a preponderance of music

I've been thinking about the extreme range of music I listen to, and it's manifested itself in the past few days...
Thursday night brought an excellent show at the Knitting Factory. Plot To Blow Up The Eiffel Tower played first, but we were hanging outside with our friends My Other Car Is A Gun and so we missed them. Also, I met the infamous Jack Death and his drinking buddy, Hollywood Hills Troy. The two of them: alcoholic mid-40s metal heads, absolutely hilarious in their total lack of care for anything going on around them. "You see this shirt?" Troy asks me, showing off his Ozzy hockey jersey. "Hand-sewn, you can't get shit like this anywhere." A proud achievement, to say the least.
Year Future played second, a full-on barrage of outstanding post-punk. To make things even better, their drummer was Gabe, the drummer for the Locust. Josh, Lynnie and I met him after their set, and between hyperventilations, Josh managed to ask him why he tends to puke after playing. "I don't know, probably because I smoke so much," he shrugged.
I'd seen 400 Blows before, at the Smell, but that was before my embrace of hardcore. We thought that the singer's Gestapo outfit was his costume at the Halloween Smell show, but it turns out he wears it all the time. They're a great band, and insane. The highlight, though, was Jack Death pulling the singer off the stage. Why? Because he's fucking Jack Death, that's why.
Some Girls closed it out, and I greatly anticipated seeing this grindcore Voltron. Justin Pearson, of the Locust, plays bass, and everyone else is from various other San Diego bands. They weren't quite as innovative as my beloved Locust, but it was a bonecrushing show nonetheless. Justin was at the merch booth afterwards, and Josh freaked out, just like I did when I met Rivers Cuomo.
[Sound enticing? The exact same show will be at Rubber Gloves in Denton on Wednesday; I'll be there if anyone wants to join.]

Last night, Josh, Lynnie, Sophie and I checked out the improv open mic at the Jazz Bakery in Culver City. I'd been there twice before, and this jam was just as good as the past two. They've got a sick drummer who reminds me of Jack DeJohnette. The trumpet player definitely has a Miles Davis complex though; his soloing really isn't that good, it's just strings of modal runs without any sort of phrasing. He's full of himself, but that's how trumpeters are. Afterwards, we talked to the guys, and they were all as cool as jazz musicians could be. "It might be awkward if she sat in," the bass player told me, referring to Lynnie, "It's really not that kind of jam."

Later that night, Sophie and I had an excellent and deep conversation about indie rock while listening to the Some Girls EP. I haven't had much outlet to discuss my love of all things Sufjan Stevens, so that was really nice. Everything comes full circle.