Two Texas bands get put through the gauntlet, Kade-style.
As soon as he sat down I knew it was him: Arthur Kade, aka the most loathed cheeseball on the Internet, sitting across the aisle from me on New Jersey Transit en route to Atlantic City. My eyes tried to blink Morse code to my wife. “That’s Arthur Kade,” I whispered after a minute.
Then I started texting everyone I know. They, like my wife, all had the same reaction. “Who’s that?” (The exception being my brother, who texted back, “That Judd Nelson/Frank Stallone looking butt-baby mofo from Philly?”)
I referred them all to arthurkade.com, choking back the guilt I felt for even being able to recognize him. The site chronicles what Kade refers to as “The Journey,” where he describes in very open, almost cartoonishly self-absorbed ramblings his trip from Rittenhouse Square finance manager to a Dicaprio-level, A-list actor (or so he hopes).
He clearly knew the wife and I were talking, so we got a show. For an hour and 40 minutes on the way to A.C., Kade listened to his iPod on full blast through headphones, bopped his head maniacally and occasionally held up devil horns.
Toward trip’s end, I introduced myself, gave Kade a business card and told him I could see he was passionate about music. “I’d like you to do a mini something for our paper every once in a while—a ‘Kade’s Live Picks’ or ‘Arthur Kade’s iPod’-type thing.”
“I’ll run it by my people and we’ll see. We’re entertaining all offers, but we’re getting so many that we have to see if it’s right for the brand. Email me,” he replied.
He has people .
Anyway, the offer stands. Personally, I know I’d love to know what on Kade’s iPod makes him act the way he did on the train. Here’s to hoping his “people” accept. In the meantime, I’ve written up a couple bands coming to town this week as I’d imagine Kade would, had he picked them himself.
Thurs., June 18, 8pm. $20-$24. With New York Dolls, Haley + Starskream. Trocadero, 1003 Arch St. 215.922.LIVE. thetroc.com
I usually don’t mess with weed, but when I do, I make sure it’s Next Level. We’re talking Bubble Gum, Pineapple Express, medical-grade California purple; not just any old brown ragweed will do. This is because, as I’m sure you already know, I only Go Big or Go Home. I’m not wasting precious time smoking substandard kush. I’m just not. Especially when it throws salt into my sick pick-up game with the 10s. I get slurry, and it’s not a good look. I can honestly say though, I think Austin, Texas’ Black Joe Lewis probably smokes any old thing you put in his face. Props to him and the way he lives. (It just ain’t me.) I’ve been digging BJL & the Honeybears’ lazy, funky soul sound a lot lately, and that is pretty unique considering 1) I am very white (like, the whitest) and 2) I can’t relate to anything BJL sings about. He’s got a song, somewhat controversial, called “Bitch, I Love You.” Kade rolls like 50 Cent in that department—“I’m into havin’ sex, I ain’t into makin’ love,”—so I don’t get it. They have another song called “I’m Broke,” where Black Joe Lewis sings “I got a job at Mickey D’s/ They fuck me with no grease.” Me and my boys laugh at that line, but obviously, Kade’s always had scrilla, and I roll at some of the most high-rollingest of places because I’m a high-roller. I’ve never worked in fast food, and never will, unless it’s to research a role in a movie or something else that can bring me to the Next Level. Anyway, Black Joe Lewis is opening for the New York Dolls, who I’ve never heard but have seen many pictures of, and they’re a band full of solid 9s. Normally, I’d probably go just to score backstage and spit wicked game at those foxes Kade-style, end up bagging one of them, but I’m going to get to this one early so I can kick it with Black Joe, who no doubt is inspired by me. See you there, BJL! Kade out. (Arthur Kade)
Sun., June 21, 8pm. $5-$10. With Wild Moccasins, Victor Victor Band + the MLMs. Danger Danger Gallery, 5013 Baltimore Ave. myspace.com/dangerdangergallery
You know what they say: Only two things come out of Texas, steers and queers. Well, I certainly know about one of those. My great-grandfather was a cattle rancher. And as far as queers, well, if there are a lot in Texas, they’re missing out on Ume, which is fronted by a smoking hot hotty of a solid 8 named Lauren Larson. P-Dub Music Editor Brian McManus, who gave me this opportunity here, tells me Ume sounds like early SST-ish Sonic Youth or Fake Can Be Just as Good -era Blonde Redhead. To that I say, “Speak English, B-Mac! Can’t you ever talk about bands people actually care about? Like Pearl Jam*.” LOL. Anyway, B turned me on to these Ume cats, and I listen to them sometimes when I’m getting some mad reps in at the gym. Larson’s violent, unholy howl and Next Level guitar-shredding is always good for an extra couple reps of power rows or bell flies and the other weight things I do to help me look as ripped as Gerard Butler from 300 . (Watch for my scene reenacting the pivotal “This is Sparta !” monologue soon on my blog.) If Lauren’s husband Eric weren’t in the band with her (he plays bass), I might have half a mind to head on down to Danger Danger Gallery to get at her Kade-style. But I don’t know where Danger Danger is, and I understand it’s not up to my Level anyway. So, you’re safe for now, Lauren! LOL. Peace to the Weekly for the chance, and letting me continue on with “The Journey” in its pages. Shout out to Pearl Jam. I’m really so excited about all the things going on. I can’t even get on a train for a peaceful ride to A.C. without getting offers. I am truly inspired. By myself. And inspiring. Kade out! (Arthur Kade)
* Ed. note: The one band I caught on the screen of Kade’s iPod was Pearl Jam. ■
Someone said, You make Angelina Jolie look like a miserable failure. You're talented, instantly successful, gorgeous and have a great nose
Hee, local deeb Arthur Kade got linked by Jezebel yesterday for his deebish post on “grooming,” and the traffic appears to have busted his website. I’ve always had a grammatical beef with the way dudes say “grooming” instead of “eradicating every hair below your neck.” It may be technically correct in the third or fourth dictionary [...]
We just can’t do without Caribou