Look out that fucking window. LOOK. Do you know what I see? I’ll tell you what I see. I see a new track and a tour lined up for our dudes in Ski Lodge. They’ve been kicking back après studio making videos and whatnot as we ready their first official LP due out this summer. Peep the track, suit up, and join us (yeah I’m going too) as we travel down the west coast with Chad Valley. Dates below:
“Just To Be Like You” by Ski Lodge
March/ SXSW Dates
Mar 8th Brooklyn, NY | Muchmores
Mar 9th Philadelphia, PA | Cha Cha Razzi
Mar 10th Chicago, IL | Empty Bottle
Mar 13th SXSW | Banners Day Party @ 12.30pm
Mar 16th SXSW I Hype Hotel @ 8pm
Tour With Chad Valley
Apr 26th Seattle, WA | Barboza
Apr 27th Portland, OR | Doug Fir Lounge
Apr 29th San Francisco, CA | Bottom Of The Hill
Apr 30th Los Angeles, CA | The Echo
May 1st San Diego, CA | Soda Bar
May 2nd Phoenix, AZ | Rhythm Room
May 4th El Paso, TX | Lowbrow Palace
May 6th Dallas. TX | Three Links
May 7th Austin, TX | Holy Mountain
May 8th Houston, TX | Fitzgeralds
posted by admin at 4:07 pm (0 comments)
I’ve been chripin soft for a bit now about some truly heady news that you all, our dearly beloved, would be made to know in due time. Well, time is now overdue. So here it is: as of today, Dovecote’s first collaboration with punk-world celebs, Trash Talk, is out and available for purchase.
The 400 page book of photo vignettes is backed with a vinyl 7″. The song, “Peace Pig” is heavy as fuck. This comes just in time for the Trash Talk lover in your life. Order this hulking monument to weed smoke, blood, general fucking shredding, and family now for delivery by Christmas!!! I can personally attest to these jawns. Super-imposing, beautifully put-together, so over the top rad that it’s hard to even offer them for sale as opposed to just jettisoning the full cache for personal use.
Follow the link for a preview and order page: http://www.dovecoterecords.com/media/stores/trashtalk/book2/.
Trash Talk – 2 (Book & 7″)
posted by admin at 5:21 pm (0 comments)
As we near the terminus of the Mesoamerican Long Count calendar, many of us are operating under the assumption that the Mayan ese responsible for divining the remaining trajectory of the human race (heretofore referred to as ese X) didn’t just throw up his hands and say “Fuck it!” or leave the observatory to kick an armadillo in the nads. Were I the Minister of Sensationalism I would engender notions of that nature before the ones we’re currently bitin’ on, but, alas, I am not. Present sentiment is that the terminus was intentionally marked and meant to indicate the end of days… massive bummer.
So what are we, mere mortals not gifted with the audience or advice of alien-type guys, to do in these final ten days of our already wastrel existen-Z? What would ese X do? Eat, drink and be merry? Feign penitence for a set of trespasses we can only estimate to be verboten in the eyes of Mesoamerican God dudes? Meth binge? Finally stop pretending to actually WANT to be a vegetarian? No, ese X, in what’s become the indicative demarcation of the ‘end’ of anything, would make a Best Of list. Eat your ‘Year End’ lists, here’s a ‘Life End’ list third-eyed from the resurrected mind of the Mayan who mistakenly led us all to believe that he knew what the fuck GMT even was.
Here’s our dude’s Top 10 List to stroke off to when the Sun aligns with the Poon and we all realize that 12/21/12 is just the day that Jerry Garcia emerges in radiant beams of light from the concessions stand at Chichen Itza:
Bobaflex is a band that looks like shit, the kind of slovenly bile that would get laughed at by extras from Rob Zombie movies. Their super fucking clever name, an homage to both Boba Fett and Bowflex, seems to suggest a hardline interest in self-improvement and might even be intimating that if you conjured in your head the ghoulish image of Boba Fett actually using a bowflex you could begin to understand the amazing heap of steaming dung you’d hear if you went to your local Sam Goody and bothered buying this CD. Listening to Bobaflex through the apocalypse is kind of a win-win. On one hand you can take umbrage in the idea of dying and leaving this cruel, gross world, on the other, you can imagine saving the bullets and letting outer-space cancel your life free-of-cost.
9. Zac Brown Band
I can only halfway disparage Zac Brown. I’ve spent some time with his music that didn’t entirely suck, but most of it was spent sober. The country crowd loves him, which is perplexing. Dude talks about ganj a LOT. Zac Brown seems like the kind of guy who would lie about how many drinks he’s had just to seem like he has a really “unbelievable tolerance”, and also like the type-a-fella who’d talk about how he “bombed up” the toilet at your parents’ house when you were home for Christmas and hadn’t even seen him in years. Parrotheads move over, there’s a new group of fuckwits in town, and they’re called Brownheads. In all seriousness, though, Zac Brown ate all the chicken nuggets.
Read these lyrics in Ben Stein’s voice:
Brainstorm, take me away from the norm
I got to tell you something
This phenomenon, I had to put it in a song
And it goes like
Whoa, amber is the color of your energy
Whoa, shades of gold displayed naturally
You ought to know what brings me here
You glide through my head blind to fear
And I know why
You live too far away
Your voice rings like a bell anyway
With lyrics like these it is an absolute imperative that you come original.
7. Wicked Wisdom
In some eerie, uncharacteristic-of-Hollywood oversight it is hardly ever talked about that Jada Pinkett Smith is in a Nü-Metal band. On a holistic level I’d really be able to get behind this band circa Mesoamerican apocalypse. If there were a Wicked Wisdom concert going on you can be almost assured that Will Smith wouldn’t go, which means he’d be doing one of two other things: bugging Uncle Phil or trying to save the world from abject annihilation. Seeing this band in concert would be a fucking drag because you’d get jealous of Jada’s spiked leather choker and hoodie and secretly wish to god that you, too, could be suffocating in comfort.
6. Papa Roach
Already so fucking ready to die that you wouldn’t even have to pay to see them.
5. The Doors
If there were Jim Morrison solo records I’d choose them instead. “Death and my cock are the world” is a thing Jim Morrison once said. It’d please me greatly to see his choking on one result in the other. ‘Poems’ about mortality and sex that so flatulently ape the Greeks that they come out seeming positively Cyprian(!) enmesh so perfectly with wailing organs that I actually (sincerely, this time) do believe it is “The End”. Apocalypse 12/21/12. So… later.
4. Paula Cole
This entire entry is dedicated to “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?”, a song so bewilderingly confused by its own feminism that it fully swallows and digests itself. Paula, get a fucking hold of yourself. You’re effusively piteous for this entire song until the part where you go, “Yippie Yiiiii, Yipppie Yayyy, Yippie Yiii, Yippeee Yay Yay… Yay Yay”, and by that point we’re all completely convinced that you’re a petulant wang. What do you honestly think John Wayne would’ve done if he’d had the misfortune of accidentally marrying you? Paula, get a job and then find yourself a nice babysitter. Also, get a dishwasher. When you want a beer, go get one from the fridge. That is where John keeps them. They are hiring announcers at the rodeo; you can solve two very big issues at once. Mad prairie sons down at the rodeo.
Everything you do gives me an intellectual STD.
If you wanna know what I’m referring to just Google him. I can’t even choose one.
After what I said about Cee-Lo, KE-Dollar Sign-HA losing out should give you an idea of how I feel about her. Ke$ha seems like the kind of girl who would borrow friends’ underwear without asking.
Without further ado:
Everything up until now has been a contentious, vitriolic evisceration of some thing we at Dovecote have had a gripe with over the years. Yes, this list is about the bands we would take with us to our deathbeds. It is about what comforts, humanizes, placates and transcends. It’s about what reaches out through the spume, grabs our hand and beams us upward toward our end location. That is why there’s only one serious entry on this list.
Enya, you are so pure it makes me want to puke. It makes me want to uneat every cheesesteak, unsmoke every cigarette, undrink all of the whiskey in the world. You make me want to start a homeless shelter for elderly dogs. You make me want to drink tea. And enjoy it. When I think about the end of the world, I recall how deftly and unofficially you ameliorated the anguish of 9/11. How selflessly you reached your angelic arms across the Atlantic and held our shattered frames. It is impossible now to think of 9/11 without thinking of you, Enya.
So if, indeed, the ending of the Mesoamerican Long Count is something I have to face, I cannot face it without you.
You and I both know that no God in heaven would deny you the Christmas sales this year. Wink.
posted by admin at 4:45 pm (0 comments)