Lately, I’ve felt as if my shindigs have been becoming increasingly more and more successful but I have to level with you, my parties very well might have reached their pinnacle of awesomeoness with the New Year’s Ultraparty. It was named as such because of the featured band The Ultrasounds and boy, let me tell you that this was most certainly, at many times, the party that we all thought would never happen. Planned specifically around the fact that our Chicago friends The Ultrasounds were in town, our private, speakeasy-themed New Year’s bash was plagued by last minute venue changes, personal drama, and all sorts of other craziness but when the proverbial clock struck twelve, all of my friends and I rang in 2012 at the most massively successful party ever.
There’s a lot I can tell you about New Year’s Eve. I can tell you how great Nora’s cleared out living room was as a makeshift stage. I can tell you how amazing it was to be surrounded at all times by my friends, a handful of which are very talented musicians who were there specifically to play an awesome house show for all of my friends that aren’t very talented musicians. I can tell you how we were loud and young and stupid and drunk and I can tell you that the cops did not get called a single time. What I can’t tell you, however, is the one thing I’d love to tell you: How great The Ultrasounds were. I mean, by the time the band actually started playing, I was totally peaking, a term which here has nothing to do with drugs whatsoever. Thankfully, however, I’ve seen The Ultrasounds a number of times in the past, dating back to just over a year ago when my friend (and co-party planner) Matt forcibly made me listen to the band because they were “just so rad.” Thankfully, Matt is one of those people whose taste can be trusted, especially so far as music is concerned so it was only natural that I loved The Ultrasounds. Before long, the band became my friends too. When the opportunity arose to plan my New Year’s party around an Ultrasounds live show (the band was in town to play the Michigan-themed bash, Mittenfest), I was super stoked because I knew it wasn’t going to be my usual party. It was gonna be much more epic.
See, the thing about me that you might have picked up on is that I’m a pretty big folk music fan. Naturally, this means “Amber party” bands are usually much more in the vein of past party players The Appleseed Collective than, you know, Pantera. This is all well and good but nothing livens things up like a change of pace and I was pretty gung ho about making n.y.e. rocking enough to put Dick Clark to shame. Naturally, what I’m getting at here is the fact that there’s nothing folky about The Ultrasounds. I mean, there might have been a smoke machine in their living room show! I say “might” because I know there was going to be a smoke machine but I don’t remember if it happened or not. Regardless, nothing says “rock and roll” like a power trio of jean-clad Midwestern kids with a smoke machine and a tight, psychedelic sound.
The Ultrasounds – After You Close Your Eyes
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Just Because I Was In A Shower In My Music Video Doesn’t Mean You Can Objectify Me, Thanks: Sexism In Indie Rock
I’m no stranger to sexism in indie rock. The subject has been oft-written about by me for various sites that I’ve contributed to, namely the now-defunct Awe Chasm, and one I’ve had to deal with in various forms for a number of years now, being a young woman in the music industry. As a music journalist, my second interview ever walked out on me when I refused to get sexy with him, even though I was on the job. I remember the horrible feeling that accompanied the scene as it played out before me and the crushing realization I had as I drove home: Being in the music industry is one small step above prostitution. I comforted myself with the idea that, well, isn’t any job one step above prostitution? Especially as an artist, you’re being forced to sell yourself, your art, your ideas, and thus, you let others appropriate it as they see fit.
There’s a number of things glaringly wrong with that statement, namely the fact that journalism in any form should not make you feel like a whore. No job should, except for maybe prostitution itself.
In the subsequent years since that realization, I’ve seen friends, colleagues, musicians, and strangers treated similarly to how I’ve been treated and all of these groups had one thing in common, other than being in an artist’s industry. They were all female. It’s very rare that you see an article concentrating, say, on Matt Berninger’s physique, however women like Lana Del Rey and Grimes are commonly referred to as “cute” with their music being a slight afterthought.
It’s offensive but the fact of the matter is that it’s something I never truly grasped the complete grossness of until recently. You see, readers, I’m not just Amber Valentine, your friendly Michigan pal who likes to force her musical tastes upon unsuspecting interweb strangers. As of late, I’ve also been the gal behind Amber Valentine’s Shriveled Heart & The Skeletons Left Behind. Recently, we released a new single and an accompanying video. In the words of my bandmate, the incomparable Zunk, the vid was meant to leave the viewer feeling “a little f–ked up after watching it.” When Hearingade’s own Abby said the finished product “made me feel nauseated,” I knew I could borrow George W.’s Mission Accomplished banner, wrap myself in it like a human burrito, and sleep soundly.
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