Andre Nickatina smokes one for Mac Dre...

Andre Nickatina has been a mainstay of the Bay Area rap microcosm dating back to the early 1990s, when he went by the name Dre Dog. He regularly sells out shows around the country and he even has New York elitists chanting "Crack Raider Razor... Sharp!" like it's 1997 when he visits.

Like now! Nickatina is currently in NYC for a show tonight at Santos Party House, so we caught up with him for some good conversation. It may not have been as exciting as his "Conversation With A Devil," but nonetheless there's plenty of good stuff here.

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Kreepin Deth via Wikimedia Commons

Spitting. It's gross in any language or culture -- a sign of disrespect that garners admiration or adoration from no one. Well, except for fans. Stars and celebrities themselves get mighty pissed off if you spit on them, but if they spit on you, you better just grin and take it.

That's why we decided to look at the Top 10 spitters in music history -- there's almost no other context where spitting is so ubiquitous and so widely accepted and well-received. Somehow fans see it as a form of communication or bond between themselves and a star.

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There's a certain level of superstar ubiquity required to earn your own pinball machine. You need to have a long, impressive career, make a couple great albums, have your guitarist recognized on a first-name basis, and generally reach peak popularity in the mid-'80s. At the pinball joint I regular, there's a whole section dedicated to the select few bands that earned their own table - AC/DC, Guns 'n Roses, Elvis, even The Who. It's kind of a lost era of pop music, when furnishing your name in an arcade was a legitimately feasible career milestone, and it got me thinking, what if bands today were getting pinball machines themed after them, what might they look like? Because I take all of my ideas too far, I got my idiot brother Mitchell Winkie to sketch a few blueprints.

See also: A Brief History of So-Called "Dirty Words" in Indie-Rock

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Courtesy Bad Boy/Interscope

Moroccan-born, Bronx-raised rapper French Montana is at a photo shoot in Tompkins Square Park's basketball court. He's shooting the shit in fluent French with the photographer. A gaggle of scruffy teen skaters recognize him and look over as he saunters slowly—always slowly—about.

See also: French Montana's Excuse My French Listening Party - HiLo - 5/7/13

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Well, whatdyaknow? It's Cheap Trick photographed outside the i Heart Radio Theater reading a copy of our cover story this week, The Oral History of NYC's Metal/Hardcore Crossover. If you've not yet read it, you really should. Here, we'll link it a third time. No excuses. Go. Now. And while you're at it, check out these bonus classic photos from the story. Surrender.

See also: The Oral History of NYC's Metal/Hardcore Crossover, 25 Classic Metal/Hardcore Photos from Louder Than Hell

I don't understand plenty about Australia--Vegemite, the platypus' existence as a non-mythical creature, etc.--but what I truly don't get is how everyone in Melbourne could've kept Clairy Browne and the Bangin' Rackettes all to themselves since Baby Caught The Bus came out the first time around in 2009, leaving those of us in the States without the potent swinging/snarling/gut-wrenchingly heartbroken/euphorically party-anthemic elixir they effortlessly pour down our thirsty throats.

Thankfully, change is afoot, as Baby Caught The Bus sees its official US debut on Vanguard Records today. This spring, Clairy and the other eight Bangin' Rackettes "traveled the breadth of the country" as Browne puts it, embarking on a 30-day tour after a rabble-rousing slew of shows at South by Southwest. They hit the small club circuit, walloping unsuspecting patrons with lyrics wrought with calculating emotional warfare and an untouchable live show that walks a delicate tightrope between total fucking chaos and a vivacious, exquisitely choreographed production. One can argue that the neo-soul sounds of Clairy Browne and the Bangin' Rackettes are at best familiar and worst unoriginal--Winehouse, Duffy and Adele have all revived the Motown sound and redefined soul music already, right?--but for Browne, brutal honesty onstage and off is what keeps her and the Bangin' Rackettes from merely resuscitating the brassy confidence and bleeding-heart confessions of the glory days of soul.

See also: Live: Jenny Scheinman Warms Up The Village Vanguard

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Shia feelin' some feelings in a Sigur Rós clip

Last week, actor and LSD-enthusiast Shia LaBeouf and synth-pop duo Future Unlimited debuted the gloomy video for "Haunted Love" directed by none other than everyone's favorite Michael Bay leading man. LaBeouf has had many an odd foray into music video. From a thirty-minute musical of interpretive dancing to sad Icelandic piano music, let's look back at some LaBeouf deep cuts and no longer regret that his film Disturbia and Rihanna's song of the same name were not related.

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You cannot count the fucks Tom Petty does not give.

Better Than: Having one foot in the grave.

Imagine Tom Petty and his Heartbreakers drop a new LP, and it's just killer. Not just "killer" in that Echo or Mojo way, as in a killer document of a killer band doing what it was hatched to do. I mean in that Wildflowers or Full Moon Fever way, that damn near universal way, the songs so urgent with defiant life they could haul you up out of a coma. Imagine Tom Petty puts out a new record so vital and affecting that it would be adored by anyone who has ever before liked a Tom Petty song, even just "Free Fallin.'"

Now ask yourself, "How would anyone ever hear it?"

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It's too late now, and it's probably been too late for the last 10 years. Daft Punk, the French electronic duo who has singlehandedly dominated the press for the last month, will be wearing their robot suits for the rest of their lives. There will never be a reveal, a coming out, or a change of tone. Frat-trance superstar Deadmau5 has, for the most part, removed the cybernetic mouse head. KISS wrote Lick It Up and removed the face paint on MTV. But even now, when Homework is a 16-year old album, Daft Punk will always be a gold helmet and a silver helmet.

See also: Daft Punk-Endorsed Kavinsky Isn't A Musician, Has 30 Million YouTube Views

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Are you a musician? Is your group having issues? Ask Fan Landers! Critic Jessica Hopper has played in and managed bands, toured internationally, booked shows, produced records, worked as a publicist, and is the author of The Girls' Guide to Rocking, a how-to for teen ladies. She is here to help you stop doing it wrong. Send your problems to her -- confidentiality is assured, unless you want to use your drama as a ticket to Internet microfame.

Fan,
I'm in a band of moderate renown. We're a D.I.Y. outfit but the band covers its own operating costs and on tour we can draw a crowd anywhere we play. We're on the cusp of releasing our second album, nailing down dates for a summer tour (including some festival gigs) and shooting a music video for the lead single.

And I am so goddamn bored I want to quit immediately.

It took us a year-and-a-half to finish our sophomore album. During mixing, I suddenly realized that for all my avant-gardiste pretense, we're just a rock band. Just like every other bloody guitar band on the planet. How depressing. I've become disillusioned with the very ontology of being in a band. I look at audiences with contempt and disgust. I watch other bands and feel nothing. The whole endeavor seems a laughable waste of time.

Next year my wife and I are leaving the country for good. Do I grit my teeth and continue til the end, for the sake of my bandmates? Or do I say "fuck this, I'm out," to save what precious little sanity and soul I have left?

Signed,
S

See also: Fan Landers: When To Call It Quits And When To Commit

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