Philly southern-y roots rockers Pawnshop Roses performed bright and early today on ABC's Good Morning America. Apparently, their videotaped set at Grape Street Pub in August won them "Best Live Perfromance" in some zany let's-get-middle-america-hip-to-YouTube cross-promotional contest nonsense. The band also won a whole new set of equipment for Philly band thieves to relieve them of. Meanwhile, a press release on the subject is spouting some line about "millions of votes", but the 'Tube don't lie, holmes. It currenty lists total views at 3,375. By this metric, our Garden State Tip Drill deserves to have been featured on national television about, oh, 18 times.

A talented Canadian indie rock band that can't seem to find cross-over success here in the US? Hard to believe, I know, and only moreso when you consider that Sam Roberts Band (pic'd) is a legitimately big fucking deal up in the great white north. Factor in how their latest album is everything that The Stills are too far gone to probably ever put out again, and you've got yourself one heck of a diamond in the Wednesday night rough. They're at North Star, and bringing along Broken Social Scenester Jason Collett for good measure

Meanwhile, over at Johnny Brenda's, you've got the Philly debut of the original upside-down exclamation sensations. ¡Forward, Russia! pimp their Bloc-rock by numbers game on Fishtown's main stage. Lending support are nu-gaze heroes/Making Time goats Snowden, who were last seen sending crowds shuffling confusedly towards the Pure mezzanine in October. JB's will be healthy for 'em. They're tight, no doubt, but not every band is meant to headline a Sparks-fueled rave. And you know they still got mad cheddar for the set, even while you were upstairs freaking to some Justus Kohncke remix. See? Everybody wins.

When you see the headline Coldplay Cover The Killers on the NME home page, it's like turning on the TV and catching the opening sequence of Laguna Beach - you just know that the next few moments of your life are going to be rife with some first class batshit crazy talk. The seldom used Second Grade Book Report format only helps accentuate the mindfuck.

Philly band theft crime wave wishes upon a star, becomes a real news story.

Michael Irvin demonstrates for Michael Richards the socially acceptable way to make racially insensitive jokes. Step one: be a black man.

Plus, the New York Yankee link trifecta:

Bonus: Anderson Cooper plays for the other team? In his ambiguous honor, here's a sorta gay baseball song.

Really, of all the places that need good music sent its way, doesn't New Jersey need it most of all? Ride on, Pony. Ride on.

Spack Rock is kickin it Paper Street style over at Transit this evening, along with a cavalcade of disc jockeying who's-whos. We're talking Dave P, Lowbudget, Sweeney, and so on and so forth. Open bar from 10-11, and guest listed types save a cool crisp Lincoln at the door. Add youself by clicking here.

Meanwhile, the very French, very Turtles-covering Tahiti 80 are payin' a visit to World Cafe Live. For the uninitiated, you can expect a blend of sugary Phoenix pop and super smooth Ivy groove. Oh, and maybe a guy in a panda bear suit. Don't ask, 'cause even we don't know.

On a sunny Monday afternoon, the phone rings in Mel Gibson's Los Angeles home...

Gibson: Gibson household, Mel speaking.
Richards: Mel, hi. It's Michael Richards.
G: Mike! Great to hear your voice! How ya doin'?
R: Um, okay. So, a delivery guy showed up at my apartment this afternoon, with a package from you...
G: Ah, so you got the fruit basket I sent over! Fantastic!
R: Yeah, and the thank you card. I have to admit, I'm still a little confused about all this.
G: You don't like fruit?
R: No, no - I love the fruit. Fruit's great. But you didn't promise me fruit. We had a deal, remember? I take the spotlight off of you, and in return you set me up with a pay day so huge that "even Jerry Seinfeld's horns are gonna turn green with envy." Well, I held up my end of the bargain.
G: You sure did, man. And now I'm gonna hold up mine. See, I want you to star in my next production.
R: Me? In a movie of yours? Seriously?
G: Why so shocked?
R: Uh, gee Mel, maybe because that stunt I agreed to pull last week was pretty much the death knell of whatever was left of my career.
G: Well then guess what, broham? It's time to resurrect that motherfucker. And I've got just the vehicle to do it...
R: I'm listening.
G: Okay, hold onto your seat: Lenny Bruce bio pic.
R: What!? Oh geez, Mel! This is your big fucking plan!?! I mean, hasn't that already been done?
G: Yeah, but not done right! I'm talkin' big BIG budget stuff here. Epic. You know how I roll. Just look at the script, fer christ sake.
R: Script?
G: Dude, under the papayas.
R: ...oh, I see it. (begins to thumb through the pages) Mel, I have to make jokes about Jews, African Americans, the KKK... this is a disaster waiting to happen.
G: No, it's a classic tale of martyrdom. The misunderstood comedian, delivering the punchlines that everybody needed to hear, but nobody wanted to.
R: There's a scene here where I chase some hecklers out of the club! Are you nuts?
G: Fuckin' moneylenders in the temple, man! That's cathartic is what that is. That's your second act climax done to perfection.
R: Gibby, let's be honest here. Between your recent, um...ethnic sensitivity issues and mine, nobody is gonna see this movie. I mean, it would be incredibly, unbelievably offensive. We're talking about the biggest box office flop of all time. It would make UHF look like Jurassic Park. How is this gonna make either of us any money?
G: Let me ask you something, Kramer... (long pause) Did you ever think that, maybe, you could make more money off a flop than a hit?

So Long: The Plain Parade gals call it a four-years-of-rockin-Philly with one last weekend extravaganza. Clockcleaner headline tonight's penultimate affair at Tritone, while Dragon City gets top billing tomorrow night at the M Room. People far more wordy and emotional than the 'Stamps boys have already eulogized the ol' PP and their importance to the Philly music thang to our satisfaction, so I'll just remind you to show up and get rowdy. Word.

Farewell: Mazarin concedes victory to bizarro Mazarin under pressure from the cease-and-desistinistas, agrees to retire their name. Quentin Stotlzfus dons kilt, vows "but they'll never take...OUR PSYCHADELICAAAA!!!"

Auf Wiedersehen: ...or whatever they say in Dublin. Tally ho? Point is, La Rocca had their van and all their gear stolen after their show at the North Star two Sundays ago. I'd say we're a bit late with this news, but since when is a band getting ripped off in Philly news?

Goodnight: Lady Sovereign "spit, kicked, and cried her way through two songs" last night in LA before making a scene and leaving. Go ahead and color us totally-saw-that-coming.

Hey Magnet Magazine, why don't you tell us a little bit about what's going down with Centro-Matic at the Khyber tonight. Ooh, but do it using only prepositional and gerund phrases. Ready? Go!

Touché, Magnet. Very zen. But is it the basement or the porch? In a box? With a fox? Anywho, this is really about as good as it gets on a Wednesday night, people.

Alright, contestants. Here are you clues...

1) This Japanese hurler has recorded seasons of 200+ strikeouts over 180+ innings for three of the last four years.

2) His ERA during that span sits demurely somewhere around 2.4.

3) His repertoire includes a mid-90's fastball, a cutter, a two-seam fastball known as a "shuuto," a curveball, a changeup, a splitter, as many as three different sliders (by some scouts' reports), and a "gyroball." A fucking gyroball, people.

4) He was last seen making the Cuban National Team look like a bunch of pinko commie chumps:



That's right! It's Daisuke Matsuzaka. In what could easily turn out to be either the best or the worst - but will without a doubt go down as the single ballsiest - move of Theo Epstein's career as General Manager, the Red Sox will fork over $51.1 million just for the the right to negotiate with the international sensation. And that doesn't even include the fees for the translator. I just hope that, when his new mega-contract is all signed and notarized, it includes a clause about having to run in from the bullpen to some super spazzy Polysics rock. Heck, it'll even save the team some money, since they can pull appropriate entrance music for Julian Tavarez from the same CD.

Now, I'm not saying that I'm gonna call in sick to work and set up a stakeout near the Indre parking lot in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the blonde bass-playing siren in question. I'm just saying that, if you've ever seen her in the middle of a show, when she's completely absorbed in the moment, offering up these perfectly bittersweet ooh's and ah's and tossing her hair about like so, then you understand why I totally want to. Meanwhile, until these new tunes the band is working on are made available to the public, I'll bide my time listening to the #1 wooing (stalking) anthem of '06, courtesy of the equally obsessionable Abi Harding and The Zutons.

Amanda Tannen sighting? Post about it in the comments!

"You're the best promoters ever."

- Greg Alsop, drummer for Tokyo Police Club, on the subject of BadmintonStamps.

Huge thanks to all three bands for totally killing it on stage, Yards Brewery for the delicious and cheap lubrication, YRock on WXPN for their on-air support, The Khyber for letting us in the door, and everybody who showed up and packed in on Saturday night for a straight-up crazygonuts party.

Tonight, Making Time at Pure. Extra-early doors at 7:30. Previously posted run-down of the line-up here.

And Saturday night? But of course...



For serious, this is gonna be maybe the most exciting night in all of BadmintonStamps' brief existence so far. Click the flyer for all the mp3s you'll ever need. Then show up ready to rip-roar. 'Cause it's Tokyo Police Club's Philly debut, it's Lexy from The Harlem Shakes' birthday, it's Brown Recluse Sings' 8th show ever (if that), and those $2.50 pints of Yards just ain't gonna drink themselves. Naw'mean?

It's no seceret that me, you, and everyone we may or may not know is gonna be at just one place this Saturday night: The Fuckin' Nuts BadmintonStamps Indie Rock Showcase Extravaganza!* And it's no secret that, when it comes to Saturday night, true 'Stampers always do it up in style. And it's no secret that, when it comes to stylin' moves during your night out at the big show, nothing - but nothing - tops rolling through the door with your name on the guest list. Jay-Z called this sort of thing "Big Pimpin". We're inclined to agree. So shoot an e-mail with your name and the subject heading "MY 'STAMPS HAND IS STRONG" to contest@badmintonstamps.com for a shot at an extremely complimentary pair of passes to undoubtedly the most swangin' and bangin' event of the Oh-Six. Those of you who aren't lucky enough to claim the free tix can take solace in the fact that you'll still look mighty suave cradling those $2.50 Yards pints we're running all night long. 'Cause Philly Pale Ale is the Alizé of the Delaware Valley, like you didn't already know.

* - Actual show name elongated here for impact.

The man, the myth, the second. Stroke-tastic Albert Hammond Jr. is at The Khyber tonight, pimping tuneage from his will-it-ever-be-released-domestically solo album Yours To Keep. Like so...

House pets everywhere are celebrating yesterday's announcement that, after 50 years on television, 83 year-old Price Is Right host Bob Barker plans to retire. The decision brings closure to 35 straight years of concluding each weekday morning broadcast with a solemn reminder to have pets spayed and neutered, ending at least the televised propaganda element of the man's incessant, Patton-esque war against animal fertility. But while Fido and Mr. Whiskers engage in celebratory leg-humps, allow the 'Stamps a moment to honor Barker properly. Forget about the allegations of wandering hands and wrongful fatty firing (and honestly, would you expect anything less from the man once tapped to temporarily replace Richard Dawson on Match Game?) and reflect on his remarkable career. He's been a substitute host on the Johnny Carson show, carved out a bad-ass cult hero image for himself with an entirely new generation in Happy Gillmore, and counts Larry King and Chuck Norris among his closest friends. Oh, what those three-way calls must be like. Granted, the decision to memorialize his dead wife and mother with an animal rights charity is a little strange (seems more like a cause you save for a dead mother-in-law), but since that's only close to creepy without going over, he gets a pass. Daytime television just ain't gonna be the same. So here's two surprisingly similar bluesy grooves, setting a tone that seems approrpiate for both bidding Bob a fond farewell, and mourning the inevitable introduction of Ryan Seacrest as the Price Is Right's new host.