I took a brief vacay this weekend to the land of shameless abbreviations for words three syllables or fewer (Champaign/Urbana, Illinois). When I wasn’t getting torn apart by the drink specials at Murphy’s or suffocating myself on Antonio’s humongo pizza slices, I was gearing up for a night with Mr. Sufjan Stevens — or, “Space Jam Steve” as my friend Mike pronounces it.

The Soof has been all over the indie news wires of late for his film/soundtrack “The BQE” and his current tour of small venues. On the tour he’s been playing a bevy of new material, all of it ranging from seven to 11 minutes in length and sounding like a convoluted space opera. But lost in it all is how damn powerful a Sufjan show can be, and how much it could mean to how many people. Now, how about that?

I was first introduced to Sufjan from a guy on a wrestling message board in, if memory serves, the fall of 2004. I was a senior in high school and had just discovered what was still referred to as “alternative” music. Bands like Death Cab for Cutie, Interpol, The Rapture, Bright Eyes and Arcade Fire populated my stereo’s CD changer. That all changed after lending my ears to “Greetings From Michigan: The Great Lake State,” the record which undoubtedly got the ball rolling for both Stevens and his label, Asthmatic Kitty. And what a record that was for me. It was sweet. It was heartfelt. It was honest and gorgeous and sincerely genius. And damn, if I wasn’t the coolest kid in school for owning it.

“How do you say that? Soof-jan?” I got that a lot from my peers in high school. Somehow that made me feel even cooler, because I was the only person in class who knew the power of a song titled “All Good Naysayers, Speak Up! Or Forever Hold Your Peace!” Or maybe I was just really geeky. Probably a little of both.

After “Michigan,” I picked up his other records: “Seven Swans,” “Come On, Feel the Illinoise,” “The Avalanche,” among others. All of them were solid. I wanted to take my love for the guy’s music a little further right after “Illinoise” came out, though. Tickets went on sale for a September show at Chicago’s Metro venue, but I couldn’t get any because I was starting my freshman year of college. And there was an age requirement, which my then-girlfriend didn’t meet. A year later he returned, but again, I had school. This made me feel as if I’d never get to see him perform his songs, and really, really hate school.

Three years passed — exactly, actually — before Sufjan would return to Illinois. And it seemed the odds were stacked against me for even getting tickets, as he was touring strictly smaller venues to restrict scalping and the like. On the day tickets were on sale, I compulsively clicked “refresh” until the “Buy Now” option appeared on my screen. After 15 minutes of waiting, waiting, waiting, finally, I got in. Luckily, I was able to nab two tickets for the very low price of $15 each. After that, they sold out. Eighty-two seconds was the official time, apparently. Eighty-two seconds.

Five years passed between my discovery of Sufjan and my opportunity to see him. The day had to be perfect for me and my three friends who also attended. Every minute detail had to be planned out. Did I have clearance to get a camera into the venue? How early would I have to stand in line to get the best possible spot by the stage? Would I be surrounded by good, gracious people, or jerks who didn’t really want to be there? I think a lot about these questions — like I said, I’m a big-time geek. Sometimes, admittedly, it backfires on me. I don’t leave early enough to one show, so I have to stand in the back with the drunk folks. Or, I’ll forget my camera or something and have to take pictures with my camera phone, which makes a loud, obnoxious CUH-LICKKKK sound and can be very annoying. But this weekend, this show? It was perfect.

Doors opened at 6 p.m. We got there around 3:45. Nobody was there yet, save for a few happy faces having a drink and waiting patiently. Swell, I wouldn’t have to dagger my elbows at people to get one or two photos. I hate doing that, and if I arrive late (or early), I take responsibility for it by either standing where I am allowed or waiting around the venue for an hour or more before. The doors didn’t actually open until 6:30, though, with Cryptacize — Sufjan’s label mates — coming on around 7.

Cryptacize’s Nedelle Torrisi.

The place wasn’t too packed at first. The couple hundred people outside Champaign’s Highdive were still being checked in as Cryptacize performed its very cute, very captivating live set. Singer Nedelle Torrisi, humbled, seemed ecstatic to be in the building, as she danced around the stage to the delight of the guys in the band. Imagine a cuter, more female, less scary-looking Mick Jagger strutting her stuff. Adorable.

After Cryptacize departed, Nedelle returned with Sufjan and the rest of the backing band to set up the stage. I didn’t know what to expect out of this show. The set lists for the shows before pointed to a mix of older songs, as well as a few new ones that have yet to be recorded. There was no indication of what he’d play, although an educated guesser might have known he’d do a healthy amount of “Seven Swans,” and “Illinoise,” especially. That educated guess turned out to be a correct one, but that doesn’t take anything away from the songs. There was something about hearing “The Upper Peninsula” — the song that got me hooked on Sufjan’s music — that drove me wild. It was the only song from “Michigan” he’d play.

Sufjan Stevens.

The stand-out, for me at least, was “The Transfiguration,” which has been my favorite song of his for years. The plucking of the banjo strings in combination with the lyrics was too much for me. I was floored by it. It was just too beautiful. Lest I forget the new material, which itself is somewhat mysterious. Some fan reports say it won’t even be recorded for an upcoming release. I can see that. Sufjan has been running through “Majesty, Snowbird” since 2006, and has yet to properly record that, so who’s to say he’ll even record songs like “Impossible Soul” or “Age of Adz”? Those two are gorgeous, by the way.

I didn’t have to hear “Chicago” — I’d much rather he played “Seven Swans,” which he unfortunately skipped over due to time constraints — but it was magical nonetheless. In all, he performed 13 songs for about 75 or 80 minutes, and it was life-changing. Maybe that was because I’ve been wanting to see him for so long, maybe it was because he is just that damn amazing a performer. Whatever the reason, I was wowed, as was the entire audience. Never have I been surrounded by so many passionate, enthusiastic music fans. Everyone wanted to be there, and those who weren’t there would probably have sold a vital organ to have gone. I am absolutely privileged to have been there and to be within shouting distance of one of my favorite musicians, and that is a feeling I will take with me for as long as I consider myself a fan of music.

Let’s just hope it doesn’t take him another three years to do it again.

It’s been a while since my last update, and I apologize to my loyal “readers” (read: Facebook friends who pity me by clicking the links I post) for slacking. But, there is good news in this. Remember when I was so happy that this blog finally hit double digit page views? Well, guess what? I just checked the Web site stats, and it turns out I’ve hit the double digits three times! That’s right, my hottest blog has 30 views! This is pants-wettingly exciting for me. At this rate people will recognize me on the street by the time I’m 35 and will want to kill me because I’m too popular by the time I’m 45. I have so much to look forward to!

In more interesting news, Indie Rock Reviews will be undergoing another redesign, meaning the face of this blog will shift to something a lot more sleek and sexy. Why does that matter to you? Think of this blog like a woman. While she’s fun to read and scroll through on her own, if she was sleek and sexy, wouldn’t you enjoy her a lot more? What do you mean you can’t understand how to “scroll through” a woman?

Anyway, IRR will be looking a lot better and a lot less clusterfudged in the near future. How near depends on how quickly the exchange students working in our tech department can get the thing up and running. They’re from the People’s Republic, so I’m assuming it’ll be overnight. But they are also extremely jet-lagged and confused to American timezones, so I’m changing my assumption to sometime next week. Keep checking back, you won’t be disappointed. Unless the text is in Mandarin. Then you’ll be disappointed. But don’t count on that.

Not to brag, but this thing looks good. Damn good. Do you like simple? Our new Web site is going to give you a whole bucketful of simple. In fact, our Web site may be so simple, it may eventually cease to exist. As of late last night, the new page looks a little like the Helen Keller Sim. (“Sim” meaning “simple,” dummy.) I can’t share too much else about it — mainly because I forgot the link to the template preview — but it does look fancy. Fancy enough that you’ll actually want to read this blog and get me into the double digits four, perhaps five or even six times! Yes we can, IRR! Let’s do it!

Is Last.fm, one of the more popular musically-inclined social networks, killing music before our very eyes? Is it helping it? Both, I say. As I can’t make up my forever clouded little mind, I’ve decided to host a point-counterpoint on the subject. Playing the role of “point: killing music” will be me. And playing the role of “counterpoint: helping music” will also be me. Together, both Dereks will argue relentlessly for no reason other than, well, they can. But also, there is an answer out there — help or harm — and one of me is going to find it, dammit. Does having a conversation with myself sound cheesy? Good. Because it totally is. Now read up.

Point: Last.fm is killing the music scene by making fans self-conscious.
It should be obvious by now what Last.fm is doing: making music fans everywhere more self-conscious than ever about what music they listen to. Instead of having a free range of bands or albums one can hear, people are now afraid to indulge in their guilty — or not so guilty — pleasures. If I like the Jonas Brothers (Joe is my favorite), am I really gonna scrobble them? I won’t, out of fear of repercussion.

Counterpoint: Who cares?
OK, so you won’t scrobble Kevin, Joe and Nick (Joe is also my favorite; small world, huh?). And the big deal about that is? Listen (but don’t scrobble), if you’re worried about coming off a fool for what artists you listen to, maybe you don’t even deserve to be on that site. It’s just music. “Good” music is subjective. What repercussions can you possibly expect from listening to the Jo-Bros? And what kind of friends do you have who give a shit about that sort of thing?

Point:\’a0I don’t care, but others inevitably will.
You’ve made yourself clear enough, counterpoint Derek. I, personally, have no problem with what I scrobble — in fact, I’m about to dive into my sister’s iTunes and listen to some J-Pop, if you don’t mind — but others inevitably will care. The fact of the matter is this: People care about their image. And while I may have stopped caring about that image a long time ago (I’m still wearing pajamas), other people, probably those still enrolled in high school, do care. I’d feel terrible if some HS kid got pummeled for listening to Miley Cyrus. Life was different when we were in high school, man. Life was different in 2005.

Counterpoint: Fuck ‘em.
If there’s anything I’ve learned from you, or from being you, it is that you do not give a crap about other people, especially people you don’t know. So some sophomore gets tarred and feathered for spinning the new Miley record. So what? It’s a new-age form of bullying and it’s damn hilarious. Back when we were a kid, we’d get picked on for even more pedantic matters. Remember that time those bullies stole our food during lunch for no reason other than being fat, jolly and wearing a lot of orange?

Point: I remember. But what about Last.fm is helpful?
I remember that, but do you recall what you did to those bullies afterward? They stole our can of pop, shook it and rolled it back to us, which made us very mad. But then we shook it some more and opened it on their sad bully heads like Pedro Martinez would a bottle of champagne after clinching the ALCS. Bullying happens. It’s inevitable. With that out of the way, what does Last.fm do that is so helpful?

Counterpoint: Last.fm offers free music, networking.
First off, after we poured our fizzy drink on those bullies, they got mad at us and ordered an old-fashioned, unsanctioned beatdown. Which never came to fruition, but still. And Last.fm is a splendid service! You can listen to free music, for starters, and it’s all legal. Mostly legal. There are also endless ways to find people there. Want to go to a show, and let your friends know about it? Put your name down for that event as “attending.” Then, at the show, look for all the people you Last.fm stalked and chuckle. Or, you can find chicks if you wanted. What’s an easier connection to make than “you like awesome music”? It’s easy!

Point: Free is good. Chicks are good. What’s not to love?
So you may have sold me on that last one, regardless of how creepy flipping through the profiles of hot, young lovers of good music can be. And, for the record, neither you nor I have ever done that. Because that’s weird, right? And you’re right, I do use the “events” listing to my advantage, not only to find out about shows, but to be Billy Brag and rub it into my friends’ faces that I’m going to a sold-out concert. God, I love being an asshole! What better a site to do that than Last.fm?

Counterpoint: While not without its flaws, Last.fm works.
I understand your previous point about being self-conscious about music. I do. The site has changed the way people listen to their favorite music, perhaps out of fear that they won’t run through select albums because they want to preserve the integrity of their charts. Which is silly, but people do that. While it isn’t a perfect site, its only flaws are man-made. I don’t think the actual Web site is telling people to not scrobble certain bands or songs, as much as the people with accounts are. And that’s sad, because it’s a great place to be if you like free, stalking and, most importantly, good music. Oh, and the best place to be an asshole? Craig’s List. You should try it sometime.

Debate settled! So, what did we learn today? Last.fm is a pretty rad place to get your stalk and your music on. Derek got bullied as a youngster because he was fat. And Craig’s List is awesome for being a jackass (I suggest running fake ads — gets ‘em everytime).

Add either DEREK as a friend on Last.fm by clicking his capitalized name.

Courtesy: CBS Broadcasting Inc.

Big news, everybody: I just heard Phoenix’s \’931901\’94 in a Cadillac commercial. That’d be cool and everything, but I already had Matt & Kim in my head because of the handful of commercials their songs appear in. Not to mention a track by Ratatat, which appeared on an episode of \’93CSI: Miami\’94 recently. Not to mention a song by Joanna Newsom, which played over an ad for Victoria’s Secret. And Yeasayer? Totally on an episode of \’93Entourage.\’94 So, this whole indie music movement us nerdy 20somethings are so excited about? Yeah. It’s dead. Thanks, corporate America.

I don’t consider a band lending its song to a commercial or television show \’93selling out.\’94 I never have. When Chicago outfit Anathallo lent \’93Yuki! Yuki! Yuki!\’94 to Vick’s, I was happy because the money they received went toward creating a new record. As smaller bands know, that recording process is expensive, so when a big-time company like Vick’s drives a marginally-sized pick-up truck full of hundred dollar bills up to your home, you’re in no position to say \’93no thanks.\’94 And as far as goals go, bands not signed to a major need two things: money and exposure. Selling the rights to a song the Paul McCartney way is the quick fix for both of those concerns. But I can’t wrap my head around how many perceived \’93indie\’94 bands are, in fact, selling their tunes to the big wigs. It’s ludicrous.

It seems like what started with Zach Braff giving his surface indie buddies their big break on an episode of \’93Scrubs\’94 or in \’93Garden State\’94 has morphed itself into something much more sinister. A couple years ago there’d be maybe one or two movies or television shows daring enough to fork over a dollar sign-emblazoned sack to an independent band, but today, every show on The CW is doing it. Tons of movies are doing it. Commercials, failing to be creative and write their own jingles like they used to, are doing it. Everybody’s doing it and that’s the problem. Now it’s about purposefully outing bands for no reason other than the companies’ desire to play agent and show the world who they’ve made a big star — whereas before it was a band in need graciously lending their work to a corporation in an honest exchange of funds. It’s an indie rock pissing contest perpetrated by the biggest dogs in the yard. When Target uses a Jamie Lidell jam, it isn’t doing it because giving money to a smaller name is the nice, courteous way to support underappreciated music. It’s doing it to prove to the YouTube youth how \’93hip\’94 and \’93cool\’94 the store is because it, too, listens to the music the kids are into. I’m not biting.

There’s a risk in sounding pompous with that statement, and I take full responsibility for it ahead of time. As I should. There are only two sides of the indie rock fence, after all: the side that thinks small bands should stay small, and the side that doesn’t give a crap. Surprise! I give a crap. I know I shouldn’t care as much as I do, but what it comes down to is not elitism, but intimacy. Allow me to explain.

All bands start small. From humble beginnings, playing shows in church basements, bowling alleys and garages, those small bands eventually shed their metaphorical musical cocoons and branch out to professional venues — coffee houses, concert halls, slightly larger church basements. And, eventually, if the band is good enough, they’ll continue their metamorphosis and play larger venues, for more people, for more money. It’s evolution. Good bands deserve to play festivals and sold-out, thousand-person clubs, don’t they? But good bands also earn it. They play endlessly, go on the road 200 days a year, make their own merch and pump every dime they have into their craft. They don’t sell a few songs, then become popular, then sell out arenas. That feels so, I don’t know, dishonest? Backward? Cheap.

Not wanting a band to make that evolution makes me look elitist. It makes me look like the dude who chants \’93I knew them before they were huge!\’94 I find myself saying that on the rare occasion, but there’s more to it than that. Simply put, I hate arena shows. I hate paying $50 to see a band that everybody loves because they had a song featured in a TV show. I hate paying $35 to a merch person for a flimsy American Apparel T-shirt. I hate surrounding myself with people who are attending the show because it was featured in the newspaper entertainment section’s \’93must see\’94 box. Those same people who go to the show to be seen by their friends, to get wasted and ignore the music burn me up inside. That’s not what music is to me. That’s not what music should be for anybody.

Half the fun of a bar show, or any show taking place at a smaller venue, is that the band is right there. They’re pushing their own merchandise, they’ll share a beer with you, they’ll give you a hug and pose for photos. They will, most importantly, thank you in person for supporting them. The other half of the fun is dancing and having a blast with your friends as you enjoy the songs. That’s music.

Corporate America, how dare you. Investing in overlooked acts with true potential, while nice of you, is crippling a thriving scene and, unfortunately, the identities of many a 20something. It’s not fair to pluck bands generating buzz and throw them into your TV show because you’re looking for some fast marketing with the key 18-34 demo. It works out pretty well financially for the bands, but not very well for their fans who are now forced to pony up an additional $25 to get into their shows. How is that fair? Consciously capitalizing on a country where the preferred game is \’93follow the leader\’94 drives people who wouldn’t normally like bands like Ratatat or Matt & Kim to their shows to hear \’93the one I heard on \’91CSI\’92\’94 or \’93that song in the commercial.\’94 Meanwhile, it’s turning those bands into makeshift one-hit wonders, and putting the individual performers at risk for having to deal with morons who incessantly request nothing BUT that one song over and over and over again. That’s not how you want to be identified as a band: for that one song. That’s not fair. That’s not how you want to live. That’s not music.

Well, that’s it. I’ve done it. I have successfully topped a dozen hits on my blog. To celebrate this latest bout of ego stroking, I’m going to focus tonight’s post on the slightly more egolicious Kanye West. Wait just a darn second — Kanye on an indie rock Web site? Oh, you haven’t heard? Kanye is totally indie rock! Don’t believe me? Scope Pitchfork for his reviews. Those guys cover the best in underground and unpopular music, and if anyone is underground and unpopular, it’s Kanye.

I jest. Perhaps I’m a little too mindful of so-called “alternative music” sites dabbling in other genres to seem cultured and diverse. Or appeal to a different demographic. Either way — and here’s where I get super duper serious — we don’t do that here at IRR. Indie Rock Reviews does not care… about black people.

Shit. I just can’t be serious tonight. How am I expected to be after watching the Bears vs. Packers Video Music Awards on MTV? Lady Gaga went cuckoo, Pink dangled from the ceiling and did her best high wire act, Russell Brand made everybody uncomfortable and Kanye fucking West once again stole the show. His latest act of audacity? Embarrassing the white out of Taylor Swift by crashing the stage during her acceptance speech. It was the ultimate dick move played to perfection by the music world’s biggest, most nonchalant dick. And I loved it.

Maybe it’s the Chicago in me, but whenever Kanye insults a president, plays the race card or makes someone feel like a complete turd, a little part of me smiles. I suppose that “little part” would be my mouth, as that is the only part of me that can literally smile, but hush now. I’m ego stroking.

Say what you will about the guy — he’s a dickhead, an asshole, a douche bag, a tool, a waste of space/breath/skin — but I love him. I love his music. I love his music videos. I love his candor. I love his hedge maze-like hairdo. I love his goatee. I love this picture I Googled of him riding a bicycle in outer space. And I love the fact that I am going to be sued for every dime I have by Kanye for replicating his image without his express written and implied oral consent. Sue me, Kanye. I’d love that, too.

Credit: Kanye West’s sheer, unadulterated awesomeness. And the original owner.

For real, I know a lot of people hate the man for his torrid, outspoken nature. Or that he’s in possession of the biggest ego this world has seen since Ty Cobb. Nobody catches that reference because, well, indie rock and baseball get along like kitty cats and rain. I accept that, but I also accept that I’m a nerd and I dig sports. Anyway, Ty Cobb was one of Major League Baseball’s greats, but he was of the most ego-driven, racist, terrible people out there. I suppose a more recent day equivalent would be, uh. Um. Darth Vader. Yeah. Great at what he did, a great leader, but an absolute monster. Is Kanye West Darth Vader in hi-tops? Judging by that photo of him in space, I am inclined to say yes. Yes, he is.

I don’t know what is so appealing about Kanye. Am I delusional? Am I one of those abused girlfriends that sticks with her abusive boyfriend for no damn reason? Whoa. Am I Rihanna? Please don’t say I’m Rihanna. I like Chris Brown and all (not really), but I don’t want to be Rihanna.

I suppose that’s where I stand. I like Kanye. His antics are varied and hilarious, and he knows how to generate publicity. His balls are literally visible from the outside of his pants… from a block away. That’s admirable. Not because I like balls. Not because I have a mancrush on him (although I do, at times). But because he cares so much about himself, and I have no choice but to respect that. After reading enough stories of people being down on themselves for not being good enough, or tales of suicide, you have to stand up and applaud the one guy in the country that is so danged confident, he runs up on stage and verbally bitch slaps Taylor Swift.

If that’s not a legit reason for liking someone, I don’t know what is.