Album review: Charles Bradley, Fergus & Geronimo

The man keeping soul soulful in 2011.

Tune-in to ESM for my latest reviews. This week’s audible delicatessens consists of two debut full-length albums. Charles Bradley has ridden the tumultuous wave of life like a ten-time champ. The former James Brown impersonator has risen from the ashes with his own interpretation of soul with No Time For Dreaming. Fergus & Geronimo on the other hand are a pair of young middle-class white dudes with a penchant for childhood rebellious creativity. Unlearn finds these art rockers keeping things fresh by mixing the old-timey sounds of doo-wop, British invasion rock, early soul and Frank Zappa.

You can read both of these reviews by clicking here.

What’s a surfer?

You heard the mug.

As I sit in my cubicle, Dell desktop in front of me, wire inbox to my right, shelf full of papers and proofs, dictionaries and style guidebooks over my hunched left shoulder, I contemplate a question often asked, yet, rarely answered: What’s a surfer?

Another swig of room-temperature Folgers out of the cheaply constructed “Don’t mess with Texas.” mug I spotted in a break room cabinet leads my mind south. “What does a Texas surfer look like?” I met a “pro” from Texas in Costa Rica one year. When he told me he hailed from the Lone Star State I audibly laughed. Seemingly in response, the C-level sponsor supporting oceanic cowboy tracked and snared a barrel at ten-foot Playa Guionnes, not an easy task considering the wave typically breaks like a pansy-ass Waimea.

But he’s from Texas? Other than maybe one choice hurricane per season, Texas’s Gulf coast is flatter than a malnourished Chinese woman’s chest. Visions of surfboard wielding cowboys lassoing dolphins and doing cetacean-assisted tow-ats while tumbleweeds float by run through my head.

Who am I to judge a surfer because of his home state, occupation, accent or appearance? I’m sitting in a cubicle in the middle of N.C. working a – in no way surf-related – 8:30-to-5 job. Every day I feel like I’m getting further and further away from my islander upbringing. My skin grows paler, my hair darker and with them my easily recognizable surfer image dissipates. As a student at UNC, I was commonly referred to as “the surfer.” This fact was unknown to me until my senior year when every new person I met or casual acquaintance I maintained confessed the fact. Skating across campus barefoot in old boardshorts and a tank top, my hair still long and sun-bleached, may have been the unintentional cause.

Now I wear “business casual” five days a week, and the closest thing I get to coastal sensory overload is cooking with sea salt. Yet, I still feel like a surfer. When I do make my way east to Whalebone Junction, south over Oregon Inlet and back onto my beloved Hatteras, I frolic for hours in the Atlantic. I no longer care what the surf’s like, I’ll ride anything, and I’ll love every minute of it. My uncle was the first person I knew to morph into a weekend warrior. He fought bravely and never forgot his footing. My turn, for now.

So, what’s a surfer? Hell if I know or care.

Album Review: Dave Dub, John Vanderslice, BSP

I’ve been slack. I forgot to link last week’s album reviews. I’m submissive; my pants are on the ground; here’s my black leather belt with oversized pewter buckle.

Last week I reviewed one of the most refershingly original bands yet – Dave Dub & The Sutter Cain Gang – and one of the most boring and repetitive – British Sea Power. While Dub’s story is one of redemption and overcoming addiction resulting in a genre busting hardcore punk/hip hop masterpiece, BSP is one of stagnation and half-hearted reform.

You can read both my reviews on ESM by clicking here.

John Vanderslice tuned this week’s auditory-scape. A longtime Indie inhibitor, Vanderslice almost broke out of his self-created box with White Wilderness. Vanderslice recorded his latest album live with the Magik*Magik orchestra, a big step for a man known to spend more time behind soundboard’s than microphones.

You can read my review my review on ESM by clicking here.

John John wins Pipe, media forgets his name

John John Florence gets shacked on his way to victory.

Child phenom John John Florence solidified his evolution into a grown-ass man last week. The 18-year-old Pipe local easily defeated a host of international competitors, EC chargers, fellow Pipe specialists and hungry Hawaiians to win the Volcom Pipe Pro in six-to-eight foot barrels at Pipe and Backdoor.

John John defeated reigning Mr. Pipeline Jamie O’Brien in a matter of seconds during the final with the original Mr. Pipeline, Gerry Lopez, looking on from the commentators booth. The elder O’Brien currently holds five competitive victories at Pipe, and mentored John John since the O’Neill sponsored whipper-snapper first paddled out at eight years of age.

John John also won the Da Hui Backdoor Shootout earlier in January, bringing his total number of victories on the reef to two. But before pundits start lauding the grasshopper’s surpassing of the master, do consider that O’Brien claimed to be suffering from a horrendous head cold throughout the competition.

In the wake of John John’s victory, one thing strikes me as particularly irritating: the surf media refuses to call the man by his name. Everywhere you look the victor is titled “John Florence,” despite multiple interviews in which Florence insists on  doubling the “John.”

Who’s John Florence? Hell if I know. Who’s John John Florence? He’s that young kick-ass charger from the North Shore.

Come on people, it’s the name so good you have to say it twice! I assume my professional surf media superiors feel that changing Florence’s name to John is more appropriate now that he’s old enough to win ASP contests and vote. I disagree. By consistently referring to Florence with the wrong name the surf media is merely touting its power, insisting that a young man falls into the line writers and editors have deemed culturally acceptable.

If you think my ramblings refer to an isolated incident, than look to Transworld‘s, Surfing‘s, Surfer‘s and Surfline‘s coverage of John John’s win. Still not convinced? Check out Taylor Steele’s latest project Innersection and see which Florence makes an appearance.

Lacomare wins at Narrabeen, triggers mental memories…

Lacomare hoists the French flag.

French(young)man Marc Lacomare, 20, won the Billabong ASP World Junior Championships at North Narrabeen, Sydney, Australia, a good bit earlier this month. So, why am I reporting on this NOW?

Well, because the ASP World Junior Championships is a joke. Would someone please tell me how two contests spread months apart can possibly be considered a series? Aussie Jack Freestone, 18, won “series” opener the Oakley World Pro Junior in Bali. The Oakley Pro, held in October, took place at the ever versatile Keramas. Freestone’s victory crowned him the 2010 ASP World Junior Champ, despite an unimpressive equal 9th finish at Northy.

Lack of sponsorship led to this pathetic excuse of a tour, forcing today’s up-and-coming surfer’s to recognize that until they start making money for the barrage of stickers defacing their barely glassed thrusters, nobody cares. But people should care. The level of surfing in both events, paralleling the dream-to-crap conditions of the big boys tour, rivals a surf movie. Furthermore, the event highlights the talents of established surf nations as well as new budding surf communities from across the globe.

All that new talent busting progressive blow-tails in mediocre slop was fun to watch, but the scene from Narrabeen sent me back to a real-life dream…

I awoke in my small, dirty Coogee apartment excited for the day’s prospects. The late summer swells were dwindling, and Maroubra hadn’t turned on in a couple of weeks. I’d been walking the cliff-skirting path north to Bronte and Bondi to join the urban masses who descend on these two surf beach destinations, the closest two to the CBD.

Today was different. Steve, my arrogant Bermudan comrade, happened to have a car, and after much coaxing to drag him away from the hordes of tall, blond sheilas, he was willing to drive north across the harbor for a surf day. I jogged the mile uphill to his apartment, and threw my gear in the back of his old station wagon. We picked up our California connections AJ and Brendan then made our way to the bridge, to Narrabeen.

The surf was refreshing. One-foot overhead lines rolled in, breaking close to shore. I was home. The pounding beach break barrels made me appreciate growing up on Hatteras even more than I previously had. Wave hungry, I pulled into anything and everything without prejudice, welcoming closeouts and keepers alike. Then  a pack of locals paddled-out directly north of my ragtag student group. I could see that they each had Volcom stickers coloring the noses of their boards. One of them caught a wave. He rips. He looks familiar. I know that style. Ozzy Wright (or Wrong depending on the day).

Ozzy Wrong riding his unicorn.

The above-the-lip pioneer and Narrabeen local sped by me with speed and flow only pros possess. Me and the other guys all looked at each other dumbstruck, blabbering over the surf master we’d just seen. We managed to collect ourselves in time for his paddle by back to his Goons of Doom posse, offering silent head nods of respect.

The session progressed, each of us feeling renewed by our chance run-in. A set wave steamed in wide left, and I was the only person who could get to it. Scrapping, I shockingly made the slight air drop, grabbing my rail, pulling-in and pumping for the light at the end of the tunnel. Repositioning, I parked myself as best as I could under the lip then saw Ozzie sitting down-the-line  on the inside, staring, smiling. I heard a noise; he hooted. Unnerved by honor, a flood of pure terror engulfed my mind; I can’t fall, not now. A matter of seconds later the wave was spent, and I kicked-out the back victorious.

That was the greatest hoot I’ve ever recieved – not that I’ve had many. Thanks Ozzie.

Pre Pipeline Pro interviews

Brett Barley on a bomb at last year's comp.

With the Volcom Pipeline Pro waiting period now underway take a second to read what this year’s east coast contestants have to say in “Standing Tall” on ESM. The story, which I contributed interviews to, provides insight on what it means to be an east coaster competing on the North Shore from the likes of Brett Barley, Damien Hobgood, Cory Lopez, Nils Schweizer, Dylan Graves, Brian Toth, Eric Geiselman and Oliver Kurtz.

Pipe was pumping this past week, so keep your MacBook at-the-ready and tune-in to Volcom’s live webcast around noon east coast time for updates.

Album Review: Broken Records

Scottish band Broken Records gets William Wallace epic.

Are you a fan of The National? Do you find yourself craving a somewhat less impressive, up-and-coming, Scottish version? If you answered “yes,” “no,” or “I forgot to milk the cat” to any of these questions, then read my review of Let Me Come Home by Broken Records on ESM.

Nutella addicts be frivolous

Write my name in Nutella all sexy-like.

This is one of the most amazing products I’ve ever seen. As a practicing Nutella junkie, this hurts me. I already spend a sizable portion of my income to meet my cravings, and now some “artiste” expects me to fork over more cash-money for a print with my initials written in Nutella! I’m more likely to lick that thing than display it on my dirty white walls for sophisticated visitors to ponder while sipping Five-buck Chuck.

-Please note that this product ships from France–

Sweet, sticky selling aside, there’s only one logical person for me to blame my chocolate hazelnut spread problems on: Jason Andre. That’s right you occasional white-boy-fro rocking pro surfer/musician (ya, he’s a slashie).

Jason, uncommonly referred to by his self-titled record company name J-Sun, first introduced me to Nutella on a camping trip around Boone, N.C. I’d just finished my first year at UNC-Chapel Hill and wasn’t feeling too good about myself. Jason and the rest of the boys from home – Brett Barley, Morgan O’Connell, BallZach Copez – were headed west for a little mountain climbing, steam rolling and bromancing. Luckily, I made the boat.

One evening after a failed creek fishing experiment, we below-sea-level men gathered around our tiny tent to forage for the evening’s sustenance. Being psycho allergic to peanut butter and a vegetarian, Jason makes things difficult, jerk. But that evening he’d come prepared. Out from his Dakine bag Jason pulled my first love to the jeering of abusive teenagers. He opened a bag of pretzels and convinced each of us to try his poo colored concoction.

We tried to resist the urge to tear up with foodgasmal joy, to make fun of this 21st Century hippy just a bit longer. But it was to no avail. Since that day, Nutella has forever been the gut growing, francophile monkey on my back.

Thanks J. Thanks.

To view the original ad pictured above, click here.

To the person who robbed me…

To the person who robbed me, thanks jerk.

Unfortunately, Right Coast Shout! has been a bit quiet lately. This stems from the fact that I started a new job last month, I’ve been trekking all over N.C. this holiday season and because my faithful MacBook Pro was stolen.

Tuesday, Dec. 21 started a remarkable day. Despite only working for Sandow Media for a matter of days, owner Adam Sandow and my coworkers welcomed me to the Christmas party. Turns out a Sandow Christmas is an occasion for giving. Each employee drew a number. When your number was called, you had the opportunity to choose a wrapped present from the inviting pile. TVs, espresso machines and gucci handbags greeted overjoyed employees. Talk about corporate generosity.

Upon returning to my house, it was dark and cold. I couldn’t open my door. Frustrated, I laid my shoulder in it and was met with a crack. The door frame was split and splintered. The handle and lock fell to my feet. I’m not that strong.

A quick check of the house revealed that my baby was gone. She up and left like an abused pooch free of its collar. Or more accurately, a loved German Shepherd dognapped by some weed smoking PETA member.

The police couldn’t do much. I pointed out the perpetrator’s muddy shoe print on the lower half of  my door and the torn half a playing he used to check the deadbolt lying amongst the splinters. The officer offered his condolences, and that was that.

Despite the insult of being robbed, the experience taught me about generosity. The next day at work a collection was taken throughout the office, without my knowing, and a wad of cash presented to me in a christmas bag leftover from the prior day’s festivities. I’m not one to cry during romantic comedies, but I instantly teared up. My coworkers had known me for two weeks, some I’d only been introduced to, but they willing supported me. What’s more telling, is that at the Christmas party I’d learned of my coworkers providing Christmas for a local woman and her two children.

What did I learn this Christmas? Some people, for either misguided or harmful reasons, suck during the holidays. But a lot of people love.

Right Coast Shout! is back.

Album Review: Empresarios

Sabor Tropical album cover.

Check out my latest review on ESM. Empresarios are a unique group based out of DC that combine Latin and electronic music. Empresarios‘ debut full-length album Sabor Tropical is available on Fort Knox.

You can read my review by clicking here.