It has been a relatively rocky road for Weatherford alt-country outfit Green Corn Revival, which has seen its share of highs (acting as backing band for rockabilly icon Wanda Jackson) and lows before an (amicable) split in the road led half of the original lineup to forming Honeylark.
Oklahoma is quickly becoming the indie Christmas music capital of the world, it seems, with yearly compilation albums featuring everyone from Stardeath and White Dwarfs to Graham Colton. So it makes sense that Colourmusic — freak-poppers hailing from Stillwater — would craft a full album of original, offbeat holiday tunes themselves.
The Oklahoma City metro has a thriving garage rock scene. With seasoned acts like Broncho and Copperheads carrying the modern-day torch, the way has been paved for a flock of gritty, young, guitar-centric acts. But nascent Norman trio Poolboy has a knack for riotous hooks that few of its contemporaries can boast.
The Flaming Lips’ longevity has allowed them to cover a lot of sonic terrain over the years. Yet they’ve arguably become more adventurous with age, jeopardizing a good portion of their fan base in favor of fascinatingly bleak experiments in sound, beginning with Embryonic in 2009 and, more recently, The Terror.
Taylor Swift 7 p.m. Saturday Chesapeake Energy Arena 100 W. Reno chesapeakearena.com 602-8700
Despite several attempts to contact Taylor Swift’s record label, management, backing band members, tightly cloistered press squadron, immediate family, scores of jaded boyfriends, and stable of talking unicorns and pegasii, I failed to procure an interview with the 21-year-old, flaxen-haired songstress in advance of her Saturday-night date with Oklahoma City.
I mean, it’s not like it’s a really big deal or anything.
It wasn’t like talking on the phone for 15 minutes was going to lead to her remarking how I sounded sweet, then me coyly asking if she was seeing anybody, followed by her saying I should come hang out at one of her famous T-Parties after the show, during which she’d surely have dedicated one of her especially romantic songs (it probably would’ve been “You Belong with Me” or “I’m Only Me When I’m with You”) to the cute-voiced boy journalist she got to talk to the week before, wherever in the crowd he was.
I mean, c’mon, really: The country’s biggest female pop star — who’s sold nearly 35 million digital tracks worldwide — was supposed to look out in the crowd, lock eyes with some indie-music snob while she was midway through that tricky chord progression on “You’re Not Sorry,” and suddenly realized in her heart that it was me who’d talked to her for that divine quarter-hour?
Please, I’ve played this scenario out in my head at least as many times as I’ve watched “Valentine’s Day” (17) and the odds of it happening are just a skosh better than one in 15,000, according to my hopes and dreams.
However, Ms. Swift, I must wonder, why did you spurn my request for an interview? Why, through so many channels, did you deny me the opportunity to inebriate myself with the scent of your flowing, curly blond hair, which I’ve often imagined to smell of a blueberry-pomegranate yogurt that matches the dress you wear on the cover of your most recent album? Is it because you’re afraid of how much I love you? Which is so much that all my cats bear the names of the men for whom you’ve written songs?
Or is it because you fear falling in love with a mere commoner, one of competitively curly hair, pasty skin and circus-folk lineage? Because I’ll do whatever it takes to earn even a moment of your affections. I’ll dig through Kanye West’s and Taylor Lautner’s garbage until I find just what I need to implode both of their careers. I’ll do it sooner than you can say “Better Than Revenge.”