Go Metric

Are You Receiving Me? – Night Birds

Prognosis: Negative 7” EP
Grave Mistake

“Killer Waves” b/w “Squad Car” 7”
Art of the Underground

More please. During the course of the review that follows I hope to impart some small sense of just how great these Night Birds records are. Mostly for the sake for fellow music fans seeking out new sounds but also, to a lesser extend, to make clear my hope that there is more from the band to follow. Let’s get started.

The Grave Mistake EP. 5 songs, 9 minutes. All killer, no filler. Everything that made the band’s demo EP click—rapid fire tempos, surf guitars, Nuggets-caliber hooks—is still in place but each of those elements is better this time. The surf riffs are more prevalent. The vocals are more confident and the rhythm section tighter. Sensing the potential for hyperbole overdose I’ve gone back to the EP three times since my initial draft. From the chorus to “Prognosis: Negative” to the tempo changes and soloing throughout “Harbor Rats,” I stand by my claims.

The “Killer Waves” single will be difficult to track down but it’s worth the work. The a-side is the band’s best song yet, the most Dickies like. I believe the b-side is a Belairs cover. Regardless, it’s a great revved up surf instrumental.

I still hear traces of the bands I referred to when the reviewing the band’s debut last year (Dead Kennedys, Minor Threat, Dick Dale) but this is their sound now.

– Mike Faloon

Are You Receiving Me? – Superchunk

Superchunk
“Digging for Something” b/w “February Punk” 7”
Merge

For years Superchunk albums were events in my life. Initially, I didn’t know what to do with the self-titled record when it came out. I was in college, still thinking that pop and punk were mutually exclusive propositions. But week after week we kept playing that record until we gave up trying to decode it and just enjoyed it. Nine years later Come Pick Me Up came out. Mellower, restrained at times but still bursting with great song ideas. I was married by then and I’d finally figured out what to do with my life. On more than one occasion I thought, I’m going to grow old with this band, confident that they wouldn't lapse into Jefferson Starship or Who-like self-parody.

I can’t explain why I’d lost interest by the time Here’s to Shutting Up rolled out two years later. It took me awhile to buy a copy and when the mood to hear Superchunk struck that wasn’t the album I reached for. It was like they’d lost their way in trying to figure out how to age and continue changing as a band.

Then, last summer, the Leaves in the Gutter EP. “We’re in our forties. We’re kicking ass with songs that are clever and catchy but we’re not trying to recapture old glories.” They’d never be so lame as to pen such lyrics—leave that to me—but that’s the message I got from those songs. Everything I loved about Superchunk was there with new twists and turns along the way.

The streak continues with this excellent single. “Digging for Something” sounds like the band’s late '90s output. A big rock song with a chorus that catches the first time. The flipside, “February Punks,” is just as catchy but it burns faster. For all I know it’s an outtake from No Pocky for Kitty or On the Mouth.

“Familiar yet different” is what I’m saying and that’s a contradiction. Guess I’m back to trying to figure out Superchunk records. Cool.

— Mike Faloon

New York City Pizza: Small Bites

As Life of Pie continues to tick New York City's best pizzerias off the list with amazing speed, there isn't the time nor space to fully review them all. So, a re-cap of several months of pizzactivity with five small bites: Emporio, Veloce, Patsy's, Sullivan Street Bakery, and Kesté.

Emporio

Emporio is in Nolita, which means it's less a "pizzeria" than a semi-fancy trattoria that happens to do pizza really well. The best view in the house is in the back room, where skylights illuminate the pizziolo in action at his wood-burning oven. Given Emporio's busy brunch traffic, my wife and I were seated at the front window, so our view included the neighborhood's street traffic (including a small white poodle with a purple Mohawk) and a salon across the street where women were receiving intense neck massages. About the pizza: it's Roman-style and the crust is perfect on the edges, but turns a bit soggy in the middle, as the buffalo mozzarella pools with San Marzano tomatoes and basil in a very flavorful mess, topped off with a bit of hot pepper oil for some kick. Forks are required. This column is about pizza, but we'd be remiss if we did not mention the excellent salads. Blue state alert: one was endive, beet, and hazelnut, the other fava bean with fennel, and both were delicious. A bit hard on the wallet, but worth a special trip.

Photo: jasoneppink

Veloce

Having read some recent reports that Veloce, a fine purveyor of Sicilian pizza, was having trouble filling seats, we circled back for another visit, my parents in tow. After rapping a bit with the bartender about their endless loop of Sicilian films (guys, you are wearing that L'avventura DVD out), we dug in to two pies: the arugula (mozzarella, fontina, sweet onion, grape tomato) and the sopressata picante (tomato sauce, parmigiano-reggiano, sweet onion, mozzarella). Both were excellent examples of a pie somewhat different from the style New Yorkers have come to know as "Sicilian" (read: doughy): Veloce's crust is airier and includes some potato flour. These guys also know their wine, so have them pair one with your pizza of choice (try the nero d'avola, grown in the volcanic soil of Mount Etna).

Photo: h-bomb

Patsy's

There probably isn't much new to be said about this institution that hasn't already been noted over the last 70-plus years. The bottom line, if you are anywhere near East Harlem, make time for Patsy's. They offer both a takeout window featuring slices of their famous coal oven pizza and a dining room (cash only). The crust is rather light and thin (they use no olive oil in their dough) and the fantastic ingredients (including aged mozzarella) are so cooked to perfection, a party of two can easily kill one large pie, as evidenced by these photos, taken at the conclusion of a long spring bike ride:

Photos: bee721

Sullivan Street Bakery

Jim Lahey's Company was covered a few column's ago, but his Sullivan Street Bakery is another animal all together. Where Company is a communal, sit-down restaurant experience, Sullivan St. is mainly a bread and sandwich outpost for restaurant and retail distribution, with small sit-down area to grab a slice of pizza and a Pellegrino. I've visited several times alone or with a friend for the pizza pomodoro (tomato, olive oil, and salt; thin, crisp crust with slightly burned edges) and the pizza zucchini (zucchini, gruyere cheese, bread crumbs; thin, crisp crust). They are both out of this world, as is the stecca, a small bread loaf made with pizza bianca dough and filled with a seasonal vegetable. Sullivan Street Bakery is a little off the beaten path (for Manhattan), but worth the trip.

Photos: Jessica Kourkounis

Kesté

Since being voted New York's best pizza by New York magazine last year, and given its Bleeker Street location in tourist central, the wait at Kesté can be long (mitigated by the owners occasionally bringing some sample slices out to the hungry horde). Luckily, these authentic 12-inch Neapolitan pies come out of the oven in the requisite 10 minutes and boast all the hallmarks of a Naples-certified pizza: charred crust, tangy tomatoes, fresh buffalo mozzarella. I could on and on, but will say only this: if you can  manage to get in the door for the Pizza Del Papa, do so. The mix of butternut squash cream, imported smoked mozzarella, artichoke, and red and yellow peppers sounds like a mess on paper, but in reality was one of the best mixes of flavors I have ever encountered.

Photo: ian_crowther

— Brett Essler

Related Life of Pie Reviews:

Artichoke Basille's Pizza & Brewery

Company

Totonno's Pizzeria Napolitano

Al Burian Goes To Hell

Al Burian
Al Burian Goes To Hell
Migraine Publishing

I’ve enjoyed Burian’s work for a while now, and I liked this, but I don’t recommend buying this. Hear me out;

Years ago, I went to a reading at Bluestockings in Manhattan, with Jessica Hopper and Al Burian. School had just finished, which put me in the post-graduate funk of being excited that I had a lot of free time again, but unsure of what the next step in my life would be. I was already familiar with both of their contributions to Punk Planet, particularly Hopper’s. But Al immediately won me over with his tales of playing in punk bands and traveling around the world in between odd temp jobs. I listened intently, thinking “that’s the life,” trying to figure out how to live my own life like that as I rode the train back into the New Jersey suburbs.

Fast forward to present day — I get home after sleeping on a friend’s in Queens on the last night of a tour, rushing to make it to the office while I can still squeeze in some hours. As I sit in my chair, answering a phone to direct angry office drones, I can barely keep my head up. I’m reminded of that reading in particular, and the irony suddenly dawns on me: “I’ve accomplished that dream. And it kind of sucks.”

Then this shows up on my door — It’s Burian’s reinterpretation of Dante’s Inferno, in comic form. I get excited, and start to flip through it, thinking it’s a genius concept. A dark contrast to idealistic dreams. Then I did a quick internet search, only to find that this particular book is actually a bootleg. Apparently someone got a hold of what was originally a college art project, and turned it into a book without permission. Bummer.

That said, seeing as I’d already read through it anyway (and, technically enjoyed it, and think it’s pretty great for something done at twenty two), I’ll just encourage you to check out some of his other stuff, be it his Burn Victim zine, or Things Are Meaning Less comic. That way, everyone wins.

— Joe Evans III

This Never Happened to Pablo Picasso

If you were on a quest for great pizza on the east coast, Stowe, Vermont may not be the first place you'd look. However, amidst great natural beauty and boutiques that cater to wealthy vacationers is Piecasso Pizzeria & Lounge, purveyor of fine New York-style pies. Piecasso’s owner, Eduardo Rovetto, is part of a Sicilian pizza dynasty with Rovetto family members owning 10 pizzerias up and down the east coast. He opened Picasso in 2000 and moved to the current, larger location in 2006. In 2009, Piecasso was named one of Travel + Liesure’s best 11 pizzas in America.

For those used to scarfing a slice in a cramped city pizzeria, Piecasso is culture shock, located on a stretch of country road a few miles outside of Stowe's city center. Perhaps the best way to reach Piecasso in summer is by bike, using the area's 5.5 mile recreation path which connects Main Street in Stowe with Piecasso's back door, along the West Branch River. There's a turn-off sign on the trail in case you miss the smell from kitchen and ample space for bicycle parking out front.

Given the name and the number of gimmicky pies (the Tree hugger, the Heart Stopper...) on the menu, I was worried Piecasso might be a bit tourist-trappy, so we skipped the overstuffed, cleverly-named fare for the simple Pomodoro Bianco ($13-$20.25). In this case, less definitely was more: the mix of white garlic olive oil, fresh mozzarella, fresh basil, plum tomatoes, and minced fresh garlic were blended perfectly. The crust achieved just the right balance of airy and chewy, it’s edges slightly charred, but not burned. Perhaps the ultimate test: it held up well despite the copious amount of olive oil. All ingredients are locally-sourced whenever possible (pretty much a given in a state with such a strong farm-to-plate movement) and it showed in the flavor.

While this is not a beer blog, a good ale and pizza are inextricably linked for most people. In this regard, Piecasso did not disappoint with Burlington's excellent Switchback Unfiltered Ale on tap.

When in Stowe, don’t miss pedaling over to Piecasso.

-- Brett Essler

House Boat: Processing Complaints

House Boat
Processing Complaints
Traffic Street

Admittedly, it took me a little time to get into The Steinways when I first started hanging out amongst the New York pop punk scene – though to be fair, they were still a relatively new band with a lot of local hype around then, which triggers my “I’m not buying it” defense mechanism. But eventually, I got passed that (and, I’m pretty sure they practiced more), and I was a fan. I mention this because with House Boat, I know exactly what I’m getting into, and thusly on board from the start (no pun intended). Also at this point, I’m well aware that Grath and I are on the same page; We both love watching television on Hulu, hate our numerous crappy temp jobs, and have a love/hate relationship with the fairer sex.

While I could jokingly refer to House Boat as “Steinways 2.0”, there’s some truth to it, especially here. You start to notice Grath’s songs branch out more and more, with “DC Showcase” and “The Self-Aware Octopus” speed things up a bit more, and lean a little closer to mid ‘90s Epitaph or Fat Wreck than Lookout and Mutant Pop. Long standing fans won’t be disappointed though – “Payment Plan” is another of what I personally consider Grath’s slower, ‘50s throwbacks, and the other two songs sound like Steinways B-sides (standard lyric content of feeling like you’re going crazy, and they both start in C). It’s a great record – not on account that every song is a classic per se, but the overall quality is still there, and the fact that Grath has been fairly prolific release-wise over the past few years. I like this enough that I’ll publicly own to bugging him about letting me fill in with whatever form of a band he has going on.

- Joe Evans III

You’ll Always Know Your Neighbor: Lock City Pizza

After a few weeks of sweltering summer weather, it’s great to get out of New York City to the small towns where things of value are actually made: breezes, products other than iPhone apps and complicated financial derivatives, waves from strangers.

It is also a swell way to remember that pizza is supposed to be an inexpensive, utilitarian food, not a fetish object. Something your parents picked up on a Friday night after a week spent slogging in a smoke-filled office and rotating through ground beef-derived dinners (meatloaf with ketchup, softball-size hamburger patties bleeding through white buns, Ortega taco mix, spaghetti with Ragu meat sauce).

In short, however many “fancy” pizzas one eats, the pies of their hometown always hold a special place in their stomach.

Growing up in Lockport, NY, a small town just north of Buffalo on the banks of the Erie Canal, we were lucky to have two great pizzerias: Lock City Pizza (it’s former moniker, Pontillo's, is still the name of choice for many locals) and Pizza Oven. Both establishments, it has been relayed to me by out-of-town friends I have tried to convert, are an acquired taste.

Pizza Oven's sauce is almost sickeningly sweet, it's thin crust oily and crisp. Before my metabolism slowed to a crawl I used to eat this stuff by the metric ton, which likely contributed to one of the worst complexions Lockport High School has ever witnessed. The Oven has recently changed hands and the next time I’m in the 'Port, I'll be stopping in for some nostalgia and a large pie.

If a scientific poll of Lockportians were conducted, Lock City/Pontillo's would likely be named "Best Pizza" or "Best pizza when you are home visiting your parents" or "pizza place most likely to show up in one of those 'You Know You're from Lockport when...' e-mail forwards." One measure of your Lockportianness was the manner in which you ordered your Pontillo’s crust: quarter-baked, half-baked, and so on. That quirk aside, I always Lock City it for its lack of small town charm: jaw-breakingly tough crust, spartan tomato sauce (made from canned Contadina’s, or so my father reports after some dumpster investigation), staff surliness, ridiculously long waits. Twenty years removed, I appreciate Lock City that much more and applaud them for doing what they do: making pies, rather than Tweeting or churning their own Artisanal cheese curds from grass-fed goats.

Lock City’s is not a “stand-up” pie. The crust requires a certain hand-eye-mouth coordination to master and the toppings tend to pool into a mush in the center and the pies are sliced seemingly at random for a variety of shapes and sizes. Processed mozzarella is the norm in these parts, but the sauce hues towards a more traditional canned tomato, salt, and olive oil blend, rather than the typical Western New York sugar and tomato paste heavy sauces.

The result? A pie that refreshingly doesn’t quite fall into a neat category and is quite spectacular in small doses. Next time you’re in Lockport, bring your appetite. I will try and convert you.

-- Brett Essler

Out of Exile

by Gary Pig Gold

For an album that received such a lukewarm-at-best reception upon its initial release (even the almighty Rolling Stone magazine used the words “overdone blues cliché” whilst making snide comparisons to Tommy James), the tenth album produced by Keith Richards and company has certainly enjoyed a critical reappraisal and then some over the ensuing thirty-eight years. Why, even M. Jagger who in ‘72 complained “This new album is fucking mad. It's very rock and roll. I didn't want it to be like that. I mean, I'm very bored with rock and roll,” today insists the recording of Exile On Main St. “was a wonderful period; a very creative period.”

And of course Rolling Stone now places those very same blues clichés near the tip-top of most every Greatest Album Of All Time list it regularly publishes in between all the sneaker and suntan crème ads.

Now, come 2010, the (in)famous Exile has been fully refurbished, re-struck, and reconstituted through and through by a crack crew of audio surgeons headed by honorary Glimmer Twin Don Was, digitally polished to an immaculate sheen, “correcting” the original soupy subterranean mixes (“The cymbals sound like dustbin lids” Mick again complained as “Tumbling Dice” was first being readied for release) so as not to have the album stand as too sore a sonic thumb alongside Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber, I suppose. Personally, I much prefer dustbins to “Just Dance”...but I digress.

Meanwhile, as part of this gala Exile resurrection comes an accompanying behind-the-scenes documentary film, Stones In Exile, which gathers together all five early-Seventies Stones within a wealth of vintage studio (meaning the basement of Richards’ villa on the French Riviera, where most of the album’s basic tracks were recorded) and on-stage footage (via the post-Exile tour film Ladies and Gentlemen...The Rolling Stones, which itself is due for re-release later this year). Why, even snippets from the beyond-cult 1972 road-film-from-hell Cocksucker Blues are cunningly slipped between shots of various waterskiing and overdubbing Brits-in-, yes, exile.

Not so surprisingly however, some subjects (such as the rampant drug use which eventually resulted in Keith’s total submission to heroin) are only delicately alluded to, whilst other key players in the scenario – houseguest Gram Parsons, most obviously, who schooled Monsieur Richards especially in nuances of the country blues which permeate the entire Exile album – are ignored altogether. Plus the Stones In Exile bonus footage could have been much better filled with, say, a complete study of the original, highly innovative Main St. record cover shoot by Cocksucker director Robert Frank, as opposed to rambling heads the likes of Caleb Followill and Sheryl Crow.

Still, the contemporary footage of Mick Jagger and the immaculate-as-ever Charlie Watts wandering around Olympic recording studios and Jagger’s former Stargroves estate – sites of the initial Exile sessions – are both fascinating and entertaining...in a Sunshine Boys sort of way (if you get my octogenarian drift). Naturally Keith Richards appears throughout the proceedings in ghostly stark black-and-white, the multitude struggles of ’72 still etched deep into his face, whilst good ol’ Bill Wyman remains ever the Stone Alone with the most revealing, reproachful, yet detailed reminisces of the bunch (a man still upset, it seems, at not being able to locate a proper brew of British tea in the south of France, for example).

So while I may indeed have my doubts over the, um, validity of a vintage-2010 Exile On Main St. album per se, this Stones In Exile film, far on the other hand, is a perfectly under-polished production which more than succeeds in placing one square down the very depths of Keith Richards’ basement during the festering summer of ‘71...yes, with all the horror and gorgeous excess – not to mention utterly magnificent, guttural music – such a locale entails.

And somehow, still, continues to inspire.

Rolling Stones - Rocks Off (1972)