Twirling Towards Freedom

We almost never get the kind of national election campaigning in Texas that we've gotten over the last couple weeks, but with the Democratic candidates running neck and neck, you can't turn around in Houston without running into one of them. I was in a convenience store just yesterday buying a Coke and a box of hollow-point 45 bullets and when my total came to $18.01, I searched my pocket in vain for a penny. That's when Barack Obama, who was in line behind me, held out a shiny new Lincoln. Or at least i think it was shiny; I could just have been dazzled by his winning smile. Anyway, before I could take his penny, Hillary Clinton pushed to the front of the line and made me take her penny instead. She said it was just like his, but unlike Barack's penny, which I was free to decline, I had to take Hillary's. She had lots of Secret Service guys with her, so I didn't argue. Needless to say, it's a good time to be in Texas if you're interested in the music presidential candidates use to juice their stump speeches.


I went to See Michelle Obama speak at the University of Houston Monday. I hadn't been to that particular venue for several years so I was surprised at how they have spruced things up. For example, they added a couple giant video screens on either side of the stage (which were lit up with slogans) and, more importantly, sound dampening, which prevented the awful slapback echo the room used to have*. The first song I heard as I approached the venue was U2's "Pride (In the Name of Love)," which is an obvious choice, to be sure. Bono and MLK? All you need are a couple slices of bread (whole grain, please, these are Democrats) and you have an instant hope sandwich. This was followed by some nondescript, but positive 70s soul. Sure, makes sense. And then Tom Petty's "American Girl." Hmm. I'm not sure what that's supposed to imply. Maybe nothing. "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding." Yeah, okay. Then a string of other songs that I don't remember. And just before the warm-up entertainment, "American Girl" again. That can't be an accident. They must be trying to get across some message there.

The actual event itself went very smoothly:

• Hope
• Change
• Working class background
• "They" set the bar high and said we couldn't do this and when we did, "they" move the bar.
• Yes we can.
  

There was an awful lot of talk about this bar**, so one imagines that the first thing Obama would do as president would be to buy some nails so he can keep that infernal thing in place. After all the bar talk, the speech was over and they played the odd choice of Ryan Adams' "Firecracker" as we shuffled out past the anchor people doing on-the-scene reporting.

Wednesday I heard on the radio that Bill Clinton was going to have several events in Houston, so I dug around on the Hillary Clinton website looking for locations. You would think they would make it easy and display things like that prominently. Nope.  But this was just the the first of many signs of disorganization in the Clinton campaign. I finally found that Bill was going to be at a park a couple miles from where I live. Again, you would think that they would make it easy for me and have better notice about an event that was happening near where I live. Again, no. By the time I got to the park, Bill was long gone, but I talked to a cop who said I could catch him at one of the other events. So I set out for his next stop at a community college some ten miles from where I live. When I got there, though, Senator Palatine--er--Bill Clinton was already on his way to his next stop. I had no desire to stalk him all the way out to west Houston, no matter how much I love Jodie Foster.

The finale of my week with the presidential candidates was the Hillary Clinton rally. The helpful Clinton website said that the event started at 7:00 at a location I'd never been, but that I remembered from Rushmore. That's almost like having been there.


I got there a little early, thinking it was going to be pretty crowded.  As my reward for planning, I got to wait in line for half an hour for them to open the doors to let us in. I also got to hear all about the boss of the women behind me in line. Volunteers walked up and down the line telling us that we couldn't bring signs in. Grizzled men with mustaches tried to sell us buttons for $5. Each. FairTax people handed out t-shirts. LaRouchies handed out flyers***.

Once inside, I had to empty my pockets and go through a metal detector. Finally I made my way to the bleachers and sat down next to a middle aged woman with teased hair who immediately scooted away from me. Despite its nifty 50s modern exterior, the interior of the Delmar Gymnasium is, well, a gymnasium.


If you've even been inside a gymnasium--and I know you have--you know that their acoustic properties are amazing. It's only possible to hear sounds that are close to you clearly; distant sounds become a muddled wash of noise. And this is what the Delmar Gymnasium is like, too. As I sat down, there was a seven piece mariachi band playing, but I couldn't really tell.  It looked like they were playing, but all I actually heard were the horns and the occasional note or two from other instruments cutting through the soundwash.

This went on for half an hour or so until the "jazz band" of 13 year old inner city kids started playing. I heard cymbals every once in a while, so I'm pretty sure they were playing. Then a 13 year old girl got on the stage to sing. She had a microphone, but there were no monitors and presumably the band was loud where she was standing, so she had to belt out "Respect." The speakers were right in front of me, so I heard her singing pretty well. Too well. You know the really bad audition portion of American Idol? Right. Except much louder. This girl was followed by a slightly older Latina in an orange prom dress who sang a song about being in the arms of another man. Her pitch was--and I still find this hard to believe--even worse than the first girl's. After they wrapped up, there was a bit of silence and the mariachis came back out to play. Then the band again, reprising "Respect." Clearly they were stalling. Clinton was meeting with energy barons before this, after all. Then the mariachis again. Around this time, a guy who looked like Alex P. Keaton began distributing signs which were handmade, presumably by Clinton apparatchiks, with bland slogans like "Texas Has Found Her Star" and "Texas is Hillary Country."**** Finally at 9:30, fully three hours after I got there, the warm-up. A county commissioner. Only when she was done did they start playing pre-recorded music. They started with a nondescript number that I didn't recognize, which could have been any song produced in Nashville this year. Then a U2 song I also didn't recognize. "Suddenly I See" by KT Tunstall. Springsteen's "The Rising" was cut off so that they could play Jesus Jones' "Right Here, Right Now."

And...Congressman Gene Green, Congresswoman Sheila Jackson-Lee, State Senator Mario Gallegos, and Hillary Clinton. Sigh. It's about time. Green didn't say much. Gallegos made sure he said things in Spanish. Jackson-Lee got in as much time as she could, trying to get the crowd excited. She said things like, "Does anybody not believe we can win?" And everybody cheered. So I guess everybody thinks they can't win. Finally Clinton:

• Hope
• Change
• Working class background

Clinton, it seemed, had read the Wikipedia entry on Houston just before getting up to speak. "You have a port that we need to protect," she said. Further, she said that one of the things that distinguishes her from her opponent is that she wants to make sure NASA has the funding they need. She doesn't want our astronauts going up on rockets made in China or Russia; she wants them going up on rockets made right here in Houston. Never you mind that we don't make the rockets in Houston.***** 

At points, the crowd broke into chants of "sí se puede," a popular theme in this election, apparently, and Hillary made sure to point out that she was honored to have been endorsed by César Chávez's family. Then more Jesus Jones and she was gone, leaving me to again shuffle past the media (no recognizable anchor people this time), and wander through the parking lot, looking for my car, while everybody else was pushing their keychain's panic button to find their cars.

I wasn't able to go to the Obama rally last week, which took place at a much bigger venue than the Clinton rally.  Instead, I went to see the new Michel Gondry movie (disappointing). However, after reading about Maxim's proleptic review****** of the new Black Crowes album, I figure that I, too, have license to make up whatever I want.

The Barack Obama rally was the opposite of the other events I attended because instead of talking and loud music, everybody stood perfectly still. There were very few sounds, much less music, as Obama crept out to his podium and stood there as a motionless crowd of thousands stared back at him. He delivered a speech, which has been described as rousing in other cities, but here nobody was roused. Or at least they weren't on the outside. Inside, they were very much awake and strangely craving brains.

---------------------------------------------
*Both of these things would have been awesome to have many years ago when I was putting music shows there.
**There were people signing for the hard of hearing, looking like mimes pushing up an invisible bar.
***I really, really don't understand the LaRouche phenomenon. This guy could find a conspiracy in a room containing one person. Here is an actual quote from the flyer, talking about what he thinks will happen in this election:

Democratic Option: Following the London orchestration of Obama's downfall, Hillary is also eliminated in some way, and Bloomberg's machine grabs the Presidency and with the support of Schwarzeneggar, institutes the immediate reign of a neo-Schachtian, corporativist fascist program of Lazard Frères-created George Schultz "revolution in military affairs" crony Felix Rohatyn, in the U.S.A.

You can't make stuff like that up. Or at least I can't. And anyway.

****None of these astroturf signs were nearly as good as the ones that three women on the other side of the gymnaisum from me smuggled in. They each had a sign with a word on each side. One set read "You Go Girl" and the other set read "Wear That Pantsuit."

*****Here, for your perusal, is Obama's space plan [pdf].

******"Proleptic" is a new word for me this week and it's pure serendipity that I ran into it in the same week of such a good example of it. But the best part is how I ran across it--I was reading a William F. Buckley, Jr. obit that pointed to this Safire article, which talks about Buckley's accent. But later in the piece, Safire talks about prolepsis and how he first heard the word from Madame Chiang Kai-shek. This will be the one and only time you will ever see "Madame Chiang;" William F. Buckley, Jr; and "The Black Crowes" used in the same place.

Week 70: Guest Post by Todd Cobra, Rock Chronicles 2

My friend, Todd Cobra, excellent songwriter, guitarist and rocker from bands like The Spinns and The Gondoliers continues his guest post series, the Rock Chronicles... Chronicles... Chronicles...

* * *

Rock Chronicle 2: Ohio River

I woke up in a third story loft apartment, downtown Cincinnati, OH. I soon realized I was there alone. Being ditched by the rest of the band wasn’t unusual or offensive, especially when you’ve been on the road, drinking heavily every night, for more than a month. Under these circumstances anything goes and it’s up to the individual to keep up with the pack. Also, of the three of us, I was least acquainted with our host, Bobby Blackout.

I was actually glad to be alone. I had the bathroom to myself. I was able to take my time cleaning myself up. The note on the bathroom mirror indicated that they had gone only a few blocks away to a bar where Bobby Blackout’s friend was working the morning shift. The night before we were informed that Bobby's friend would serve us free drinks. None of us wanted to jeopardize the opportunity to drink as much free booze as possible on a day off. I found the bar easily although I must say; these were some rough streets. I remembered the night before, when we drunkenly went looking for a random drug hookup in this same tough neighborhood.

Bobby Blackout’s friend/bartender was a good-looking casually dressed young woman. Like Bobby himself, just the kind of fun, eccentric, character that makes a self-booked and largely self-funded tour worth while.

When I sat at the bar, my cohorts were only half way through their first pint glass of Bloody Marys. I ordered the same and to my clandestine provocation, our comely bartender mixed it with Stoli. When you’ve been drinking heavily the night before, it doesn’t take very much top shelf Bloody Mary before you are just as hammered as you were a few hours ago when you went to sleep. Let alone when you’ve been drinking heroically every night for a month and your blood surely contains alcohol constantly. The four of us drank nearly three bottles worth of Stoli, Bloody Mary style. Then we hit the streets! We proceeded a few blocks down to a liquor/beer store where we each purchased a 40 oz. of malt liquor. I opted for a Mickeys. Another band member preferred Malt Liquor Bull. We then proceeded toward the river. We sang a rousing, if not totally obnoxious and tourist-designating version of 70s television staple, WKRP in Cincinnati theme song as we made our way. Attempting to recall those lyrics, totally wasted, before noon, at top oratory volume is an activity reserved for ass-holes only. We were begging for trouble.

We made our way, successfully so far, to the Ohio riverside. At one point I staggered underneath a bridge-like structure, probably to pee, and got stuck in what must have been three feet deep mud. I sank into it up to almost my knees. When I tried to free myself, the muddy trap sucked my shoes off. I sunk back in, forfeiting my socks, and pulled my shoes out with my hands. I was a mess.

We arrived at our destination by the river, a small amphitheater of concrete stairs, not quite underneath a huge bridge that extended over the Ohio River. A few random homeless people were scattered about, either sleeping in the morning sun or drinking 40ozs.

The Ohio River is gigantic. Not Mississippi River size, but big enough to accommodate a full size barge, barring the man made rock humps that emerge from the river every fifty feet or so all the way across, permanently blocking any such ship from passing. The first of these humps was about thirty feet from our shore, directly in front of where we drank our 40ozs. Jolson, part of our stellar rhythm section, had removed his shoes and rolled up his jeans. He was wading on the concrete shore-edge, half way up to his knees. No one was paying much attention to him when he disappeared. "Wheres Jolson?" someone asked. Then we saw him. He was swimming toward the closest hump, in a death defying tango with the Cincinnati River!

I can’t remember if we were cheering him on or silent with concerned awe. It was plain to see that the current was substantial. I was reminded of the drunken Marines that drowned in the Savannah River during the St. Patricks Day celebration, from the days of my art school tenure there. Jolson touched the rocky hump with his hand and started swimming back towards shore. When he got to the shore, much farther down from us than when he took his plunge, Bobby Blackout and the bass playing member of our rhythm section helped pull him out. Death had been averted, so far.

Not to be outdone by this daring, drunken and undeniably stupid act of rock and roll tour mayhem, I stripped. Naked I dove into the mighty Ohio River! The water was ice cold and the current was strong. Furiously I swam through its heavy waters. On my way towards the rock I thought; Jolson is a lot more athletic than I am, I might die. I was surely in a fight for my life. I tagged the slippery rock and turned around. Every ounce of breath and strength, and whatever was left of my shattered mind, focused on preserving my own life.

They pulled my pale, depleted body from the rivers chilling grip. If I had to swim one more yard I surely would have sunk down, only to emerge, one pallid, waterlogged rock and roll corpse. The homeless people in the amphitheater had been provided an entertaining morning. When we left however, despite our victorious proclamations, they didn’t seem to give a shit.

We went back to the bar. We arm wrestled, broke bottles and boasted loudly about our mornings' exploits. Jolson told me that when he touched the rock, he actually meant to climb onto it, but was overcome himself, by the current.

Later we were at a bonfire in-between two big brick buildings. Art students lived in one and they thought very little of us. We were as obnoxious and unwanted everywhere we went as possible. Later still we went to some girl’s house. I passed out on her bed for a while. If someone was making love right next to me I will never know. Shortly after I awoke, we were driven back to Bobby’s place. We split town the next day.

We Are All From Some Place Else

We passed droves of sun thirsty wanderers on the Lake Shore Sunday afternoon on our way to Andrew D'Angelo's Benefit show. First time we hit the Green Mill earlier than 2 in the morning.

First up (and first down) some tastey Bloody Maries. On stage, Tortoise alums Jeff Parker and Rob Mazurek mixed it up with a few other Chicago free jazz luminaries producing a groovy set, looping bass and guitar riffs offset by Mazurek's coronet.

Mazurek, also of Chicago Underground, has brought many of these same musicians together for a group he calls the Exploding Star Orchestra. Their 2007 Thrill Jockey release, a deep space/deep sea thriller-saga, is well worth the download. I have half a mind to simply make it a napcast but in the spirit of this benefit, I'm just gonna suggest you buy it and help these cats out.

ESO will have a new release on Thrill Jockey very soon, a collaboration with Free Jazz icon Bill Dixon. Check out music from ESO's previous release, We Are All From Someplace Else on their myspace page.

Jeff Parker played a Guild (T-50/100). It's the third time I've seen this guitar on a Chicago stage. I'm not including my own shows. I own this guitar and love it for its quick fretting play.

Next up, Ted Sirota's Rebel Souls. I was expecting Soul Jazz but Ted Sirota said he was tired of his own songs, so the group played proficiently through a series of free jazz standards (that's a weird thing to write). They played some works by Ornate Coleman, Charles Mingus and if I'm not mistaken Thelonious Monk.

Chicago
o r n e r . . .	UPtown - Being at the Green Mill in the afternoon was like being out of time and not just in that old barfly way. The Green Mill, immortalized in film and once a Prohibition haunt of Al Capone was remodeled to its old glory in the 1980's. Usually after 1 AM there is no cover but the live jazz is still going and so are the martinis.
	The Green Mill is in Uptown which is my favorite Chicago neighborhood to explore. Driving down N. Broadway (even the street names evoke the past) the urban scene doesn't seem to have progressed much past 1971. The salons are full, black women sitting in circles chatting it up. Grown men on kid bikes (some with banana seats) out front, little hardware stores, used books shops.
	Uptown is an ethnically mixed neigbhorhood so it's no wonder Studs Terkel calls it home. It is also home to Chicago's Vietnam Town and Tank Noodle Shop where Tricia and I go when we have a craving for the ethnic food we fell in love with down in H-town.

Randall's

He is sitting at the sushi counter, it's 10:30 at night. He is alone. He has a slight frame, is fairly conservatively dressed, and keeps to himself. Before him is a small, single serving shrimp cocktail. The shrimp is fairly old and is slightly gamey. He eats it anyway. His body language is an exercise in defeat. His timing is a window into American dissociative entropy and decay.

I feel pity for him even though he neither knows nor cares to know.

I imagine he will catch the last bus home. He will turn on the TV, watch a little Maury, fall asleep on the couch, fully dressed, cock in his hand, and awake tomorrow and notice the cocktail sauce on his shirt.

In his mind he will hear the same song that plagues me as I write this. The Girl From Ipanema.

These are the sort of things that drive me mad on this Tuesday night, maybe even on any other night, in this my meandering life.

Maybe he pities me?

i'm sleepy.

Number of people killed in a car accident in the U.S. in 2006: 42,642.
Number of people murdered in the U.S. in 2006: 17,034.
Some people have made the rough conclusion that it's safer to live in a city (where the crime rate is presumed to be higher) than it is to live in the suburbs because of this, which I find interesting.

Band of Horses played at the Brooklyn Masonic Temple not long ago. The venue is fantastic- haven't you ever wondered what the inside of a Masonic Temple is like?! The decoration is worse than you can imagine. Seeing B of H was more of an anthropological investigation for me; I was in the crowd but not of the crowd.

Did anybody win their Oscar pool last night?

On Friday, Tim Berne told me "You women have it all wrong with your worries about wrinkles and grey hair. I think bags underneath the eyes are sexy..." This was said in response to the fact that I became another earth year older last week. Also, Oscar Noriega subbed in for Andrew d'Angelo at the Andrew's cd release party/ benefit for his brain surgery.

Do you think that men argue with men differently than women argue with women?

Lastly, Sam Endicott, the singer of the Bravery reminds me and my friends of the Cure's Robert Smith. We saw them at Terminal 5. Yeah, I know, we should have gotten tickets to the Magnetic Fields that night instead, but they had sold out months before.

NAPCast 57

I know we all like themes, but honestly, after much (i.e. a couple of seconds) thought, the only one I could come up with was "what I felt like listening to Saturday morning". So there.


Click here to get your own player.

strictly 4 my wiggaz

On Thursday I got a call asking if I wanted to go shoot the debut live performance of a friend of a friend's band. Said band was a side project of a local punk band but was "gangsta rap". As these were all white boys I took this as an ill omen and my friend's further description of them as "a joke band" didn't help but I hadn't operated a video camera in way too long and had no good excuse not to go so I said what the hell.

The band in question is the Otahu Pimpin Crew and their MySpace page will sear your retinas with its atrocious design.

Given this, I do not expect you to fully believe me when I say that this was actually an incredibly entertaining show. The secret is not that it's white boys who are talking about AKs and pimpin' when you know that they have no real life experience with such thing, but that they know that you know that they have no real life experience and therefore have no expectation that you take the whole enterprise seriously, a move of jujitsu that leaves you free to enjoy their rhyming interplay, their energetic stageshow, and reasonably diverse arrangements.

Between this and inadvertently stumbling into a jazz show on Saturday that was unexpectedly world-class, I believe that there is way more going on in Auckland than I really realized that is worth seeing and doing. There's just absolutely no infrastructure for sharing said information.

I wanted to include an excerpt from IDIOCRACY about the difficulties of pimping as presented in slideshow form, but I couldn't find it online, so here instead is the beginning of that very hit or miss movie.

Heino

There was never a more under-appreciated vocalist than the great Heino. I own about 5 Heino records and am always impressed by their singular quality. Nothing quite has been able to approach that Heino sound - that golden tenor. Perhaps Heino is under-appreciated here in the States because he is too alien and challenging. It's possible that the raw power of Heino was perhaps too threatening for many in The United States in the 60s; Dylan, The Beatles, Hendrix, The Stones, and The MC5 were a packaged and acceptable revolution when put up against the bespectacled German's sheer forcefulness and directness. Or perhaps it was his raw and unbridled sexuality that was too much for Main Street America. Regardless of Heino not being accepted in the pop music cannon along with his lesser contemporaries, in many circles he remains a musical force to be reckoned with and admired. As in all cases, it is better to let the music speak for itself so I give you three Heino videos for your consideration:

The Master at work in the studio in 1967:


Next Heino performs Karamba, Karacho, Ein Whisky:


Finally , a direct challenge: Sing Mit Heino.

---

OK I'm fucking with you. Not the part about owning Heino records - that part is true - but, let's face it, Heino is about as close to empirically fucking awful as one could get.
So, If you made it through all three, you are indeed a trooper so, to make up for it, here is a sweet clip of The Who on German TV doing of one of my faves The Seeker.

Post

I don't have anything to say this week (not that it matters). Here are some long-haired Germans.



Here is more.

Benefit Concerts for Andrew d'Angelo

Andrew d'Angelo is a composer and saxophonist and you can hear his music here. He was one of my housemates when I first moved to New York, and I just found this out, so I'm gutted at the moment. He has suffered a seizure and has had a cancerous brain tumor removed, but still has to undergo radiation etc. Of course he has no health insurance. His blog about the ordeal, if you can stomach it, is here: http://www.andrewdangelo.com/blog.php

The list of benefit concerts is under the 'home' section on his website, and they will take place roughly as follows:
February 22, 2008 Brooklyn, NY
February 24, 2008 Chicago, IL
February 26, 2008 New York, NY
February 27, 2008 Antwerp, Belgium
February 28, 2008 Brooklyn, NY
February 29, 2008 Reykjavik, Iceland
February 29, 2008 Barcelona, Spain
March 5, 2008 Ghent, Belgium
March 11 & 12, 2008 Oslo, Norway
March 11, 2008 Brookline, MA
March 22, 2008 Brooklyn, NY
March 27, 2008 Sicily, Italy
April 4, 2008 Ferrara, Italy

P.S. This country fucking blows for not having universal health care.
P.P.S. The New York Times ran a piece on jazz musicians and health care yesterday.

Week 69: Guest Post by Todd Cobra, Rock Chronicles 1

My friend, Todd Cobra, excellent songwriter, guitarist and rocker from bands like the Spinns and the Gondoliers is going to guest post for me for a few weeks with his Rock Chronicles... Chronicles... Chronicles...

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Rock Chronicle 1: Larry Valiant

It was our first tour. We had the van and we had the first version of a four-piece rock combo. We really only needed three to do our brand of 60s garage music, but no one, ourselves included apparently, could resist the outgoing charm, good looks, and wild-eyed curiosity that we would later refer to as: Larry Valiant.

Larry Valiant was a maniac stage presence. The first time I ever played with him on stage, in a drums/two guitar version of the band, he was so excited he jumped off the stage during the first song, jumping on and knocking over tables, attacking the audience before it was even time for his solo. It was great! I felt like I had minions, going forth and doing my evil bidding. Also, Larry was what a 50s rocker might call, "a real bird dog". He had only been in town a few months when female friends of mine began telling me stories of Larry’s obsessive pursuing of them at bars and then at their places of work. A newcomer in town behaving this way might normally be cause for concern, but Larry would never cross the line of bad taste in these matters. He was simply an obsessive character. When he found something he liked, he pursued it tirelessly. Some found his outgoing behavior distressing. I found Larry wildly entertaining and not harmful. He would often yield hilarious, unforgettable quotes. When we determined that we would indeed be doing our first tour together he quipped, "Maybe you’ll see my cock!"

Early in this first tour it occurred to me; all my friends that have done this before me are so much cooler than I realized! Like pirates at sea, there is a pervading freedom in looting ones way across the country that exists seemingly, for you alone. This total freedom, over long stretches in between shows, produces a diversionary brand of free-association babble. We told Larry a story involving the now legendary Japanese band, Guitar Wolf:

A close friend, and rock star in her own right, was drinking and having a wonderful time with Guitar Wolf just before they were to hit the stage. Guitar Wolf was very gracious and pleasant when not rocking. Later that night however, when they started playing, was a different story. Our friend approached the stage. She was sipping a cocktail and offhandedly dancing to Guitar Wolf’s Ramones-like attack when Guitar Wolf’s bass player shouted at her with thick Japanese accent, "Get me a Heineken bitch!" Needless to say, she was shocked. This transformation from cordial civilian to unapologetic rocker was made even funnier to us by what happened next; she got him the beer! We were determined, upon telling Larry the Guitar Wolf story, that one of us would attempt the same demand on an unsuspecting, female audience member at one of our shows.

After a few days in New Orleans we were shattered. I drove us all the way to Houston while Larry Valiant and our bass player slept in the back. Larry’s head rested in our male bass players lap in the most shameful way: face down. We found the bar and went in to find our contacts. It turned out that our friend/contact, who was cute, had an even better looking, Latino roommate that was with her. Larry, recently awakened, started on her with his typically overbearing moves. He was doing pretty well. She was playing it cool though, and was across the bar when he said it: "Get me a Heineken bitch!" In classic, record player needle scratching, bar silencing style, all eyes went to Larry Valiant and then to our contact’s hot Latino friend. She didn’t need any help from the burly Texas bar patrons. She walked across the barroom floor and slapped the hell out of the face of Larry Valiant. Even though Larry was humiliated and immediately laughed at by an entire bar full of strangers, he later yielded another hilarious Valiant quote. Asked how it felt to receive that fiery Latino slap in the face he said, "It kinda gave me a chubby!" Most amazing to me is that, after all of this, he still slept with her that night! A testament to the idea that people are attracted to that which repels them and testament to Larry Valiant charm I suppose.

This hilarity not withstanding, Larry Valiant never really recovered from the chemical punishment of New Orleans. We fired him from the band when we got home for his own good. He then moved back to his original west-coast home. We kept in touch though. The next time the band was in Houston I was changing clothes in the van when whom to my surprise should pop in but Larry’s old flame. We took some pictures on my disposable camera to send Larry and make him jealous. Luckily she put us up for the night despite his absence.

Jesus Christ Cadillac

We both have truths - are mine the same as yours? - Pilate to Jesus of Nazareth

When Erin called me Sunday night sounding sheepish, I knew what was up. He'd taken a stagehand gig that would mean he'd have to bow out for Tuesday churchbus practice. It happens frequently enough, anyway the churchbus stakes are low so it wasn't a problem. He did however have a silver lining, two tickets to the show he's running, Jesus Christ Superstar.

I practically turned him down that night. Seeing as how Tricia's dad and aunt are in town, I figured we'd be busy. But I left the door open a bit while also offering the ticket potential to two other disinterested parties.

But then I got to thinking, with relatives in town, Tricia and I have the perfect means for a getaway. And why not JCS? I had a hell of a time performing in the Houston Underground production and I haven't listened to the soundtrack since.

So I called Erin back the next day and as luck would have it the tickets were still available (can you believe it?). Then I started getting excited.

I put on the soundtrack Monday night. The "original" Broadway soundtrack featuring Ian Gillan of Deep Purple as Jesus. Even sang Clara to sleep with the pretty refrain Close your eyes, close your eyes and relax; think of nothing to night.

The Broadway soundtrack came out well before the production hit the stage. A clever commercial move and one of many reminders that this is a secular production. If it were a religious production the name of the lead on the playbill wouldn't overshadow (by two font points) the name of the character.

THE Jesus, the man who became the part, the part that made him famous, is a lanky Texan, Ted Neeley, now twice the age of Jesus at his death. He can still hit the high notes and shrieks pretty good (it is a rock opera after all).

The supporting cast on this current tour is strong and the band pretty damn alright too.

Judas is played by Corey Glover of Living Colour. He also gave a good performance in the role that is what makes this pop passion play work.

The part of Judas brought some controversy when JCS first hit the stage. His image is softened. He is given form and it is Judas who returns from the dead, not Jesus. He gets the first song and the last of the production.

But there really isn't too much controversy over JCS and nowadays many church groups perform the rock opera. It's accepted as a well done examination of the passion of Christ, even if a secular one. Besides, a man of faith cannot cower from the logic behind this role. It must be faced intelligently. Whether you are a believer or not.

Hell, Judas gets a lot of good press these days. I wouldn't be surprised at all if his name starts creeping back into the name bank. Wouldn't be a bad thing really.

Chicago
o r n e r . . .	The grand Cadillac Palace hosted JCS. The CP got its start in the late 1920's as the flagship theater on the vaudeville circuit and saw the likes of Jimmy Durante, Mae West, Jack Benny, Sophie Tucker and Bob Hope on its stage. It's a grand marbled, mirrored and gilded place. Modeled after the Versailles but aimed at the people in the great Socialist hope city of this nation. One of many kingly old theaters still active here. The Cadillac Palace is set right in the heart of the theater district not far from the Oriental, the Chicago, the Roosevelt Auditorium, and the Goodman, all major theater spaces.
	Before the performance, Tricia and I ate buns at Wow Bao, one of the kings of cheap eat spots in the Chicago Loop. They make their own ginger ale. Deeeeeelish.

Win Them Back

Maybe it comes across as mundane. Maybe it comes across as ordinary, everyday. You see it from the corner of your eyes and are not impressed enough to crane your neck, this wraith, this apparition, flitting about in the periphery, always dancing around the space that clouds the boundaries of order and control. This is where the truth really lies, but this is the sort of truth that makes you lie down in fields of clover and piss directly in the air onto your own belly. There are those who are impressed with the implications of this inordinately charged facet of reality, those that take a sliver of intent and expand it into a universe of ornate, diffuse fantasy.

The problem lies within the lenses through which you, the interpreter, view this scenario. Under what passes for everyday knowledge, there are rules that govern the expression of desire through which those that walk among you feel the need to follow. Whenever these motes of meaning are sifted, placed onto an adorned surface, exposed in the blinding light of scrutiny, it should come as no surprise that these very same rules begin to lose their luster. That is a cold truth that hurtles toward you, without mercy, and without sympathy. It would be an act of futility to even attempt to avoid the onslaught, you in your cocoon of subterfuge, your shroud of opacity. When you wear these bifocal lenses, these ridiculous filters, you are creating of yourself an environment of stupendous ignorance. No one approaching anything even vaguely considered reason should tolerate this transgression. No one.

And yet you do, we do, I do. We make concessions, take huge accommodating steps over pools of sensibility, knee deep in the mire of compromise, and we do so readily, happily, and shamelessly. And better still, when the switch is flipped, when the rays of clarity are shone upon you, you react in defense, like a cornered animal. But a wild animal at least stakes a claim to survival. To what ends do you lay your money down? What ultimate purpose is served by your obeisance to nothingness?

We all have our druthers. Granted. We all make choices that are less than stellar. We all opt for the door nailed shut, seeping ugliness beneath, and hideous vapors from the transom. We all make that call at some point, and we all regret it immediately after, all of us, to the one. But it doesn’t stop us from doing it again and again. There is, and damn well should be, a certain amount of license for this sort of stupidity. We are, after all, human, and stupidity is something we take great pride in. Let’s, for the sake of progress, accept that idiom and move on. We are mud fence dumb. As a race, we are bag of hammers dumb, and that’s just a straight up fact. What I’m talking about is a viral level of ignorance that enters a group of minds, like a gathering storm, and infects an unreasonable number of us with the hideous symptoms of its mediocrity.

Music is an odd world in which to pin desire. Loving music, expressing this love, and using this love to influence opinion is potentially dangerous stuff. Time and fucking time again, the ill-advised tastes of a few are inflated and enlarged to such a degree that those floundering in the wake of this tide are forced to endure the misdirection and obfuscation that always follows the initial current. I suppose it’s entirely fair to claim that there is no accounting for taste. The whole trash/treasure duality carries more than a little water, but push that quaint conceit aside and what is left? What is left is a situation as I am describing right now. A vacuum is created from a highly charged atmosphere of insecurity and a hunger for leadership, for guidance. Creatures with eyes coating their bodies lurk in the bushes, notepads in hand, jotting down every breath, every single word that escapes the lips of the other. And on this current rides a wave of compliance. It shouldn’t come so easy, but it always does. It always fucking does.

Entering the kingdom, hand in hand, bags full of murder most foul. Those with the least to convey have the most to share. The clamor for approval rings out like chapel bells on a cold empty night, and the townspeople are held in its thrall. This is a ritual that has played out for countless generations, and doubtlessly for many generations to come. Mark my words.

Let sanity guide you. Let whatever grain of truth you have been able to eke out of this rocky cliff off of which you hang so precariously lead you towards the path of reason. To go any other way is an act of self-exposure too loaded to undertake. With stakes this high, favors are curbed for the cost of comfort. Don’t use your free passes in the opening round. The finish line is miles away and the crowd is not cheering for you anymore. Win them back. Without them you are lost.

Conchords Take Austin

This link comes courtesy of my friend Scott, who comes from the same general part of the world as Brett and Jemaine. Those of you who have HBO probably saw this last summer. I don't have HBO. Well actually, I have HBO, but I don't have a TV yet. Don't ask. Apartment renovations take longer than one might think, especially if one is stupid enough to do it all herself.

Sorry for the late President's Day wishes to you all.
I was suffering from more of the usual technical and mental disruptions.

so messed up

For once I will not bury the lead. I was lucky enough to experience a solo performance from Aaron of Tall Firs (his first, apparently) and it was an unexpected beautiful experience. Sounding about halfway between vintage Xpressway material (This Kind of Punishment, Alastair Galbraith) and A THOUSAND LEAVES-era Sonic Youth (one of my favorite and most under-rated albums), with possibly a Dirty Three reference audible in the shifting feel of the songs when heard with full band. I am particularly fond of
"So Messed Up".

A little back story as to how this happened: Sonic Youth played a show Saturday night, once again presenting DAYDREAM NATION. I wavered about getting tickets because their performance in Barcelona left much to be desired, and once I stopped vascillating the point was moot: it was sold out. To add insult to injury, the opening act was announced as the Dead C., who despite living in New Zealand for four years I've never seen here.

Then, to remove insult from injury (if such a tortured metaphorical construction is permissible), the Dead C. announced their own solo gig the night before. Further tantalizing was the rumor that a "super special secret guest" would be playing prior to the Dead C. Given that Lee Ranaldo of SY and Michael Morley of Dead C. have recorded together in the past, that was one possibility. Perhaps a whole Sonic Youth secret show, busting out the jams from albums that didn't come out 20 years ago? At the Dog's Bollix, an intimate venue, there was no way this could be missed.

And so I got there ludicrously early after online warnings: "Door sales only! Arrive early! Special secret guest!" etc. With my general lack of persuasion skills, combined with a previous experience recommending a live Dead C. show to someone who still hasn't recovered from it, I found myself alone at a bar. Did I mention I can't drink at the moment?

(I forgot to mention: the special guest was billed online as "The Tall Sirs". Tall Sirs. Tossers. I get it. Funny self-deprecation.)

So I wait around a generally unpopulated club an hour plus to start, writing to myself in my journal and continuing to drown in self-absorption, notice Lee Ranaldo, think about saying, hey, I interviewed you a decade ago, decide against it, go back to writing, til finally Surf City starts. They're pretty okay, although the fact that I saw them just the night before opening for Interpol with a better light show dims my enthusiasm somewhat. They end, I wander back to a table, do some more writing, and then at some point I realize the guitar coming from the stage isn't the house mix but somebody's starting playing.

I make my way to the stage, where basically nobody is paying attention, and a guy's sitting in the corner of the stage, playing these songs. And ... well, this is where we started. Despite the asshole standing at the front of the stage with his back to the stage talking to the friends, or the charming lady who would rather look into the distance then look at the guy putting on a kickass show five feet away from her, it was pretty outstanding experience.

The punchline, I discovered later when I went to another club, was that a bunch of people had skipped the show when they discovered that the secret guest was ... Sonic Youth's soundman. The joke's on them - I enjoyed Aaron's set much more than I'd have enjoyed 30 minutes of Lee Ranaldo pouring feedback through the speakers.

(Summary of rest of week: The Dead C. were a lot of fun, body-shaking noise with plodding rhythms holding it together. I smiled. After the show I wound up at the Whammy Bar, my favorite venue in Auckland, where The Mysterious Tapemen rocked the house with their debased version of surf rock. Huge fun, though still kicking myself for completely dropping the ball with this cute blonde woman who unsolicitedly danced with me. This hasn't happened to me since Crash Worship, so I don't expect it to happen for another 16 years.

Thursday was Interpol, and it was about what I hoped for from an Interpol show - good sound, they played their best songs, decent lighting and video.

Monday was Explosions in the Sky, and I loved it. I wish I could live in their songs. Some locals complained the show was too long. In my mind, that's a ridiculous comment to make about a headliner unless they're playing games like Guided By Voices and saving their hit songs for the third hour of the show. Opening act Eluvium hid quietly in the corner and made nice atmospheres with looping guitars, noises, and keyboards. And I've forgotten the name of the opening band, but their atmospheric metal style was slightly leaden due to their drummer's overreliance on the metronome in his ear.)

Two Lou Reed Albums That Seal My Uncoolness.

Ever have some records that you know are uncool to really really like? I'm not talking about stuff like say when a Supertramp song comes on and you think "Oh that's a nice melody." or whatnot; what I'm talking here about hip artists with albums that you aren't supposed to really like. Yes, somewhere out there, there is a guy who really really and earnestly loves Neil Young's Trans. Just like there is someone out there who really digs the Stone's Satanic Majesty's Request from beginning to end(!!) and doesn't skip forward to She's a Rainbow or 2000 Light Years from Home. In that vein, here are two Lou Reed albums that no self-respecting hipster would claim to earnestly love but, not being hip, I do - Metal Machine Music and New Sensations.

There are two general reactions to Metal Machine Music. The first is that is utter unlistenable crap. The second is that Lou Reed was playing an elaborate prank on RCA's classical label and enjoying it should be done while basking in irony. Here is the thing though I actually and earnestly like it and I can say that with the full confidence that I heard it without any preconceived notions of what I was hearing. You see, even though I had heard of Metal Machine Music for ages I never actually heard it until one day when I was driving past Rice University listening to KTRU and some DJ was actually playing Metal Machine Music in its entirety. The thing is I just tuned-in just after the top of the hour so I missed the DJ introducing the piece. So there I am in my car listening to this drony music which, to me, sounded very much like low drones in some Eno /Fripp collaboration and I'm really digging it. I drive the entire time wondering who it is when I get to my destination and I call up the DJ and ask. He informs me, to my surprise, it's Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music. In spite of its reputation, I actually liked it and not with any ironic detachment but actually - honest to god - loved it. So in the end I was glad I missed the introduction and had to call the DJ because I wonder what kind of reaction I'd have had had I known what it was?


Also on the uncool Lou Reed albums list is New Sensations which I utterly love to death despite my better judgment. Here is how uncool I am. First and most damning, this album actually had some mild commercial success complete with an embarrassing video (Link) that made the rounds of MTV. Secondly, I'm supposed to like the darker and more serious albums like Berlin with it's doomed characters and seedy settings or perhaps one of the albums that just preceded this one like The Blue Mask but I just can't. Berlin is just overwrought with Bob Ezrin's 70's production and The Blue Mask wouldn't be worth my time if Robert Quine's guitar weren't there playing off Reed's. This album, meanwhile, is hardly heavy. In fact, this album is horribly goofy and laid back as if Lou Reed had had enough with the darkness and just wanted to write songs about dancing, chillin', playing video games, and having fun. Hell, he pretty much proclaims in the title track singing lines like "I want the principles of a timeless muse/ I want to eradicate my negative views/ And get rid of those people who are always on a down." It's not that Reed's New York got any less dangerous but Reed keeps it just off the screen with a distanced kind of humor. High in the City's lyrics are the best example where Reed hits the street in a cheery mood while making asides like "Watch out for that guy on your right/ Seen him on the news last Saturday night" or "Hey, look they’re setting fire to that jeep" with this what the hell are ya gonna do bemusement that's horribly charming. That's what makes this album so great yet horribly uncool - it's Reed's happy album and happy isn't cool. Then, as if to cinch the uncool, Reed ends his album with Down at the Arcade whose guitar riff is a shameless cop of the Spencer Davis Group's Gimme Some Lovin and the lyrics have to be some of Reed's goofiest. Consider this verse:

Down at the arcade the defender is there
Down off of Broadway he's there playing his games
It's very dangerous putting money down on Robotron
Oh, I'm the Great Defender
And I really know just how to get along

Yeah that's right Reed just tried to rhyme "get along" with "Robotron." That just falls somewhere between the stupid and the genius which is my favorite line to see someone try to straddle - gravitas be damned.

---

Video: Here are three songs from a 1984 BBC Live performance by Lou Reed which starts with the cheeky A Gift (from Coney Island Baby) followed by two songs from New Sensations - Doin' The Things That We Want To (which is probably my favorite from the album) and I Love You Suzanne (the one of the afore mentioned embarrassing MTV video). On hand is guitar great Robert Quine (Richard Hell & The Voivods) and bassist Fernando Saunders (who is probably the reason I own a fretless bass).

HOLY DIVER

I bought the Dio album yesterday and I have to say it's AWESOME. I think I've listened to it, like, four times already. I even skipped my last class today so I could come home and listen to it again. I cranked up the stereo in my room so the walls vibrated, then I shut the blinds and turned on my black light so I could get into it better.

Then my sister got home and yelled at me to turn it down. I don't know where she gets off. I worked hard all last summer to buy my stereo, so if I want to play it loud, I'm going to play it loud. But she kept banging on my door and totally ruining my ability to appreciate it. When the first side was over I decided to ride my bike over to where that hot girl from my English class lives. Or at least that's where I think she lives. I was riding my bike over there last week and I saw here there on that street. I don't think she saw me.

Before I went over there, I wet my hair down so that I could blow it dry and maybe feather it a little bit, just in case I ran into her again. But when I got over to what I think is her house, all I saw was a bunch of guys from the city packing up their stuff. It looked like they had just finished re-doing the sidewalk or something. I decided to ride down to the Stop and Go to see if they had New Coke yet. They didn't.

I circled back past that house again on my way home, just in case she was outside. No luck. There was nobody there at all. So I grabbed a stick and wrote "Dio" in the sidewalk. That way some small part of me was still there. Then I rode back home to listen to side two. At full volume.

As an update to last week's post, Tom Scholz called out Mike Huckabee for using "More Than a Feeling" while campaigning.

"Your campaign's use of More Than a Feeling, coupled with the

representation of one of your supporters as a member "of BOSTON" clearly

implies that the band BOSTON, and specifically one of its members, has

endorsed your candidacy, neither of which is true.

I wrote and arranged More Than a Feeling, engineered and produced the

recording, and actually played all the guitars on that BOSTON hit as well

as most of BOSTON's songs, not the person holding a guitar in your

promotion who identified himself as being "of BOSTON." Your claim that this

was "the guy who originally did it" is a bit mystifying since he never

played on that recording, nor has he been "of BOSTON" since he left my band

over a quarter century ago, after performing with us for only three years.

BOSTON has never endorsed a political candidate, and with all due

respect, would not start by endorsing a candidate who is the polar opposite

of most everything BOSTON stands for. In fact, although I'm impressed you

learned my bass guitar part on More Than a Feeling, I am an Obama

supporter."

Translation: This dude who supports you is not in Boston; I am Boston and that guy is not me. Boston doesn't endorse candidates. I endorse Obama.

You'd think a guy who went to MIT would be better with the transitive property.

Whenever I see somebody type things out in all caps it always, always, always reminds me of the long, rambling letter that we received when I worked at a movie theater. The man who wrote it was looking for employment, but was obviously not playing with a full deck. Throughout the letter, he described many of his upstanding qualities, periodically capitalizing entire words or phrases for no apparent reason. LOOKS GOOD IN CLOTHES. He mentioned how good he looked in clothes--sometimes in third person, sometimes in first person--several times throughout the letter. Coincidentally, Tom Scholz also looks good in clothes.

No amount of feeding flowers to a deer is going to change my mind. I still hate Boston.

Week 68: Locopod 56

So instead of writing a post, last night I spent my time making a podcast. So instead of a post, today you’re getting a podcast.

And I’ll warn you, do not listen to this podcast unless you have a very high tolerance for idiocy. This is the podcast that you'll use as reference in the future when you think a podcast is not all that great. You'll say, nothing like that one... meaning of course, this one.

I am also not listing the songs, cause I barely remember what they are and I don’t feel like going back through it to figure out what they were, plus I think there are only a few complete songs in the whole thing. There is some Esquivel in there somewhere, I think.

If you do suffer through it and want to know the name of something, just ask. Though I doubt you’ll make it past the first five minutes. But if you are all heroic and shit and do make it past the first five minutes, I promise you, you won’t make it to the end. But if, big if, if you do make it to the end, let me know and I’ll send you one of Claire’s Big Foot cookies.

Also if you guess the theme, you also win one of Claire’s cookies.

Here’s podcast 56… suckers!


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PS -Claire, sorry if this is too close to your podcast from Monday. If it's not this, I got nothing.

The Wednesday Edition of NAP Featuring the new Wednesday Subsection, Chicago Corner

A very little on JS Bach - What a brash talker. Said he should have been named for the sea instead of the brook on account of how much awesomeness swelled out of him. Big on himself I'd say. Alright so I dig it.

The Czechs play it up and if you don't believe me check out this concert (that you can download for free) from the original scores with "ancient instruments" and compare it to what they got coming out of LA with their fancy schmancy modern orchestra. The point being sometimes bigger isn't better. Tracks 9 and 10 are my favs right now (although I don't think Bach called them tracks).

Chicago
o r n e r . . .	Playing Subterranian this Tuesday, Russian Circles part of this "trajectory of Midwest bands that kind of blend aggression with pop sensibility" (as Pelican's Trevor de Brauw put it). Yes instrumetal if you will, as John and I have called it in the past. I don't know though, metal isn't a word RC uses and there's as much in the RC sound of the clean and melodic as there is of the down and dirty. Check out Micah on their MySpace page.
	RC played a show at Schuba's here in Chicago a couple of years ago that was very alright - showed off their mastery of the live set. That show was recorded and is available on eMusic. It's worth using some of your monthly eMusic points. Subterranean is a two part four story venue in the beyond-hip neighborhood of Wicker Park. It's right off the "crotch" which is the intersection of Milwaukee (a diagonal), Damen and North. I was disappointed to find the first time I played there, that one must walk up a flight of stairs to the concert venue making it very unsubterranean -and very unfriendly for amp luggers. They make up for it though with the band green room which is above the stage on the level with a super cool balcony where you can look down on the band members' bald spots. To enter the stage from the green room you climb down a spiral staircase directly to the stage. This has been used to great effect as you might imagine. Downstairs is a dance floor/bar/food joint. It's often more lively downstairs than up. They occasionally have hip hop artists, rappers and almost always they have a live DJ. Sometimes the downstairs bar will give the players free food, other times they give you a small break on the price. They're a bit confused overall.

It's Boring

This second night of the second month, a night like any other, in a life like any other. You have entered the club, and you have sought guidance in the form of musical enlightenment. You have taken the word of those who attempt to shed light in a sea of darkness, you have followed the hazy path and ignored the nagging voice of reason, and it has led you to this place. This ordinary place. There are people milling about, drinks in hand. All is as it should be. You are present but unnoticed. On stage, members of a band are working diligently to build their elaborate setup. They place amplifiers, plug in and tune guitars, build a drum kit, hoist a screen behind them, test films, lights, smoke machines, and other gadgets all to be used for theatrical effect. As you stand stage side, watching the scene, you note that it takes this band an unusually long time to setup. Finally they are done, and all activity on stage is geared towards getting the band in place. By now the crowd has begun to congregate around the stage. As the band begins their performance, you look around you and begin to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You begin to notice that the people in the audience all have the same face. To the one, the same face, and all of them are blankly staring at the band. Instead of panicking, however, you simply register this oddity with unease, and then turn back to the stage.

The music. The music has a not unfamiliar quality to it. In fact, the more you listen, the more you are drawn into how familiar it sounds. As it goes on, you are amused to find that every note, every melody, every facet of this music takes you deeper into your memory of what it is about music that captures your attention in the first place. Every lyric, one that fills a gap in your mind, every melodic line an inroad to something richly personal, but impossible to clearly define.

You look around the room again. The members of the crowd are now holding up masks to their faces, and the masks are of your own face. This makes you feel vaguely confused. You make your way for the door. A few minutes away is another club housing another heavily praised performance.

You make the short drive to the next club, pay, and walk up to the stage. Without shock, it becomes quickly apparent to you that the very same people from the last club surround you, once again. And also, once again, you see the same masks held up to their faces. You are the subject of this charade as well.

As you turn towards the band, you acknowledge that though it has only been maybe ten minutes since you left the last club, the very same band from the last scene is now up on stage, impossibly playing the very same set from before. You are present before your past, experiencing it in the present, and you note this despite feeling no sense of alarm or fear.

Driving home on this night, after this performance, it is now very late. The streets are wet with the sheen of a light rain. The streetlights reflect off the road, casting a wash of color. There is not a single other car on the road. Not a single pedestrian walks the sidewalk.

As you drive you begin to notice a shape in the road before you. Slowing down, you approach. Here in the middle of this great city, on this empty, cold, and wet night, you are a single, lone man, on a trip to nowhere, leaving a scene of incomparable impossibility to find yourself in front of another. Before your car stands a huge caribou. It stands in the road, its massive body turned towards you, its head cocked so that it faces you, its black eyes belying no sense of concern. You open the door, step into the road, and begin to weep.

55

A little over a year ago... the bottom fell out, and here I am in a new city building from ground zero.

Normally the way these podcasts work, is that I send out an email to several people (mostly regular NAP contributors) and I ask them to send me submissions. This week I didn't send out one of those emails.

I decided to do a cast of some music I like. I've said it before but, sometimes it seems like a contest for you guys to see who can provide the most unlistenable shit on the face of the Earth every week... I honestly think you are fucking with me when you send some of the submissions you do... which is why I asked John Cramer to guest host last week's cast with one of his alter egos. I wanted to punish you. If you haven't listened to it, you should, because he was fucking hilarious.

My grandmother died last week, and she loved Johnny Cash. She saw him perform in Australia a century ago. I wanted to do a cast to commemorate her, but I couldn't even bring myself to include any Cash. I was actually on the verge of doing a cast entirely about death but opted out at the last minute. Next week we should go for a theme... any ideas? How about a "most unlistenable shit ever" episode?

If you can guess the identity of the one and only contributor to have submitted music this week without being solicited, then you win a gigantic cookie with your name spelled out in Big Foot's semen around a chocolate chip profile of your likeness. Lone contributor, I am sorry I didn't use your song.

Since moving from the Aleutians back to Houston... I have seen a grasshopper on the sidewalk, a dying cockroach and a possum walking a power line. I have also noted that Texas is still fucking fucked when it comes to being fashion forward. At least I can see lightning again (which I have seen twice in the past 10 years-as often as I have heard thunder), so all of the homely-horn rimmed, suicide girl, geeked out tight ankle pant wearing retards don't hurt me so bad....

The development around the downtown area is fucking frightening. I was last here 15 years ago. None of that shit was here. Condos two feet away from dilapidated row houses... and everyone just getting along grandly-as long as an iron fence protects the faggy up and comers from those next door who have spent generations on the property fighting to just get by....

But none of that matters. What matters is that you can get a ten pound turd out of a delicious plate of greens and ox tails from "this is it" soul food smack dab in the middle of all that disgusting gentrification.

Can anyone tell me the best place to go and take pictures of some of these righteous pimped out fellows I see walking around the Montrose area?

In closing... I don't have shit to say, except... HOUSTON, YOU HAVE A PROBLEM.


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not small sycophants with mpd