Having a rock archivist like David Bieber in the office means you always say yes whenever he offers to let you dig through his stuff. During the past few weeks of hunting through autographed Beach Boys albums, signed Talking Heads photos, Springsteen box sets, and invitations to join Michael Jackson's fan club, it was easy to get distracted by the awesomeness of it all. Unfortunately, some items did not make the final cut. Thus, we present to you the outtakes from the slideshow that accompanied this week's 50 Bands, 50 States feature. 

Too bad the response date for Sly Stone's wedding passed 34 years ago. We were all ready to pull out our finest gold threads, yo! Also too bad that Sly and his Family Stone didn't make our final list.
 

The Beatles didn't make our list for obvious reasons - although we can't think of many people better associated with the city of New York than John Lennon. We couldn't resist this sorta doodled, definitely cool illustration from a 1976 copy of the Phoenix.

We admit it - we just plain old overlooked this signed Violent Femmes album. The Femmes were our pick for all-time best Wisconsin band.

More signed wackiness from the Violent Femmes. For the for realz slideshow, click here.  

More: 50 Bands, 50 States 

Last night marked Beth Orton's first performance on her first tour in a long, long time. And she was missed: both her early and late performances at the Museum of Fine Arts on Thursday were completely sold out, and nobody seeemd to mind that the mid-afternoon thunderstorms force the show indoors. Orton played a career-spanning set that included a Karen Dalton cover which we may try to post later. In the meantime, watch the clip above of last night's rendition of "Someone's Daughter" off her mid-90s breakthrough Trailer Park, and check out our slideshow of photos from the show by Carina Mastrocola.

Here’s how festivals work: you get drunk on alcohol, then you get drunk on music, then around six o’clock you shower it off, then you repeat until four-in-the-morning. From what I’ve heard, that’s the routine even at Christian rock conventions. The key to covering these festivities is to party hard and work harder, and last night, my friend, I put in some work.

The artery of Jazz Fest is a mighty quad between the Hyatt (where I’m staying), the Museum of Contemporary Art, and two other brute structures that, if I were a competent reporter or thought you cared, I would have asked the names of. It’s kind of like a mid-city music carnival where you can chug beer, check shows on big or small stages, and dive into an ornate art-deco fountain if you’re so inspired.  

I’m as much a foreigner on planet jazz as I am on planet Canada. As an American hip-hop critic in a foreign land, I inevitably spend the first two minutes of every conversation distancing myself from 50 Cent and George Bush. That said, every single person here has been cool to me. Jazz cats aren’t like indie rockers, who don’t want you listening to their favorite bands; the fans and artists I’ve met in Montreal are delighted to drop tips on up-and-gunning acts, secret shows, and where I can catch tight three-in-the-morning jam sessions (in my hotel bar, amazingly enough).

On the advice of a local critic from the Montreal Mirror, I chowed dinner at Pho Bak in the Vietnamese section of Chinatown. I tell you this not because it was a mighty deal and tasty too; I generally avoid writing about where I eat (as well as writing about eating all together), but my waiter had a cool look that I need to document in writing. In my friend Adam’s words: he resembled a back-up singer in an all-Asian K.D. Lang tribute band on karaoke night.

And like that I’m in a mega-venue for the hippest Jazz Fest show of the evening featuring Norwegian tweakers Datarock and Liverpool new school new wavers Ladytron.  But before going further I have a brief vignette about a Stevie Wonder show that I reviewed two weeks ago. As a general rule I only write about hip-hop, but I ventured outside my specialty and fumbled badly. Who would have thought that referring to “Superstitious” as “Very Superstitious” would generate dozens of hate letters and nasty web comments? Anyway – the point is that while last week I decided to really never write outside my genre, I’m about to break that rule; so please, I beg you, don’t fucking email me about how great your favorite band is and how depraved I am. In both cases, it's likely the opposite is true.

Datarock is kind of like Devo; only instead of cool hats, they have no talent. They rotated instruments through the evening, but when I arrived one guy was on a BMX-height drum set, another was kind of singing, a third dude was playing a mini Casio on a stand that was about two feet off the ground, and one guy was doing nothing. Later on, the last guy would play what might have been an inflatable Bar Mitzvah saxophone. It is, after all, Jazz Fest. John Coltrane would be proud.      


DATAROCK: Live at Montreal Jazz Fest, July 2, 2008

Insults aside, Datarock delivered a bare-chested set with some mighty electro riffs and good humor, the last of which was half-intentional and half collateral.  I’m sure their diehards would disagree, but for sure my favorite part of the show was when the drummer threw his stick and completely missed it on the way down.  It didn’t matter much, though, since the drum solos filling the speakers were coming from the soundboard.

Regardless of what I thought, the 2,200 screaming fanatics in the building devoured every ounce. And they weren’t just bandwagoneering and pretending the way that, say, people at Girl Talk shows pretend; they really dig this junk. Maybe it’s the production value; between the light show, LED backdrop and pounding emotion, Ladytron’s set was as explosive as any live rap show I’ve ever seen.

Ladytron: Live at Montreal Jazz Fest, July 2, 2008

After Ladytron, I capped the night at Club Soda, which, if I remember correctly, was a hot spot when I came up here ten years ago. I’m from New York where clubs change names every six months, so that’s impressive staying power. Much like at Metropolis, entering Club Soda felt like walking into a club scene from a Hollywood movie where there’s a band that’s supposed to be cool or about-to-be-cool but that you’ve never heard of playing up on stage.

The band du jour was Artist of the Year – a Canadian group of either guys or girls who rock loudly and wear sparkles. I’m not sure that I have any further opinion of them, but I will say that the second they got off stage and the DJ took reign the place cleared out. Club Soda was flat. (Had to use that one.)   

Finally: I know I told all you hate-mailers to hush up. But while I still encourage you to direct your anger and aggression toward critics who pretend to know about things they don’t know about, if you really want to slap me this would be the time to do it. Tonight I’m going to see RZA and GZA, so not only am I more excited than a kid passing his house on a bus ride to an elementary school field trip, but I’m also returning to my know zone. And in my know zone, I ain’t nothin’ to fuck wit.   

MONTREAL -- The Greyhound ride was sweeter than expected, as I was sandwiched between two Canadian vixens the whole way up. Across the aisle was a cute manicured hippiechick who slugged a bottle of cabernet between Manchester and Burlington; behind me I had a questionably-legal teen with cans so firm that they couldn’t have sprouted more than six months ago. The latter was traveling with her grandparents, who seemed oblivious to their baby’s flirtatious, stripper-bound ways. Either that or they’ve just accepted that 16-year-olds are fair game in Quebec. 

I don’t know what this says about my past and current substance abuse issues, but I was extremely nervous to go through customs -- even though I was innocent! When you take a bus across the border, you automatically have to get off and chat with inspectors, and since I resemble the president of Iran, things like this make me nervous. Luckily, there was a dude with a terrorist beard to take the heat off, as well as a guy whose push-ups outside the bus on every break led me to believe that his rap sheet is no blank slate.

I saw three above-ground pools on the way up, so while it’s pretty obvious that Canadians are for the most part stronger-willed and better-looking than Americans, some of them have less class than Rodney Dangerfield. I always look for signs like this because, well, I, too, have no class. Not only that, but I have a pretty thick New York accent that makes me feel especially unrefined when conversing with foreigners.  

Like most people who took 10 years of French, I don’t speak a word of it. Not only that, but I refuse to try. To me it’s like karate lessons: you practice all these cool kicks and grapple holds, then when you get in a fight, you instinctually grab your opponent’s ears and kick him in the groin. Luckily, my friend Adam Sampler will be showing me around all weekend. He doesn’t speak French either, but he’s been living here for eight years so he knows the drill.

Quick side story: when I was growing up, the code name in my family for Jewish people was “Canadian.” Not on some Nazi shit, but when you're full-blooded guineas living on Long Island it’s impossible to abstain entirely from anti-Semitism – no matter how many close Jewish friends you have. Long story short, after hanging with my family for a day, Adam – who’s both Jewish and Canadian – asked me what my aunt had against Canadians. Needless to say, there was no talking my way out of that one.

So within minutes of landing at my boy’s apartment I’m tugging on a tampon-sized spliff and strolling on the Esplanade. As I’m sure you know, the weed is splendid up here, and neither cops nor people with small children seem to care if you toke in public. Last time I was in Montreal, you could smoke inside everywhere. But that’s not the case anymore; now the streets are flooded with people burning everything from butts and blunts to pipe tobacco. 

Before I continue, let me just say right now that there will be no music news today. This dispatch covers Tuesday, and I’m not checking shows until tonight. I know you don’t care, but I figured that you might have justified using valuable work time to read this by kidding yourself that you’re learning something about jazz. If that’s the case, please return tomorrow.

Actually – if you’re interested in getting interested about jazz, pick up Downbeat magazine.  It’s one of the last authentic music mags in any genre, and boy are they in full-force up here. Nice guys these jazz critics are: last night I met a dude named Chris from Los Angeles who, at least in my mind, defined what a jazz reporter should look and act like. From his skin to his shirt to his pants and shoes, Chris was black on black on black on black. He’s been to more Jazz Fests than he can count – for real – and when I asked him what he was excited to see, he might as well have run through the whole schedule. I hope I’m still that excited about music 30 years from now. Most of the aging rock critics I meet at festivals and conferences are decidedly miserable to the point that you would forget they’ve been partying on their paper’s tab for a half-century.

Before I run off, let me give a brief preview of the rest of this week. No doubt I’ll be doing some sort of ignorant list about things that are funny in Montreal (i.e., the way French people pronounce “Super Sex” – the name of the biggest tourist trap strip club up here – makes you want to say, “Uhhh – I’ll have the sex”). Music-wise, tonight I’m meandering about various random jazz shows, tomorrow I’m checking out the RZA and GZA, the latter of whom is performing his entire album “Liquid Swords,” and on Friday I’ll be checking Lee Perry, who’s jamming with the Wailers. Much more, too. Maybe I’ll even post some nude photos. Of chicks, dude – chill. 

DOWNLOAD: Clouds, "Motion of the Ocean" (mp3)

This ain’t your ordinary stoner metal. Yeah, the guitars on We Are Above You (Hydra Head) — the new second album from Cave In guitarist Adam McGrath’s Clouds — mostly exist in sludgy Sunn-amp ear-rumbling down-tuned depths, but seven of the album’s 11 songs whiz by in under three minutes, fast enough to blow the bong resin off your brain. In “Motion of the Ocean,” the band cram a couple of Motörhead-style up-tempo anvil-heavy-riff verses next to blink-and-they’re-gone shuffle-beat anti-choruses, two separate whacked-out guitar solos, a balls-out half-time breakdown, and a feedback outro in a mere two minutes and 21 seconds. We got tired just typing that. You can grab the track above and catch the band live when they wrap up a big cross-country tour with Boris and Torche July 11 downstairs at the Middle East.

Mike Fiore of Faces on Film: “The Five Songs That Would Be Way Better If Roy Orbison Had Sung Them”

1_Arcade Fire, “Crown of Love”
2_Clinic, “Distortions”
3_The Flaming Lips, “Do You Realize??”
4_Lou Reed, “Perfect Day”
5_Low, “Dinosaur Act"

Faces on Film play upstairs at the Middle East Wednesday, July 9. Download their ludicrously good new album, The Troubles here.

UPDATE 07/02/08: Vedder's PR folks just announced full details of his summer tour, which launches with TWO Boston gigs at the Opera House . . . and tickets are $75 a head?! PLUS SERVICE CHARGE? Insanity. Scroll down for the full tour dates, right below the video.  

Nothing goes on sale on 4th of July weekend. But here's a sneak peak at next week's big-ticket item:

Eddie Vedder and Liam Finn
August 1 and 2 at the Opera House, Boston
Tickets on sale July 11, 2008, at 1 pm
Tickets $75
Available at Opera House Box Office or ticketmaster.com
A special, limited ticket pre-sale for current active members of Pearl Jam's Ten Club will be offered at www.pearljam.com.

And here's a sneak peak: Eddie surprising the crowd by sauntering on stage early -- before Ted Leo -- at the Tweeter Comcast Center (sponsored by the Marines!) over the weekend, for a solo rendition of Hunters & Collectors' "Throw Your Arms Around Me." 

(E. Vedder video courtesy Dave Pecoraro.)

Eddie Vedder Solo Tour Dates, according to LiveNation:

Date                 City                              Venue                                                  Ticket Price*

8/1/08              Boston                         Opera House                                       $75

8/2/08              Boston                         Opera House                                       $75

8/4/08              New York                     United Palace Theater             $75

8/5/08              New York                     United Palace Theater             $75

8/7/08              Newark                        New Jersey Performing Arts Center     $75

8/9/08              Montreal, QC              Salle Wilfrid-Pelletier/Place                  $75

8/12/08            Toronto, ON                 Massey Hall                                          $75

8/13/08            Toronto, ON                 Massey Hall                                          $75

8/16/08            Washington, DC          Warner Theatre                                    $75

8/17/08            Washington, DC          Warner Theatre                                    $75

8/19/08            Milwaukee                   The Riverside Theater                           $75

8/21/08            Chicago                      Auditorium Theatre                              $75

8/22/08            Chicago                      Auditorium Theatre                              $75

I tell people that I “used to go to Montreal all the time,” but the truth is that I’ve only been there twice. I guess I’m just a tremendous bullshit artist. Either that and/or I lived so hard on those short trips that I felt like a frequent flyer. 

My first adventure was freshman year in college, when, along with four friends, I was stopped by the border patrol. My buddy Reed thought it would be a sweet idea to wear a football helmet to the customs drive-thru, and the Canadians – having no doubt that we were wicked stoned, I'm sure – pulled us over. I hid an eighth of weed in my crack that day, and after two hours of feeling like I had a concrete dump in my pants, I realized I would have been toast if they'd introduced a dog into the equation.  Luckily, they didn’t -- and we were free to roll about and frolic.

On my second trip to Montreal, two years later, I ran into no such border problems. However, I did come face to face with a treacherous blizzard that added a death-defying dynamic as well as about five extra hours to the trip from upstate New York. As is probably the case with most voyages to Montreal, the slog was made worthwhile when we got to watch a stripper light her crotch on fire and extinguish it with my friend’s hat.

Oh yeah – the reason I’m telling you this: today I’m taking a bus up to Montreal, where I’ve been tapped to cover Jazz Fest (or Festival International de Jazz de Montreal, as they say). Have no fear, though: I’m not pretending to be some jazz aficionado. I like jazz as much as the next person who can’t really tell you why they do or don’t like jazz but pretends to understand it because (a) you’re supposed to, and (b) doing otherwise displays an ignorance to the fact that much of hip-hop was directly inspired by and/or jacked from jazz musicians.

My ignorance in this case is nearly acceptable, though, as there will be plenty of music that I do actually get. Montreal Jazz Fest is to jazz what South by Southwest is to indie rock: it used to be all about it, but these days there’s plenty for a hip-hop head to chew on. Sure, since I’ll be bugged on mushrooms for most of my stay, I’ll spend hours marinating at outdoor jazz shows. But for the most part I’ll be checking whatever hip-hop angled or crazy eclectic shit that I can find. Well, that and strip clubs.

Hopefully by the time you read this I’ll be in Montreal, though you can never be too sure. If ever there was a sign of how superficially pious and even downright masochistic American and Canadian societies truly are, it’s how guards on both sides of the border are loath to hear that you went abroad to party. For some reason, "Going to ogle salami nipples and drink Molson Export" doesn’t always qualify as an acceptable reason for travel. Fortunately, I suspect I'll have no problems this time: I'm a credentialled "reporter"! I may come back a degenerate first and journalist second, but so far my priorities are still in order. So far.