs. However, on occasion, I eschew CDs in favor of a far more entertaining source of tunes: my laptop. Allow me to explain. When I purchased my laptop from Apple in 2002, I fully intended to use it as my primary computer. However, a mix-up landed me with an extra desktop unit that ended up taking over the top spot from my Mac. Thus, in the years since then, the laptop has become a highly priced storage unit, holding all of the stray files and documents that, for whatever reason, no longer exist on any of my other computers. These include all of the vital files from my freshman year of college, saved from the school computer that I used that year. Going through all of that stuff is a nice trip back through a time capsule of a certain period, and a killer way to kill time on the road. It also provides tons of the oh-shit-no-way moments that only come when you rediscover something you used to like. Such is the case with this song, released by former Dismemberment Plan frontman Travis Morrison on his website in 2003. The track, along with the next one, offered fans their first glimpse of what a post-Plan Morrison could sound like. At that time, the indication was that things wouldn't change all that much. Chilled out and hooky, Morrison's popcraft shines through the same glitchy weirdness found on the Plan's late albums. There was no indication that Morrison's new stuff wouldn't continue to sound like a natural extension of Change. It certainly didn't prepare us for Travistan, which ruffled certain cynical feathers despite its undeniable, if goofy, charm. In the end, this song, along with the proceeding track, served not as signposts but as rest stops, bridging the gap between Morrison's days with the Plan and his new solo career.

Travis Morrison - Checkers and Chess. Morrison's latest entry on his website details his humorously harrowing experience with a unhinged atheist while riding Washington D.C.'s Metro system. It's the latest in his long line of witty meanderings, and proves one thing that often goes underemphasized when talking about the Dismemberment Plan's music: Travis Morrison is one funny motherfucker. Sure, the vocals soar and howl, the guitars snarl, and the rhythm section drops the funk like any good disciples of go-go would; however, the real appeal of many Morrison-penned songs is the wryness and humor of their lyrics. In this demo, Morrison demonstrates exactly what I mean. Over looped synths that sound like something straight out of a Strong Bad e-mail, Morrison talks about nothing in particular, and does so in a way that'll have you hitting the "Repeat" button against your will.

Posted by Tyler on Tuesday, July 04, 2006 at 3:34 PM | Permalink