The Cosmonaut was the first Kickstarter project I contributed to, and it’s also the first I have something to show for. The project reached its funding goal on April 20 thanks to the contributions of more than six thousand backers. Eight months later, I’m holding the end product in my hand.

So how’d it turn out?

The pitch

I’ve been a frequent user of Wacom tablets for years (at one time using a “Penabled” tablet PC as my primary laptop), so my quality bar for styluses is set pretty high… every capacitive stylus I’ve tried has failed to meet my expectations. Because of this, I ignored most of the initial Cosmonaut murmurings on Twitter.

Luckily, Calvin Ross Carl mentioned the campaign to me again, suggesting I at least watch the introductory video.

Despite my initial skepticism, I was impressed by the concept. Instead of attempting to circumnavigate the touchscreen’s limitations to deliver a compromised fine-tip writing tool, Studio Neat embraced the lack of precision, drawing inspiration from dry-erase markers and emphasizing the weight and feel of the object itself. I appreciated that thoughtfulness and forked over a paltry sum for the opportunity to try it firsthand.

The stylus

The Cosmonaut arrived in a stylish-yet-understated cardboard box, the soviet space theme lovingly maintained throughout the presentation. It made me smile.

The stylus itself feels very substantial in the hand. It’s a little heavier than a whiteboard marker, moreso as it comes to a point. I had to look up antonyms for “slippery” to describe its rubberized, outer coating, but “unslippery” is still the best description Thesaurus.com or I could come up with.

The pen tip feels firm and plastic to the touch, but it’s actually squishy and flexible. It’s tough to describe, but a brief tap with the tip of your finger will feel very resistant, whereas a firmer tap and hold will make it flex inward. It’s a surprising combination that makes the stylus feel sturdy and reliable without risking damage to the screen.

In use

I tried the Cosmonaut in my two favorite iPad sketching apps, Adobe Ideas for whiteboard-style doodling and Procreate for painting.

When sketching in Ideas, I found I had to press just a little more firmly than I would have with my finger, but once I learned to do this without trepidation, writing and doodling began to feel natural. While it didn’t feel quite like a dry-erase marker on a whiteboard in terms of effortlessness, I definitely felt my dexterity improve with the stylus.

This improvement was even more noticeable when painting. Procreate’s interface is so well-designed to begin with that, combined with the comfort of the Cosmonaut, I quickly forgot about either tool and just enjoyed the act of making a fun little Mickey Mouse sketch. For me, that’s the mark of a great design… the object disappears, allowing you to focus on the task itself.

The verdict

I feel a strange sense of pride in writing this review. While Studio Neat clearly deserves 99.9% of the credit for the Cosmonaut’s existence, it feels great to have been an early supporter.

This is easily my favorite capacitive stylus. By abandoning the goals of traditional, resistive touchscreen input devices and instead focusing on comfort and contextual appropriateness, they’ve successfully created a useful and charming tool that’s earned a spot on my desk (in the Gorillaz mug, next to my Wacom pen and my favorite mechanical pencil).

Now I just have to count the days until I get to watch Indie Game: The Movie…

Depeche Mode is an act irreversibly associated with the electricity, exuberance and androgyny of the 1980s despite the fact that their classic best seller, Violator, did not arrive until March of 1990 (Wikipedia). In that album and its successor Songs of Faith and Devotion (lovingly referred to by fans as SOFAD and arguably deserving of equal acclaim), Depeche Mode abandoned the arbitrary purity sought after by many electronic bands in favor of (gasp) playing guitars!

Debuting most perceptibly in the song “Personal Jesus” (and arguably perfected in “I Feel You”), what songwriter Martin Gore calls “electronic blues” (Spin) is really the sound of a band embracing performance in service of song over style. Monday’s show at Seattle’s Key Arena had plenty of both for over ten thousand frantic attendees.

Accompanying the band in their set of twenty-one career-spanning selections (including rarely performed treats such as “Fly on the Windscreen”) were a set of striking visuals by Anton Corbijn. While lacking the jaw-dropping “ah” factor of Nine Inch Nails’ Lights in the Sky tour, Anton’s imagery continues to define a large amount of the band’s aesthetic as it has for over twenty years. It is to his credit that the backdrops often competed with the audio for the viewer’s attention.

Frontman Dave Gahan’s well-documented (and oft-mimicked) performance style delivered itself passionately and compellingly, but Martin Gore stole the show in terms of emotional impact and heartfelt performance even when standing in the sidelines. Whether behind a keyboard, guitar or microphone, it seems Gore is extremely adept at conjuring a genuine sense of yearning and honesty.

In Dave and Martin’s bare duet of “Waiting for the Night,” the last song of the evening, the band summarized why they’ve remained an ever-present force in the ears of millions of listeners far-removed from their native decade. It’s not about the synthesizers; it’s about the songs.

(Though it certainly doesn’t hurt if they’re danceable.)

Photos from Depeche Mode’s tour blog.

I listened to crap before I discovered two bands in high school. The first was Blur. The second was Pixies.

When Blur frontman Damon Albarn came stateside with his band The Good, the Bad and the Queen in 2007, I traveled to California to see him. He probably could have been touring with a polka/throat-singing group and I still would have attempted to show up. Certain visionaries have so much creative impact on me that getting a glimpse, in person, of how they engineer their works of art fuels and inspires me as an artist.

Charles Thompson, a.k.a. Black Francis, a.k.a. Frank Black, is one of those geniuses. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing him thrice now; once with the Pixies, once with a band in Eugene, and once last Tuesday at the Aladdin for a solo acoustic set.

The term “acoustic” is used loosely in this case, as Charles played an electric guitar. But if the sound was not acoustic in the strictest sense, it hit all the other requirements of an acoustic show:

• Mandatory seating
• An eclectic mix of the artist’s work interpreted in new, more minimal ways
• An intimate storytelling experience with the artist

Having heard Charles perform many a Pixies song, it was a wonderful treat to hear versions of his earlier solo work like “I Heard Ramona Sing,” “Headache” and “Two Wheelers” in addition to staples like “Cactus” and “Where Is My Mind?” His rendition of “Velouria” in particular was moving and beautiful.

Charles’ roar is certainly best served by a solid (or at least predatory) rhythm section driving him forward, but stripped of supporting musicians it’s clear that the essence of the Pixies’ earnest-yet-dangerous sound is alive, well and playing not-quite-acoustic shows up and down the west coast.

Sonic Youth have been melting faces with mind-bending riffs since 1981, but perhaps never as literally as they did last evening at the Roseland in Portland.

As temperatures soared to 106 degrees Fahrenheit, Mallory and I were pleased to find the interior of the Roseland (while far from chilly) surprisingly comfortable. Diet Cokes in hand (we are such party animals), we took our comfortable post in the balcony to enjoy the show.

Amazing Color opened to a fidgety but respectful crowd. They passionately played a series of heavily Detroit-entrenched power guitar songs. The performance was ultimately forgettable for lack of an audible focal point, but the set was entertaining and by no means boring to sit through.

Unfortunately for Sonic Youth, the air conditioning gave out just prior to their arrival as dozens more warm bodies began to pant and sweat their way into an already stuffy theater. Thurston Moore was quick to impress, performing with a level of mastery, confidence and exuberance that was a joy to witness. The rest of the band (including the stunning Kim Gordon and bassist Mark Ibold, formerly of Pavement), while unable to exactly mimic Moore’s enthusiasm, played with a level of experience and fervor that matched the mystique of this now-legendary band.

In spite of Thurston’s wisecracks (including how good a “tall, warm glass of buttermilk” would sound), the unbearable heat coupled with punishing stage lights was clearly taking a toll on the band. Thurston’s leaps quickly turned to hops, then to rolling on the balls of his feet, then to a vertical, almost immovable stance.

Mal and I rarely leave a concert, much less a good one. But as we watched the lead guitarist’s gear cease to function 45 minutes into the set, saw the roadie try desperately to fix it as sweat dripped down our faces, we couldn’t help but become overwhelmingly aware of our thriving levels of discomfort.

Tapping into our most primal survival instincts, we did what any creature seeking refuge from the elements would do. We left, and picked up milkshakes from Burgerville. Mm, mm!

In a 1993 interview conducted by Pere Ubu’s Dave Thomas, Charles Thompson (better known as Black Francis of the Pixies) rather infamously concluded that most women shouldn’t bother with rock. He reflected on his statements in a 1998 interview with the Onion’s Keith Phipps, clarifying that they were a reaction to “the phenomenon of diary-rock,” in which artists such as Jewel and Alanis Morissette rode a wave of unremarkable faux-alternative jams to the top of the charts.

If he would have been listening to more of PJ Harvey, I’m sure he would have had an easier time handling it.

What makes Polly Jean such a dynamic artist is her versatility, yielding a lack of predictability album-to-album, tour-to-tour. The PJ Harvey that played at the Roseland last week was different than the one that played ten years ago, or even the year before. She managed to balance her singular presence with a commitment to the song over the performer, commanding her audience with unwavering precision.

In performing her collaborations with John Parish she wisely avoided the obviousness of a frontwoman/band dynamic in favor of volunteering her voice as an additional instrument. The musicians proved capable enough to match her tenacity for the duration of an eclectic set filled with as much clamor as quietness. Harvey’s vocals were heartfelt and strangely cinematic, with movements and changes in posture subtle but somehow calculated. This made explosions of discordance and Harvey’s signature standoffishness that much more effective, particularly during the climactic performances of “Pig Will Not” and “Taut.”

The audience’s adulation of the duo was palpable and the band proved to be gracious hosts, thoroughly expressing their gratitude and playing a modest encore to thunderous applause.

Rightfully so. To call PJ Harvey a wonderful female artist would be completely unfair. She’s a terrific artist, period. Take that, diary rockers.