Duck & Cover :: Indie rock music writing from Arcade Fire to the Zygotic Minci

Months ago, I received a phone call from my friend Laura, and she said "Oh my god!" (or, rather, as Laura is more apt to say "OMG!") "have you heard Elvis Perkins?!!" There followed a debate about Elvis' parentage, and his paternal lineage as relates to his father, the actor Anthony Perkins; most often connected with not only his role in Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho" but his identity as a gay man (who died of AIDS in 1992)-- a fact that led me to (ignorantly) proclaim "nuh'uh!" This led to an over the telephone search of wikipedia ("no, no, cross reference THIS!"), which revealed that Mr. Perkins' father was indeed Anthony Perkins, and his mother was the photographer Berry Berenson, who was a passenger on one of the flights flown into the World Trade Center September 11, 2001. That out of the way, and the almost mythological (in the scope of it's tragedy) tale of his birth and eventual and current life as an

Richard Buckner came to New Zealand a week ago. Between then and now a man from Motueka won the lottery, two children were injured in a fishing accident, and traffic on the Green Road exit has been stalled four times because of a stalled delivery truck; lovers loved; the universe yawned a few light years wider. Such is the sentiment of Buckner's music that seeing him perform forces one to take a perspective akin to a pendulum or a playground swing: noticing first particular details (the way she presses her hands to her hips and stretches after she makes your coffee), then the broad vagaries of existence (some say there is a planet like ours with a red sun whose light we won't see for 20 years). I look over the notes I took during the show and try to recount how it happened: "To begin with, what genius put the tables right in front of the stage? And what's with the candles? The only other time I've seen this is when the SF Bathhouse (called Indigo at the time) host

While the days prior may have progessed not at all unlike Jamie has detailed, it must be pointed out that Dakin is not nearly the comic foil that one may be led to believe. Everyone knows that "pies" are made of meaty goodness and not blueberries! Additionally, there was a trip to the Polynesian Spa, where Dakin and Jamie paid an exorbitant $72nzd to soak in thermal pools with Japanese and Korean nationals. A price that seemed all the more exorbitant when compared to the natural (and free!) splendor of Kerosene Creek the following day. Wellington has been compared, in climate, to the American city of Chicago. The surrounding bay acts to replicate Chicago's dreaded "lake effect", the winds pulling the cold from the depths of the ocean and pushing it through the city's streets, chilling to the bone. Upon arrival at Jame's home in Titahi Bay, a suburb of Wellington, the winds are subdued, but the cold forces itself aggressively into every crevice. This is w

For the sake of brevity, James recounts days three and four of the journey as one conversation. Besides, it was mostly driving. Welcome to New Zealand, Dakin. First, let's get some breakfast. Eggs bennie? Let's go to 39 Cafe in Ponsonby. Care for a cigarette? Good. So do I. Ah, here we are. Well, it's good to see ya, buddy. Yes, the cigarettes are good, too. Yes, I have a pack. Oh, you do, too? How funny! Let's sit outside, then, because it's illegal to smoke in public here. No, I'm not making it up. No, let's not 'prove it.' How are your eggs? Yeah, mine are perfect, too. Another cup of coffee? What? As long as you can have another cigarette? Well, okay. Yes, I'll have another one. Do your pupils hurt? So you want to know where we're going? Good. Here's the plan: we drive to Paeroa to drink some L&P and eat pies. No, not blueberry pies; meat pies. Yes, they are the yum--yum as. Then we'll drive over to Rotorua and find Kerosene c

Flying into Auckland, I witness the most stunning sunrise that I have ever seen. The ocean is the blackest of blacks, rising to meet the deep orange of the sun, and then fading into the blue of the night sky. A phrase that I've heard before, "indigo hour" flashes through my brain, and I can only stare in amazement, captivated by it's accuracy. My departure from Honolulu began in a rush as,in typical Duck & Cover fashion, a great deal has been left to the last minute. "Oh surely there will just be heaps of time today" I thought to myself friday morning, as I left laundry, shopping, and packing to the last possible moment. I imagined myself sitting on my packed bags, a ball of anticipation, staring at the moments slinking by on the clock, all the while waiting for the moment that I would leave for the airport. Of course, as anyone who tends toward procrastination can attest to, this was not the case at all. Long story short, there were things. Things that

On Sunday, 15 April, Dakin flew to New Zealand. For three days, Dakin and Jamie drove away from Auckland toward Wellington, where they would see Richard Buckner play at the San Francisco Bathhouse. The journey, while an adventure, is but a prelude. Day One I am exhausted. It takes 9 hours to drive from Wellington to Auckland, and I've done it with as few stops as possible. I just wanted to get there, check in to my hotel, and go to a pub. It was 9:00am when I left Wellington, and it was getting dark when I hit the Auckland motorway at 6:00pm. Everything was going relatively smoothly, so I was able to reflect when I finally sat down with a pint of Guinness at a small Irish pub on Victoria Street. The last time I saw Dakin was in 2001. Before he moved to Seattle we spent the hours dreaming to life record label schemes (this led to the birth of Duck and Cover), drinking too much, and experiencing the odd brush with death here and there. Too often we promise each other we won't smo

Nicaragua v Mexico Jamie decides to taste test two Fair Trade Organic coffees: one from Nicaragua, one from Mexico. And remember, buying Fair Trade coffee makes you a very good person. Control: both grinds are brewed in a stainless steel French press (however epicurean, in my opinion it is the only way to make decent coffee). The first is then poured into a stainless steel Thermos. I've decided to use stainless steel for two reasons: 1.) it won't give off any odd features (smells, tastes, etc.), and 2.) it looks sexy. Throughout the review, I'll attempt multiple tastes and smells which I will denote with numerals. Aroma: Unbrewed: Nicaragua: (1) Smells like coffee. (2) Strong. (3) Oily (in a good way). Mexico: (1) smells like someone sprinkled in chocolate cake crumbs. (2) A more subtle scent. Brewed: Nicaragua: (1) smells like wet coffee. (2) Much more aromatic, more layers. Mexico: (1) Smells like wet Nicaragua. (2) Smells like cooling wet Nicaragua. 1st Taste: Piping