NAPcast XII

Guesses for the NTT song should go in the comments section here. If you need help listening to the podcast, just ask.

Competition Skank! Competion Skank! Competition Skank!

Last Saturday was the Westheimer Street Festival here in Houston which is like a buffet of local acts for any music fan. While I'd hoped to at least catch a few bands, my 8-year-old hard drive (which I had planned on replacing in April) had other ideas. Thus my afternoon was spent rescuing data because there is nothing I love doing more than booting into the command line and entering Unix commands!* This is neither here nor there but I did regret missing a few acts especially when I saw this picture of Rusted Shut from ADR.

So, I began writing a post to a local board lamenting this when, on MyYahoo, I saw that there was an image of another band whom I was very happy to have missed at the same festival and I felt it was a funny juxtaposition of bands. I mean both bands have a shtick, sure, but while one lead singer looks like he got up from a bad night of drinking and likely would make you keel over if he breathed on you (Rusted Shut), the other was a spectacle of hippy-dippy shirtless narcissism. I posted the images with no other commentary other than "Cons - Missing this:" and "Pros - Missing this:" (a minor and I felt innocuous jab at best) and I got flamed for being meanspirited. Well, maybe I do have a mean streak when it comes to bands like that one but, by the same token, I have a mean streak against films like "Mr. Hollands Opus" and "Patch Adams". Yes, they have little effect on my life but I find them infinitely grating and worthy of ridicule; I just can't help myself. I can spot one of those movies a mile away and the same goes for bands whose hair is better than their music.

Am I being too Judgmental?

OK! I am pretty guilty of sizing-up bands and making snap judgments based on how they present themselves but I make no apologies for it because I think that to some degree there is some validity to my aversion for certain types of bands. Now, I'm not going to use the band from my post the other day because I pretty much had my say a year ago on them and have been pretty good about not beating up on them and this isn't really about them anyhow so, to illustrate my point, take a look at these two (we'll leave them unnamed) Houston and Austin bands:

OK, seriously, can go back to the Don Walsh Photo?



See. Is it only me? I mean, I don't know about you but I know which band I'd rather be listening to just from these photos. Am I being prejudicial? Sure. I just have this big aversion to bands with a stylist. If you look like you spend at least as much on grooming as you do on your equipment, you've got to overcome a big mountain with me because I like my bands stinky, sweaty, and ill-mannered or at the very least comprised of members with poor social skills and a fashion sense borne out of necessity. If you are in a band, you are there to make music not to fuck around with primping yourself. I don't mind you doing a stage show like Dio or go all Pink Floyd with the lights; there you are putting on a SHOW that hopefully will compliment the music! Yet, if the stage show is just making yourself pretty, my gut tells me the focus isn't the music, it isn't the audience, it's yourself.

The Great 1985 Metal Album Experiment

Maybe it all goes back to participating in the 1985 Metal LP experiment lead by my esteemed colleagues Mike Schaeffer and Brian Firr . Mike's idea was that there was not enough new metal in our record stacks so off we went to Sound Warehouse to buy a dozen metal LPs. Surely we could find at least one good album and expand our metal universe beyond Black Sabbath. Out of the stack, one album (and only one) stood out as the one that rocked while the rest were rubbish. Now mind you the albums were bought completely at random with no prior knowledge of any of the bands but I think it was pretty easy to figure out which LP was most likely to kick ass just from the band photos on their back covers. Here are two of the bands from that stack. One photo represents one of the 11 shitty albums and the other photo was the one gem. See if you can guess which one kicked ass based purely on the band images.

img.1

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That's right, the ugly pimply-faced poorly dressed guys who looked like the guys you saw in the smoking section in High School. See what I mean? Don't lie, even if you didn't know that the latter was Metallica you'd know without hearing a note which band rocked harder. In fact the only thing you could say for bands like Keel and their ilk is that more than likely they got more action than Metallica. Fine, all I know is we went back and bought Ride the Lightning the following week and pitched the other albums in a field - case closed.

Maybe This is Purely an American Phenomenon!

I hear you, Echo and the Bunnymen had their goofy haircuts, Bauhaus wasn't far behind, and I'm sure you are thinking of a bunch of others who were great bands along those lines but those were English bands and the bands from the UK are simply able to get away with dressing up much more than we can. When we try to play dress up on this side of the pond this is what we get:

That's right, David Johansen in drag - easily the ugliest drag queen ever! Now if there was ever an award for band trying to find a look, failing miserably, and fooling nobody, it was the Dolls. Despite the bad drag and their best efforts, they still couldn't get the stink of a ratty New York bar out of that photo. I suppose that, in failing in a look, the Dolls succeed in being even more vile and skanky, and when you get down to it, skank is what Rock and Roll is all about. But some bands simply can't handle the skank and the result is this:

If you were around in the 90's, you could tell this band was going to suck eggs the instant you saw them. They could dress up all they wanted but these guys were from Minneapolis and, to this day, I sure as hell can't catch even a whiff of Schell from this photo. Husker Du, the Replacements, Prince, and The Time; each embraced their hometown skank in their own way. What does dressing Eurotrash have anything to do with Minneapolis? Nothing.

Rock Lives So Long as You Embrace The Skank!

Here is the thing. Rock wasn't some form of music that was sponsored by the elites of society, it was the bastard child borne from populist forms of music that no self-respecting white adult would touch in the 50s. It stunk, was boorish, ugly, and worst of all had the taint of the "lower" classes and races. Rock and Roll was simply too skanky to go over well at the Rotary Club unless they could get Pat Boone to butcher it.

Over the years, as rock has become just another genre with its catalog of tropes that could be recognized by anyone of the babyboomer or younger generation, it has lost its skank. In the place of skank is an SUV being sold to you with the Buzzcocks as background music. Gone are the days of radio banning instrumentals like Link Wray's Rumble and instead bands like Of Montreal can whore it up with a restaurant chain and nobody bats an eye since nothing sticks it more to the man than being on the man's payroll.

But don't call the mortician yet. You see somewhere in your city skank lives. This was reaffirmed for me when Rosa took me to Southmore House the other day. Inside was a scene that thrives despite zero local press coverage or respect. Here were a bunch of kids in a ratty building with spray paint on the walls and a bathroom that smelled worse than a drive through Pasadena's infamous refineries. The place was pretty hot and here it was only March but that didn't stop anyone. On stage and on the floor were Humanicide - a band that wore its politics on its sleeve as it ground out music that was loud, heavy, and fast. The heat, the sweat, the volume, the smell, and enthusiasm all without concern for fashion or approval told me that, contrary to a lot of literature, rock is not dead nor is it reduced to being a soundtrack to a consumer culture. As long as there are people who have music drip off of their sweat-drenched shirts every week, it lives.

I know it's only rock and roll but I like it, like it, yes I do.

Links:
Rusted Shut
Houmanicide
Gulf Coast Hardcore

Photo Credits in order:
Don Walsh image ADR
Penny Royal by Andaleeb Kazi (I mock the band but it is a nice photograph. I like the saturated color.)
Dames Violet by Brian Baggett
Keel, Metallica, New York Dolls, Information Society - Hey I tried to find th ephotographers but have had no luck. If anyone knows please let me know.
Humanicide at Southmore by Rosa Foto

* In case you are counting that's two Nappers whose computers have crashed in the span of a week.

Amen

Week 22: Calle 13

A Culebra y Vieques.

This song was recorded and released free on the internet by Calle 13 three or four days after the death of Filiberto Ojeda Rios, leader of Los Macheteros. Although Ojeda Rios led a revolutionary life since his youth in the 50s, he is best known as the mastermind behind the theft of over $7 million from a Wells Fargo depot in Connecticut. The theft was carried out by a single man, Victor Gerena, in a rented car and its considered one of the largest thefts in US history. Gerena met up with Ojeda Rios and a few others in a nearby mobile home and a few days latter they were in Mexico. Gerena is still at large, but Ojeda Rios and 18 other Macheteros were arrested in relation to the theft in 1985. Ojeda Rios was released on bond and he quickly cut off the electronic monitoring device and became a fugitive. He remained mostly in Puerto Rico during his time as a fugitive. When the US government was searching for Osama Bin Laden, Puerto Ricans laughed and wondered how the US could expect to find Bin Laden in a huge country like Afganistan when they couldn’t find Filiberto in a tiny island like Puerto Rico. On September 23, 2005, twenty years after his escape and on the anniversary of El Grito de Lares, which is considered by most Puerto Ricans to be independence day (even though the event commemorates a 1868 failed liberation attempt from Spain), the FBI surrounded Ojeda Rios in his house with his wife. A shootout followed. His wife was allowed to leave the house and she told the agents that her husband was badly wounded and needed medical attention. The FBI did not allow any medics, or any local agency representatives to approach the perimeter, much less the house. They claimed they were concerned about explosives and had to wait for the special explosives team to arrive from Washington. Meanwhile Ojeda Rios bled to death in his house.

Here's the song that Calle 13 released followed by my attempt at translating the lyrics. It is hard to translate reggeaton lyrics because like hip hop they are filled with very localized slang which doesn't translate very well. In the translation I haven't even attempted to retain any of the rhymes and just translated the content, which of course misses out on an integral part, but what can you do. I have also added a few notes in brackets.

Querido FBI (Dear FBI)


Dear compatriots, lawyers, professors, mayors and ratfinks, doctors, bosses, firemen, nurses, accountants, dealers, piragüeros [those who sell shaved ice from pull carts on the street], the whole world. I swear that I’m getting a Machetero outfit and tonight I’m going to hang 10 marines. Today my hand is chromed-plated and empty handed I’m gonna give ‘em a beating so you see how gas fries. They’ve soaked our flag in urine, he bled to death, my people, he bled to death. Never on his knees, they’re gonna have to burry him standing up, his machete by his side. Let’s activate La Perla, Llorens, Barbosa, Manuela, Caimito, Vista Hermosa, Covadonga, Camarones, Alturas, Torres Sabanas, Villa Esperanza, Sabana Abajo, Villa Fontana, Gladiolas, Villa Carolina, the town of Trujillo, Las Parcelas, San John, Monte Hatillo, Canales, San José, Río Grande, Luquillo, Puerta de Tierra, Santurce, Monasillo, all neighborhoods and projects, the FBI is in a mess of trouble. They are fucked, and fucked is the White House cause I’m going to explode in the name of Filiberto Ojeda Rios. They took out my right lung, but I can still breathe. I’m ready for a shoot out, but I can still breathe. I’m throwing rocks at the federals [the Federal US government]. And if there aren’t any rocks I’ll throw them a güiro [a percussion instrument made from a hollowed gourd]. Whatever I can find. They knocked down the man but not the idea. To all the federals I spit on you diarrhea. You make me sick, you make me nauseous. I know I’m loosing my head, it’s your fault fucking idiots. Calle 13 is in mourning. (Calm down brother, we have to be smart.) Shut up! Fucking federals, dumbasses and the state police, who did nothing, standing around with arms crossed. All they did was suck a cock. Fucking mother fucking government that allows this. Bunch of pigs, just a bunch of insects, and that’s why I protest. I protest because of the Ponce Massacre, protest because of Cerro Maravilla, and even for September 11.
To blow up those mother fuckers with fangs, we got 3.9 million [the number of Puerto Ricans on the island] knives. This is simple, I just had an idea, all we have to do is activate the gangs, instead of pointing to the other projects, point north where it’s colder. Radio has no balls and the White Lion [Calle 13’s record label) sales gave me the passport to shoot this cut.

This song, however, is not representative of Calle 13's work. They are not a political group and I can't think of any other song they have that is topical or political. They are also not an angry group and their beats usually rely on instruments such as accordion, tuba, and flute. By hip hop comparisons their style would be closer to De La Soul than Public Enemy, playful, eclectic, surreal. One thing is definite though, they are one of a very very small number of reggaeton groups that are breathing back some life into what has otherwise become one of the most annoying genres around.

Весна священная for punk rockers...

...and for people who aren’t used to this 78°F weather in New York City we've just experienced. If you are a classical music buff, please don’t read this, as I will inevitably trivialize this piece of music for you. I can appreciate the Rite of Spring without being able to place it in context between Baroque and Serialism, and I’m hoping that others can too, without too many footnotes explaining its exact location in the Western Canon of Music.

I think the real importance of The Rite of Spring lies in the fact that punk rock can trace its origins back to the premier on May 29^th, 1913 at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées. The movements of the ballet dancers were deliberately awkward, clumsy, and jarring (introducing early pogoing and thrashing), the music uses dissonance and rhythm as principle themes, and the violence of the music literally sparked a riot that evening inside the theater.¹ Less than eleven months later World War I broke out.

Even now, my colleague Tom, who escaped marshal law in Poland, calls Stravinsky ‘a bloody Russian’ and can’t tolerate the music. I’m not sure music really expresses ‘a national character’ or if certain countries had strong orchestral traditions allowing music to be conceived and performed, in spite of the presence of standing armies and ambitious aristocratic rulers. Perhaps the music is more of an expression of the underlying tensions and barely contained aggressions fo that period? The Third Reich’s relationship to Wagner during World War II is another matter; I encourage someone more knowledgeable than myself to explain that one to us.

Find Poland on the 1914 map of Europe.

The Rite of Spring with the accompanying ballet performance depicts “a prehistoric ritual in which a young woman is chosen by her tribe to dance herself to death in propitiation of the gods of spring.”² I’m not sure I would have inferred that virgin was being sacrificed without reading all of the titles of the various scenes:

Part I: Adoration of the Earth
Introduction
The Augurs of Spring (Dances of the Young Girls)
Ritual of Abduction
Spring Rounds (Round Dance)
Ritual of the Rival Tribes
Procession of the Sage
The Sage (Adoration of the Earth)
Dance of the Earth

Part II: The Sacrifice
Introduction
Mystic Circles of the Young Girls
The Glorification of the Chosen One
Evocation of the Ancestors
Ritual Action of the Ancestors
Sacrificial Dance (the Chosen One;L'Elue)

Without irony, I listened to a live performance of it by the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra with Marin Alsop played over WNYC’s frequency last Saturday in my living room with the lights turned off, before going out for a night of dancing. The DJ at the party turned out to be rather underwhelming in comparison. I didn’t see any virgins who looked like they were going to dance themselves to death either.

What I do hear in the Rite of Spring is the polyphonic dissonance and the use of accelerating rhythms to stir up an increasing sense of unease. There are fragments of melodies that begin with woodwinds and end with brass, an ominous pulsating bass, punctuations by an unrecognizable instrument (turns out to be the bassoon playing an octave higher than its normal range), ostinatos played deliberately out of tune, abrupt switches, and an indeterminate ending. For me, it's so disturbingly powerful, expressive, violent and aggressive that it makes punk rock sound like mere posturing.

1.) NPR: Igor Stravinsky’s “The Rite of Spring” (there’s a good interview if you hit the audio button at the end)

2.) The John F. Kennedy Center: About the Composition

It Came On A Spring's Evening

It’s the same old hole. The same twenty or so faces are milling about. I do my best to hide in the back row, all the while hoping that no one will talk to me.

I get my wish.

As the last band clears the stage I come forth ready to set up. I haul my amp on stage, hook up my pedals (for the Powers of Light and Darkness I go with an Ibanez TS9, a Boss Delay/Reverb, and a Crybaby Wah – which truth be told is a total piece of shit), tune up, and then wait a little while to actually get started.

The openers grab drinks at the bar and then head outside. Now it’s just me in the stage area and some other guy in a dark coat and a hat pulled down so low I can’t see his face. Everyone else is either in the other room fucking about or outside doing much of the same. Once I start a couple of other people will filter through to hear if I am to their liking and then will leave the room for the rest of my show. This will be my audience.

I begin.

I set the amp on Project Grimm levels because I love the way my 150 watt Ampeg sounds at this volume. Russian tubes really start smoking when they get pushed. Most of what I have ever done I have done with my hands. The distortion was for many years my only conceit to gadgetry. Eventually I broke down and got into a Wah and in the studio it was anyone’s guess, but on stage I have stuck with my hands. I use the delay/reverb for deliberately taking my hands out of the equation. The wah gives all sorts of textures to things. With the Wah pedal I can give an edge to parts and I can punch atmosphere into bits here and there. I leave signposts but I try not to embrace the obvious. I open with a drone off of the old standby: E. I play little phrases off of the drone and all the while keep fairly close to the drone itself never allowing myself to stray too far yet. I develop this part slowly and deliberately into more complex phrases that begin to leave the drone behind and creep towards more structured rhythms and less open meandering. As I do this, the tempo begins to build and the volume slowly goes up.

But as all this happens in the room, it’s what is happening in my head that I want to discuss now. These are the thoughts that flow through my head. I hand them out as randomly as I think them.

What am I doing here?

Why am I nervous?

How do I sound?

Is this working?

What does this represent
Does this matter
What does the guy sitting there think is he thinking am I really here how long have I been doing this where is everyone what do they think of the guy wanking in the other room what is the point why am I doing this I want to go home I love doing this I hate doing this I think I’ll go to a crescendo I wish I was still doing drugs I miss my mother fuck this nonsense I can’t wait to go home god that opening band was fucking horrible I’ve hit my crescendo now I’ll back way off and let the feedback breathe before I fall back into a complete sea of reverbed delayed wash now I’m starting to get into this those fucks outside are missing out on this now because it’s really starting to go well I knew I’d hitmystrideifIjustgavemyselfhalfachanceIwishIcouldfigureouthow
tobottleconfidenceandthentakeitwheneverneededbutthenagain
Idon’tthinkmyinsurancewouldeverpayforitandgodknowsIcan’t
afforditandnowthatI’mhittingstride…

I stop.

The guy in the back claps twice and leaves.

This goes on for two more movements, about twenty more minutes, and then I am done. I break down and leave. Driving home I think about the night and I think about what I am doing with this. No one comes out to see this, and why should they? I play improvisational trash for my own benefit regardless of who watches me do it and I don’t compromise on how I do it. I virtually refuse to promote myself. I won’t make flyers and I won’t crawl up a DJ’s ass. I just have no interest in doing these things. And it really isn’t fair, or let’s say, it really isn’t reasonable to expect a club to want to have anything to do with a guy like me. I don’t care for much of the process. So I stop doing it. And months later, I agree to take part in a blog project thought up by a friend. I spend a lot of my time being a total ass, a lot of my time picking fights, and the rest of my time trying (and failing) to write something of substance.

I like to get in my car and drive. Far. Usually I have no destination in mind, but this time I am heading for Corpus Christi. I’ve written on this practice before. I call them “mini vacations” because that’s what they are. Since I am virtually poor, and since I have a wife and a kid who aren’t real cool with me pissing off for days at a time, I can really only get away with mini vacations. And I am on one.

I have packed my four-track, my guitar, a mike, and a few other doo-dads, as well as some books. I will settle into some total dive for the next couple of nights. No one knows me here, and I will not have to speak at all other than to order food or get the room, etc… All I will do is lie on the beach, eat, read, and more importantly, record. And best of all? I will never use it for anything other than my own benefit.

Welcome.

As I drive to work early Monday mornings I play cds and let my mind wander. I think of the old shows and how the whole thing has apparently irrevocably soured for me, I think about the mini vacations and how they afford me minute slices of sanity, and I think about what this stuff is that has captured my attention for so much of my life.

Music.

I have chosen to write about it every Tuesday and have done so since November. But the problem is twofold. First, I’m not sure how well I have been able to convey how I really feel without earning either a few enemies or my usual slew of confused passersby. Beyond that is the issue of my not really being that in to writing about music in the first place. I mean, I love writing, and I love the weekly deadline, but I don’t love the fact that I have to try and relate something about music to you bastards. We all have our own ideas. We all have our own opinions. Writing about music will never be as cool as listening to it. And best of all, I am just juvenile enough to take pleasure in being an asshole. Great. Fortunately for you, my vanity is such that I will continue to use this forum as a venue for my blather.

I’ve been listening to the live Dry Nod album at work. It’s the perfect Dry Nod document. And this is the low down. They are brilliant. If you missed their days here in Houston, you haven’t lived. They could play ten shows, suck so bad for nine of them that you would never want to admit you ever knew them, and then on the tenth show, pull something that would make the strongest man cry. This is no understatement. They really pulled this off. The disc reflects their inconsistent glory while leaning towards the shining edge of their best work. When they were on, they were infinitely greater than the sum of their parts. Two crazed guitars, one crazy bassist, a drummer with a purely idiosyncratic sense of time, and a guy that seemed utterly lost playing a French horn but somehow pulling it off anyway. That record shimmers. As bad as they often were, they were ten times more brilliant, more beautiful than anyone else in town at that time.

So I will sit back and be the observer. I will write about music, about loving it, about getting it, about not getting it, and I will do so for as long as I can stomach doing it, or until I am kicked out of here for causing a flap big enough to burn all my bridges. I will listen in amazement to the might of Dry Nod. I will listen to Houston’s best existing band, the Linus Pauling Quartet, and I will make no apologies for stating these claims. The LP4 is Houston’s best band. And I don’t say this because I write with one of them in here. In fact, part of the reason I write in here is because of my respect for Ramon and what he represents and what his strength has meant to me both as a person and as a musician.

And whoever you might be, someone I know, or someone who knows me, or someone who is passing through as a regular, or someone who happened upon this blog and who will undoubtedly join those who think I am a blow-hard assbag, I just want to say that while I do things in a somewhat unpopular fashion, never doubt my love for music and for what it can do for me. It can be reduced to academics, or chalked solely up to emotional outbursts, but I am scatterbrained, and I love music accordingly.

I sit on the top of the stairs in northern Michigan. It’s summer, but their summers are mild. The sun freshly gone the air has turned cold. I hear the small waves wash up and I hear the wind blow the pines about. Behind me is the light din of my family being American in their own way. The dog comes up to join me. I walk down on to the beach and a small boat drifts almost purposefully to the shore. No one is aboard. I step in, take one glance back up the stairs to the house, seeing my surviving family enjoying the evening, and then I pet the dog, send him off, and then look out to the horizon as I am carried away. It’s no big deal.

We interrupt life...Damon O'Banion

Damon O'Banion, a long time Houston punk player and organizer, passed on last Friday and far too early for such a bright light. I was not really in his circle but I knew him going back to our earliest experiences with live music. He was a charismatic intelligent and creative person who could cross easily between different groups and subgroups. Above all he was a leader. He put out some terrific punk with Dixie Waste and later Drunken Thunder. He was active in the early years of Thorazine magazine. Frankly someone else should be speaking for the man. I just want to say. I'm glad I knew you.

Please check out the very fitting first song on the Dixie Waste Myspace site. It's a friggin rocker.

Please feel free to comment on Damon's life here. Also if you know of a good tribute page please share.

P.S. the image of Damon is from Splendidiva's myspace page, and her wonderful obit is below:

Another fantastic voice silenced. As if it's not bad enough that it's my birthday and I would much rather forget the passing of time... I get this sore reminder that I didn't take enough time for one of my favorite musical compatriots. Damon, the voice of Drunken Thunder and Dixie Waste has moved on to other realms and left us here to weep for ourselves. How many times did I watch him devour a stage and wished I had one-tenth of his energy?!?? He was a force on the microphone, and a deep-hearted wit offstage. I just loved you to death, Damon. And I'm going to miss you so much. Find your peace, my brother. Know that we will always remember you.

out of tune

I don't have the finest ear for tuning. I remember seeing some local band in Houston, who I can't remember, that I liked well enough, and I turned to my friend Dave, who opined that the singer was flat. I couldn't tell.

I'm not sure if my ears have become more sensitized of late, though, but last Thursday I was bombarded by the least tuneful music I have heard ever. There is one Irish pub on GBI, and having Thursday and Friday off it seemed like it'd be a good idea to head down and actually interact with people, drink, et al.

And so we did, but it was also open mic night. I've generally evaded open mic nights on suspicion alone, but we were here, and so here we sat and drank. And the music began.

There is a phenomenon on islands that tuning is a bit variable, of course. There's a whole genre called slack-key music from Hawaii, and when I was in the Virgin Islands I heard local performer Quito Rhymer play in a tuning that I'm confident wasn't traditional. But it was at least tuneful.

Here, not only was the guitar on offer not in tune with the universal vibration frequency that we consider to be "in tune", it wasn't even in tune with itself. Clusters of notes meant to be tuneful agglutinated into knotty morasses of semi-tones, too sloppy to even provide interesting dissonances, strings too dead to resonate, each strum hitting a newly fresh concussion of non-tonality.

To make it better, the guitar was accompanied by a saxophone player. Also out of tune - I think the instrument was flat - and almost by definition not in tune with the guitar. So feel good music, transmitted through these vessels of discordance, became nothing at least transmutable to undisagreeable background noise and instead foregrounded itself, clawing, thrusting, unrelenting in its desire to annoy me, to scratch into my brain pan and to inflict pain on me no matter what conversation was at hand.

(I should interject - though it should be bloody obvious to anyone who's been following my writing - I don't object to dissonance per se. We got home from the pub, later, and listened to some Sonic Youth live footage that another editor had cut from a concert I happened to be at, and while I sat shit-faced drunk with a big grin on my face my flatmate recoiled in pain from squalls of feedback. What I object to is cacophony that's intended to be concordant and instead just sounds like a fetid mess.)

But all stories are relative. This is what I heard. What did the locals hear? Is this "tuneful" by their ears? Have years of island life skewed their senses of tonality in such a way that this is not just disagreeable but actively pleasant? And what did the musicians think? Were they just so fucked on beer and whatever else that they couldn't tell? Or were they subversively mining a new frontier of tonality, more avant-garde than us mainlanders are able to cope with? Or were they just equipped with tin ears and decades of indifference?

Or was the sheer act of playing in public enough to make them happy, no matter what happened? And on an island with 750 people, isn't that good enough?

And if my answer to the last question is "no", well, it doesn't really matter, because for the next 2 1/2 months, I don't really have a choice.

NAPcast XI is Posted, you Bastards!

Click on the play list to go to the embedded player, or use the link on the right margin of this blog.



Last week's NTT was "Chase" from the Midnight Express soundtrack performed by Giorgio Moroder. (Hope I pronounced it right, though I probably butchered it.) The song was provided by Mr. Anaconda and guessed by Matthew. Matthew has given us this weeks NTT. Please submit your guesses here, in the comments section.

Thanks to everyone who submitted music. (Doug, I selected for you again, hope they're ok. They're ok. You're ok.) I hope you enjoy it, (76 MB uploaded at 4.5KB/s. Yay me.) Please let me know what you think of the sound quality this week. I did something different.

Reviews - Part Chimp * Graustark * Forgotten Guitars of Mozambique * Kristin Hersh * Derek Bailey * Lord Sutch and Heavy Friends * Townes Van Zandt

I figured that once a month or so it may not be a bad idea to just simply do some good old fashioned record reviews. I'm figuring on the week I do this I'll tackle seven reviews - basically writing one a day. By now, you know me enough to know that you'll likely see a lot of local Houston music side by side with national/international acts in these reviews. Also, I'm going to stick to new stuff on my music players (records, MP3s, CDs) which is not to say this is all new but just stuff that I recently got and am listening to a lot that week. Anyhow, My rating system explained at the bottom. Enjoy.

Part Chimp – Cup – Monitor Records
Rating:



The new collection of Part Chip’s singles and rarities is just the kind of fix we need between albums here in the states. If you grabbed a copy of “I am Come” last year, you already now know that Part Chimp are the kind of band that climb into the ring with no other intention but to simply hit you hard with everything they’ve got for as long as they can until you are nothing more than a withering mass of flesh and blood on the floor. The first track “Bring Back the Sound” is a of chaotic driving swirl of noise and energy with the drums, bass and the vocals trying to push it as far as they can as the uncontrollable guitars race off the cliff or self-immolation. And by they way, is it me, or does “Crash The Octave” evoke Live Skull at their most noisy and powerful. The bass is fat and distorted, the drums sound like machinery, and the guitars cascade with noise as the vocals try desperately to be heard above the din. I’m just glad someone is still making music for heavy industrial equipment. The album goes on and on like this, so to continue track-by-track would be redundant. What you simply need to know that by missing out on Part Chimp you are missing one of the biggest, heaviest, and unstoppable forces in music today and being a singles collection, this may be the best place to start getting back to your inner chimp.

Links:
Monitor Records
Part Chimp



Graustark -
Live 2.10.07 Demonstrations Field Recordings
- Hidden Depth
Rating:



Oh fuck! I hate Graustark! You know why? Because it's another Will Freed band. You know what that means? He and Bill Lambert will hit the ground running, play some amazing mind bending music, trudge up that mountain dragging you along, and, just when you think they are going to reach the peak of their infinite-potential, Freed will cut the rope and disband the group. Frikkin drives me crazy!!! You hear Crazy!!!!

Well, for the time being, here is this latest soon-to-implode brilliance where Freed has the balls to play in a guitar/drum Texas Psych Duo! The drummer here (Lambert) is one of the best and most original drummers in Houston and I've never heard a band that takes as much advantage of what he can so with the kit that this band. So, yes, I'm happy to report that they deliver in spades all the brain melting awesomeness that the Texas Psych genre promises. The first track alone is just...well fuck.. from the get-go, I tells ya! Freed's guitar lays down this loop, Lambert's drums sneak in on you, and it's like watching one of those old film of Jackson Pollock at work. The rest of the album pretty much is just as great though admittedly some take a bit longer to gel, but once they do - LORDY!

It's not easy for rockers to improvise and make it work but these fuckers know how to do it. So check them out while you can fuckers because, if history's any guide, this band's carcass soon will be found next to a shotgun with a note of Haiku reading

We are out of here.
We rocked - possibly too much.
You Missed out, Pussy!

Links:
http://www.myspace.com/graustark


Various -Forgotten Guitars of Mozambique 1955 '56 '57 Hidden Depth - SWP Records
Rating:



Stumbling upon Feliciano Gomes' Wukati Lakukawa Hinenge is one of those moments any person who loves music just adores. It's familiar guitar riffing coupled with Gomes' exotic, clever, and playful vocals is just simply one of those things that demand your attention. I just love how he establishes this amazing slithering groove with just vocals, a simple riff, and a knock out melody. I can only equate it to the first time my ears confronted Tom Ze'. You want to know why I stopped listening to pop radio? This is it right here. I can pop on The Buzz for a year and never hear anything that approaches the pop literacy of this one song.

The rest of the album is pretty great too. I get a kick out of Aurelio Kowano & Alberto Funali whose guitars you'd swear were channeling mariachis. Then when they play this crazy "horn" - what ever the fuck they are doing - oh, it's just incredible. You simply have to hear this to believe how nutters it is. And I don't mean nutters in a condescending way but I mean that as in just pure unleashed joyfulness of it all. Really I'm just glad that SWP has reissued this series.

This series, by the way, is a series of recording done by Hugh Tracey who is an African equivalent to our Alan Lomax and Harry Smith. His International Library of African Music is still around today and you should follow the link below and check out what they do and read Tracey's profile - simply brilliant. It's simply incredible that this music like this is still largely unknown these days given it's power. Mercifully, there have always always people like Tracey who see the high art in the common and, because of their diligence, we are all the better for it.

Links:
SWP Records
International Library of African Music


Kristin Hersh -Learn To Sing Like A Star - Yep Rock
Rating:




For the last few years Kristin Hersh has been making some great and criminally under-appreciated rock (and I mean R-O-C-K!!!) albums with 50 Foot Wave - a band that plays music like a young boxer ready to show his stuff to the world no matter how big the opponent.

With "Learn to Sing..." Hersh doesn't have the kinetic energy of that configuration but I don't think that is really the point as she doesn't seem to be trying to prove anything. This is a much more intimate a recording with just her and her guitar accompanied by drums and strings. Call it a demo for her fans: it's a slight work but there are some great songs in here. "Vertigo" for example is just lovely. Hersh's guitar picking waltzes around the melody while the vocals and strings circle around. It's great stuff and surely benefits from the intimacy. "Winter" has a wonderful undertow of urgency just under the waves of pounding drums and swirl of guitars and strings that Hersh's vocals manage to keep in check which shows just how heavy you can be without having to resort to a 100 watt Marshall cranked at 11. It's some smart and sharp songwriting and arranging which is why Hersh has been and still is such an admirable artist.

Links:
throwingmusic.com
Yep Roc Records



Derek Bailey - Improvisation - Apostrophe
Rating:



Well, here's one that defies description. This is total guitar geek shit and if you don't want to hear a guy pluck, ring, and twiddle around a guitar neck, part of me seriously would love to trick you into sitting down with this album. For me the reason I love this record is just the way Bailey plays the guitar here is so conversational. To me, listening to this is like someone telling a really good story and my just sitting back and taking it in. I know that's I should be giving some geeky post-modern interpretation here where I grab the Thesaurus and go for it but to me this is just an album that says put on the headphones, turn off the TV, and listen (yes, it really does sound better on headphones). I'll leave it at that. If this video footage of Bailey on guitar (mind you the sound quality is crap) leaves you wanting more then this is your bag. Otherwise, just be glad Mike Gunn and Mourbebong are long gone otherwise I'd make you "partake" and try to make you listen again.

Links:
Derek Bailey on Wikipedia



Lord Sutch and Heavy Friends- S/T - Sundazed Records
Rating:



Oh fuck I love this album. It's totally trashy. The Late Lord Sutch was an amusing fellow (see the link below) but he was a terrible singer and his lyrics weren't far behind. Despite this, you know what? This is a great album. Well fuck! If you had Jimmy Page, John Bonham, Noel Redding, Jeff Beck, and Nicky Hopkins as your studio band in 1969 you'd fucking kick ass too. Really, it's like Led Zeppelin had a train wreck with Garage Rock! It's like the fun of a high school party at where everyone is under age and everyone (including you) are too stupid to know any better.

"Lord Sutch and Heavy Friends" is one of those albums that if you've known me over the years you've likely heard me mention it as some long lost vital artifact. In fact, this album was part of Clinton Heider's older brother's 60s albums - a small stack of LPs but somehow one of the most memorable. I loved that album and I later ran into a copy which I purchased for my own but that was quickly lost. I'd long given up on finding the album when I noticed that it had been re-issued thanks to an Ugly Things magazine review. Thankfully Sundazed (love that label) has done a loving LP reissue and, if Ugly Things is to be believed (and I think they are), this is the only version you want to purchase.* Anyhow, that led to my hassling the Sound Ex guys to order it for me and now sitting in front of me is this album - just as stupid, just as trashy, and just as fun as I remember it. Rock and Roll thy name is Sutch.

* Ugly Things suggests that the CD re-issue is a somewhat shoddily put together project when compared to the LP and attributes the difference to Sundazed giving a shit about quality.

Links:
Lord Sutch Wikipedia article
Sundazed Records
Ugly Things




Townes Van Zandt - Rear View Mirror - Sundown Records

Rating:

My first interaction with Townes Van Zandt was listening to one of his 70s studio albums. That was somewhat of a turn-off for me for quite a long time but, as a result of two unrelated discussion with Eat Grapes and Suzy that somehow curved towards TWZ in the same week, I recently went ahead, and gave him a second shot.

The first thing I sampled on E-music was, sure enough, some overproduced 70s album but then I caught 30 seconds of this album and went ahead and downloaded the whole album and to my surprise I've been spinning this gem all week. Much like John Cale's brilliant Fragments of a Rainy Season the performance here is an intimate one that shakes off the baroque production that clutters many a 70s album and lets the songs and the performer shine. Really, I can think of no better introduction to Van Zandt than this performance. [OK one small complaint people in the audience saying things like "Awwright!" when they recognize their favorite song - uhhh no.]

Just take White Freight Line Blues the guitar, violin, and Van Zandt's vocal performance are limber, playful, and simply joyful. When he sings the high note on "Well there's bad news from Houston half my friends are dyyyyyyying." I....Oh man, fuck this..I gotta get me a Lone Star and do me some stoop sittin'!

Links:
Townes Van Zandt Central


Postscript: Shit I was going to review the Eat Grapes CD but I left it at work. It's pretty cool and surprisingly focuses more on the tape collages than the folk singing which is unexpected but kind of cool. I'm just just got the new Andrew Bird and it's pretty nice but I've not had enough time to really sit down with it to write a review but it's pretty nice so far. So I figure that's enough for now.

Rating System

David Thomas (Pere Ubu): So good my head is going to explode!



Dave Thomas (Wendy's): Pretty tasty.



Dave Thomas (SCTV): Oh My fucking God! What happened to these guys!
*Reserved for bands that at one time were great.



Celine Dion: Hey, more power to the artist and the fans but leave us out of it.



Nickelback Dude: So bad that I'm only reserving it for the worst of the worst; I mean, come on, we're talking sucking worse than Celine Dion.




Generally speaking you won't see me reviewing many things that deserve "Celine Dion" or "Nickelback Dude" status as I'd rather review stuff I like and want you to hear. Lastly, I ain't going to link to any particular record store as we'd rather you support your own local independent record store.

Shh

I hadn’t really intended to write about Jandek this week, but well, here I am. I went to his SXSW performance, expecting to find it pretty crowded and it was, but not the line-around-the block crowded I was hoping it wouldn’t be. I guess now that he has played a handful of shows, there isn’t the sense that you have to go see him because if you don’t, you never will. Assuming, that is, you even know what a Jandek is. And I got the sense that a fair amount of the people there didn’t. They were there because of the hype associated with him and they showed up to see a spectacle, the way many of Daniel Johnston’s and all of the late Wesley Willis’ fans do, secretly hoping that the performer will do something really crazy that they can tell all their friends about:

“Dude, he totally started crying. And then he pulled out a can of lighter fluid and set the place on fire, while he sat there cackling and drawing pentagrams with the chicken blood he poured from a Welcome Back Kotter Thermos. I had to stop, drop, and roll a few times and I barely made it out alive. It was awesome. You should have been there.”*

Take all this with a grain of salt, because I didn’t take a survey of these people’s opinions or anything and my brain tends to go on about things which often turn out to be utterly wrong. With that little disclaimer out of the way, I shall now go off the deep end of the pool of crackpot theories and talk more about the Jandek image while mostly ignoring the Jandek music.

Jandek hype centers around the—I think completely contrived—image of the reclusive anti-star. Everything about him practically screams out that he doesn’t want to be seen. Or I guess, doesn’t scream out, because screaming would actually call attention to the screamer. What I really mean is something exactly the opposite of screaming. An anti-scream, if you will. So everything about Jandek anti-screams that he doesn’t want to be seen.

The Jandek albums are full of what could be characterized as mournful songs of some guy sitting in the corner of a room not wanting to be recognized and yet calling attention to himself anyway. Album covers, if they have a picture of him at all, have blurry representations in non-specific settings, that Jandek really only inhabits as some sort of apparition. Even his name is anonymous and defies the general propensity to hang meaning on the things we name.** There's no Jandek here, folks, please move along.

At the Central Presbyterian Church in Austin, Jandek stood at the front of the stage, fronting what was essentially a rock band. This is not the position that somebody who wants to be anonymous takes, but he tried his best to stay hidden. He was somewhat obscured by a music stand. Now, most people would have some difficulty being hidden by a music stand, but Jandek is stick thin (all the better to be invisible), so there isn’t much of him to hide. He also wore all black and capped the ensemble off with a black fedora. His guitar was fairly generic and looked like it was chosen simply because it has a black body, black headstock, and a dark, rosewood fretboard, making it fade into the background like he does. Jandek is not here. You are not seeing Jandek.

The backing band consisted of three other musicians who stood very much apart from the man in black. The harmonium player paid little attention to the others and focused entirely on his drone. The drummer and Globetrotter Tom*** did controlled freakouts, that sometimes bordered on rhythmic, putting things in an oddly rock context, which as I mentioned is not really what is traditionally Jandek (if it can be said that anything is traditionally Jandek). Before each song, Jandek shuffled through the papers on his music stand, presumably deciding which one to play next. The lyrics that he may or may not have been reading from these papers (part of me wants to think that the papers were blank) ranged from what you would expect: I don't like myself/I'm sorry but it's true to those that belied his outsider status: I think I'd like to go/To the land of ice and snow. Did he just lift lyrics from "Immigrant Song"? That doesn't sound like a guy with no connection to the world. All the better to obscure the lyrics that are actually personal, I suppose. Showiness is just not what he does. And there seems to be a slew of Houston musicians that are similarly unshowy.

Beyoncé notwithstanding, there is a whole tradition of Houston musicians that seem almost anxious to push their way to the back of the stage. It’s not just Jandek. There are also the Charalambides, Jana Hunter, Dunlavy—the list goes on. These people are just uncomfortable with or just plain aren’t interested in the kind of attention that usually comes with being a performer. Is this what is really responsible for the lack of any success for Houston artists the way Houston Press music editor John Lomax defines it? And can it all be traced back to Jandek? Or is that just my own crackpottery?

I have to admit that there is something sort of glorious about this bunch of people who aren’t constantly trying to call attention to themselves. In a world filled with media that feels like it needs to shout ever louder to be heard, it’s nice to see some people just revel in the quiet.

*Unfortunately, these will probably be the leaders of tomorrow’s men or possibly already are the leaders of today’s. They will make the laws and guide the industries. They will, on the other hand, never be able to get punctuation right, like I did in the referring quote. So I have that on them. And they can’t take that away from me.

**The first album that Jandek put out was actually under the also generic sounding moniker “the Units,” but another band already had claim to that name.

***I forget who it was that first pronounced “Charalambides” as “Harlem Globetrotters,” but I’m sure you’ll agree that’s it’s an easy mistake to make. I find the mispronunciation endlessly amusing in way that I would guess nobody else does.

Week 21: The Spinns

Also included: Part 7 of The Book of Fables.

To Bo Venom.

What makes a great rock and roll show? We all know when we’ve seen a great show, but trying to convey that feeling to someone who wasn’t there usually comes across in a way similar to that cop in the Lenny Bruce trial testifying from notes he took while watching the comedian do his act. The cop could read Lenny Bruce’s words and describe his actions, but he could not convey the comedy. For the comedy you had to be there. Same thing with good live rock and roll – you just have to be there.

After having seen the Meat Puppets touring behind Up On The Sun, I had the chance to go backstage, but I couldn’t get my feet up the three steps to the backstage area mainly because I had a very real feeling that Curt Kirkwood was at least 15 feet tall. Watching Sonic Youth, during their Daydream Nation tour, bring the audience to the edge of a riot and then calm us back down only to bring us to the brink of a riot again to calm us down again and so on, I felt that Thurston Moore knew exactly what I was thinking before I thought it. Containing my nausea in a bathroom full of vomiting men while the Butthole Surfers let out their aural attack on hordes of stage diving maniacs, I was sure that they were playing notes only my intestines could hear. If you saw these bands playing at their rock and roll best, you probably just went, yeah, in recognition and remembrance and smiled to your insides with that good feeling you get after a great rock and roll show, even if its been years. On the other hand, if you never saw these bands live then you are either annoyed or feeling left out or at best you are trying to remember some other great live band you saw so that you too can get that good live rock and roll feeling.

So why write about great live shows then? There may be a few reasons, but the one that interests me is so we can understand what it is that makes a great rock and roll show.

The Spinns (photo by Jodi Donkel)

The Spinns were a great rock and roll band. However, they released only a few records (a couple of seven inch records and one full length CD), and although the records are a lot of fun and also excellent representations of contemporary garage rock, I will mainly remember The Spinns as one of the greatest live bands I’ve ever seen. The Spinns are now broken up, which is a shame because hanging out with them as a group was always guaranteed fun and good times trouble and I will always miss those days. But I will also miss their live shows. And what made their live shows so great? The songs themselves were fairly traditional 60s revivalist garage rock, but when The Spinns took the stage they communicated a volatility and commitment that pushed their songs beyond a simple homage to the 60s and into the underlying rock and roll on which they were built.

I will give you one example of one of their shows, which also lives in my memory as one of the best shows I've ever seen. It was a house party, a packed house party. Rob Spinn’s bass playing in The Spinns was somewhat reminiscent of the jug player in the 13th Floor Elevators, moving in circles like a slowly building tornado. Meanwhile Josh Spinn’s drumming pounded a pure rock and roll beat like a locomotive trying to plow thru Rob's tornado bass. Meanwhile, Todd Spinn’s guitar and vocals are belting out chords and phrases, and his tall standing figure is holding that moment when train and tornado meet and screaming, rock and roll! So with this encouragement the packed crowed inside the house immediately started jumping. And then the floor of the house started to give way under everyone’s feet, and The Spinns kept playing. Then the floor separated from the baseboards and the support beams broke, and they kept playing. Then the top of Todd’s head could be seen rising and falling as if he was bouncing on a trampoline in the middle of the crowd, and they kept playing. When it was obvious that the floor was going to give under the pressure of a hundred people bouncing uncontrollably, they kept playing. Rob, his long hair covering his face and Josh his hands splattering blood in all directions, held their heads down concentrating on keeping the locomotive inside the tornado as the whole floor went up and down with the beat and Todd kept pounding those guitar chords and saying, yeah! It felt like the whole house was going to explode in all directions and only The Spinns continued playing was keeping everything together. But they did stop playing, and by some miracle of rock and roll the floor never did fully collapse. It might have been a disappointment for those bent on disaster, but that was The Spinns, volatile, constantly teetering on the edge of disaster but holding it all together thanks to the solid foundation of rock and roll.

And here’s part 7 of The Book of Fables:
THE BURDENS

The Burdens are one of the premier rock and roll bands around today, but like most rock and roll bands, they had humble beginnings in their mama's basement. But that was such a long time ago that they themselves don’t remember, much in the same way most of us don’t remember being born. There was only one person in the whole wide world that remembered what they were like back then, but we’ll get to her later. Because what made them great as a rock and roll band back then doesn’t apply to them now in their superstar celebrity status.

Even though I know that since you’ve made it this far reading this stories, you are probably more interested in hearing about the humble beginnings of The Burdens than hearing about their present legal issues, I must first mention a few things about the current state of affairs since it’s been everywhere in the news for the past few weeks and does have some relevance to our story.

As you know The Burdens are suing The Composing Family for stealing their true hit song. The Composing Family has been collecting more money from that true hit song than from all the rest of their catalog put together. The Burdens, however, claim that they wrote that song years and years ago before they even had a record contract or anyone knew their favorite colors, and they have filed suit against the Composing Family. The Composing Family, as you might remember, stole the song (or borrowed it, as they say amongst themselves) from the Motionless Busker. And upon first being served with the lawsuit they attempted to find the Motionless Busker in order to buy the song rights from him. However, even though the whole family spread thin throughout the world looking for the Motionless Busker, they could not find him. The Motionless Busker, of course, hadn’t moved and continued to play as he did before, but the Composing Family somehow couldn’t find him.

Faced with this setback the Composing Family tried to settle with The Burdens, but The Burdens wanted to go to court and refused the settlement offer. Several weeks into the trial, however, it has become obvious that The Burdens’ evidence that they wrote the song is not as solid as they themselves appeared to believe. The only piece of evidence The Burdens have is an ancient reel of magnetized tape which couldn’t even be played until an audiologist was found that owned a piece of equipment that could play the tape. But when the magnetic reel was played in court, even after repeated listenings it wasn’t obvious that it was the same song, and it wasn’t obvious that it was The Burdens playing on the recording.

The media immediately took sides and the public debate began simultaneously with the legal debate happening in the courtrooms. At present there has been no resolution on the issue and the case seems like it will go on indefinitely. Particularly since both sides have now taken to play concerts together during which they will both play the song during their set. The concerts are sold out across the world and that, combined with the multiple media appearances of both sides, has slowly built an industry out of the issue. Tru Hit Song, Inc is now a multi-million dollar conglomerate whose board of directors is composed of members from both The Burdens and The Composing Family. The objective of the corporation would seem to be to extend the legal battle over the song as much as possible. Meanwhile the two sides meet weekly to celebrate their good fortune and drink cocktails. And, even though the ratings for the crossfire debates over who wrote the song, along with the legal analysis shows focusing on the latest courtroom developments have been the highest rated in history, it seems that no one really wants to find out who wrote the song.

But The Burdens want to find the writer. They knew they hadn’t written the song, and they hoped that all the media attention would find the one they believed had written it. Many years ago The Burdens called themselves The Carefree, as they were starting their band. One day, they met a young girl that came to their practice space and interrupted their horrid aimless meandering jam with a loud, Please stop that horrid aimless meandering jam! Then she asked to borrow one of their guitars and immediately started playing the song that has now become the center of all this controversy. The song lasted all of two minutes, but when she was done The Carefree were now The Burdens, as they immediately realized that the girl was right, that her song was rock and roll, and that they could never come up with something so powerful. They asked her to play it again and they played along with her and they felt good and they recorded it on their old magnetic tape recorder. But when they asked the girl to show them another song, she said she didn’t know any other songs and left. The Burdens then listened to the tape over and over and wrote a bunch of songs based on that one. And they became rich and famous playing rock and roll and were generally known as one of the original rock and roll bands.

At first they made some attempts to find the girl, but after a little while, a very little while actually, they forgot all about her and her song and the magnetic tape was stored away in a box in some basement and forgotten. Until many years later while watching a movie in their private home theater they heard the Composing Family's true hit song and it stuck in their heads like it did to everyone else. But they were sure they'd heard it before, and after months of trying to figure out where, they realized that it was the same song that girl had played such a long time ago and on which they had based their whole sound. And they were filled with joy thinking they had found her. So they looked in all the basements of all their houses until they found the old magnetic reel and they immediately knew that, yes, that was the song. And at that very moment as they held the magnetic reel against the tiny dusty basement window, they realized that they had now truly become The Burdens and they understood their load. And in that instant of understanding all their success, fame, and fortune melted away thru the cracks of the basement floor to become a river of molten lava that followed them under the earth, everywhere they went, making the soles of their feet constantly hot and bothersome. And then the disappiontment in finding out that the girl had nothing to do with the Composing Family almost brought about their total collapse, until they thought of the lawsuit. The lawsuit brought renewed fame and fortune to The Burdens and made their hot feet bearable. But where was the girl?

As you’ve probably guessed by now the girl with the song is The Teenager, the center of the universe, and she remembers what The Burdens were like back then, but she doesn't care, she has other interests, that don't include the trials of the rich and famous. But wait, you might say, that timeline doesn't make sense, how could she be The Teenager if it was such a long time ago?

Moral: Time is not always what it seems.

Beatland: A Quick Look at Irish Beat

Ireland: For most of the 1960s and the following decade, live music was dominated by that peculiarly Irish phenomenon, the showband . These groups of neatly-coiffed, shiny-suited cover-version merchants toured the country, playing their selections in vast ballrooms (barely a few of which survive today). Enthusiasm tended to supersede talent, but their regimentation did provide a training ground for future stars such as Rory Gallagher and Eric Bell (Thin Lizzy's first guitarist).


Irish Beat Spins off: The most successful group was Bluesville , led by Ian Whitcomb, an American studying at Trinity College, which had a US top ten hit with You Turn Me On . Meanwhile, in Belfast, George Ivan Morrison had got together with guitarist Billy Harrison to form Them.


Three Jolly Little Dwarfs: The Orange Machine (Dublin) Pye 1968. This was one of the best-ever "psychedelic" singles and reached No.14 in the Irish charts. The B-side, “Real Life Permanent Dream” has made this single much sought-after by record-collectors worldwide. A copy (with rare picture-sleeve) sold for GB£65.00 (approximately Euro 95.00) on eBay recently. Ernie Durkan later joined The Gentry, then Buckshot, Tommy Kinsella joined the Cotton Mill Boys and drummer Jimmy Greally became a successful radio broadcaster. Lead guitarist w
as Robin Crowley.

Songs:
Three Jolly Little Dwarfs.mp3
Did Ye Get Healed?.mp3
You Turn Me On.mp3
Karoake-Thin Lizzy.mp3

First and second sections culled from Travelotica.com.
Third section from Irishshowbands.net.
W from the house of Aries (your time to shine starts now)
E from Ulysses
D from a set of painted wooden letters
N from the Houston Post
E from the American Meat Goat Industry
S is a snake
D from Pitchfork Media
A from Nonalignment Pact
Y is brought to you by Thin Lizzy

In The Dunes Of The Cape

Let’s get this thing started with a categorical statement: there is no such thing as inherently good or inherently bad music. In fact, the concept of music itself is up for grabs. What music is is ultimately impossible to completely define.

These two concepts ought to cement my ever-thickening position into the pantheon of the reviled - or at least the pantheon of the ridiculed - but I still stand by them. So now let’s get on with the deliberations, and we’ll just see what happens.

Let’s start with the second idea first. What is music? Well, generally it is a sound created for the purpose of enjoyment. In fact, this is the Webster’s Riverside Dictionary definition of music in their most basic terms: An aesthetically pleasing or harmonious sound. Now, I sometimes find the sound of someone crying to be aesthetically pleasing in a peculiar way, maybe even harmonious, but I don’t think of it necessarily as music. By the same token, most people would find Coltrane’s Meditations to be something akin to atonal noise, but to me it is not only musical, it is profoundly musical. And then there is the fact that deaf people may arguably be able to enjoy music in a wholly other fashion. They are able to physically detect the sensations of vibration and to interpret them in an aesthetic manner. So sound is not an imperative.

So where does music come from? What is the zero point, and is there even such a clearly defined phenomenon as a zero point? Does music start with the vibrations of the sub-atomic microverse? Is music a vestigial element of the Big Bang, or can we trace the birth of music to the pulse of the heart? Perhaps on all accounts. Perhaps there is no zero point, perhaps music drifted into being in a non-linear fashion. And better still, perhaps there is no such thing as music. Maybe it is all a figment of our imaginations. I mean it is borne from our imaginations, right? Does that make it real?

I know that there are those who believe that music is an external quality, an absolute that has been imbued into humanity from the creator. I find this idea attractive, but I simply don’t believe it (which leads into another discussion all together, and one I won’t get into). Maybe to those of theological faith, being is a form of music. I’ll bet someone somewhere believes this.

So how do I define music? Usually I narrowly define it within the commonly accepted terms without even thinking about it. I usually stick within the confines of the standard definition. But over my life I have learned to expand my views on things to the point of trying to conceptualize the possibility of anything, and I want to apply this to music now if I could.

To me, I think that music is always open to interpretation, as in: what is good, what is bad, and ultimately what music is at all. If you played some Merzbow for every person on the planet, I know that overwhelmingly you would find agreement that it is not music. But that doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t actually music, just that the consensus is that his material is tortuous noise and nothing else. You probably get the gist of what I’m saying. Generally speaking, we need to label things to give them meaning, to flesh out their ethereal, insubstantial fields. As Ramon puts it, “you have to name it so you can kill it.” So it’s not only safe to use a working definition of music as sound that is aesthetically pleasing, it’s also advantageous for adapting and developing our deeper understanding of the limitless possibilities of what music can be. Because ultimately you can’t get anywhere if you have no fucking clue where you are to begin with, no? But for the sake of complete understanding, try to think of music as being in total flux and firmly rooted at the same time, okay? That way, both, either, and neither are all equally viable options available to us to use and grow and to hire for the benefit of seeing the truth as being as crushingly beautiful as it always is. That’s the kind of thing that makes grown men cry.

So it shouldn’t be too hard to guess where I’m heading when I try and define good/bad music, now should it? If we call for a show of hands to help us find out who here thinks some sort of music makes them want to openly challenge Ted Bundy for a murder contest, would any hand stay down? Nope. And that’s including my own. We’ve made short work of Celine, the Police, the Eagles, mainstream rap, and countless others whose music has made one, some, or all of us cringe at some point in our lives, and we have all thought that something we’ve heard was simply terrible and needs to go the way of Barbaro the horse. But the thing is, who here, by show of hands, hasn’t also changed their mind on some band or musician that eventually caused you to redefine what you used to find dear? So it is subjective. But guess what? Some music is bad. Bad in the sense that if the elevator doesn’t get there soon, this John Tesh track is going to spur you to paint the walls with the offal of yuppies. But that’s cool, because maybe your shitlicker boss has an epileptic seizure every time he hears the same Tesh tidbit. So which CD will you be buying tomorrow? Guess what’s good now?

So I clearly tend to operate with a subjective view of what makes certain pieces of music good and others shitty. Some things will persevere with me in what could pass as a habitual pleasure. Certain signposts, be they emotional or auditory, or as triggers that when pulled affect the sense of contentment that we return to repeatedly throughout an otherwise utterly chaotic life. And there is something rather quaint about this sort of joy, a comfort in feeling a continuity that comes from without. Most constants in our lives are those that we carry inside, things like our ever-changing sense of identity. Part of the magic of humanity is our ability to weave a thread that draws itself through our mythic retelling of our life experience. And yet under careful examination, things begin to fall apart quite dramatically. There’s really nothing quite like the sense of the dissolution of identity that occurs when I micro-analyze what it is that makes me me. So when I do the same thing with music – which is to say – when I take a certain song for instance and I carry it through the web of my history from the moment of my first hearing it up until now, what I find is that I can’t pin down a ton of substance in what it means to me anymore than I can pin down my sense of self. It is a fine example of a gossamer thread. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that what I am saying is that there is no thread, because something somehow always manages to carry through. It’s just that when you try and locate what that is it pervades it can get a tad elusive.

And we certainly should never try and kid ourselves into thinking that we aren’t living a narrative, since it would appear as though this is the very best way for us to maintain our lunacy.

Being a lifelong slut for music means that you will be bound to having music follow you through every moment of your life. For me I have an almost constant stream of music that plays in the background of my consciousness every waking moment. It’s like the voices that hound the minds of schizophrenics. Often, when I am really tired, or under monstrous amounts of stress, I will be haunted by a certain song, or a melody, or a passage of some piece of music that I just can’t shake for what can sometimes be literally days. I will actually alter my walking rhythm just to synchronize it with the tune I am hearing in my head. Most often the music that plagues me is something that I may not be entirely fond of, but even if I am, the mere fact that it is lodged firmly in the back of my brain like some sort of virus will reduce even the best riff to a pile o