Icepack

Amorosi on the news, nightlife, gossip and bitchiness beats.

by A.D. Amorosi

Not to be a crepe hanger, but I thought we'd get out of 2009 without any more lousy stuff happening. If you're an Icepack fan — thanks again — you know that my ever-loving mom passed after several seasons of ill health. If you know me personally you understand there've been other things amiss in my life and that of my family and friends. But counting you guys as an extension of fam 'n' frens (despite wanting to smother a slew of you with a massive plastic bag) extends the heartache.

It was a rough year for all'y'all. A few late music-related deaths (Jack Rose, Vic Chestnutt), the announced end of my neighborhood crafters Mew Gallery (you got from Jan. 2 to 11 to say so long) and word that Rich Wexler's leaving Sherman Arts (more next week) stung like heck. But we're not going out like that, all hung over from grief. Without getting all Tal Ben-Shahar on your collective asses, I've gathered some tiny happinesses that I Iced over in 2009 to share in the hope we can laugh our way out.

Like the swell night of The Swimmers' CD release jawn at Kung Fu Necktie where one of the Donuts (was it Taint? Extravaganza? That's red wine for you) hepped me to the fact that those e-mails regarding Philly's Ukulele Orchestra weren't a joke and instead a most marvelous concoction. Like how the steak house war of early '09 between Union Trust and Del Frisco's resulted in juicy meat, some collateral damage (UT's Terry White, who wound up on Broad Street) and swank cocktail jams (thanks, Premiere). Like Tony Luke Jr. debuting his own starring vehicle (The Nail), bagged sandwiches and TV ads that made him into a superhero.

Like discovering a new Philly sound in the whispering chamber pop of Paper Masques (their violin-y lineup hits Jan. 7 at Johnny Brenda's with Fantasy Square Garden playing their first gig in six months), the swank devotional folk-soul of Canadian-expat Claudien "CocoSol" Bastien (Jan. 20 at Balcony, Jan. 4 at National Mechanics) and the major-label rise of Kurt Vile and Amanda Blank. Like burger-meister Tommy Up's PYT challenges. Like being glad that Chris Absinthe Drinker didn't die — heck, barely even fell down, if I remember the recovery time — when he got shot.

Like how Rittenhouse became the area for Doors-like whiskey bars that we love: Jose Garces' Village Whiskey, Franklin Mortgage & Investment Co. and even Noble's mean and slippery cocktailery. Like filmmaking couple Scott Johnston and Beth Kellner making YouTube a worthy local hub with skewed tributes to Land of the Lost and dress-up Star Trek parties where we all became nerds. Maybe 2009 wasn't so bad a year. Let's just hope 2010 is safer. See you 'round the corner.

(a_amorosi@citypaper.net)