new year's revolutions

Note: posting this early since I'm travelling and won't be by a computer on Sunday proper - well, American Sunday, anyway. It's Sunday in New Zealand. But whatever. The point is, don't miss Ramon's excellent rant, located just below this!

Hi everyone,

I'm writing this from the South Island town of Methven, which is a thriving tourist town during the winter. However, this being New Zealand, it's summer, so it's just my friend and I staying at this hostel. With free broadband. Very convenient.

I'm driving around the South Island with my friend, checking out such locales as Hokitika and Takaka and the Catlins, and so we're listening to a lot of music. And when you travel with somebody, there's always the sharing of music that goes on, if you're both passionate about music. And we're both passionate.

My friend Alastair's tastes tend largely towards the loud angry guitar driven, and so I've been hearing a lot of Propagandhi, Boy Sets Fire, Hot Water Music, Samiam, and Get Up Kids, as well as NZ hardcore acts like Black Chrome. Conversely, I've had the chance to expose him to The Minutemen, Wire, The Fall, Bloc Party, and Hot Snakes, amongst others.

So, naturally, our tastes converge on ... A Tribe Called Quest. Specifically, their first album, PEOPLE'S INSTINCTIVE TRAVELS OR SOMETHING AND SO ON BOY IS IT A LONG TITLE BUT YOU KNOW THE ONE I MEAN.

I mean, you must know the one I mean. "Bonita Appelbaum"? "I Left My Wallet In El Segundo"? "Push It Along"? "Can I Kick It"? (That's the one that gloriously samples "Walk on the Wild Side".) So many goofy little great lines on this album, like the shoutout to David Dinkins on "Can I Kick It", or the quote from "Ham and Eggs" detailing his militant vegetarianism: "strictly collared greens and the occasional ... steak".

Somehow, this record was seminal for both of us - it was my favorite hip-hop record for a year, easy. But what's really odd is that, despite that, it's the only Tribe Called Quest record I own, and there's a reason for that. The reason is that my dogged perseverance in following indie rock bands that I'm even vaguely interested in has never extended to hip-hop.

Okay, I'm not saying it's a good reason. Call it a bad habit if you prefer. I love all kinds of music, but I find myself inevitably magnetized towards the rock section in the store.

And so, we'll see how it goes, but my New Year's resolution, or perhaps one of them, is to go back and focus on filling in all those major gaps in my collection in genres I love, from artists I love but haven't really investigated deeply. Getting James Brown's LIVE AT THE APOLLO, or some Otis Redding, or more Johnny Cash. Getting some Louis Armstrong. Getting IT TAKES A NATION OF MILLIONS TO HOLD US BACK.

And definitely getting THE LOW-END THEORY, the second Tribe Called Quest album.

But not just acquiring, because anyone can acquire; the more pointed goal, or resolution, or whatever, is to absorb these tunes, have them become part of my blood stream, so when I'm going on a road trip with somebody ten years from now, and we're driving through rural Japan or Canada or wherever the hell I am then, and we can mysteriously discover a shared love of an album I knew well from years of affectionate listening, and it can feel as good as clocking along a small New Zealand highway, singing "Lucien, Lucien, Lucien, Lucien, you should know - "

- and then the horn sample comes in, and everything's right with the world, because recorded music has done what it does best, combining the happiness and knowledge of your past experiences of the song with the satisfaction of the current experience, creating an ineffable happiness utterly alien to anyone listening for the first time but nonetheless fully real and ecstatic.

And as you cruise through small towns, crappy speakers barely doing justice, your worries and woes and neurotic tics disappear, and everything is gone from your brain save for: yes.

Attention, Ian the Pussy Local Music DJ!!!!!

[Editor's Note: The following blog is a histrionic response to about approximately 3 minutes of comments by Ian Wells - one of the Local DJ's at KTRU. Given the fact that Ramon has been known to talk out of his ass at times and his drunken giddiness for the colorful epithets more than likely crossed the line of personal attacks, Ian Wells has been offered and accepted a chance to defend his good name in next Saturday's Blog. For now you can see his brief response in the comments. We also want to give the guy props for taking it on the chin with class and look forward to his more extensive post next week.]

[Ramon writes: I made this comment in the comments section but I want to be state it here as a prologue that (in case it is not obvious) I in no way believe for example that Ian jerks off to Disney Channel; as stated above, this is simply my trying to be over the top, obnoxious, and provocative. So take most of the colorful language and histrionics with a huge grain of salt but I hope that I have provoked some discussion about what makes a scene valuable, why people should care, and why I feel it is essential for local (or any) DJs to convey genuine enthusiasm for what they play. That being said I look forward to Ian taking me to cooking school next week.]

It's a Tuesday night and I tune-in to the KTRU Local Show to hear the Dimes and there they are doing an interview. It's the usual aimless interview when suddenly the DJ goes on a tangent about how Houston's scene is so weak. I'm so shocked by what I hearing that I feel compelled to call the DJ and bitch him out only to have him hang up on me. Here is a sampling of what I hear spewing from this Local Show DJ (Ian, I'm told, is his name and even if it's not let's go with that eh?) say:

“Uh, yeah, Houston isn’t Austin or New York.”
“Uh, yeah, I try to get out.”
“Uh, yeah, maybe we’ll have someone break-out.”

Now, I used to be the Local DJ at KTRU. I sat there and rebuilt a lot of the equipment that lay unused and made it so that we were able to play a band live every single week. So as someone who sat in that very chair, I took it a bit personally and I was infuriated to hear this utter pussy moron going off about how little Houston has to offer. Jesus, give us a past and present roll call:

Jandek, Charalambides, The Party Owls, Really Red, The Mike Gunn, The Judys, Sugar Shack, Fatal Flying Guilloteens, Pain Teens, The Dimes, Gay Marriage, Jana Hunter, Rotten Piece, John Muzak, Bowel, noise and hardcore scenes too extensive to list here, Sharks and Sailors, Dizzy Pilot, The Jonx, Drop Trio, Indian Jewelry, Georgia’s Horse, Mydolls, The Kimonos, Satin Hooks, .belvile, Bring Back the Guns, Rusted Shut, Defenestration Unit, Dry Nod, the Mathletes, Verbal Abuse, Go Spread Your Wings, The Ka-nives, Defenestration Unit, UME, Lightening Hopkins, The Red Krayola, The Rhinestone Life, Something Fierce, De Schmog, Bright Men of Learning, Program, Red and the White, Lethargic, The Moving Sidewalks, A Pink Cloud, International Artists Records, Duke Records, Peacock Records, Lightnin' Hopkins, Albert Collins, Brown paper Dog, Golden Axe, Johnny Copeland, Joe “Guitar” Hughes, Gods Temple of Family Deliverance, Jenny Westbury, Whorehound…that’s just off the top of my head!!!!!

Here is something ignorant Nickelback-motherfuckers like this DJ need to understand – every city has something to offer so long as you pull your head out of your fucking suburban bred bourgeois ass and look past your IPOD. Here’s a dirty secret that Ian may not know but one that I’d like to preface by saying that I do like Austin and its peeps very much, I am friends with many bands I admire there, have lived there, and enjoy playing there too. That being said, there’s a pithy Jon Stewart joke “I just got back from Austin; you know the music capital of the world…or so they keep telling me.” I was speaking with friends in Austin who were just saying how Austin’s great “if you’re a singer-songwriter or play like Stevie Ray.” They were impressed at the caliber of Houston bands and the vibrancy of the scene in comparison the low tide in their scene - something all scenes experience. The reason people like this Ian DJ can't recognize what's right under his nose is because they are brainwashed into thinking that cool things always happen elsewhere.

People who rave about how Seattle had an amazing scene in the 90s or Minneapolis had a great scene in the 80s fail to get the basic punk idea of DIY and community. Imagine if the people in those cities said “uh we’re not LA or New York” instead of just making great music and having fun? The idea that people like this Ian have in their head is that if it’s not mentioned in Pitchfork or it comes from some other city, it isn’t worth noting. Asshole, what the fuck, do you think that the Decemberists aren’t a local band? These are the kind of people who expect others to do the heavy lifting; when a scene gets national recognition, they suddenly crawl out of the woodwork like they were part of anything beyond riding the coattails of other people’s work.

Wherever you live there is a scene worthy of being created and nurtured. If you can’t be bothered, you either end up with a shitty scene or you are not looking hard enough. Why? Because, Ian, you are just another lazy motherfucker who confuses consumption with culture. Good for you, you bought that new indie album JUST LIKE YOU WERE TOLD! Well done, you can eat! Wow, I bet you can shit too! Here is a question for you: can you cook?

I was went to Palestine, TX recently and there at the Donut Palace was this flyer for these local Metal bands. The kids were utterly dorky long haired kids but you know what? The were fucking making something. You think they were thinking “Uh man, we’re in Palestine, Texas; this isn’t LA. How can we play Metal here?” No, they fucking didn’t care – they came to fucking rock and it didn’t matter where they were. Even a small East Texas town needs its ass kicked by metal and they were just the guys to do it! Were they good? Maybe they were maybe they were awful. Guess what? It doesn't matter because that shit was DIY and more worthy of praise than downloading an album from ITunes.

One other thing about the KTRU local show – I’ve been saying this for a while but I am now putting it in writing: Attention KTRU local show! KPFT’s Radio Active is stealing your fire. Why? I’ll tell you, Ian, you lazy apathetic sack of shit – Phil and Rhonda get off their asses! They go out and seek music and don't assume the music will just magically come to them! I see them at shows - a lot. They are older than you yet, somehow, they get out. The understand that DJing is about sharing their enthusiasm about something they care about deeply. They get it! What’s your excuse?

This is the problem with these Itunes age motherfuckers. If it isn’t provided to assholes like this DJ in a feeding tube for their convenience while they sit on the sofa jerking off to Hannah Montana on Disney Channel, they can’t be bothered. “I try to get out.” TRY? You pussy! You are the Local DJ! Take your goddamn hand off your cock, throw your jiz rag away, and get out of your fucking apartment!* Yeah, you may have to see a lot of bands you don’t like but then maybe you’ll stumble across one that will blow your mind or hear someone mention a band that may peak your interest. That of course assumes you actually give a shit about what you do. Oh, but who the fuck am I kidding? You are the local DJ who last week apologized because he wanted to play something that wasn’t local "just to take a break". My inspiration for doing the Local show years ago was John Peel what the fuck is yours you pussy? On the other hand, don't tell me...**


*props to Joe Matt's comics.
** Contest time. See if you can close this Blog with a Celine Dion joke. The winner will have his or her conclusion posted (with their name credited) at a later date.

Postscript: Speaking of local shows and great music.

Check out these shows this weekend.

Tonight it's De Schmog (with Kilian), Bright Men of Learning, and Jug O Lightening. See you there!

New years Eve Shows I'd like to see but I can only tax the grandparents so much...

Ume, Sharks and Sailors, Bring back the Guns - that is just too good to be true!!!!

Oh and Danny and the Nightmares and Two Star Symphony are too cool not to mention.

Best of 2006 List

It was twenty years ago—not exactly today, but sometime in 2006—that my high school “new wave” band played one its handful of shows at the Maceba Theater on Main Street in Houston. The Maceba was—I think—a movie theater that was on Main Street, just south of Alabama. I think it's entirely gone now. It had been shut down for a long time, until somebody took it upon themselves to open it for business again. It was a big theater with a balcony, the way the River Oaks was before they converted the balcony into a couple small houses. The seats were all red velvet, the way movie theater seats are supposed to be.

None of this would be worth mentioning, if it weren't for the fact that we played that show with Carl Lewis. Yes, that Carl Lewis . The Olympic gold medalist is also, as you may or may not know, an actor and to lesser extent, a singer. It seems that around this time, Mr. Lewis was trying make a go of the music career and where better to do that than from a run down and re-purposed movie theater in Houston?

I'm not sure how we ended up playing this show, but one of our keyboard players (yes, there were several and I use “player” loosely) was something of a wheeler dealer. We played a mystifying variety of places from teen dance clubs to talent shows to random parties. None of these shows I knew about more than a couple days in advance. Many, like our last show at Fitzgerald's, would get canceled because somebody had to do homework. In other words, it was so ridiculous that I almost HAD to keep playing these shows. I mean, what's a guy with a perverse sense of humor to do? I was pretty much locked in.

There was, as you might expect, a healthy crowd to see the gold medalist. If you told me he was playing today, I might well be tempted to see him. Lots of other people apparently felt the same way. We didn't get to do much watching, though, because we were loading our equipment into the tiny area behind the stage. And there was more gear than usual. In addition to the P.A. that we always hauled around (for some reason), I had brought a slide projector and screen, for the purpose of showing arty slides that I had made with maximum pretension. While I was busy moving all of this gear, the wasps that inhabited the nest above the door to this little area were busy stinging me. Every time I walked through that door I was stung.

Since we didn't exactly open for Mr. Lewis—it was more like we closed for him—we didn't get the benefit of the full audience. Or any audience, really, outside our Hendrix wannabe guitarist's girlfriend. And her sister. When Mr. Lewis finished his (to my knowledge) one and only show, the audience politely filed out while we set up all our crap. And they never came back.

Our shows were always mercifully short, because of our many limitations. Often we could only play two songs because, having no drums, we would have to use the cheesy rhythm that came on the Casio keyboard for one song and a rhythm that we programmed into the Mattel Synsonics drums for the other, because Synsonics drums were only capable of holding one program at a time (I still have that thing; I ran across it when looking for the ridiculous photo below). For this show, we had managed to acquire something more state of the art: the Boss Dr. Rhythm. So had there been an audience, we would be able to torture them much more effectively with even more bad dance music. Hendrix's girlfriend and her sister enjoyed it, at least.

When we finally finished, to the thundering applause of two, we loaded all the gear back into a couple cars and drove it to the other keyboard player's apartment for storage, until we could pick it up later. When I did get around to picking up the stuff, I found that apartment empty. It seems this guy, whom we had played with only once, had made off with everything we left at his place. Amps, stands, guitars. The works. I never figured out what happened to that guy. Or all my stuff.

The Maceba, by the way, enjoyed a couple more years of service as a music venue (I saw both New Order and Love and Rockets there), but apparently there were problems with asbestos, so it closed again.

The "s" is for "suck."

Week 9: 9 Musical and 9 Sort of Musical Predictions for 2007

Well, we had a beautiful xmas. No tree, no gift exchange, no lights, just a beautiful baby girl, an incredible wife and me. If every christmas was like this I would never again complain about cold weather.

And as if this wasn't enough, I had asked Electramummy to send me a CD of Alaskan genius Joe Jim Paul in exchange for a couple of NC music CDs. Well, she did me one better, she not only sent the Joe Jim Paul CD, but another 2 on top of it. And then as if that wasnt enough she also included what has got to be one of the coolest gifts I've ever gotten. Check it out. I know have my very own Snow Globe. Hell yeah. Thank you EM. That was a way cool surprise.

So this week's blog is dedicated to Mrs. and Baby Anaconda for the best year ever, in so many ways, I can't even begin to ennumerate them here.

What I can ennumerate, however, are 18 predictions, 9 musical, 9 not so musical. Can you tell them apart? They are in no particular order.

1. Paul McCartney dies and Ringo reunites the Beatles, virtually. Dozens of aging rock stars file for unemployment.
2. Ramon publishes a Clear Channel Communications tell all book. A major scandal ensues followed by multiple lawsuits. The media giant goes bankrupt and all CC stations are sold to Mexico’s media monopoly, Televisa, who immediately converts them all to Tejano music stations. Shortly thereafter, Selena is inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The hall is then renamed, El Famoso Gigante de Rock and Roll.
3. I learn to use garageband, but have a hard time figuring out how to combine it with my handheld cassette recorder.
4. Ricky Martin organizes a Menudo reunion show, Enrique Iglesias joins. To be able to recreate their 13 year old voices, they all have their biological balls removed. They record a Tejano record. It gets major play in the new Televisa radio.
5. Pete Townsend dies and Roger Daltrey reunites the Who, virtually, for a further string of farewell tours.
6. Britney Spears and Brooke Hogan have a catfight outside the release event for Cristina Aguilera's new Norteño record. They are both hired by the Consejo Mundial de Lucha Libre (CMLL), and are exported to Mexico where they are given masks and new names, and are never heard from again.
7. New Town Drunks record and release record #2, The Ballad of Stayed and Gone. They play only one show behind it. A well known Tejano band covers and records one of the songs Tejano style, but still the Televisa radio won't play it.
8. On the tails of the new Tejano fever, the long awaited Rolling Stones backlash finally arrives and it is brutal. Rolling Stones banned from ever performing live again in the USA or Mexico, Rolling Stones songs never again played on the radio. Rolling Stones cover bands make thousands playing at clandestine cocktail parties for the rich. Keith Richards re-unites the Expensive Winos, and takes them on what will become a 40 year career, before the Winos all die and Keith is finally forced to start a band with Lemmy, the only other person still living the rock and roll lifestyle in 2047.
9. Baby Anaconda turns one. By then I have enough material to record an album of lullabies. I ponder whether this is a good idea at all, but by then I’m so overtaken by parenthood, I decide that it is a good idea and proceed to put out one of the worst records of the year, which turns out to be my favorite.
10. Kiss reunites as a rap band. No make up, just gold and platinum teeth and fake face tattoos. They go on tour with the Village People.
11. Muslim extremists bomb American Idol finale (now called Gigante Grande Idolo Americano). The attack backlashes and the show becomes more popular than ever, ushering a war between Muslim extremists and pre-fab pop musicians. There are attemps against Kelly Clarkson, La Mafia, Celine Dion, Sting and others. The war quickly escalates until it is dicovered that the Muslims had never been involved in any actions against pre-fab pop music. The FBI launches an investigation against the NAP, but there is no conclusive evidence. I am once again forced to changed my alias.
    
12. The Disclexington 8-Track Compilation, Ed, is picked up and released by a major label. After a fierce bidding war, Kilian is hired by EMI as an A&R man. He quickly signs all the bands in the compilation to record contracts. They all fail to meet the bottom line, even the ones that attempt to record Tejano songs. Kilian gets fired, but the compilation becomes an instant underground classic, selling on eBay for upwards of $50 a copy. And thus Kilian becomes a millionaire.
13. Snoop Dogg comes out of the closet. Admits to using weed to conceal his homosexuality and releases a Tejano rap record.
14. A new generation stops watching MTV. MTV goes off the air. I start dismantling the bombs.
15. Jimmy Page dies. Robert Plant reunites Led Zeppelin, virtually, before realizing John Paul Jones is still alive. Jones sues. Plant loses the lawsuit and is banned from ever taking off his shirt again. Steven Tyler goes into hiding.
16. Freak folk becomes the new Grunge. Devendra records a Tejano record and tops the billboard pop charts (now renamed El Grande Gigante de Billboard). He knocks Cristina Aguilera’s new Norteño record from the Numero Uno spot, and ushers a new wave of hippie Mexican music. All the kids fall in line and start watching Pepsi Musica on Telemundo until eventually Pepsi Musica becomes its own station. I start rebuilding the bombs again.
    
17. Mathematicians of the world finally agree that 9 + 9 = 17. Oh, and they also agree that anything over 100 x $50.00 = a million.
    

¡Que pasen un feliz y prospero año nuevo!

Me, James Brown, and the Beautiful People

Written in a log cabin on a little old country road in South Texas not far from Edna, the small town with the equal sized heart. If you ain't from around here, drive on.

September eleventh two thousand and one, nine am eastern, found me on the western slope of the Rockies painting gigantic alder doors to look like they was from a fourteenth century Italian villa for a log mansion on a Telluride ski-run under the employment of the producers of the Hollywood movie Congo. Somebody called the paint shop and told us to switch the radio to the local NPR station. So off came Hot Rocks, the Rolling Stones Greatest Hits (an unfortunate staple of all Western culture paint shops) and on came some of the only news worthy news coverage we ever heard.

Now you might think that a bunch of freekie mountain folks wouldn't be too affected by something happening to New York fat cats thousands of miles away but you'd be wrong because this particular paint shop was run by two Irish kids from Rockaway; and one of them had two kids in the City attending school and the other had several cousins (mine too) living and working in the City. On top of that one of them's brother was with us and he's Father DoeDoe who you might of read me write about as he brought me and Tricia into holy matrimony at an earlier date and he was and is the pastor of a large poor hispanic parish on the island of Long. Many members of his parish work in tall New York fat cat buildings doing some of the most honorable work in them joints, cleaning the latrines. Father DoeDoe was very concerned about what was going on with those towers.

Well as it happened Father DoeDoe got himself back to the island of Long the day after September eleventh which happened to be the twelfth (and though you might have heard that nobody flew on September the twelfth two thousand and one, I'm here to tell you that at least one catholic priest did and though that might have been on the wings of angels I have it from him that it was on a commercial jet). As luck would have it none of the painters' kids or cousins got themselves buried under all that steel and one of them could have since she had a 9 am meeting in one of them buildings but as she is a Sweeney she was running considerably late. So once we were confident that Father DoeDoe was safe and so was the rest of them people I spoke of, us mountain folk (which is what I was briefly then and there) resumed painting beautiful alder doors to look stupid for stupid people who produce movies like Congo which sounds stupid but we did it for a good reason. Painting gigantic alder doors gave us enough money to buy tickets to see James Brown play at the Telluride City Park that Sunday. After our NYC buddy check, the biggest concern we had was whether or not the Hardest Working Man in Show Biz was gonna make it. Afterall a lot of much lamer bands had chickened out; unwilling to fly so soon after it was learned that commercial jets made good weapons of mass destruction. This was good because what we ended up with was a lot of no-name zydeco acts from Louisiana who trucked it on up to the mountains for the big Blues and Brews Festival and gave Telluride trust-fund hippies a little taste of real people music instead of the fake Government Mule blues music they gorge themselves with. And as one might expect the hardest working man in show biz wasn't the least bit phased by what was happening to Washington Fat Cats and a Republican federal government especially since a lot of liberal fat cats were paying him a lot of money to help them shake their booties.

Now round about this time I had my fill of Mountain Freaks and Trust Fund Hippies which you may have already anticipated but if you didn't let me tell you that one of the worst creatures on the face of this earth is an angry hippy and even worse than that is an angry patriotic hippie and what you had that week on the Western slope of the Rocky Mountains is a bunch of raging flag waving hippies and to beat that most of them coming from money many more of us can only dream of.

I got to hand it to Mr. James Brown. He can keep his cool. He didn't wave no flag. He might have draped himself in one in the Sixties but that was an act of beautiful defiance as most people across the country at the time weren't too comfortable with a greasy black man draped in Ol' Glory...but he didn't even do that on the Sunday following September Eleventh Two Thousand and One. He didn't mention war or terrorists or getting even. In fact the only thing slightly political he said that day is when he looked into the faceless white crowd of rich mofo blues loving highlife living fat cats and said "so this is where the beautiful people are. I should get me a house out here, bet y'all would love that." The crowd went silent. Well anyway they shook their booties about as good as a white man can and that ain't saying much I suppose. Then his 68 year old self carried a six foot dancer across the stage, sang a bunch more tunes, fiddled around on the keyboard a bit, and told his band to be quiet so he could sing some God Bless America.
You might think that the Godfather of Soul was finally tipping his hat towards the soul of the nation in its time of need singing that song but you would be wrong because the Godfather of Soul was a heck of a lot smarter than that and he knew that the soul of america was at war with no one and he's been singing that song a capela at the end of his shows ever since he was draping his black ass in the stars and stripe for his own damn reasons that he knows damn well most of you don't support and because he knew that the little people was gonna suffer in this time of national crisis like any time of crisis be it man-made like Katrina or otherwise.
Well like I said Father DoeDoe made it back to the island of Long and commenced with the healing. I helped finish up that Log Mansion I was telling you about and then those irish painters' gigs started drying up because the rich don't give a shit about the poor just like James Brown'll tell you if he was still around.

Celine Dion

I want to devote my entire post for this week on a topic that just doesn't get enough play in the NAP: Celine Dion.

Well okay, not really.

First off, I hope everyone had a good Christmas. Mine was heading for the shitter in a big way when a change of scenery and a little bit of a showing from Mr. Sun helped turn things around (more or less). I received a few CD's as gifts and I'd like to give some brief reviews of them if'n you don't mind. I'd also like to start things off with a little family oriented story since it's that time of year and quite frankly, I am usually overwrought with scorn during the holidays and wouldn't mind turning it around for a just little while.

Not to get off on too much of a down, but my mother passed away in September, and her passing marked the end of an era; particularly and personally in the way I that relate to my direct family. She and her father were the two coolest people in my immediate family as I was growing up, and now that they are both gone I feel like the world got that much uglier, and that much more unfriendly. It's how it goes, I can hang. One of the things that I loved so much about my grandfather was his love of music. In fact, he supposedly met my grandmother because she heard that he was a good dancer and she was always looking for someone who loved to dance as much as she did. He also was a singer in a barbershop quartet that would perform in regional contests in the Youngstown, Ohio area. I once went to one of these contests and was really thrilled to watch and hear all these teams belt out the harmonies without a trace of hipness or irony. He also loved to bust out the harmonica on a regular basis and see how many songs I could recognize.

One night, when my grandparents were visiting for Christmas, my grandfather schooled the drunken jackass that lived next door to my mother. Unfortunately I was downstairs crashed out when it all went down, but from everyone else I got the tale of how the drunk came over and immediately began in on my grandfather about how this guy heard that grandpa was quite a harmonica player and how doofus had brought over his own harmonica and wanted to challenge grandpa to some sort of harmonica duel. My grandfather was a very gentle and friendly guy. He could be nice to anyone. He was even polite to people who didn't deserve it, like the neighbor shmuck, but even grandpa had his limits. Eventually the moron ribbed my grandfather enough that it was time to put the guy in his place. Out came the harmonica. And as the two took their respective turns, my grandfather respectfully played the twit into a place of complete and utter shame. Grandpa would bust out a melody, a few licks, maybe a short song; and he would do so with a strong touch and a natural sense of timing and rhythm. After that, the dipshit would whip out his Toys-R-Us issued special and blast out an atonal screech that laid to rest any fantasy he had that he wasn't a useless lout wasting the time of a family running out of worthwhile time to spend together. That night was a Christmas gift par-excellence. I'd give a lot to have my grandfather back, but I'm still so glad to have been able to know him as long as I did. That guy had more class than I could ever dream of having, and he made the rest of us look like peasants. Ditto, Mom.

Now for the CD's. This year I got two CD's from the Swedish prog/black-metal band Opeth, The Sun Awakens by San Francisco's Six Organs of Admittance, Vaya from At the Drive In, and finally, Love, the reimagined/remixed/remastered Beatles set created for the Cirque Du Soleil. Onward...

Opeth: Deliverance, and Damnation
Originally recorded and intended as a double album, these songs were eventually released by Koch records as two separate releases because the label was too scared that the die-hard black-metal fans would lose their shit if they had to pay double just to get the new metal album from Opeth. The label figured that nobody would buy the double album because no self-respecting black-metal fan would ever listen to an entire disc of prog/rock/jazzy pop tunes devoid almost entirely of distortion pedals and detuned riffing. Of course, as usual, the label was dead wrong. In fact, the Damnation album is not only a great album, it is one of the fans favorites, and as proof, when Opeth toured for the Damnation album, crowds turned out in droves to watch them perform the entire album from start to finish (impeccably), and then dutifully lost their collective minds when Opeth was done. Selling metal to those who are turned off by the mere thought of it is not easy, and black metal is no easier. But one thing Opeth is good at is bridging the gap between the extreme and the palatable. They have a grasp of melody and harmony that is fairly daunting as a fellow musician, and their technical chops are as good as, if not better than virtually everyone else in a field already full of mutantly precise technicians.

On Deliverance, Opeth hands out a fully realized, and often brutal collection of progressive black metal that also grooves more often than any Swedish metalhead should. Their trademark is long, multipart and multifaceted songs that run the gamut from crushingly heavy riffing to gently jazzy interludes in the course of any given song. Mikael Ackerfeldt, Opeth's singer, lead guitarist, and chief songwriter is the rarest of metal vocalist. While he has the requisite Cookie Monster growl down as well as anyone needs to, he also has the ability to sing rather beautifully both clean and in harmony. In fact, he could easily fit into any of a number of 4AD releases from the eighties had he been active back then. He has a moody, smooth singing voice that sounds natural and cool and totally out of place in any other metal band. While Deliverance rocks from beginning to end, the centerpiece of the album of the title track. At a cool 13 minutes plus, every moment of the song is in place, and it rocks as hard as it possibly can. And when you get to the very end of the song the band drops out and all that is left is a repetitive guitar phrase that leads into a coda of insanely perfect technical flash. It's dead on the beat, played lightning fast, and while trying to follow it for the first few listens, it forces you to have to actually calculate the timing, and eventually you soon notice how smoothly the drummer vacillates between massive staccato snare rolls and counter-tempo high-hat accents and ride hits. The section is as heavy as you can imagine, but played with a feel that is reserved for musicians usually coming from more acceptable genres. It's retardedly metal, and it's retardedly effective. It's also retardedly bad-ass, and it's what sold me on Opeth. In fact, they are easily my band of 2006 by a long shot. They mix the emotional directness and might of metal with the extended passages, time changes, and sheer silliness of prog, and end up being heavier, more listenable, and more formally intelligent than any other metal band operating today for my money. Pick up any of their last five or six releases and either learn what it is about metal that gets guys like me so goofy, or add them to your already established metal collection that somehow missed them like mine had for years on end.

Six Organs of Admittance: the Sun Awakens
Ben Chasny has quickly leapt to the front of my listening selections in the last few years as I have really gotten into his brand of psychedelic folk. He has a sort of John Fahey like quality to his acoustic steel string playing that while being slightly sloppy and always almost out of control, is also just on the edge of leaving this world for another. His voice is equally spaced, but also has the odd ability to ground you to his material in a way that makes it feel all the more familiar. On his latest, The Sun Awakens, Chasny has put forth what may be his most accomplished release to date, but with standards as high as he has set for himself, that doesn't take much away from his previous work. With only seven songs, Sun sort of picks up where his last, School of the Flower, left off. There is a good deal of electric guitar on the album, as well as the addition of drums, organ, and a Persian flute. Certain ideas and themes run through the music, and the entire record works together as a piece. And referring back to the centerpiece of Opeth's Deliverance, Sun also works itself around a single song in the set, River of Transfiguration, a 24 minute monster that drifts along like the evil river in Aguirre. I am a total whore for stuff like this, and Chasny proves that when it is done well, the overrated dickwads like Devendra are left cowering in his wake.

At the Drive In: Vaya
When At the Drive In released their final album, Relationship of Command, the inexplicable happened. For god knows what reason, the critics got enormous boners for the damn thing, and they all ended up tripping over themselves to refer to the boys as the saviors of rock-n-roll. The only problem with their highly inventive observation was that it was retarded. Rock has yet to die despite what some locally well known music critics may claim, and while I still dig Command, the idea that it is anything more than a solid rock album with seductively clever guitar parts is quite a stretch. "just catch their live show," the critics said. So I did. And then I knew for sure that these guys were way less impressive then the critics wanted us to believe. They simply jumped around like they had bugs in their shorts. The performance was actually pretty lackluster, but you would never know it from the way they leapt about the stage. You would be excused for actually thinking that Jesus had returned and put together a little band that night. From the reaction of the clearly ignorant crowd, that was exactly what happened. As for Vaya, it is a seven song e.p. that sounds much like the precursor to Command that it is. It's not a bad listen, but it isn't exactly mind bending either. And to top it off, no critics dropped trou and pinched a loaf on their desk over it either. If you like the bloated ADD nightmare of the Mars Volta as little as I do, then perhaps Vaya is a little more to your liking. It sounds worse technically, but the songs are better, and Cedric and the other fro-ed dude haven't learned how to blow themselves quite yet. In due time boys.

The Beatles: Love
I've been seeing these commercials for the Cirque De Soleil production based on the music of the Beatles called Love, and my reaction was one of intense nausea. So when I was surprised with the gift of the accompanying CD I was more than a little apprehensive. I know some folks practically hate the Beatles (McManus, Grimm), but I am actually one of those people who thinks they were the best rock band ever. Seriously. When I opened the CD, my brother in law (he gave it to me) asked me if I had heard about it. I hadn't, really. So what is the music all about? It's not a rehashed collection of their hits per se; what it really is, is a collection of their hits totally remixed, remastered, and basically reimagined by George Martin with the help of his son Giles. They took the original material and tweaked it here and there, adding tracks from other songs, mixing elements in and out to emphasize certain qualities of certain songs, blended parts of songs together, played certain vocal tracks backwards, and generally promoted a strong sense of blasphemy for Beatles purists. And while I should hate it, I don't. In fact, it's actually quite interesting. Just hearing the explosion on the opening guitar from Revolution is enough to sell me on the album. There is an immediacy, not to mention clarity that has simply been missing from their CD releases since it would appear that Apple can't get its head out of its ass long enough to give the fans a definitive version of any of their albums. And as for blasphemy, let's just say go fuck yourself. It's blasphemous to revere anything in popular music so much that you think your ears are the final word on it. That's why mash-ups are so moronically entertaining. Reverence is the province of daytime classical music radio lovers who want the past to be nailed down so it doesn't get away. Fuck that. If you are at all curious, check this one out. Sometimes I get a little dewy eyed when I hear music that has such an emotional impact on me, and there are points in Love that do just that. Some of it fails, but when it works it works surprisingly well. Just don't think about that fucking circus.

The re-examination of the classic pop

Hello, and Merry Christmas from New York City. My name is Matthew Daniel Thurman, and I have been invited by the curators to be the guest blogger for this Holiday edition. It means the world to me to contribute to such a valuable enterprise as this, and those of you that are familiar with my recent comments know that I love to discuss music, and all of the necessary factors involved. I love to argue, interrupt, force my opinions on others, and basically criticize anyone who's too stupid not to have the same incredibly wonderful taste in music that I do. Or in more modern terms, if you own a copy of Tina Turner's "Private Dancer", then I can't imagine why you would possibly like me, because I will spend countless hours listening to myself explain to you why you are wrong, and I am of course, right, when it comes to evaluating that album's merits and worth. Nonetheless, as I grow older, I find that nature has a way of making "bad music for bad people" much less of a threat, much less of a problem, much less of an annoyance, and discovering that you can indeed teach an old dog new tricks, I've decided that instead of shattering someone else's record collection before their very eyes, perhaps I could help them construct a new one...or, if that sounds a bit too arrogant, then perhaps a "new edition" or "new selections" will suffice. So, let me begin, by turning you on to something that you may feel you already know, or do you?

I grew up surrounded by a cassette culture. I never much cared for vinyl...still, don't really, and when you're a teenager growing up in the mountains, a boxful of tapes and a boombox are sometimes all you need to transport you above and beyond your own horizons. Eventually, if you embrace the world of cassettes as I did, then you slowly discover the "blank" cassette tape, which of course leads you to the "record" buttons, and suddenly, the lightbulb above your head heats up hotter than a thousand suns. Thus, your very first mix-tape is born, and the world will never be the same. How could it be? You have discovered the incredible power that resides within the DNA of an incredibly potent form of art known as the "Pop Song". Now, I love listening to albums in their entirety just as much as anyone, and some work better than others when digested as a whole: "Dark Side Of The Moon" being an obvious example...but this isn't about that. This is about the re-discovery of the simple, yet classic song. I think all of us here have been involved in some musical enterprise or another in terms of "creation", so songwriting is something that we have also probably grappled with, and will continue to do so. Keep in mind that this blog is limiting itself to the basic rock and roll song, so if you're next project is something a bit different...well, still, you might even pick up a few ideas contained wherein.

I like to study songs. I like to study lists. I like lists that have decided for themselves to inform me what the greatest rock and roll songs of all time are. We've all seen these lists...and we've all lost our minds over them. "What....'Love Will Tear Us Apart' by Joy Division is at 189, and 'Like A Virgin' is at 188?!? Are they completely out of their minds?!?" Still, the books, and lists exist, and they change and grow, but a few commonalities seem to persist. There seems to be no denying a really good pop song, they've become virtually indestructible. Interestingly, most of the lists seem to start with pretty much the same usual suspects:

1. Like A Rolling Stone
2.Satisfaction
3.Imagine
4.What's Goin' On?
5.Respect
6.Good Vibrations
7.Johnny B. Goode
8.Tutti Frutti
9.What'd I Say?
10. My Generation

Now, you can easily substitute "Hound Dog", "Blue Suede Shoes", "Mannish Boy", "I Wanna Hold Your Hand", "Gloria", "Louie, Louie", "Summertime Blues" or "Hey Joe" for any of the bottom selections and make a valid argument as to why it means as much. After the usual top ten, the field widens a bit, but still, a common thread remains: Lots of Beatles, Stones, Zeppelin, Who, the Doors, and a ton of Motown. (In fact, if you go out tonight and pick up a really comprehensive Motown or Stax/Volt set, then you'll automatically own several of the entries within these "Top 500 Of All Time" lists.) But then, something wonderful happens: a few gems emerge that maybe you've forgotten about, or maybe you just never have really got around to listening to...I mean, really listening to. "Walk On By" by Dionne Warwick. "Wichita Lineman" by Jimmy Webb". "Still Of The Night"-5 Satins, "Earth Angel"-Penguins, "Up On The Roof"-Drifters, "River Deep, Mountain High"-Ike and Tina Turner, "All I Have To Do Is Dream"-Everly Brothers, "I Only Have Eyes For You"-Flamingos, or even "Son Of A Preacher Man" by Dusty Springfield. And so on. Wonderful songs, all of them. And yeah, sure, the lists also include plenty of clunkers, which seem to rise and fall with the passage of time. A lot of these lists are compiled by contributors of all ages, so if a song is really hot at the time of the list's construction, it usually finds it's way in, only to drop out of sight 5-10 years later. "Hey Ya!" by OutKast could be a prime example. Let's see how time treats that one. But when
you really study these lists, as well as these songs, and I mean really study them...amazing things happen. Have you ever sat around listening to a few of your favorites, and then discovering that they were actually someone else's favorites...years and years before? The way the Velvet's "There She Goes Again" nicks the riff from Marvin Gaye's "Hitch-Hike" for example. I always loved the way Kim Gordon used to purr "I'm the boy that can enjoy invisibility"...until the day I discovered Serge Gainsbourg made the same declaration a few years before! And if you're thinking "Man, I've heard these songs a million times before...I'm sick of 'em, I need some new ideas"...better check yo'self before you wreck yo'self. Go back and grab a hold of "Honky Tonk Women"...a classic, that easily resounds within your own mind. Also a very simple song...nothing fancy whatsoever about it, right? Listen again, and really listen this time. Have you noticed anything yet? Have you noticed that there's NO BASS ON THE VERSES?!? When was the last time a pop hit ever tried that li'l trick? Have you ever tried it? The well is endless...endless, I'm telling you. Don't ever think you've got it covered, because I guarantee you, there's a pop hit out there somewhere that will give you a much needed breath of fresh air. And don't think for a minute that record sales are what determines these lists. "The Eagles Greatest Hits" is the best selling album of all time, but you won't find many of it's songs included in these lists. "Hotel California" might pop up on a few, but that one came after.

John Cramer mentioned in an earlier blog that he would consider getting back into recording, and maybe even public performance, if he could somehow or another align himself with individuals that shared his ideas. He also mentioned a desire to use the basic instruments of the rock canon, but instead maybe they could construct a new sound with no persistent melody, or chord changes, or a persistent pulse. Personally, I'd like to hear more about this, because I've found myself constantly thinking the same thoughts, and heading in the same directions, so I'm extremely interested as to what he has in mind. But I think even if you're searching for that music, music that perhaps is a bit more on the "free" side of things, or even the "noise" side, I still think you could pick up a few tips from some of these tried and true selections. Just as an example, Take a listen to "Stand By Me" by Ben E. King, and just marvel at how powerful that opening stand up bass figure really is. He's only playing 3 notes, over and over, with a little scratch from the percussion, and that's it, that's all there is, and then that first line "When the night has come, and the land is dark"...for my money, it's just as powerful, just as heavy as Peter Brotzmann's "Machine Gun"...I really don't hear the difference. Sometimes more is more, and sometimes the "less is more " way of thinking become united, as one. That's the whole point, here, really. That there aren't any rules as to what is the definition of a song, or what is the definition of music, itself, but I think if you re-evaluate these classic songs, and re-evaluate their structure, you might discover some really radical stuff, even if it is contained within the 3-minute format.

So do yourself a favor...take the Ayler, and Derek Bailey's, and the PIL's, and the Merzbow's, and just put 'em on the back shelf every once in awhile. Instead, sit down for an afternoon with a little bit of "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty. Or how 'bout a little "Magnet And Steel"-Walter Egan, "Sundown"-Gordon Lightfoot, "Mama Told Me Not To Come"-Three Dog Night, "Whatcha Gonna Do When She Says Goodbye?"-Pablo Cruise, "How Much I Feel"-Ambrosia, "Spooky"-Atlanta Rhythm Section, "Diamond Girl"-Seals and Crofts, "Magic"-Pilot, or "You're So Vain" by Carly Simon. And don't think for a minute that these are guilty pleasures. "Guilty Pleasures" is a phrase used by chickenshit punks that don't have the balls to stand up straight and tall, and declare "No, man...this ain't the Art Ensemble Of Chicago! This is "Jackie Blue" by The Ozark Mountain Daredevils! So see if you can get to that! Go to the bookstore and peruse the Billboard's chart hits from the 50's onward. There's plenty of this information, and it's easily available. And in this digital age of file sharing, and quick burning, locating a few of these forgotten gems can just be as easy as a few clicks of the mouse. And if you're married...well, for God's sake, get a divorce! Or at least have an affair...we're songwriters, aren't we? But if you're too cool for this music, or this way of thinking, well, that's okay too. Me, I'm gonna go put on the Ronette's "Be My Baby"...when that opening drum starts off with the BOOM-Bah-BOOM...BAP! BOOM-Bah-BOOM...Bap!...Ooooh, my soul! Merry Christmas, you old savings and loan! Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter! Merry Christmas, everyone!

mare regrets moose

It's Christmas Eve in New Zealand right now as I type this, but I probably won't post (in order to give people a chance to see Ramon's post) until tomorrow (which obviously will be today when you read this, unless it turns out to be yesterday), which is Christmas Day for me but most likely Christmas Eve for you.

Regardless, 'tis the season ... for listmaking, and for heated but pointless squabbling over listmaking. It's an exercise that creates more heat than light, really, and as one Onion critic mentioned, it wears really really thin over time. The nadir thus far has been Rolling Stone's blog entry (which a friend directed me to) that lambasts Pitchfork's praise of Joanna Newsom on its list, only for a bunch of 'Fork and/or Newsom lovers to slam the relevancy of RS in return in their comments.

Me, I don't get Newsom, I don't get Rolling Stone having a blog, and I don't get lists made before the end of the year. I just bought a record today by a band called Talkdemonic that came out this year, and after one listen, I think it's pretty fantastic, and I'm sure it'll make my mix CD for the year. Which may come out in January. Or possibly February. Why rush things? Seriously, why? Isn't this part of the year, too?

But anyway. As much as I have to admit having a chortle at the concept of the "Rolling Stone blog", I can't completely bag on the 'Stone, because they also published a link to a live Fall performance with new material on their blog, which absolutely made my day yesterday, before breakfast. Possibly my favorite Christmas gift from 2k5 was the complete Fall Peel Sessions. They're a singular, wonderful band that deserves lengthy praise, and on some other night, I might be tempted to launch into twenty paragraphs explaining why you should care about a band who has patchy spots in their discography larger than many other bands' complete discographies.

Instead, it's Christmas, and as such I offer you a gift of the Fall's music, from that Peel Sessions set, "No Xmas For John Quays". It may not be an official seasonal favorite yet (as opposed to "Jingle Bell Rock", which they also do a version of), but give it time.

Lots of time.

Next week, I'll be driving around the South Island of New Zealand with a friend. I hope to post remotely, but I may be on a glacier or something, so if I fail, I'm not dead, and I'll see you the following week.

How to rock and fuck it up at the same time!

Success is measured by how often you fall flat on your face. Last week’s show was a testament to that as it seems that for everything that went well something else went horribly wrong.

The week didn’t start well. I have to admit I was a bit annoyed that the Houston Press gave the event no coverage – jeez, even the Houston Chronicle could muster a plug. Since the Press’ website is so terrible when it comes to navigation – I had sent an e-mail to John Lomax to forward to the appropriate party. I don’t know what happened but all I know is that frikkin’ Foreigner got a write up. Irked, I sent a big bitchy letter to Lomax demanding as penance he should at least come catch the first two bands. Now, Lomax knows that I really like him as a writer but I’m not above giving him shit at times but he’s a good guy about taking it on the chin. He wrote back apologizing for the mix-up and told me to whom I should send materials but said he had other plans for that evening. You know I have a lot of respect and admiration for Lomax but, goddamn, getting him to come to a rock show is like asking Scott Grimm to play a live show – it’s futility personified. Mercifully we got lots of love elsewhere: KTRU, KPFT's Radioactive, HUH, and elsewhere.

So, Saturday morning, armed with a few CDs (Tara Jane O’Neil, Charalambides, Tom Carter, Nina Simone, Mission of Burma, and Captain Beefheart) I headed off towards Austin to get Lori Surfer who had agreed to do visuals for the show. The TJO, Charalambides, and Tom Carter were a perfect accompaniment to my meeting the day with groggy eyes as the concrete and pollution of Houston gave way to the more open countryside and eventually the glorious hill country of Texas. If you ignore the dumb-ass Republican politics of this state, it’s actually a very lovely state, which you often forget in an urban sprawl like Houston. But I wasn’t on a vacation, I was heading up to get Lori Surfer and, as promised, she was up at ready to go, armed, and ready for the Proletariat with only a small portion of her multimedia arsenal. So leaving Jeffery, her Iguana, with Animal Planet, we headed out. [The recurring joke was that we’d return Sunday morning, open the door, and duck as a flying bottle of booze would smash just above our heads. On the floor sprawled would be Jefferey sprawled on the floor with an empty bottle of whiskey shouting, “Look what you’ve done to me! You Bitch!”]

For fans of Lori, a drive with Lori Surfer is just what you’d expect - a lot of crazy ass stories while listening to all sorts of fun and obtuse electronic music resulting in a constant refrain of “Who is this?!” There was one track that sounded like Esquivel doing cartoon music played on toy electronics performed by happy if disturbed Germans on mushrooms. This was my soundtrack for the rest of the way - somehow this seemed more appropriate than what I had listened to on the way up.

Once we arrived in Houston it was right to setting up screens, stands, projectors, amps, and you name it. The rest of the band raced off at 7pm to catch Jim Otterson’s 40th birthday bash but I stayed behind to hammer-out shelves and other fun stuff. At 8:30 or so Lori declares, “We’re done! Food!” Dinner was a good idea but the thing I noticed as we left was that here it was nigh 9pm and the club was really empty. Here I was with a great lineup, weeks worth of shameless promotion, dragging Lori Surfer down from Austin, conning Kevin of Gay Marriage to drive down from Dallas, not to mention being $100 out of pocket by this point, and nobody is in the club. Great, I’ve totally wasted everyone’s time! Then, when we finish eating I get hassled by my debit card company because I’ve put so many transactions in one day that I have to prove who I am before I can pay the bill. I tell Lori to get back because we’re totally running late and proceed to go through a good 10 minutes worth of questions before I can finally pay and return to my presumed doom.

To my surprise, when I arrive at the Proletariat the place is packed and totally digging on The Dimes' set! People are smiling and many are mouthing “Wow” at Lori’s barrage of lights, films, and slides. Well shit! I guess we pulled it off after all. I figure I can relax a bit and slowly I begin helping Lori add more and more machines to the lightshow. Then, as the Dimes are ripping through an inspired set, the stage goes dark! Great, we’ve blown some circuit. As the Dimes (wisely) continue on in darkness Lori, Shawna, Jonathan, Clinton, Charlie, and myself frantically grab extra power strips and cables and race to find a new source of power. We run a long chord, disconnect the Galaga machine, and swipe its power…AAAAAAND…we blow another fuse! SHIT! OK split the cables! Run half the machines in one plug and the others in another! Disconnect the TVs and plug ‘em in those outlets! Here we go…AAAAND…Oh fuck! Did we blow another one? Nope, someone just tripped over the cable! Plug it back in! DUCT TAPE TO THE RESCUE! This probably went on for 5-10 minutes but felt like an eternity! Then, my trusty EIKI decides it doesn’t want to feed the films like it normally does! Great! Down one projector and the backup EIKI has a blown bulb! Ok well, now my workhorse Bell and Howell doesn’t like Lori’s splices! Ok down three projectors! I guess we will be working at 75% power. We’re like frikkin’ Scotty on Star Trek! But Lori thinks about it and says, “You know given the power issues, this may not be a bad thing. Losing those may prevent us from losing the last two available circuits.” She’s probably right.

The Dimes finished their set and I think they made some new fans. I especially heard people raving about Iram’s drumming and how he just beat the living shit out of his kit. They even played some new songs that were great! So far so good - Hectic but good and everyone seems to be having a great time.

Then Gay Marriage jumps on stage to set-up. They seem pretty good so I decide to take this time to go outside and restring my guitar. Unbeknownst to me, Kevin realizes that the amp he is borrowing has no distortion. Being outside, I totally miss the request for distortion until I return. Just as I’m about to run up to the stage and toss him my Superfuzz or Maxon D&S they rip into their first song. You know what? They frikkin ripped! Who would have thought you could play grindcore with just an overdriven Fender Twin? Just like the CD I reviewed here, the band just thrashed through songs so fast and hard that it was the musical equivalent of watching one of those early Mike Tyson fights. One! Two! You are down! It’s over! But unlike a Tyson fight you'd be up and ready for another round demanding to get the shit kicked out of you! It was a totally classy way to go out for these guys. It was easily the highlight of the evening and, fuck, it was only 10:30pm when it ended.

Now I know what you are asking, why did you book yourselves AFTER Gay Marriage? One word – curfew. You see a little known secret is Houston hates its youth. Here we believe that kids should to stay home and raid their parent’s prescription drugs. Many of you may know the Mexican story of La Llorona? Well here in Houston we have a similar story. Here, we tell our kids to honor the curfew or Officer G.M. Rodriguez will Taser your ass! But I digress the point is that this was the sweet spot that guaranteed the biggest audience for Gay Marriage since many kids would have to go home for curfew.

By the time we go on stage at around 11:15pm the place is (generously) half as full and by the time we end it’s down to a quarter. We played a solid set but clearly we have played way too many shows in 2006. Ironically, as we’ve improved as a live band we’ve seen fewer and fewer people at our shows. That may be a testament to our ubiquitous shows and/or our irrelevance. We’re clearly old farts in this scene. Most of my band mates don’t go out to shows and by extension the people who came out to see our shows 10 years ago are older and pretty much follow the same pattern. So our old friends don’t come out to our shows and we sure as hell don’t seem to make any new ones beyond musicians, radio hosts, or writers. So, despite being happy with the show and the reaction of those who stayed, we agreed to keep to the plan that we’d decided on before this show - 2007 would be a year to finish up our long delayed album. At this point we merely need some vocals and then it’s just mixing - hunker down and knock it out. Maybe you will see us in Austin but Houston is going to get a break from us for a while.

The audience dwindled significantly for PRKL8R, which was a shame as he played a good DJ set that I enjoyed, but I heard the same refrain of “I’m beat!” over and over again as people left. Maybe expecting people to stick around for 5 hours is a bit much. The drag is that while the bands all did well financially (yes, I made my $100 back), the bar did not. Hell, I was so hectic that even I didn’t do my Proletariat usual - two India Pales. That kind of sucks as the bartender is sitting there, you know, WORKING. So, now I know why bars are dodgy about all-ages shows- it’s just too early for the drinkers. That’s a shame but what can you do but bow to the economics of the situation. The trick is to think of how to move something like this out of a bar and into a place where beer sales don’t leave one party holding the bag. Despite this, I’m still glad we did the show and am thankful to everyone who helped from Rosa doing the photo shoots months ago to Shawna trying to find breakers in the dark that night. It was hard work that resulted in as much failure as success and that ain’t a bad place to be. You want to know how I can say that with confidence? I walked into the Proletariat at 9:30pm and saw people being genuinely happy. Merry Christmas.


PS. Apologies to the Comp List winners on KTRU. I called the station at 8Pm and I only got 3 names. When I arrived home I saw an e-mail giving me 7 more names. I've had this happen to me before where the station mucked up the communication with the promoters. So I offer my humble apologies.

Photos:
Black and white photos of The Dimes, Gay Marriage, and PRKL8R by Rosafoto.
Color photos of The Linus Pauling Quartet photos courtesy of Phil.
Lori "Surfer" Varga Photos uncredited from her myspace,

Bumpy Night

Let's see how coherent I can make this, shall we? I'm a little droopy this morning (more than usual) because—like every other day this week, a large creature outside my window kept me awake. It starts off just tramping through the leaves. Rustle, rustle. Then it makes its way to the hole in the grate that leads underneath my house. At that point, it does its best to wake me up. It grabs hold of the pipe that leads to the bathtub and starts to shake it. Thump, thump. Then it goes back out into the leaves and drags something back. Perhaps it is a mountain lion dragging its kill back to its den. I don't hear any mountain lion sounds, so I get up and stomp around the bathroom, trying to scare the thing away. It is unfazed by my stomping and continues shaking the drain pipe. I kick the bathtub. This does something, as the creature then slowly crawls out from under the house—not exactly in the panic one would expect from an animal scared of my thunderous stomps. The creature rustles back through the leaves, climbs the tree next to my window and then stomps around on my roof. It is as if it is trying to teach me a lesson: “I'll show YOU stomping.” Then it nonchalantly climbs back down, goes back under the house, and continues shaking the drain. I don't take kindly to things waking me up, so at that point I redouble my stomping efforts, augmenting with some shit talk: “I'm gonna make a fucking hat out of you!” Finally it gives up the drain shaking, not so much because it is afraid of me as it is just done with its business—whatever that was. At this point I run to get a flashlight to try to determine what nature of beast this is, as it slowly makes its way to my bedroom window again. The flashlight is useless, though, because the darkness outside turns my windows into mirrors. Not to be deterred, I go into the living room to get a lamp, hoping that it will cast enough light outside to allow me to see the creature. And it does. There, outside my window is a possum. A possum who is not the least bit scared of me.

This week I went to the “Music Monday” film at the Alamo Drafthouse. Apparently these films are always only two stinking dollars. That combined with the sweet parking spot I managed to find just before the movie meant it was sure to be a good show even before it started. This week's movie was I Swear I Was There, a documentary about the shows the Sex Pistols played in Manchester in 1976. This is the same Sex Pistols show that you see at the beginning of 24 Hour Party People. Though, unlike in Party People, here they point out that there were actually two Sex Pistols shows—a month apart—in Manchester's Lesser Free Trade Hall. I'm not sure that this would have been as good, had I not seen Party People as well, but as a supplement, it was pretty good. And in the same way that the Erykah Badu interview made the last movie I reviewed in this space, the Howard Devoto interview makes this movie.

I also went to see Daniel Johnston play with his garage band, The Nightmares, at Emo's this week. The Nightmares this time were a guitarist, a drummer, and Margaret from Two Star Symphony on cello (Two Star also opened the show). The show was sold out, so obviously people love Daniel, but I think a big portion of the audience was there to see a train wreck. They didn't get it. Danny is much more lucid than he used to be. He actually engaged the audience and ate up the attention. Unfortunately, though, the music was close to self parody. He played his hits and acted “crazy,” at one point, raising his right arm and shouting “sieg heil.” I've read about his doing that on other occasions, so that's something that he's worked into his set. For some reason. I think most of the audience got the crazy manchild they were hoping to see. I was a little disappointed, though.

Pick your favorite album cover.

Finally, I hear through the grapevine here that there are plans underway to open an Emo's in Vegas. I suppose if you can Disney-fy CBGB by relocating to Vegas, you could do the same for Emo's. Maybe they will even pay homage to the original Emo's and put in a carefully replicated stagnant pool. That would be awesome.

Week 8: Guest Blogger Roberto Cofresi

There are a few things I’m going to say, but I will preface it all by saying that, regardless of this incredibly long entry, I don’t particularly like talking about music, I’d much rather play it or listen to it. I prefer to learn about a band by hearing one of their songs. I prefer to learn the intricacies of the music business by booking a show, putting out a record, or actually engaging in some aspect of the business of music. I prefer to learn about the meaning of music or why some music is awesome and other music is not by writing music and seeing what happens when you play it. Otherwise I kind of get a headache. I like to play and I like to write songs. Pretty un-heroic, but that’s pretty much it. Maybe because it’s so mundane is the reason why it hasn’t been too difficult to figure out a way to do these things regularly, even under some pretty dire straits and in the face of gigantic disillusionments. And though it remains to be seen how it will fare under the expanded family situation, I’ve got every reason to believe that I’ll continue to play and write, though I’m sure the results will be very different in the new context. Music, as it turns out, is very flexible and will adapt in many contexts, not just the one that magazines, radio and television try to sell us, not just the one I might have thought was “the one” when I was a teenager.

About 12 years ago I bought what turned out to be the last guitar book I ever bought. I could recommend the Advancing Guitarist, but I won’t. The basic premise of this method, explained in the first few pages, was to forget about chords, scales, modes, etc, and start by playing only on one string with one finger until you’ve exhausted all the possibilities. Needless to say the possibilities are infinite. But once you’ve mastered them you then move up to two strings with one finger and do this until you exhaust the also infinite possibilities now multiplied by two (infinity x 2 = ?). Then you continue with two strings and two fingers, then three strings and one finger, three strings and two fingers, and so on, until you get to six strings and all fingers, apparently several millennia into the future and deep into the realm of the impossible. In the face of this abyss, I decided that since the possibilities are as infinite within the simple as with the complex, that one finger and one string was enough for me in this lifetime and I closed the book on something like page 4. However, this got me thinking about minimalist music and even though I like some of it, it tastes too much like artistry, conceptualism and ultimately pretension - all flavors I am constantly trying to distance myself from (my success at this of course is highly debatable, this blog being exhibit ZZZZZZZZ). So simplifying turned out to be a very complicated subject. The more I tried to focus in on just one tiny spot, the more the spot became a universe.

So I review some of my preferences: I prefer showing than telling, I prefer doing than talking. This excessive display of verbosity not withstanding, I prefer a suggestive sentence over a profound essay, a funny haiku over a heroic epic, a clever folk song over a mind-bending symphony, a witty joke over an incisive psychological profile, a story about what happened to you the other day over a groundbreaking novel. I tend to like these cause they tend to offer the simple, the fun, and the easy and I’m lazy and these are easier to share. But at the same time I realize I like a certain complexity within my simplicity.

So I think about my music writing methodology: I try to write only super simple songs that my befuddled brain can remember without making any effort, if I have to try to remember it, then it’s almost always out of my range. And I tend to remember things that have a certain simple impossibility or paradox within them, like Möbius strips. And I write between the lines, what seems impossible, and what makes me smile, like a secret hidden inside a fortune cookie, and you see it in there, and you keep eating and seeing little bits of the secret, but you can never see the whole thing, even though its just a tiny fortune inside a fortune cookie you got with your Chinese food. And I never again worry about whether I’ve heard it before or not. It is what it is and it is ours, because I surely ripped some of it from something I heard (you often say or play very memorable bits). And I will never forget the quote under the picture of AC/DC playing live in Joe Carducci’s ‘Rock and the Pop Narcotic’. The caption read, “Perfect: not a brain cell to spare”.

And since I have few brain cells to spare I review my equipment: One guitar, the one I’ve had since I was fourteen, and the one I always played at home even while I was playing with others in public (I also have another one just like it in training). It has one pick-up, and no knobs. I play it thru one amp (a Nashville 112 pedal steel amp, though I would prefer a Sho-Bud pedal steel amp, but the Sho-Buds are impossible to find) which is set to one setting (granted it took me a bit of time to figure out the setting, and I do make slight adjustments occasionally). So a guitar and and an amp, and no effects. And it’s still not easy enough.

So I listen to music, and my ears give preference to friends and family music, to local music, to music in towns where I will be visiting, music from people that will be visiting my town. And maybe I've been lucky, but a lot of it is very good. So in short, if there is no chance of having two-way communication, then I’m not as interested in that music (like if you are dead). Just because it’s the most amazing thing ever is not good enough for me (unless it is the most amazing thing ever). And needless to say, I couldn’t care less how many records it sold or how many books are written about it. So don't ask me to read about music (or about anything for that matter) if it's longer than a few pages; I hardly ever even read liner notes on records, and most of the time I don’t know the names of the songs I like, just whether it’s somewhere around the beginning or the end of the record (or side A or B). All this I often use as an excuse to explain the huge gaps in my knowledge of music that “everyone should hear.” And it’s still not simple enough.

So I realize that simplicity does not equal focus, but it also does not equal chaos. Simplicity is closer to randomness, which sort of describes much of my life - disjointed, unfocused, and in my defense I say, adaptable to the context, flexible to my environment, and open to exploring possibilities. Which might explain why music has been such an easy constant in my life, always around, never too difficult - because music thrives on adaptability, flexibility and possibilities. Music needs these qualities to survive, just like I do, because music is a social form by nature. Music is social by nature because it must have a listener and a performer. The performer can’t be the listener and the listener can’t be the performer (though the line can be dazed and confused as in drum circles). One of the greatest disappointments in being a musician is not to be able to ever experience what an audience member experiences when you are playing. Recording is at best an approximation but not the real thing. Listening to recordings as if they were the true experience of hearing yourself play would be like a painter looking at photos of his paintings and thinking that he is looking at the paintings themselves. The pleasure (or pain) of your playing is strictly reserved for others. So the audience (bandmates, friends, parents, even a vivid imagination might work sometimes) acts as a kind of auditory mirror and as such it can encourage or discourage a particular performance. Without the audience, the musician is about as good as a blind painter. Staying at home and playing by yourself, even if you are recording it and playing it back to yourself, just doesn’t cut it.

So the only way to resolve questions about music is to get out there and do it. The answers are going to be different in every context and will change as we do. The answers for those who play children’s music are not the same as the answers for those who play TV music, or those who write for Nashville stars, or those who play at bars, or those who play at home for friends and family and so on and on thru all the many ways in which music is expressed (some better, some worst). So musicians should be flexible enough to adjust to the different contexts and be able to work within the society of their music. To paraphrase, it takes a village to make music. And for those of us in the DIY circuit, for example, it takes the support of dedicated musicians and clubs in every town we play, the support of dedicated soundmen, bartenders, engineers, studio owners, artists, and most of all audiences, and as much as I don’t like to talk that much about it, I have to admit that it also takes the dedication and support of people who talk about music trying to figure out what it all means. Now I need to go take some aspirin and play a C chord over and over on my guitar.

Reunions

Reunited and it feels so good or does it? Some bands won't do, some bands can't do, and some bands shouldn't do reunions. The reasons are drawn out and complicated and I don't have time to review them here. Bitter memories is sometimes to blame. Another reason is not wanting to live in the past. As reason to call it quits, Bedhead once claimed that they didn't want to be a Bedhead tribute band. Doing a reunion show is like a tribute to your own band. Look at us, weren't we something? Then another reason that I won't bring up is not wanting to re-learn all those stupid olde songs. It's just a worthless hassle. This last reason is akin to the "not wanting to live in the past" reason so I definitely won't put it in here because it's redundant like saying something twice or repeating oneself.

So those are the reasons and the only reasons that bands won't can't shouldn't do reunion shows. That and the free agency market which draws the best players into the Ringo Starr All Starr Review and leaves the rest to wonder how they manage to live with themselves. So this leaves me wondering why some bands do reunion shows. To make a little cash I suppose could be a reason. But that doesn't explain why I do reunion shows. And that's the real question here isn't it? Look at me, wasn't I something? I do them because I have nothing better to do with my time on earth during the two week holiday break around Christmas. And I do them because I have so much fun getting together with my old H-town friends, all of whom still have their chops and most of whom are still using those chops for choppy good things. And I do them to show off. Because my chops just keep getting better and I've got some new tricks that I need you to see because I desperately need to be liked by everybody.

One thing I don't like is to do the songs the way you, the nostalgic fan, remember them. I like to mix it up, make it interesting. You know, throw a Puerto Rican Snake-gang member on the nylon stringed guitar for a change, par exemple. This approach is not always relished by my reunited band mates. One thing I don't like to do is get silly drunk but sometimes I do. Please help me. Do not buy me that drink, Rudz is providing me plenty as it is. Instead why don't you buy me a car? Rudz never buys me a car.

Last year I reunited with Texas Guinness Lovers for a New Year's Eve show with JW Americana. It was one of the most fun NYE's of my life (see this important video for details). TGL incorporated churchbus trumpeter Chris Erin so along with Bo Morrison we had that Calexico type double trumpet sound thingy that makes songs like Ring of Fire and San Antonio Rose soar. I got to play with Jo Bird of Two Star Symphony too. And I was reunited with my brothers Chris Bakos, Bill Savoie and Tony Barilla (unfortunately due to complete lack of knowledge of his whereabouts, we failed to reunite with our mumbling red headed brother Thomas Ayersol...and Phil Gayle was in NYC). Anyway, it was the shizzit. I made a bunch of cd-r's from the board mix so if you see me in H-town over the holidays ask me for one. I ain't charging for them, maybe you can get me a beer or a car or something.

This year I get to play with my brother brother Christian, my main man Johnathan Sage and my old writing partner Brandon Holbrook for a de Schmog reunion. Diane can't make it because she doesn't do reunions, no that's not true it's because she got knocked up and suddenly a very little girl is like thee most important thing in her world or something. Thankfully somebody cares about us. Mari Pool of Sad Like Crazy is gonna join us. I'm very excited about that.

So in conclusion bands should never reunite because Bedhead is so pretentious they thought it was necessary to write a boring letter to explain why it was so important that they stop bothering us.

P.S. Come out to Rudz Saturday December 30th - Bright Men of Learning, de Schmog, Jug O' Lightnin'

The Strings of Misfortune

As musicians, we have all been blessed with the inspiration that comes with creativity, and in turn, we have all felt the sting of being held back by the unending obstacles that always seem ready to get in our way. I grew up in a family in which being creative was, if not pushed, then indeed nurtured, if that's what we had in mind for ourselves. My mother's brother is a guitar player, and he over anyone else was the initial inspiration for my looking at the guitar as something that I could contribute to instead of just take from. He grew up in the sixties and was a huge rock fan. He was often fond of telling me how when he got out of high school he had "my guitar in one hand, and my amp in the other," and how it was the Vietnam War draft that kept him from pursuing it in earnest. He went for a biology degree instead so he could get his college deferment and avoid getting his balls blown off. And it's a shame too, because he has a lot of talent, and he has since kept it almost exclusively to himself (along with his Gibson SG and Fender Twin Reverb - both seventies models, and both worth a mint). So I picked up the guitar for good when my family moved to the eternal swamp that is Houston, Texas. You have to picture the era: the wee hours of the 80's. Bands like AC/DC, Boston, Styx, The Eagles, The Police, Aerosmith, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Billy Squier, and on and on, are all at the top of what kids my age, in my social universe are listening too. And no, there's no detached sense of irony felt while tuning in. When my neighbor slapped on his copy of Montrose's "Bad Motor Scooter," he did so because he really thought that one day, he too would get on his bad motor scooter and ride. Of course, as it turns out, my old neighbor is still stuck in this era, and I have written on him, and his part in my life, in this blog.

It didn't take long for me to sour on the whole concept of being a guy like Eddie Van Halen, or Joe Walsh, or any other nit-wit from that era, as far as guitar playing went. In fact, before long, the whole macho, testosterone-soaked hillbilly bullshit that was so popular in my school was beginning to get real old, real fast. And as for music, I started imagining that there must be more than just this. And thank god for the other neighbor that lived a few doors down in the other direction. Joe was a little kid. A skater and surfer who lived with his unimaginably fucked up parents, but somehow managed to turn out fairly normal. Joe was always one step ahead of me as far as music went. He could never play anything, try though he might, but