The old marquee, before the new marquee, which is now the old marquee again. Pic via Joe Madonna's photostream

​Goodbye, "Fillmore New York at Irving Plaza"--your many syllables and unwieldy national branding associations will not be missed. The Times reports today that Live Nation is backing away from its attempt to get New Yorkers who have been attending shows there since the '40s to call the venue by the longer, less felicitous name they gave it back in 2007. "Since I've been here I haven't had anyone say to me, 'What a great idea that was,' " a Live Nation executive told the Times. "Almost everybody I talk to in the New York music scene, one of their first experiences was at Irving Plaza. And I'm really excited to be able to bring back to the New York music scene what people have overwhelmingly desired." Why they ever thought otherwise, who knows, but welcome back! Wonder why they're doing it now?

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Photo via Bowery Boogie

​We were not the only ones to grumble about the Annex, whose off-brand booking practices and sullen bouncers never quite coalesced into a place in which you might actually want to spend any time. But at least it was a venue, that booked bands on occasion. As opposed to what it is now: The Doghouse Saloon, elegantly summed here by Bowery Boogie:

Proclaiming themselves "drinking consultants," this new frat-hole replacement allegedly has ten TVs, free hot dogs until 4 am, and holds regular beer pong tournaments. And of course, lest we forget, the monthly "Bikini Beach Party."

The logo for the new spot is pretty immortal too:

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​While browsing Twitter yesterday morning, we came across a Questlove dispatch that seemed to suggest he was taking time out of his busy schedule to do some acting and/or composing for the sequel to Spike Lee's 1988 film School Daze. Here is the Tweet in full:

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Those like our own Rob Harvilla who showed up at All Points West on Sunday to see the Gaslight Anthem and instead found themselves deciding between the sweet, pathologically generic stylings of Elbow, We Are Scientists, and La Roux will now receive a consolation prize, assuming their APW ticket stub is not now a shriveled ball of mud and sweat at the bad end of a public park's trashcan. The Gaslight Anthem, whose set at the fest was cancelled on account of the appalling rain that fell during most of Sunday afternoon, are being exceedingly nice guys about the whole thing. To wit, they're getting the next round, come October at Terminal 5:

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Tina Chou

Their happiness in this photo is absolutely sincere

So recently, honorable Voice correspondent Cristina Black took everyone's favorite nigh-inscrutable brother-sister duo, the Fiery Furnaces, on a private tour of Brooklyn Bowl, everyone's favorite new high-end Williamsburg bowling alley, for a piece cleverly titled "Bowling With the Fiery Furnaces." (Step back, I am a professional.) First sentence: "Matt Friedberger is impressed. 'Did we suddenly become hugely famous, and this is what it's like?' he asks, twirling to take in his surroundings, i.e., the bowling alley."

This story seems to have disquieted the band somewhat, re: levels of detectable sarcasm, etc. Via PR channels, they've passed along an official reaction/statement/clarification. Which reads as follows:

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File under regrets: Missing Japandroids, the Post Nothing Canadian duo with a Polyvinyl debut on the way, at Pianos late Saturday night, where the band played what will probably be the last small club show this band will get in New York. YouTube turns up a decent version of "Young Hearts Spark Fire," the absurdly oversized anthem these two guys will hate soon enough, once they're forced to perform it at every show, ever. But it's early and the record isn't even out yet and over the weekend, they don't seem to mind playing it all; that breakdown right in the middle of the song is everything it should be and more. Consolation prize: the duo comes back to our very own Siren Festival this weekend, where the band will play at 3pm set to way more people in way more direct sunlight. Should be interesting to see whether they can pull it off. Equally stirring versions of "Heart Sweats" and "Darkness on the Edge of Gastown" below.

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Having recently noted someone else's penchant for regret, let me offer a mea culpa of my own to those unfortunate enough to be fucking with me on Twitter: Yes, for some reason, I seized overzealously on the #coolbandsmadeuncool meme and rattled off, like, a dozen puns in an hour or so, including "Drivin' N Textin," "Jeru the Micromanaja," "Los Practicalos Cadillacs," and "Royce da 5'3." It was unnecessary, and I apologize, and have since moved on to more pertinent topics, such as whether or not Das Racist and Thin Lizzy should collaborate. Everything is back to normal. Sorry.

He forgives you

NYC-media liberal-elite types are most probably already acquainted with The Awl, a Gawker-alumni-heavy carnival of gossip, irreverence, and occasional profundity. The site's star attraction is Dave Bry's "Public Apology" column, wherein he begs forgiveness for a wide variety of hilariously unpleasant transgressions, many of them music-oriented. Today, hot on the heels of "Dear Black Sabbath, I'm sorry I didn't vote for you in the "favorite band" poll Betsy Schroeder conducted for a science project when we were in seventh grade" (he voted for Men at Work) comes "Dear Bob Mould, I'm sorry for ruining your solo acoustic concert." Excerpt: "'Fuck that!' Carter yelled, while the rest of the audience clapped and cheered. 'What is this, Jim Croce? Plug that thing in, Bob! We wanna fuckin' rock!' Of course, you aren't Jim Croce." I eagerly await Dave's apology to Jim.

Behold the awesome might of Bastard Noise, our most beloved band, whose No Fun show we skipped two Fridays ago for reasons that are now totally incomprehensible. But the video does not lie. This show began with Eric Wood saying, quote, "There's another civilization sitting right below us right now. It's like fucking mole people. I don't know if you fucking know about them," and then pausing before saying: "This is dedicated to them." What follows is the full arsenal of groans, grunts, squeals, and epic howls that have solidified Wood's place as the indisputable champion of the extreme vocal, a position he's held since around the conception of Man Is the Bastard, in 1991, if not before, when that same band was called Neanderthal. Personnel have since come and gone; Rogue Astronaut, the epically damaged LP Bastard Noise released earlier this year (1000TimesYes gave it a parsimonious 7.5), featured only Wood and Bill Nelson--the core of the act since way back when. They are the only two players onstage at No Fun, as well, but Wood's schizophrenic ventriloquist act--as well as what you have to admire as a tremendous vocal range, from gratingly high to sludge-gurglingly low--would've been enough on its own. File under regrets.