a long time ago, i had a big ‘fro…

i went to the barber, and i had it cut low.

it’s been a long time since i’ve posted anything here, and not sure that what i have is much better than that rhyme. well, not many things are better than a good rhyme. but still, i’m posting because this is sort of a follow up post to a previous post. in a post from July 2007 I posted some words that after lots of editing, music added, played a bunch, recorded and mixed, are now “officially” a song called Little Eyes. you can stream the song here:


ComScore

Or you can download it by entering your email address, or if you dont want to get into that mailing list, either tell me and i’ll send it to you direct or i’ll take you off the mailing list after you download it.

Here’s a video of what the song sort of sounds like live, which some people might prefer.

Also, i need to get that Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell song out of my head where its been wrecking havoc for about 3 weeks now. You know the tune, right? Help me!

Facundo Cabral

Yesterday they shot Facundo Cabral. Killed by gunmen in Guatemala at age 74. One of the saddest musical news i’ve heard. Right up there with when they shot John Lennon. I grew up with Facundo, he was the poet singer, often talking, usually improvising lines, thru the greater part of his songs before getting to the song. I’m really at a loss for words, unlike him who was the master of the perfect line. “Grass is good, millions of cows can’t be wrong.” “Poor guy my boss, he thinks I’m the one that’s poor.” “Commodore John went looking for water and found oil, but he died of thirst.” “I’m not here to explain the world, just to touch it.” “Thats why you have to watch out for the one who doesn’t sing, he’s the one hiding something.” “what do i care about earning 10, if i can only count to 6.”

here are a couple of the few concert videos i could find.

Here’s the wiki entry with some good info.

Here’s the news of the shooting.

The Ballad of Vince and Celine, Part 1

Beware that there will most likely be things in the text that follows that will be offensive. Celine is offensive, Vince is offensive too. What happens in the story is offensive as well and will only get more so with each posted part. Not for minors. Not for anyone with any degree of maturity either. Not for anyone with self-respect. Not really for anyone at all. I hope. I mean it, you are better off not reading this at all, it’s the lowest form of writing, pornographic fan erotica about people of whom i am not a fan. We will never be able to say that you gained anything by reading it or me by writing it. Fair warning. At any rate, it’s fiction, any similarities to those living or dead is purely coincidental.

THE BALLAD OF VINCE AND CELINE

Part 1

The last thing they expected that morning was rock and pop royalty sharing the city bus with them. But by the end of the day, the memory of the bus ride would be lost in a gridlock of the seven deadly sins that would’ve made Binsfeld’s demons blush.

Neither Jarred nor Kelly recognized Vince Neil and Celine Dion when they first got on the bus. Jarred didn’t notice them; he had his brand new earbuds cranking LCD Soundsystem and was reading a manual for the new mic he had just found hidden in amongst all the crap at the PTA store. Kelly saw them step unto the bus, but thought only about how odd that the couple looked so much like aged versions of someone who used to play in some hair metal band and that Canadian diva with the long horse face, her name eluded him.

Yet, as sad and ugly as Kelly found them, there was something strangely attractive about both of them, a certain walk-of-the-cock confidence that stirred a breeze of perfumed air as they passed by the morning passengers and headed to the back of the bus. Most people took one look and went back to their newspapers, books, or whatever. But Kelly, as much as his contrite Catholic upbringing told him not to, could not stop his neck from twisting around, following them with his eyes all the way until they reached the back of the bus and draped themselves over the empty back seat. Vince took the seat next to the window, cracked it open and let the wind blow thru his thinning hair like he had done a thousand times facing the fan in some photographer’s studio. Celine leaned back against Vince’s side and stretched one of her extra looooong legs over the rest of the hard plastic seats.

Kelly couldn’t help himself and tried to get a glimpse of her panties when she lifted her leg, he was after all still a teenager, though at seventeen, he could easily pass for twenty. But he didn’t see anything, the skirt was tight around her knees so all he could get was a glimpse of some abstract piece of fleshy thigh. Disappointed he looked back up at the couple to find Celine staring right at him with a knowing smirk on her lips. Embarrassed, all Kelly could muster was a three-finger spasm pretending to be a hand wave and a smile that looked more like an upper lip nervous twitch. Celine stared him down and licked her lips. Kelly couldn’t take it anymore and looked away.

At this point Kelly realized that this really was the Canadian singer from the Titanic movie, and elbowed Jarred hard on the ribs. Annoyed Jarred ignored him. Another elbow to the ribs and the universal sign for take off the headphones and Kelly had Jarred’s attention.

Dude, that is that famous Canadian singer with the horse face sitting in the back, whispered Kelly.

Jarred had no idea what he was talking about, having missed the superstars’ entrance. Kelly explained what had happened in half whispers and conspiring gestures.

Celine watched them from the back of the bus, the nervous whispering, the restless legs, the hesitant haircuts, the insistent elbowing, the restrained shoulders, the wandering eyes. Very satisfying, she thought, and reached with one hand to stroke Vince through his too-tight jeans. Vince snapped out of his reverie where he was re-living one of his many insane adventures with the Crüe, wondering if maybe he should write his own autobiography. After all, there were things he never told the ghostwriters for The Dirt, like that time with that little girl… mmm, that feels good, oh, hello Celine. And as Celine stroked him hard, he once again remembered what it was about this lanky, long-legged, semi-ugly, middle-aged woman that was so damn sexy: she was one fucking bitch. He wanted to cut her. Maybe later.

Under veiled pretenses that did not fool anyone, Kelly sneaked a few glances back at the hot couple. Celine was keeping a stern eye on both boys the whole time. Kelly could not believe it, would not believe it, it had to be some TV prank show with superstar look-a-likes. Or there had to be some other explanation he couldn’t come up with. It had to be something else. What the hell was his name, the dude from Motley Crue… oh, who cares. At this point Kelly just gave in and turned around to look at the couple and see if it really was them. And, of course, it was, a bit older, a bit flabbier, with less hair and more wrinkles, but it was him, and he was looking out the window in a semi stupor while the singer, what’s her name, stroked Vince’s cock which was now stretching the fabric of his pants in a ridiculous way. But Vince didn’t seem to care. He reached into his leather vest and pulled out a bottle of pills, took out a few, put them in his mouth, then pulled out a flask and took a big swig, and turned to kiss Celine, in what Kelly could only describe as a disgusting way. Like that fishmouth guy who married Liza Minnelli, but with more saliva. Vince lunged at Celine, open mouthed and slobbering while she sat, immobile, her mouth barely open, her lips as stiff as Vince’s cock and looking directly at the boys the whole time.

Jarrod turned back to Kelly, did you see that? Fuck going to class today. We’re staying on this bus as long as they are here. Fuckin-a, said Kelly, rubbing his pants, it’s… oh I got it, Celine fucking Dion! Out loud, and every head turned to them. And Celine let out a sinister cackle while Vince did another shot from his flask.

Week ∞: Se Acabo Lo Que Se Daba

Which means, What was being given is now done.

Which means, that this is it for me. I’m done. Over. Finito. El Fin. Adios. Ciao. Last post.

If I was gonna keep doing this, you might have read about things like these:

– The story about going to Mexico and running into a guy stuck on LCD Soundsystem.
– The story about working at the music festival in Aspen CO, were we moved appx 200 pianos in one summer, some of them up baby grands going up spiral staircases.
– The story about trying out for the MD’s, who at the time (1983) were the most successful Puerto Rican garage band.
– The story about why I hate this so much.
– The story about why I love this so much.
– A letter that I’ve been writing to the world famous Davenport Sisters.
– Something about Cordero and Ocho Puertas and Trio Matamoros.
– The story about Monte Carmelo in Vieques, a really amazing story. If you ever see me in person, ask me and I’ll tell it to you.
– The story about how I almost lost my toes to frostbite, not once, but twice, once in Colorado, and once, believe it or not, in Houston. And how I got lost in the wilderness, not once but twice, once in Colorado, and once, of course, in Mexico.

And maybe more. But no. I am stopping today. 184 weeks seems like as good a number as any. Suddenly I realized, I don’t want to tell you any more stories. Nope, no mas.

To all my fellow NAP writers, past and present, thank you for the good times, I’ll continue to read and comment when I can, and feel free to ask me to guest post here and there. To my family and friends, thank you for reading.

To the rest, go fuck yourself.

*****

And here’s my most recent favorite youtube video. Didn’t like the song as it appears on the record, but this version makes me want to have Daft Punk play at my house.

Week 182: Atahualpa Yupanqui 2

I’ve briefly written about Don Atahualpa before. I’m not going to write much about him now. But last night, late, outside with the laptop, looking at videos, surrounded by trees and stars, I found these three videos of him and it reminded me why his music is so timeless.

This one is allegedly the last song he recorded. The song is called La Pura Verdad (Nothing but the Truth).

Here’s a rough translation:

For singing, the voice doesn’t count. All we need is our whole heart in the verse. As long as there is sunlight, they’re not songs. Walking at night, surrounded by silence, they’re better sung. Hitting the stones with my dear march, it marks the beats of my heart. Behind the mountains i make my drum, with my distance and my hope, I will have sung. For singing, the voice doesn’t count. All we need is our whole heart in the verse.

What goes into the head, leaves the head. What goes into the heart, stays there forever.
You want to know why? Listen closely, it’s because nothing but the truth can enter the heart.
When you have a sorrow, when you have a pain, if they are true, they’ll reach your heart.
You want to know why? Listen closely, it’s because nothing but the truth can enter the heart.
What goes into the head, leaves the head. What goes into the heart, stays there forever.

Here he is singing El Carretero (The Wagoneer):

And again my rough translation:

Once because I wanted, I went arond exploiting horses. No one came along with me. No one opened the gate. Once I was a tamer, now I ride with a wagon, the horses weren’t enough, that turn caught up with me. Calm and serene, I don’t feel the miles I make. My oxen go very slowly, and I’ve got patience to spare. Many gallop past me; others pass me at half speed. I don’t envy any of them, who knows what turn they’ll meet. Lovely the life of a wagoneer, for those who do not have any wants.

And finally, this clip is from one of my favorite song of his, Los Ejes de Mi Carreta (The Axles of my Wagon).

On a previous post you may have seen how Los Albas pretty much butchered it. Now here’s Don Atahualpa doing it justice.

And one last rough translation:

Cause I don’t grease the axles, they call me a vagrant man. But if I like the noise they make, why should I want to stop the sound. It’s just too boring to follow and follow the path. Walking the same old roads, with no one by my side. I don’t need silence, I got no one to think about, I used to, but that was long ago, now I don’t think anymore.

Week 181: New Town Drunks’ Drunk Beer Ads

5 years ago, we had a dream: to have our own brand of beer. But being better drinkers than brewers, and realizing that brewing actually took some effort, we didn’t know how we were going to find the time, in between all the trips to bed, bath and beyond, to make this dream come true.

The solution came to us in another dream, wait, not a dream, something like a dream… more like a stupor. We realized we didn’t need to brew beer. It was the beer bull market of 2005 and everyone was selling and buying and selling and buying all kinds of beers. So in our Eureka moment, sure to change beer markets everywhere, we decided we would instead, sell our drinking. No, you say, impossible. Well, it wasn’t as easy as we thought.

The first batches of Drunk Beer sold fairly well at New Town Drunks’ shows and our neighborhood bars. But even though we sold a six pack to a bar in Ireland, the international, and national, and, who are we kidding, regional and local customers were not coming back for more, the way we hoped. So we decided we needed the added help of some well placed advertising to really push our Drunk Beer sales where they needed to go, up.

We immediately got to work at various bars until we came up with a reasonably wordless script and an unplanned shooting plan. We engaged the services of master cinematographer Mr. Mouse to run cameras, and contacted lots of local talent by letting them know there would be a party at the now infamous Camp Marmaloot where Drunk Beer label designer and professional artiste, Andrew Degraff, lived with local impresario and international poet, Hoppie Newton.

The party was set-up. Beer was bought, beer was drunk, Drunk Beer was labeled and capped. And the party started. People brought beer, people drank beer, Mr. Mouse and Ms. Veda captured it all, well, mostly all, on video. And then we thought we were done. But we didn’t realize that several hours of party footage do not an advertising make. And nobody seemed to know what to do next. In the olden days of yore ago, we dumped all the film onto some floor and went at it with scissors and scotch tape. But now all we had were these miniature cassettes that didn’t seem to even have any tape in them and they wouldn’t fit in our walkmans or betamax players. So we put them away and waited to get the answer from another, ahem, dream.

The beer bull market of 2005 was trumped by the beer bear market of 2006 and then this by the beer boar market of 2007 and this by the beer baboon market of 2008. Throughout all these markets we continued to drink and bottle Drunk Beer, but we couldn’t break the Mystery of the Miniature Cassettes, and Drunk Beer sales dropped down to zero. So we were in a bind, all drinking and no Drunk Beer selling makes for a house full of empty beer bottles. But then during the beer barnacle market of 2009, the answer revealed itself to us.

In a flock of Wild Wild Geese, editor extraordinaire Rob DiPatri appeared to us with the answer to the Mystery of the Miniature Cassettes. I have the equipment, and I have the skills, he said from the clouds. And sure enough, before the current beer burro market had started, we had the completed New Town Drunks’ Drunk Beer ads ready to convince drinkers worldwide to try New Town Drunks’ Drunk Beer. We drink so you won’t have to!

So starting this week, and for the next five weeks we’ll be releasing one ad each week (sorry, we just couldn’t wait until the Super Bowl). All five of them however have begun rotation on something called television. If you own one of these and have a cable plugged to it, and enjoy socialist programming of the highest order like the one on Chapel’s Hill’s People’s Channel’s Television’s Station’s, then you may catch one of the soon to be famosos New Town Drunks’ Drunk Beer ads. But don’t take the ads word for it, try a Drunk Beer yourself. It’s unexpetically tasty!

Here’s the first ad, this one is called The Mickey. It features Matt and Julie in a riveting soon to be CLIO Award winning performance. For the TMZ crew, Matt and Julie, or Julatt as they have come to be known, are now married and expecting. Was it the magic of Drunk Beer that brought about this, er, magic? You’ll have to ask them. Our lips are sealed around a bottle as Drunk Beer sales have already begun to sky rocket after only a couple of days of this ad being released.

And here’s some credits:

Written and Produced by New Town Drunks
Directed by Diane Koistinen
Videography by Mr. Mouse and Veda Williams
Beer Label Design by Andrew Degraff
Voice Over by John Howie Jr
Editing by Rob DiPatri
Band Michelle Ceremuga (bass), Nathan Logan (drums), Roberto Cofresi (guitar), Diane Koistinen (vocals)
Filmed at Camp Marmaloot, Chapel Hill NC, 2005

Starring:
The Mickey: Matt Vooris and Julie DeSena
Drunk Dialing: Todd Colberg and Joseph Brzoska
Upchuck: Dexter Romweber and Evangeline Christie
Lampshade Guy: John Saylor, Alison Reed DiPatri and Alison Nickles
Waking Up: Hoppie Newton

Also appearing:
Chris Parker
Seamus Kenney
Andrew Degraff
Pallas Adamopoulos
Rob DiPatri
David Schmitt
Anthony Lener
Autumn Spencer

Special thanks to all the people at the NTD Drunk Beer party.

Oh, and you can buy this beer online! Go here to get your own – http://www.newtowndrunks.com/store.html

Week 180: New Town Drunks vs. The Pneurotics

In the spirit of a previous band battle promo video, we’ve done another one. It’s fun to do these things.


Danny Mason Promotions presents:
HELL ON THE HILL
The Battle of the Decade
NEW TOWN DRUNKS
vs.
THE PNEUROTICS
Cavern Tavern Resort & Casino
May Day 2010

Poster by Daniel Snyder. Poster photo by Allison Springer
Promo video photography by Jesse Barnes, Davis Stillson and Rachel Klem.

Week 179: Calle 13 & Puff P Diddy Dirty Money whatever…

I guess Sean Combs is changing his name again… who cares right? I only use it as an excuse to tell you about this Calle 13 song called Pi-Di-Di-Di.

Calle 13 are huge reggeaton superstars and in my view well deserved. I’ve posted about them before when they released “Querido FBI”, a song and video calling out the FBI in Puerto Rico, and again, when they released a song about the police after they shot an unarmed man and someone caught it on video.

So I like them, but I especially like the challenge of translating their songs into English. In part because they are so funny, but also because they are so ingrained in, not only Spanish language, but in Puerto Rican slang and culture. So I wonder how much of their songs Spanish speakers from other countries really understand. Enough, I guess, since they’ve won several Latin Grammys and are hugely popular all over Latin America.

So in honor (or dishonor?) of Sean Combs changing names again, here’s a full translation of Calle 13’s song, Pi-Di-Di-Di:

(Lines in parentheses are in English in the song)[lines in brackets are my explanatory comments]

You can listen to the song here.

Come on in, come on in. Welcome to my nest
You don’t have to pay, I invite you,
This is on the house, you don’t have to tip me.
Today’s menu is the kitchen’s specialty
Killer meat and to get you started
Fried yucca with mojito [a garlic and lemon sauce, not the Cuban drink]

(“Do you have some Doritos?”) No, fried yucca with mojito
(“Do you have some Coca-Cola?”) No, but I have Perico wine [local fortified wine]
And quickly this guy turned into a brat.
(“Do you know who I am?”) What? That your name is Juan?
(“Do you know who I am?”) You’re asking if MY name is Juan?
(“Yo querer Coca-Cola!”)
Well, look Juan, all we got is Kola Champagne and Chinita [local sodas]
But if you want a little buzz, Medalla is your cervecita [local beer]
(“I just want Coca-Cola!”) I told you that my name is not Juan!
And that all we have is Kola Champagne!

And then that ‘preto’ [a familiar/friendly term used similarly to the way some African Americans use the term ‘nigga’, but without the derogatory origin] told me his name was Puff Daddy,
And that he was the Sugar Daddy of all the Mack Daddies
And he snapped back at me, with his big mouth like a megaphone
So I spit out some hot sauce and immediately he got on his feet.
And right away I told him he was a brat.

(“Do you know who I am?”) I told you my name is not Juan!!
And that’s when I hit him across the jaw, and he took off
so fast hat he was cutting through corners, with a bump on his noggin like Mamadou Thiam
And I chased him all the way down San Sebastian street [a street in Old San Juan]
Until we reached Cristo Street [another street in Old San Juan]
And that’s when I hit him with the Sixto, the Sixto Escobar [PR Boxing legend], with the one-two jab.
He went flying like a kite, and I got him spitting out watered down piss thru his pants,
And brown sugar down his pants, down to his socks came out the turds
Green olive turds, yes, green olive color turds,
What fancy people shit because they only eat food that costs $50 or more.

There’s a bunch of swine, I am no swine
There’s a bunch of hams, I am no ham
Even if he offers me a million bucks
I say no.
There’s a bunch of suckers out there. [a reference to when Sean Combs try to hire local reggeaton superstar, Tego Calderon, to be a model for his Sean John clothing line. Tego said no.]

Don’t think cause my race is small that you can step on us
If we can’t slam dunk, we’ll go for the layup,
And gringos like you can go, camera and all, to the Garita [referring to the ‘Garita del Diablo’, a guard lookout in one of the old forts where legend says several Spanish soldiers were taken by the devil.]
You don’t have to make an appointment, you’re guests [this is said with loads of sarcasm since the U.S. are still holding Puerto Rico as a colony, though on paper it appears as if we invited them to do it.]
(“Say cheese!”), and a smile and to the beach.
So the sharks can rip out your heels
Because here in Puerto Rico, we’re the most bad ass.

And after all that Puff Daddy returned to New York
A little stray, less of a man, with another nickname

P. Diddy, Mister P. Diddy, here’s your drinking bottle
So you can suck up some Puerto Rican milk
So you think twice before picking a fight
So when you come here, you don’t’ make funny faces, don’t flash any signs
That could cost you the hair on your head
So if you don’t want anyone shaking your ‘tabique’ [the nasal septum]
Think before you get into it with a cacique [Taino Indian chief – the original inhabitants of Borinquen, later renamed Puerto Rico]
This is not Mozambique, this is Puerto Rico
Here you’ll hit the pavement
And here everyone wears a peto [chest protector, like catchers use in baseball]
Here’s everyone is a mullato
Even if you’re white, you’re black
Here you show respect or you get stabbed [respeto means respect, but also sounds like it means re-stabbed]
Don’t rile me up, don’t make me say puñeta [curse word, kind of like fuck]
Ah, I already said it, my bad, but it’s just that the gringos
I got them going to-and-fro, to-and-fro,
And I bet on me even if I’m small.

******

And can someone tell me if this video is supposed to be serious? it seems more like an SNL skit to me, but I’m old.

Week 178: Week 8

170 weeks later. I recently looked at Week 8 (December 2006!) and the comment thread, at least, is better than anything I can write this week. So here you go. Ultimate lazy. Week 8. I wonder why I was being so mean, not my usual style.

If you’re too cool to look back or you’re one of the few that read it the first time around and don’t care to live thru that again, here’s a youtube video in the rare Georgian vocal style that Orera put to great use. Here it is put to less awesome, but funnier use.