Tag Archives: music

I never felt this much alive, motherfuckers

30 Jun

Seven, friends, was my age of enlightenment. I was seven when a desperate little fish flopped around on the pavement, gasping for air, just seconds before Roddy’s piano exploded. PETA’s been pissed since then, yet I – the super animal lover – paid no mind to the suffering fish. I cared only about the auditory orgasm I’d just experienced; the song Epic by Faith No More was everything my polka-dot-lycra-shorts-wearing self craved. The music video played on MTV Brasil 24/7, and the videos for From Out of Nowhere and Falling to Pieces (my favorite of the three) were also popular. FNM exploded in Brazil, and is a band still adored in South America and Europe – not sure why Americans never gave these guys the attention they deserve.

Hours were spent in front of the living room TV, banging my head, playing air guitar, jumping from couch to couch, trying to recreate the melody-followed-by-screaming that only Patton can come up with; the man is a beast of a vocalist. I also took cue from him when it came fashion; for a while he sported the half shaved hair-do, which I felt compelled to duplicate. I stood by the sink at 8 years old, with my pretty hair tied in a high ponytail. With a fine comb, I separated it into two sections: everything above the line, which was at mid-ear, was left untouched – everything below it, I cut and then shaved off. I wore my Last of the Mohicans cut proudly to school, but none of my dumb friends knew who Mike Patton was, and I struggled to make that trend popular. I got one girl on board, though.

Nowadays I leave the hairdos to the stylist and the head banging mostly for driving. The insulation of my moving vehicle permits me to scream as loud as I can too, something I couldn’t always get away with at home.

thanks, Mitya, for my BLURRY picture with Mike Patton. Hmpf.

Faith No More remained a favorite band throughout the nineties until the fuckers broke it off in 1998; I was barely 15 and never got to see them play live.  I did catch Mike Patton in concert three years ago on his Peeping Tom tour and ambushed him after the show; we spoke a bit in Portuguese and a bit in Italian, but I was too sober to offer him my panties.

Just kidding, I was pretty drunk. But you see, I do actually go for the music. It was for the music that I sat out in front of Chicago’s Grant Park gates at 9am on August 6, 2006 until they opened at 11am. I and another few hundred lunatics engaged in a mad dash to Lollapalooza’s main stage, where the Red Hot Chili Peppers would be playing that day – at eight o’clock at night. A couple dozen kids had gotten to the park earlier than me, so they reached the stage before I did, leaving me in a third standing row. “Amateurs,” I thought. “I give them till 3pm.”

I’d overestimated their endurance, because at around noon, they started disappearing. “I’m just gonna go get some water,” one said. “I’m gonna go check on my friend,” said the other. I saw the weakness in their eyes; they were dehydrated under the scorching sun and had brought no food. As each  of them took a step back, I took one step forward. By 1pm, I had my stomach against the barrier and was face to face with stage security. I’d brought one litre of water with me and two muffins. It was hot, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to drink too much water or else I’d be jumping not for the music, but against my bladder. I made friends with a security guard who was kind enough to order me a veggie burger and throw some water on my face every now and then. Around 6pm I decided I needed a nap, if only to forget about the pain my poor boobs felt, being squeezed against the barrier by the big, drunk dudes behind me. I turned around to face the crowd, back flat against the barrier to keep my spot, and sat on the ground, head between my knees. I napped for thirty or so minutes until the crowd started pushing hard again.

Queens of the Stone Age preceded the Peppers, and by then, I was all sweat; mine and everyone else’s. I was jumping and singing – probably to Go With the Flow – when I felt warm liquid running down my right leg. I stopped for a second to make sure I wasn’t peeing on myself – nope, not my urine. I looked to my right, and a kid looking like he was about to pass out said, “sorry, dude, I had like, 8 beers.”

Peppers at Lolla ’06 – I took it!

I thought I might mind getting peed on, but I didn’t. I laughed at him, and helped push him up so he could get carried out by security before passing out. I minded the crowd surfers’ kicks to my head more. Only for a second though, because the Peppers were on fire, and I had the best seat in the house.

My girlfriends were at the show too, but they thought my “first row or nothing” approach to concerts was “crazy,” so for that little adventure I was on my own. As I’ll be this Friday too, when Faith No More play at the Williamsburg Waterfront in Brooklyn. I’m getting to New York around 11pm on Thursday, and will be up and out my friend Inna’s door around 10am of Friday – with a litre of water, couple of sandwiches, iPhone… in line for my first ever Faith No More concert.

Anyone who knows me should be picturing me screaming and smacking my skull right now, because that’s what I feel like doing at the thought of Friday night.


I love the nineties

11 May

I was a wee thing in a button down white shirt and navy blue pleated skirt – the school uniform – as I glued my ear to my brother’s bedroom door. He was blasting new music and I wanted to know what it was. Knocking to ask was useless; he couldn’t hear or didn‘t want to. Going in unannounced was… suicide; he’d charge to the door, screaming at me and my bad manners. Once he started locking himself in for hours, I had no alternative but to eavesdrop.

It was 1989 and I soon learned what he was listening to was Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction album. It was loud, fast, dirty, and way cooler than my dad’s rock n’ roll. It was also way cooler than the Balão Mágico (Magical Balloon) shit my mom bought for me. Once the band became insanely popular my sister also got into them, and the vinyl made its way to the living room records cabinet where I had access to it. The cover was more than I could grasp at the time – a Robert Williams painting of a robot ready to avenge an innocent woman’s rape – but I stared at it for a while,  with headphones blasting the album back to back in my young and fragile ears.  Every single song was good, but Rocket Queen, the closing track, was a favorite, and still is. The bass line and guitar riff were sexy right off the bat. I had no idea what the lyrics meant, but my little cousin and I danced and karaoked to it. Once in a while I’d “borrow” my brother’s guitar to “play” along (and break strings).

Here I am
And you’re a Rocket Queen
I might be a little young
But honey, I ain’t naïve
Here I am
And you’re a Rocket Queen
I might be too much
But honey, you’re a bit obscene

I eventually found magazines in my siblings’ stuff and got a hold of translations. The lyrics made me go “Yeah!” because I could tell they were about sex. I’d yet to come across my brother’s porn but that didn’t stop me from dreaming about the guitarist. Unaware of what sex really was and that doing it with Slash might come with a side of crabs, my subconscious had me kissing and rolling around in bed with him, as adults in soap operas did. I could never actually see his face behind all the hair, but that was part of the appeal. While other little Catholic school girls crushed on Menudo (Ricky Martin’s Mexican boy band), I perused magazines for pictures of a tight jeans-wearing, whiskey-drinking, cigarette-smoking, bad boy with magical fingers.

I wanted to go to a show really bad; I envisioned myself dancing to Rocket Queen and getting picked by Slash to dance on stage. I thought I’d finally get my chance at age 9, when Guns N’ Roses were set to tour South America, playing in Rio twice. My dad promised to take my brother and sister, but apparently I was “too young.” Completely desperate and totally out of character, I threw a minor fit, but they wouldn’t budge. My dad and siblings left for the venue in early evening and mom, feeling bad for her  self-proclaimed precocious daughter, let me stay up late to catch the show live on TV. Months later, Axl successfully pissed off every band member, the group was no more, and at 18, I got a Red Hot Chili Peppers tattoo instead of a Guns N’ Roses one.

Rocket Queen – featuring the drummer’s girlfriend moaning over the break, recorded as she had sex with the vocalist in the studio – is still one of my favorite tunes. It is raw and sexy and it’s possible that I do on occasion put on a 90’s type leather mini dress and dance to it at home.  I’m happy nineties fashion is in again; too bad the hipsters aren’t bringing back good music along with lycra skirts.

[Intermission – Just a quickie filled with hate]

12 Mar

Logged on to Facebook and my news feed told me two people posted Lady GaGa’s new music video.

I’m no GaGa fan, but whatever, I don’t hate her either, and I read Beyonce was on this song (baddest bitch ever, that girl) so I hit Play.

Here are some words to describe what I thought of it, so I may go on with my day:

* It fucking sucked

* Stupidest, most nonsensical, trying-way-too-hard piece of crap

* 9.5 wasted minutes of my life. I should’ve closed the office door and gone on PornHub instead – More flesh, less teasing, and I wouldn’t still be thinking about chocolate

* GaGa has a really hot body

* I lost some respect for Beyonce. I understand wanting to “collab” with the “superstar” but this is super beneath you, B

* HAS ANYONE ACTUALLY LISTENED TO THE SONG? IT FUCKING SUCKS. Alex Roda writes better music, I’m certain of this

* You can’t be considered creative and innovative when you’re such a Madonna wanna-be. Not even Madonna is as cool as Madonna anymore. Stop trying. Go away.

* If you think you like this song, you’re wrong. Listen to No Doubt’s “Spiderwebs” instead. If you think you like her outfits and makeup and shitty choreography, you’re wrong again. Watch some Madonna videos circa 1990.

I hate that I even took the time to acknowledge you, GaGa.

Forever Hateful,
Lady Ju, a very angry latina

PS – She used a VIRGIN MOBILE cell phone in the video. I’m sure that’s what she uses in real life. Not a crackberry or iPhone or droid or anything like that…

Groupies and guitars

28 Feb

I like coming up with sayings. My newest ones are:

More Whores, Fewer Wars
A good woman spreads her ideas more often than her legs

When I was 14, I listened to 80’s and 90’s rock nonstop. Guns N’ Roses, Motley Crue, Skid Row, Metallica, Faith No More, Soundgarden… all these guys. I was also browsing the internets, often in AOL chat rooms and occasionally having inappropriate conversations with older men (dude… everyone was doing it). I went through a period of obsession with the rock n’ roll scene which led to lots of readings about groupie adventures.  I learned that Axl Rose was into golden showers and Steve Tyler was the best lay ever. All kinds of sordid details were proudly shared by women whose lives were consumed by the pursuit of rock n’ roll semen.  I was young and impressionable and I thought those girls/women were super cool for hanging out with rock stars; I wanted to be one of them.  Of course I never actually TRIED – my first concert was a Metallica show at the former Tweeter Center and I was scared shitless of all the biker dudes surrounding me. They sported booby biker chicks on their shoulders, flashing the crowd in hopes of appearing on the big screen, just like I’d seen on countless music videos.  One of them suggested my brother put me on his shoulders too and I clung to his arm.  “Nah, she’s good right here,” he said. Thank god for older brothers. And yeah, I knew then that I could never be a groupie.

At a N.E.R.D. concert years later, the manager was picking girls out of the audience post-show. The girls were lined up in front of the stage after re-applying lipgloss and pushing their boobs up even higher inside their padded bras. I stood in the back with my friends watching the scene. The ones who were chosen were jumping up and down screaming with joy, quick to leave their unchosen friends behind. The others were bummed and walked out in defeat.

Years later still (god, I’m getting old), I was lucky to score a free fourth row ticket to the UFC the first time they came to New England. Wearing jeans, sneakers, and a white girly t-shirt, I was seated behind Chuck Liddell, Rich Franklin, Randy Couture, Hermes França, and had Goldberg and Rogan in view. I’ve been a UFC fan since the early 90’s, back when it was a free-for-all dominated by the never-before-seen awesomeness of Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Needless to say, I was ecstatic to go.  The event, as we know, is mostly attended by meat-heads who don’t know much about the sport, but love screaming out nonsense and watching fist-drawn projectile blood. These types find validation in the diameter of their biceps and the cup size of their companions, so naturally, lots of “companions” were present.  There were also a lot of boobs that came with their owners in search of penis with sizable wallets. I make this claim because these women weren’t paying attention to the fights; they were flirting with guys, whispering to one another, or scoping out the crowd for a wallet to talk to. I was caught on camera stuffing my face with pizza and yelling at Forrest Griffin who was fighting Elvis Sinosic. You can find me on the DVD for UFC 55.

I definitely say that with pride. I think that feeling attractive and ‘wanted’ by men is great -I certainly have my share of push-up bras and mini skirts (though I avoid wearing both at the same time). But these women have crossed a line where I believe their sense of self-worth is much too dependent on their sex appeal.  Even as a grown woman, I sometimes have to reassure myself that I do not need to weigh 100lbs to be happy and that there is love to be found with flat shoes.

With all this said… I still believe there is a place for groupies. I think dudes who can play the guitar real fast should get lots of vajayjay and chicks with big boobs and deep throats who like diamonds should get rock star penis. Look at Slash and Perla – it’s a match made in heaven!  I just think that a good chunk of these girls have more to offer and would be happier pursuing other dreams. Some of them should be on stage themselves; instead they choose to hang outside tour buses for hours hoping a compliment or diamond bracelet will bring meaning to their lives.  They never grow out of fantasizing about being Pamela des Barres. I know I’d rather fantasize about being Gwen Stefani (or an awesomer version of myself).

The Wall

27 Feb

He a raggedy, cornered, orphaned doll of deep and hollow eye sockets.
She a giant vagina with jiggly testicles mounted on muscular legs
fast on calloused feet,
mocks him and his sentiments.
the doll floats in nothingness; he can’t see, can’t hear, can’t feel
even if the body does.

The giant is sensuous and stomps the motionless body.

Bars in the window
I am crazy

The shape-shifter surrounds and suffocates
He once tried – nails dug into vertically infinite concrete.
Scab and blood the only proofs.

He’s awake. He’s terrified.
She is massive and the foot threatens

Tear down the wall

A cascade of ugly shit from her mouth.
He sees choking hands and bitten nipples
Ripping open a blouse, exposed breasts in shame.
Uniformed rape.

Physical punishment
Faceless body unquestioning into the abyss.
The crowd cheers as the skies fall on the heads of
Queers, jews, junkies, students
Beaten and stripped.

When eyes were still in the sockets
A blade sharply removed eyebrows
and skin,
and blood.

The scars didn’t matter for a rock star
He still got pussy. Even more, for being eccentric.
By now the scars were gone and with them
any vestige of humanity

They found him nearly lifeless
Television blasting.
Where’s the commander now?
Where are the uniform and the megaphone
and the followers and destroyers?

A shot of adrenaline.
A forced re-entry.
Humiliated and sub-human

She built the wall
And she blew it up.
With it went his mind.
Little children solemnly sort pieces from debris.

Pink Floyd: The Wall (film) was so fucking fantastic I had to try to capture the imagery. I apologize for compressing and diluting the work with my self-indulgent little challenge. I couldn’t not.

New Order

22 Feb

I wonder if Sumner, Hook, and Morris ever thought that Age of Consent might be someone’s Summer of 2009 Song. At least for me, it’s kind of awesome because the song came out in 1983 – my birth year – and 2009 was a great summer for me. Months of freedom and adventures.

Age of Consent is mini skirts and flat sandals. Dancing in Cambridge, tanning on the Commons, film addiction, short, exciting romances. It’s nights out with boys, long walks withe the dog, yoga, friends who are now gone, friends who were new and now are close. It’s of Irish soccer players and camaraderie, joints in Dorchester, sleepless New York City nights, and Sauvignon blancs. Lazy days on Cape Cod shores, crying on roller coasters (again and again), singing loudly in the car, vintage shopping, breweries. It’s crab cake and burlesque obsessions, Spaniards, couch jumping, dares for money. It’s a lot of memories. It’s refreshing each time.

The Holy Trinity: Weed, Drum&Bass, Sex

19 Jan

2009 started off on a not so fabulous note: my car had just been stolen and I’d had a major “woopsies” in my love life. Now I think it was the best year I’ve had in a long time.

In 2009 I became a pothead. I started taking better care of myself, became a little more selfish (in a good way), made new friends, discovered new passions, rekindled old ones… I was happier. I think I became a little bit nicer of a person. I’m still a bitch deep down inside, though.

Appropriately enough, in this calmer phase of my life I realized I liked electronic music.  I had never cared for it before, not even after the effort my friend Mitya exerted, in vain, to get me to appreciate it. Once he tried a remix of Beyonce’s ‘Ring the Alarm.’

Please turn that shit off. It sucks! It’s repetitive and annoying!

He and I stopped going out dancing together for a while because he only wanted to listen to house/trance, and I would be yawning after the first hour.

After my relationship ended, I wanted nothing more than to go out and see people. Just… people my age having fun. So I tagged along with Mitya even if he was going to house music nights. His brother had also started DJing at clubs, so with the added exposure, I learned to like it. I think, in fact, I first learned to understand it. I had to grow comfortable with a new freedom of movement. There aren’t necessary steps or ways to move in order to dance to electronic music. It’s not about choreography. EDM is an internal experience; you dance as your limbs choose to move and each person can interpret the experience entirely differently. It’s fluid because it’s a fruit of the mind that is in sync with the music.

Last year brought me the discovery of an untapped little world of sounds sometimes a polar opposite of what I used to listen to. I still love my 90’s rock and always will. But dancing to hip-hop music became much less interesting. I’m just sayin’…

My newest obsession is drum&bass. It gives me a sustained level of calmness and alertness, simultaneously. It’s timed fast enough to make me want to bounce my head and tap my feet, but the melody is a bit creepy on top of it, or even uplifting and soothing. And it goes on with songs interlacing, maintaining me content, alert, calm, maybe playful or curious…

This is why I cannot wait to have sex while stoned and listening to drum&bass. The drum&bass shares with weed the calming and contentment-inducing effects. A raw energy is crucial for the quality of both the music as well as the sex.  And everyone knows weed and sex go together like rice and beans. It’s a love triangle made in heaven. Or hell, I’m not sure.