Saturday's are for wild dogs

I rolled down the street last night to check out Project Object, a Zappa tribute band featuring Ike Willis and Ray White.  My low expectations were unfounded, it was tremendous.  The musicality the six of those guys had...one head, twenty four appendages.  Luckily for everyone involved, the head belonged to the great, dead Zappa.  Here's Saturday's party jam, "Flakes."

 

Real Estate - Days

Out Tuesday

I don't know if I like the first Real Estate album. I can't remember it, to tell you the truth. And I know I've listened to it in the past month. I know I don't not like it. It's fine, still on my iPod.

Days, is a totally different story. Every time my attention drifts away, I get brought back in by something that sounds damn near perfect within its context. This is where I need to put a beach metaphor. Whether it's the floating green bottle (the melody) or its message for a castaway sweetheart (the lyrics), the bobbing and shifting discoball sea (the music) eventually delivers it to the Great Pacific Garbage Patch (my brain). I especially dig the way the keyboard solo on "It's Real" pops out like a Magic Eye. "Green Aisles" is late nineties. I'm not completely sold on that one, it seems like it's drinking too much of the yesterday juice.

 It's Real
 Green Aisles

Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Get Their Ya-Yas Out

Chris, Franko, and Dave have been putting on three-piece shows as of late, trying out some new material.  The hope is that most of this will end up on an upcoming EP and/or album within the next calendar decade.  No Fables here.  If that's what you're into, go to the BBBlog or send buffalompls@gmail.com an album request.  All you ex-pats enjoy.  All you Upper Midwesterners, see them for yourself at their next gig. 

Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo

Live at the Fine Line Music Café

October 6, 2011

New Moon

Sparrow's Sorrow

The Bourbon Murderer

Friend Island

Tables of the Cloth

Pride Weekend

Fine Forever

Stranded in the Dark

Check it out, you can download it for keeps!

Rejected from the rising storm

Robbie Basho
The Voice of the Eagle

There’s a moment near the midpoint of “Wounded Knee Soliloquy” where Robbie Basho abruptly aborts the song’s deliberate strum and pick method in favor of a ringing wall of jangle while he calls out to the heavens. His voice, which to this point had been a controlled groan with the occasional flare, is freed into a full out bellow over the caterwauling guitar rubble. “Are you ready, my son / For to ride This Rainbow of His Light?” Such a spiritually obtuse suggestion, while certainly present, rarely fits well within the ethos of the early Seventies outsider folk scene. It can seem too bold and grandiose for the usually timid, simple melodies of the era. But in Basho’s hands they are commonplace and become extragalatically comforting.

Much like his music, Basho’s life was an adventure of human spirituality. From his early orphan days through a youth of Catholic schooling, he catapulted into the beat-inspired, wild cultural melting pot that existed on the fringes of Washington, D.C., in the early 1960s. Along with John Fahey, Sandy Bull, and Davy Graham*, Basho helped pioneer a new era of experimentation in the American folk community, both technically and stylistically. Over a bed of Americana-laced Indian ragas, he meandered through ancient Hindu teachings, samurai honor systems, the dark corners of the Caribbean magic, and American Indian mythology. Along the way the recordings, melodies, and mantras became clearer, while his voice developed from a piercing howl into a musically emotive, melissma-laden croon.

For 1972’s The Voice of the Eagle, Basho stays solely in the Western hemisphere. The Hopi, Lakota, Incan, and Nez Percé stories and imagery provide a stable narrative of honoring nature and the Creator, while living in awe of their accomplishments and striving for a blessed path. Punctuated by a South Indian log drum, “The Voice of the Eagle” and “Omaha Tribal Prayer” bounce along as if they belonged to the American road music trope while they, unmistakably, do not at the same time. The album’s sole terrestrial fare, “Roses and Gold,” ruminates, with a melancholily deliberate delivery, on the emotional ecstasy of love and sitting quietly in a forest, watching nearby deer graze. At Eagle’s close, the ascension of “Moving Up a Ways” with the seemingly infinite expanses of Basho’s six-string propulsively droning bigger and stronger, his voice warbles and careens until he comfortably relaxes in redemption.

Towards the end of his career, Basho’s form had become something extraordinary. Always a willing guitar smith, he had made his career on experimenting and honing a style that knew no bounds when it came to imaginative musical story arcs. Similarly, his voice had, album by album, become a sharper conduit of spiritual empathy. Eagle marks the first moment where both his playing and singing could stop you in your tracks. It’s unreal. In fact, there are moments when it’s easier to imagine Basho as a face in a cloud, his booming voice drifting down a mountain slope, than it is to picture him as a man. While that might be taking it a bit far, Eagle and the rest of his later catalog can create equally otherworldy ideas about the man and his motives. He is a unique force that needs to be taken in and digested.


    

Get your fix at ghostcapital.

*Actually British. Thanks Chris.

Movie Time

Below is a sordid affair largely based in the fairy tale '90s. You have the classic mix of lust and love going along with money and power. Your strong-minded heroes standing tall in adversity to attain the unattainable. Twists and turns, corruption and greed, love and resentment. And such familiar characters! The evil, creepy Russian lady, the stereotypical money-grubbing Jew, and dough eyed, naive small town hick. A story like this was made for Hollywood. Get your popcorn ready and feast your eyes on the destruction of the American middle class (and billions more, for that matter). This is part one of the three-part BBC series All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace.

A Summer Wasting

Idle hands are the devil’s playthings.  A year or so ago I remember someone posting a strikingly philosophical idea on Facebook.  It wasn’t Nietzsche to be certain, but a short, concise, existential pondering.  Not a ‘what is life?’ or ‘dust in the wind’ blab either.  It was sorrowful, introspective, and came from a very soft piece of meat.  I don’t remember what it was exactly; if anything it was the medium that makes it stick out in my mind. The medium and one of the comments:  If you’re thinking about those things you have too much time on your hands.

There’s my Summer Wasting.  Or maybe Stuart said it better when he sang “I keep taking everything to be a sign.”  I’ve always been a consummate schemer, going limpless and still anticipating the feel of my next steps, only to find they’re normal and no amount of anticipation or worry would change a thing.  So with school out and the nail biting anxiety of being left at a train station only to look into the dusk as the station clears, I’ve sat, over-thought, over-indulged, and over-compensating.  I think there’s been five weeks or so of this.  Eighteen of those days were without deodorant—a streak I am happy to announce has now come to a close.

Now that the sun has crested, I feel a sense of rebirth and awe.  I’m one complete tilt from 30.  Let the cleaning commence!  So while I’ve been in a self-imposed writing block, here are some shorts that I should have been writing about.

How about the fact that I hate trends?  It doesn’t matter the type.  I’ve considered writing a piece on summer fashion with my head stuffed way up my ass.  Probably not worth it, though.  And technology?  Please let some of this be a trend.  I went to see Cave of Forgotten Dreams tonight and there was a preview/commercial for Nintendo DS where the kids were talking about Mario Kart making it the best summer ever.  Drive a go-cart.  Speaking of the movie, the 3D was cool; the flowing cave walls stretching bison and mammoths as Herzog stretched our imaginations.  But was it necessary or did it just unnecessarily make people strain and shift to get the pictures in focus?  I’m on the fence for that movie, but the rest of them?  Drive a go-cart.

How about some triumphs of personal resilience?  BWIWYA contributor and long time friend Jon Poulson recently fell into wedded bliss.  I think Mark was a groomsman.  I wish I could have been there.  On the band front, the gang in Minneapolis opened some boxes and started holding on to years of work as The Fables of the Cloth has finally come full circle.  The amount of work and dedication, in my modest opinion, pales in comparison to the diverse, anthemic musical joy ride on the other end.  I’m endlessly proud to have been a part of the process and the continuing growth.  Speaking of which, not to toot my own horn too loudly, I caught a breeze of a muse a month ago and the resulting work will push the band further than we’ve been before.  Now I just need to keep putting my pen where my mouth is.

How about that bad-ass job interview in New York that I tackled deodorantless?  They wanted me, but the finances weren’t right.  It was hard saying no when I knew so many unknowns were lurking in that foreign, pin cushion of excitement.  As I shuffled through Manhattan, I was Map Master supreme—practically a local.  I didn’t know exactly where I was going but I knew that I could find it if I looked like I knew what I was doing and walked fast.  Still, I was stopped on the street and asked if I wanted a CD of “beats made by a local artist.”  I turned, gave the guy a buck, and he gave me some shit CD that I will never listen to.  First thing out of his mouth: Where you coming in from?

Later that night I had the opportunity to do exactly what I wanted to do, when I needed to do it.  For the second time in my life I was in the presence of my second-cousin Margie Haley.  While I was unfamiliar with her in fact, I was more than prepared for the type of person she is from my father’s ravings.  Margie is an 80 year-old smoker, a whip-smart Scotch drinker, foul-mouthed bull shitter.  I stepped off the Hudson Line with a real get-along attitude, maybe even a touch of that uncomfortable easiness that has plagued me of late.

While we exchanged pleasantries and formalities, I got the sense that she was sizing me up.  Word from relatives painted me in a certain color and she wanted to hold it up to the light, see if it made weight.  I just drank.  After five beers you can feel it in your cheeks.  Soon the humidity checked out while the breeze swept the sun away, leaving the heat.  Switch to the hard stuff, pack another box of smokes, laugh to cut the mutual-meeting pressure.  I wanted to drink and I wanted to smoke cigarettes but when we started slinging quantum physics, its effect on the notion of humanity, the bigness and smallness in all its blackness, I started watching the minute hand pass the second hand.  Fifty years of separation, nothing but a distant set of limbs on the family tree—at different levels no less—and a commonality that ran as strong and constant as that raging stream that once cut the valley of our conversation.  A unique opportunity in the arc of making connections.   That night I was less consummate schemer and more belly-up dreamer.  I like myself more that way.  I’m looking forward to making it more of a habit.

Bigger and Better - 2008

We tied them to the trees in some old April glow.
We're avenging giant ghosts.
Bigger and better buildings will surely come along.

We tied them to our heads through rain and wind and snow.
The bald will rule the world!
Bigger and better bandanas riding Harley's west,
some with flags on leather vests.

Will the sun burn out in our lifetime? I'm kinda hopin' so.
Or a meteor come and lay us next to dinosaur bones?
Or like they said on Discovery, when Yellowstone finally blows
will the second-coming be surfing its pyroclastic flow? On a dinosaur bone?

We tied them to our sleeves--our mouths say 'change' and 'hope.'
We're avenging silent ghosts.
Bigger and better wet dreams will wash away our blues
and with some luck one day come true.

Sunlight Through Your Blinds - 2003

Iceberg thighs at my side,
slim to none on covers.

There's been so many nights
of crashing winds and shutters,
I could barely stand another
passing through.
Same with you.

Wouldn't it be nice
to hear the birds sing Clementine?
Or to see sunlight
through your blinds.

Tables of the Cloth - 2011

I want the prairie grass-
tasseled dancing past,
bare-ankled, holding fast
to windswept providence.
I'd take the sweet relief
of a lone shady tree,
head resting, bold and sultry,
to sing me to sleep.
In these steel cities
the only poetry's
spit out from factories'
rusting machinery.
And it's all the same,
just like the dated graves
whose forgotten surnames
simply fade away.

Taking deep breaths and holding them

Glory to God, the school year is over. Time to start dusting out the cobwebs, taking out the trash, and worrying about the summer. Not to mention the END OF THE WORLD!

Sunday when I wake up with a hangover, I'll start singing along with these dudes and do it all day--

Waking up from Horatio Alger

Back when I was your age it seemed like everyone was middle class. Worker’s rights were a necessity of the past and we all could achieve the American dream. When this is the case unions and even government are obsolete and unnecessary. The America of the 80’s, 90’s and 00’s had completely given in to the myth of Horatio Alger, times have changed; history is playing out another one of its cycles before our very eyes. Parts of America are waking up from the fallacy that we can all be millionaires. On the other side the likes of McCarthy and Nixon have been reincarnated in other forms and shot up with a juice concocted from the old union-busters of the 1920’s and 1930’s.

By coincidence I traveled to Madison on the second weekend (or day 8) of the protest that began there following the introduction of the “Budget Repair Bill” and the 14 Democratic senators leaving the state. I arrived with a vague understanding of what was going on, and the point of view that the teachers, nurses, prison guards and other public workers were going to lose eventually; it was just a matter of time before the budget repair bill would be passed. I left 3 days later with the overwhelming belief that somehow, some way, they had to win.

Out-of-State Agitators

For someone like myself who had become politically numb, Walker and his union busting bill was a real kick in the balls. I’ve grown accustomed to being enraged and dismayed by American politics. Up until now I never felt like much of it really affected me, I was not invaded or invading. Yet such an overt attack on things that I hold dear made a cynic realize there is something that even they are compelled to believe in.

Wisconsin has responded. In the last 10 weeks in Madison and all over Wisconsin we have seen an acute arousal of civic engagement at all levels. People are in the streets voting with their feet, and they have started voting with their dollars too by boycotting Walker supporters. If we want to maintain the better parts of our democracy, not just in Wisconsin but in all of the country, we must not let this sentiment wane, instead it must expand.

There is no doubt that something amazing has begun in Wisconsin, but the truth is there’s nothing unique about the actions or the actors that make it an anomaly. The truth is this could happen anywhere, and should be going on everywhere. We are all Wisconsin, and we need to believe that we can make that kind of differences in our lives and societies anywhere if people stay engaged and organize.

Union Thugs

In a way, we should be thankful for what the republicans have done in Wisconsin because it has brought liberals together more than Obama or any other democratic politician ever could. We have grown closer to old friends, families have come together and we made friends that we never knew we had. I have watched news spread from friends in Wisconsin to Wisconsinites all the way from Anchorage to Miami; among people I had no idea had any interest or concern for politics in general. We have come to realize that we have a lot more in common than we ever thought we did, and that more than anything has been the power that Madison has had.

On the other hand we should be furious with Scott Walker and republican legislators as well. Not because we disagree with them, but because they have ignored every function of our democracy - except the one that got them elected in the first place. The have ignored court orders, fought open records requests, violated campaign finance laws, ordered law enforcement agencies to do duties outside of their constitutional responsibilities and perhaps stolen elections. I find it hard to believe Wisconsin’s Supreme Court election was turned on some sort of Daley-esque, Chicago style voting fraud. I also find it hard to believe that in one county they misplaced or failed to count 1% of Wisconsin’s total electorate, an amount that is basically 10% of the total votes in the county. In this case incompetence seems to be a smoke screen for either something sinister or to add to the overall perception that this administration is not transparent; the motive for which I cannot figure out for the life of me.

Perhaps the most disturbing is the overall reaction to and attitude towards the 100,000+ protestors who have marched in the streets of Madison over the past months. Not only have republicans in Wisconsin acted indifferent to the masses and their message, but in many ways they have shown a large degree of disdain for the people in the streets as well. They have written them off time and time again as outside agitators, union thugs and even slobs. This is unsustainable. Those who ignore the voice of the masses, and who continually ignore the rule of law are bound to reap the whirlwind. At this moment recall papers have been filed for 6 Republican senators in Wisconsin. Walker himself has admitted that all this excitement is making it pretty hard to conduct business. And I predict many more days in hearings and court rooms for Walker and his cronies.

I don’t know what ever made this new generation of tea bag republicans think that they could step on working people in the Midwest, but we need to show them that they can’t. From here on we need to keep going. It is essential that people get engaged and stay engaged. We must watch the news and think critically of it, we must all question authority, and for god’s sake we have to vote with our ballots, with our feet and with our dollars.

This is not about Wisconsin, not even to Scott Walker. Nor is it about the budget, layoffs, teachers, NPR, abortion or firefighters. This is about the future of our country, and our opponents already have their vision, now we must fight that vision at all turns and regroup and find our own.

Slobs!

Here's something

Here’s something. The year was 2001. I was practicing the custodial arts for one of the largest universities in the country. Making about twelve dollars an hour, working about twelve minutes every hour, and that’s a generous estimation. Ryan Adams had released “Heartbreaker”, two, maybe only one, years before. He really nailed it though. Alt-country was in. Maybe he was the vanguard, maybe he was the trailer. Anywho, December 2001, he was playing in Minneapolis, and I wanted to go.

I had buddies that practiced the custodial arts with me. My bro planted the alt-country seed with me, and I tried to spread the good news with my friends. I was pretty successful. I’m pretty sure they’d agree. Radiohead, Wilco, Son Volt, Ryan Adams. That was the playlist back then. Basically, as long as I’d play “Idiotheq”, I could get away with playing any of the sad sack shit that those alt-countriers would put out. Even though I’m pretty sure that I’d changed lives with steel guitars and sad lyrics, I couldn’t get any of my fellow janitors to go down to First Avenue with me.

I had had the itch to go to the show all day. I had to work. A lesser man would have stayed on the clock and just gone to the show, but I was honest, upright, and signed out. I had driven to work that day in the blue and wooden siding Buick Electra station wagon, so I signed out at around 5:30 and drove downtown. The Ryan Adams “Gold” tour show was going to start at 8:00. I couldn’t miss it.

Of course, I arrived a little early. But, the show was sold out, and I didn’t have a ticket. Across the street from First Ave is an Irish bar. I was about 4 months into bar drinking ability, and a few dollars and a bar stool was a golden ticket for me. I went to O’Donovans. It’s a great vantage point to First Ave. The bar has windows gazing out across the street onto the First Ave milling-about area. Having gone to a Ben Folds Five show there without a ticket, I was pretty confident that I would be able to get into the show provided I got in line soon enough. May as well wait and have a Guinness.

About 6:30 - the timeline will be pretty murky; it was ten years ago – I noticed people mulling around the First Ave entrance. That was my cue. Slam the second or third Guinness and get across the street. I saw a line developing and got in it. I asked the fella in front of me if anybody in the line had tickets, I think the answer was no. The fella, though recognized me from the Jay Farrar show two weeks before then. I was pretty cowed at the time. That had been a wild night. Of course, now remembering the Jay Farrar show, I bet the others are ashamed that they didn’t have as much fun as my friends and I were having (maybe another blog post). Over an hour standing in line in front of First Ave in Minneapolis in December until the doors opened. I was dancing at the end of the wait. Grey New Balances and Minneapolis Decembers aren't a good mix.

While I was in line my roommate and great friend, non-janitors, arrived. “Chandler!” (stupid nickname). “Joe! Pete! You guys are going to the show?” “Yeah! Can we get in line?” I would have loved to let them in, but the line had grown to about half-way down the street. Ryan Adams was really hot at the time. I had to say no. I’m a rules guy. They went to hunt for tickets. Fifteen minutes before I got into the show, Joe and Pete walked by waving tickets in my face. They were getting in, I still wasn’t sure to. Luckily, I was early enough in the line though to get a rush ticket. I was in.

I got into First Ave for my third time, Ben Folds, Jay Farrar, you know, and the place was packed. The folks standing in line only got in after ticket holders had been admitted. I had shooed away my friends in the ticket line, so I was solo. Logically, I went to the bar right away. Opening act was some Calvin Klein model that Ryan was dating. She was good, but I can’t remember her name (Leona Ness! Just heard Ryan say her name on a youtube video.) I was busy trying to find my friends. First Ave, upper deck, lower deck, no dice.

All of a sudden, I got a tug on my fleece. Looked down, and it was a very cute girl. “Need a friend?” For as long as I live, those words are going to be with me. “Yes!” “Come hang out with me.” She was adorable, well-dressed, petite, forward and nice. She told me that she had seen me sitting by myself at the bar at O'Donovans. I didn't recognize, didn't care, I followed her. We didn’t go anywhere special, somewhere on the main floor. The bundle of humanity was pretty huge, though. I was pretty sober and awkward. Probably after the fifth attempt I learned her name. Then, the conversation was stuck. What to do? I decided to try to make her laugh. Small talk skills for me, in a big place, are lacking, so I had to use the gifts I’ve been given. Height. I reported upon the hair-washing of our fellow Ryan Adams fans. (Writing this … How stupid!) I did it to try to show a certain degree of charm, though, and I think it worked. She would laugh and kiss me on the cheek. I reciprocated. I ran into to Joe and Pete. Decided to watch the show with my new friend.

Since, I’ve seen a fair amount of Ryan Adams’s shows. This was my first one, though, and this December 2001 show was Ryan’s first at First Ave. I vividly recall the opening when he said, “I’ve waited a fuck of a long time to get on this stage!” He proceeded to play a set without all the bullshit petulance that he’s known for. Midway through the set he played “Stars Go Blue”. The crowd loved it, was in his hand, and he felt that he didn’t get it right, so he and his band played the song again. My new girl and I swayed in each-others arms. Shortly after that redo Ryan sent 2 cases of beer through the audience, free for first come-first served. The show began at 10 p.m. I’m not sure when it ended. I know it was after 2:30 a.m. It is one of the best concerts that I’ve gone to.

After the show, I walked her home, hung out there a while, and drove back to my apartment. She was ten years older than me and miles ahead of me. Ten years later, though, that night is still a definer. It’s one of those random, go with your gut, days that I still think about and cherish. So, that’s something.

Beard basked in beer light

What opens with a charming pounce? What answers in a smart baritone? The music I'm familiar with is unfortunately disconnected. I think that's what's been created by an unfortunate desensitization to emotional expression. I'm cool. You're cool. Let's use familiar and cool terms to express this---only in cool ways, mind you. Show no weakness, no real expression. Mucky pretense. Mucky pretense. Muck tense.

I'm envious of my Cousin Matt and his daunting journey and passion with music. It's a great story. Sometime, if chance catches, hear it. Black sheep gone stray? Not so dramatic. Passion overwhelming? To an extent. The twists and turns have all culminated to form a smart, respectful day-to-day relationship.

We've always laughed together like only cousins can laugh--day one until tomorrow for sure. Check out this quick little u-tubr of Matt playing some sharp pieces on MCTV.

[ORIGINAL POST] these are a few of the original tunes that i played at the dress casual cafe in mason city, ia. (i played a set of about 25 original tunes.)

And from the loss of words department...

Henry Miller said in Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymous Bosch, if you don’t write 10,000 words a day, you aren’t a writer. I’m not a writer. I like the function of moving my fingers, expanding my thoughts, and attempting to . . .

Reno: a forgotten city in the foothills

I arrive in Reno on a Thursday afternoon to the bells and whistles of slot machines, cheesy t-shirts, and snowboarders trying to ride the season as far into spring as possible. As I stroll through the airport to find a ride to the hotel the scene is of ecstatic gamblers riding high on their big win and others with a look of pure defeat. I exit the airport and catch a shuttle to the Sands Regency hotel in downtown Reno. Upon exiting the shuttle into the rows of speckled lights I wonder to myself why haven't they been replaced. The hotel reminds me of the most expensive suit you would find at a consignment store. I approach the understaffed and overly frustrated desk clerk whom greets me with a reluctant "Are you with the jazz festival or here for pleasure?" I respond "I'm here on a journey to find answers for the future." She smirks and thanks me for breaking up her mundane shift and hands the key to my room. I navigate the casino floor avoiding old ladies smoking long barrels, children running wild pressing buttons on random slot machines and an old man on a bender with an unbridled look in his eye. I head up to my room to relax from a long day of travel and rest up to hit the casino floor. As the clock ticks into the eight o'clock hour I decide to descend into the madness of the casino floor and find myself a drink and a bite to eat. As I wait to be seated a few participants of the jazz festival the desk clerk spoke of earlier come into the restaurant. As we converse they find out I am in Reno for the North American Professional Band Instrument Repair Technicians (NAPBIRT) conference and invite me to join them in celebration of a job well done on their parts. As we fill our time with drinks, food, and laughter a few of us decide to take advantage of the one dollar domestic beers offered in the casino. The night drifts off into the high desert of Nevada and the jazz crowd starts to thin out the ones left all agree we need to go find out what downtown Reno has to offer. We pour into the street and head for the more consistent night lights. Our first stop is the Golden Nugget where one of our crew hits for a hundred dollars and buys shots for everyone. Next we want to take a turn for the weird as stroll into Circus Circus. We play carnival games deep into the night surrounded by wild ecstatic laughter. I arise Friday morning feeling quite refreshed and head downstairs to meet up with last nights gang for a breakfast buffet spread for kings at a peasants price. The hangover has faded, now it's time for business as I say goodbye to my new friends, hop into a taxi and move to a classier resort. Upon arrival at the Atlantis I register at the conference and try to prepare myself for what I wasn't quite sure yet. I wander around the hotel for the next few hours waiting for my room to be prepared. I ran into an old friend that I whom I hadn't seen for about a year. As we play catch up she gives me the lowdown on what to expect over the next couple of days, but that conversation had not prepared me for what was to come. My roommates and I get settled and hit the hay early like children on Christmas Eve not knowing what to expect. Still being on central time I arise quite early and decide to go outside and enjoy the mountain air. After a few cigs and a fresh cup of coffee from the local bistro I head back to the convention center and walk into an in depth discussion about saxophones. "Hi my name is Jeff Smith and I will be presenting this course on Saxophone basics. The only problem is all of my supplies for this clinic are in a ditch in Iowa surrounded by circus animals." The saxophone can be the most rewarding and frustrating instrument to work on in the repair world. Few instruments vary from brand to brand even model to model except the saxophone. The same company can make a few models of saxophone and the mechanisms can be drastically different. As far as instruments go the saxophone has barely hit puberty compared to other traditional instruments in how long they have been around. First you have to make sure everything is aligned and in working order before you can tear it down to get to the guts of the instrument. If your saxophone has not been walking the straight and narrow just shock its system and more times than not it will straighten right up for you. Only on the real stubborn cases you may have to muscle it back into place. As you look into saxophone you can tell real quick if your working with a stubborn instrument or one that wants to be the best it can. Your best bet is to support the weakest point and beat the strong ones until everything aligns. There were times during this weekend I was questioning whether the clinicians were talking about repair or life in general. Align your posts, hinge tubes, and rods to make everything run at the top of its game. The spring in your instrument needs to be slightly bent up now isn't that sexy. The real quandary about saxophones is everything can be perfect and the damn thing still won't play. The low notes will warble even on the high end saxophones just because the instrument gets in the way of itself. As the air travels the length of the instrument and hits the bottom bow the sound waves will bounce off each other and make a vibrato sound whether you like it or not. To fix this problem you do something that sounds quite strange just drop anything small into the saxophone bell. I know this goes against everything your band director told you as a child but what do they know about sound waves. It works because it disrupts the pattern of the sound waves and keeps them from getting in the way of each other. We break for lunch and I see a spark in every techs eye as tips and tricks are being bounced off one another just like the sound waves in the sax. Some heated argument starts across the room while others are in a state of laughter. I over hear more than once during the lunch hour "That tip is so simple it will save me hours. Why in the hell did I not think of that." After consuming a wonderful lunch and four cups of coffee my brain and psyche is ready for a two hour session on percussion repair. "Surprisingly enough, drums rarely need any major repair. These things are meant to take a beating." states the clinician. The room giggles at the dry humor we are about to be drummed to death with over the next couple of hours. Since drums rarely need repair it is best to set up your snares with a blank slate so your customer can decide what kind of best suits their style. If both heads are tuned to the same pitch it gives the drum a traditional orchestra sound. When you tune the top head at a higher pitch then the bottom head it gives you a raw rock and roll sound and if you do just the opposite it sounds almost synthetic. As you twist and turn the nuts an bolts of a drum you have to do it with such timing and precision that it can be an art. Just as a percussionist needs to be "tight" their equipment has little margin for error otherwise you can wind up with dead spots and their instrument will not perform up to its potential. As the afternoon session ends I can tell the crowd is itching for a drink myself included. A few of the techs and I head downstairs to catch the scores of our favorite baseball teams and trade info from the morning clinics. Two or three beers deep I feel my stomach growling for food and as the crowd disperses I come across a few familiar faces. We all decide to grab a bite to eat and some more drinks considering the sessions do not start until one the next day. We sit down at the roulette table and proceed to lose our money in a timely fashion but not before we get a couple of drinks on the house. A group of techs from California are sitting at a table near us and invite us over. As the drinks and conversation flow I soon realize you learn just as much at the bar as you do at the clinics during the day. The night burns on and only a few of us left we head up stairs for a tech session and the group can tell there is a definite dynamic between two of the techs and we decide to let them be and hit the hay for another long enlightening day. I arise early Sunday morning still not having adjusted to pacific time. I head outside for the mountain air and other ascending techs from the previous night before we have a forum on the state of the industry. As budget short falls plague our schools art programs we discuss how to get the most out of each instrument for the least amount of money. There is also a discussion on which kind of tech is the best. The one with spots (apprentice) or the one with dots (tech school) You have to look very close to distinguish between the two for the spots are only slightly larger than the dots but from a distance it is impossible. Even up close you may have to measure the talent on a test that cannot be standardized. I feel, spots or dots, as long as the work is quality and our mission the same-to provide kids or starting musicians with properly working instruments so their experience is pure and will want to continue to play-are one in the same. A tech continually striving to be better will always build up a musical community around him/her. As tempers run high from varying degrees of disgust from the morning discussion I ran into my drinking buddy from the night before and she confides in me that she may be in love with Mr. man from the night before and has made plans to meet up with him again that night. My fellow classmates and an alumni go out to eat with our professor to let him blow off some steam from the morning forum before we head into our afternoon sessions. Full from a cheap Chinese lunch and refueled to absorb some for information we head back to the hotel to consume a wealth of knowledge on woodwinds in the afternoon sessions. I find tricks and tips to save myself at least an hour throughout the day. At this point in the conference my head feels like it is going to explode from all of the knowledge bestowed upon me and I still have a full day of clinics to attend. To combat all the buzz that is flowing around my head a few senior techs invite me to join them at an Irish Pub across the street that evening to talk anything but shop. If you have ever spent time with a room full of BIRTs it is impossible to avoid a conversation that leads back to tech talk. At least the jokes and true feelings shine through when the booze flows freely. Once again I realize the real learning happens at the bar with these people now that is a group I can support. Monday rolls around and the members of NAPBIRT are running on fumes from drinking and absorbing information and making new connections in the industry. After the Monday sessions we have a big formal dinner and it is time to say goodbye to new and old friends but not before one more big bash at the local pub. I am sure I was offered a first born at some point in the night like I said things get a little fuzzy especially since I have to be on a plane in two hours. Once I touch down in Omaha I reflect upon the weekend with a grin on my face and cannot wait until next years convention rolls around. Until then I will continue to hone my craft and support musicians in my area which will soon be Minneapolis. I look at the challenge ahead of me and say bring it on all you motherfuckers.

It came from the mid 70s...

If you're like me, you're probably the only person who gives a shit about my mid 70s music posts. Well then, you are in luck--I've compiled them and you can have it. Send me an email or a Facebook message and I will hook you up. You will want it. It's great.

Shit from an Old Hard Drive

It's city-wide clean up in Madison, South Dakota this Saturday, and that can mean only one thing. The year-2000 era computer that I have left at my parent's house for years was once again scheduled for being put out on the curb. In years past, I have convinced my parents to save the machine because it had a lot of old school work, etc., saved on it that I wanted to preserve. But this year, I now live again in Madison, and had no excuse but to actually take what I wanted off the machine and finally let it go quietly into the night.

I actually thought about just letting it go without even touching it. I wasn't sure it would even boot up anymore. But for once in my life, I wasn't a complete lazy piece of shit, and actually fired up the old computer to see what I could find. I was glad I did. In addition to a lot of half-assed academic papers, I also found plenty of old notes and garbage that was fun to read over. The following is a bit of that garbage that I transmit to you. It's from a time when I was taking stories of my friends and lightly fictionalizing them for my own enjoyment. This one is about the time that Franko Hudson turned 21, though you would figure that out in about two seconds if you know Franko. There are some things that I would change now, but I think I'll present it in its unedited glory:

How Pierre Got a Glass Eye

It was always a major occasion when someone was celebrating their 21st birthday. It meant that we had license to go out and get as shitfaced as we wanted without feeling much guilt about it. There's no shame in puking on your 21st birthday. And not much shame in an older person also getting so fucked up that they puke, too. Not that any of us had much remorse concerning the amount of drinking we did. But it's always more fun when there's an occasion.

This time it was Pierre. Pierre was really the last of us to be of legal drinking age. Naturally, everyone was geared up for the night. "Are we going or what?" said Dylan. It was 10:30. In South Dakota the bars close at 1:00. If we were going to hit it hard, we were going to have to be there soon.

"Yeah, yeah," said Pierre. "It's my goddamn birthday, so just hold your horses."

Pierre was from Amsterdam, the coolest city in the world. None of the rest of us had ever been there, but Pierre went back frequently to visit his grandparents. He would often regale us with stories of the city. He once told us that he had had sex with a woman in a cemetery there. That sort of thing never happened in Vermillion. He also told us about how his grandparents made their own wine every year. I wasn't even sure my parents had ever tasted wine, except at the communion rail.

Tonight Pierre was taking forever to get ready because he was working on his mustache. When I walked by the bathroom I could hear him mutter, "It has to be perfect." It was actually a joke, but one that had become increasingly elaborate over the last two months. What had initially begun as an all-too-common mustache growing contest had become something much more sinister. I believe that Pierre had come to enjoy his hairy upper lip, and to think of it as an asset. Everyone else had shaved theirs. Pierre was obsessed with his. Is it full enough? (No) Should he color it? (At first I thought 'yes', but after I saw the effect, clearly 'no'.) Are handlebars in? (No).

Dylan was anxious. "You either shave that thing off or stop screwing with it. It's time to go." Pierre was in the upstairs bathroom. After a moment, we heard the door slam.

"Fine," said Pierre. "I'm ready." His mustache gleamed in 100 watt light.

The bar was called LeRoy's. It was a Wednesday and the bar was almost empty. There were the 8 of us from the house, and one other couple there. Things got ridiculous quickly.

The birthday boy must do shots. This is one of the cardinal rules of turning 21. In legend, the birthday boy does 21, one for each year he has stayed alive. Since this would almost invariably end in alcohol poisoning, it is rarely accomplished. Pierre would come close that night.

The math is pretty easy. Eight of us there, including Pierre. To start, everyone buys Pierre a shot, preferably the most disgusting drink you can come up with. Among the night's inventions: the "Schnapps Suicide", consisting of the mixing of all the types of flavors of Schnapps the bar has into one shot; also, the Flatliner, half a shot of tequila, half a shot of Zambuka, and a few drops of Tabasco sauce; finally, Dead Ringer, which I believe may have included pure ethanol. Seven terrible shots to start the night. For some it's enough to stop there. But this story is in a way an homage to Pierre, and I wouldn't say anything bad about him. His constitution wasn't phased.

After shooting out of the gate, it was time for a few beer rounds. The alcohol was boiling in Pierre's ears, but we were mostly keeping him under control. The bartender didn't like it, though, and with the place so close to empty, he spent a good deal of time eyeballing us. Still, we were regulars. He wasn't going to spoil the fun.

Shots can be contagious, and before long, others wanted to try the various made-up drinks of the night. The Schnapps Suicide was a big hit. You could hardly taste the alcohol. Let me tell you, when eight young men who live in one huge pink house start to get crazy in a bar, the result is often completely banal. They get loud and obnoxious. And so we did.

Pierre had started his second round of shots. By the time he was done he had reached 17 drinks, including three beers. His face was hot and red, his forehead damp with sweat. No one looked good. Dylan was drunk, too. He was baiting Pierre. He was trying to pull his mustache.

"God damn it! Knock it off, Dylan!" Pierre half fell out of his chair.

We had to go home soon. It was closing time. It was time to pass out.

"Last last call boys. 10 minutes to close," said the bartender. He was starting to switch off the lights.

"Oh, fuck it," Dylan said. "Two more shots. Whiskey. One for me and one for the birthday boy. My friend Pierre."

The bartender looked like he knew better, but Dylan was already sliding the money toward him. The drinks totaled four dollars. Dylan was giving the bartender a 10. "Keep the change," he said.

Dylan brought the shots back to the table and set one by Pierre and one in front of himself. Pierre downed his immediately. Before Dylan could see, Pierre reached over and grabbed the second shot too, spilling half of it on the table. He drank Dylan's shot.

"Jesus fucking Christ. I was going to make a fucking toast. I was going to toast you!" said Dylan.

Pierre was already up and heading for the door, though. He had done 19, the closest I had ever seen to 21.

It was a cold night. It had snowed days earlier, and now the powder was packed hard on the streets. When I got outside, Pierre was already half a block away.

"Wait up," I shouted.

Pierre turned around with unexpected urgency. He was stumbling. "I'm going to rob Citgo!" he said. Citgo was an all night gas station. It was the only thing open in town after the bars closed. With that, he turned back, and began a full speed run. I watched him arc toward Citgo. He didn't slow down as he approached the doors.

"What's he doing?" asked Dylan, who had just stepped outside.

"He's going to rob Citgo," I said.

We both heard the bang, as Pierre's head smashed into the glass door of the gas station. He had run full bore into it.

"Oh shit," I said. Or Dylan may have said that. Or both of us.

The attendent was outside before Dylan and I could get to Pierre. He was trying to help Pierre up, but Pierre was too dazed and intoxicated to stand. We were hurrying up. "It's ok, it's ok," I said. "He's just had a little too much tonight. He just turned 21. We'll take care of him."

"You sure took care of him so far," the attended said. Fair enough. "Get him out of here before I call the cops."

"Yeah, we got him. Sorry. Sorry for the trouble. The door looks alright. We're just going to take him home."

We each took one of his arms and started to drag him the four blocks back to our house. The others had exited the bar and were coming to see what had happened. Pierre was barely conscious. "Christ, is he okay?" asked John.

"I think so. He hit his head," I said.

John looked Pierre right in the face. "Hey man, are you ok?" he asked.

Pierre seemed to perk up. "Yeah, I'm ok. Let go of me. I'm ok," he said. We let him go and he hobbled, then caught himself. He took a few steps, then took off running again.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Dylan. "Let him run it off."

Pierre was sprinting down the street and slipped, falling flat. He slid on his back. His legs were still making a running motion through the air. He bumped up against the curb. Then he was up again, tripping over the curb and going down on the icy sidewalk. Up and down, up and down. I think he fell a dozen times on the way back to the house. He was swinging his arms wildly. He was possessed. He was the first one home.

I went through the front door a few minutes after we saw him enter. His bedroom was on the first floor, near the entrance. I looked in his room just in time to see him naked and losing his balance again, and falling headfirst into the radiator. It put a large, jagged cut on the top of his skull. I ran in to try to stop him before he could hurt himself again. His hair was matted with blood.

I turned around and saw Dylan. "I think he may have had a concussion," I said.

"He's alright," said Dylan. There were dozens of cuts all over Pierre's head. He was naked and bleeding inside the pink house.

When John saw what happened, he took Pierre up into the shower and turned the water on. Blood was flowing down the drain. Pierre started vomiting.

Pierre was crazy. John was helping him in the shower, but Pierre wasn't in his right mind. He was out of control. Blood and vomit were coming out of him at an alarming rate. Finally Pierre was out of energy. He was lying down in the shower. Lukewarm water was splattering against his body. I stood in the bathroom while John made sure that Pierre didn't drown. Pierre's eyes were rolling back in his head.

"I still think we should take him to the ER," I said. John looked at me. We were both drunk, too.

"Yeah, he's fucked up," John said.

It was then that Pierre leap up. I remember seeing his eyes. They were wide open. Pierre was a caveman then. It was prehistoric times and he was a caveman from Europe. He was a caveman trapped in a shower. He was a caveman trapped in a glass case.

Pierre lunged forward against the glass. It bulged outward and cracked.

"Holy shit," John said. John backed away from the cracking glass.

Pierre thrust his body against the glass again. This time it shattered, and Pierre fell forward, over the lip of the tub, and landed on the tile. He landed on the broken glass. He looked like a Greek god. He was a prisoner in a world he didn't understand. He was a Kafka character.

There were pieces of glass sticking in him. He stood up and yelled. There was glass in his forearms and chest. Blood was running down his torso. There was glass in his face. There was glass in his eye.

Someone threw a blanket around him. He would pass out for a few seconds and then wake up. When he woke up he would scream. John and I shepherded him outside. We put him in the back seat of John's car. He passed out again, as we drove to the hospital.

When we got there, we mostly carried him inside. The nurses looked shocked when they saw him. They put him in a wheel chair and wheeled him down the hall. John and I stood and looked at each other in the waiting room.

And that's how Pierre got a glass eye.

Celebrity Apprentice

i love the apprentice - it is the only reality show i've ever religiously watched. this, in my opinion was the finest moment in the show's history!

Now - WATCH IT!!!!!!!

Gary Busy and Meatloaf in action!

Comment - What did you think?!? Awesome huh!?!

best quote:

Meatloaf: "TAKE YOUR FUCKING SPRAY PAINT"
Busey: "Thank you very much"
Meatloaf: "SHUT THE FUCK UP"

Headlines: 44 years ago and today

Alright, this is probably a bit political for this particular blogspot, but these things are supposed to be a little cathartic, right, and I’m a little bugged. In the building that I currently work in, the only palatable radio station that I receive on my Jensen tape player walkman is Minnesota Public Radio. More often than not, this station will bore me to tears, but better that than the alternative right-wing talk station or the crummy popular music stations. Unfortunately my beloved KFAN’s FM signal does not quite have the juice to make it to my workstation, but so it goes. Today, at least the majority of the day, was thought provoking on MPR. The content was interesting, but the context in which the content was presented was what really struck me and has gotten my hackles up.

Forty-four years ago today, on April 4, 1968, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee. To honor the man, the Midday program, played a really well done one-hour American RadioWorks documentary titled “Martin Luther King’s last march”. If anyone gets an hour to listen to the program, I highly recommend it. I am by no means an historian on Dr. King, but I will try to sum up the gist of the documentary as I understood it. The program was focused on the last year of Dr. King’s life, and how his ministry’s message had begun to change from strictly advocating for equal political rights for African Americans to becoming more global in scope. Dr. King began speaking out against the Vietnam War. He began emphasizing economic justice and a redistribution of wealth as the means to ultimately address the plight of African Americans at the time. The shift in his ministry to preach about social justice issues led him to go to Memphis to support the city’s striking garbage workers. Dr. King’s initial attempt to organize a general strike of Memphis’s African American workers turned violent, in contravention of his tactic of non-violence. The failure of the initial march led Dr. King to return six days later to Memphis where he was ultimately slain on April 4, forty-four years ago. The radio program played highlights of the sermons that Dr. King delivered during this time, and the power and timelessness of his message still resonates. Had Dr. King only been able to continue his mission of seeking social justice, one wonders how different this country might be today.

One thing about Minnesota Public Radio, they will play remarkable, thought-provoking documentaries, and, if you listen long enough, you’ll also get inundated with the news of the day. Today’s headlines is the prism in which I heard and digested the King documentary. The contrast between the vision and aims of Dr. King and the headlines of today could not be starker. How little has changed! Dr. King spoke about how giving African Americans equal political rights was easy for the government, because it didn’t cost anything. In his mind, to really address the societal ills caused by economic inequality would be hard; it would cost billions of dollars. It has proven difficult. Speaking at Ebenezer Baptist Church on April 30, 1967, Dr. King stated:

And I knew that America would never invest the necessary funds or energies in rehabilitation of its poor so long as adventures like Vietnam continued to draw men and skills and money, like some demonic, destructive suction tube. And you may not know it, my friends, but it is estimated that we spend $500,000 to kill each enemy soldier, while we spend only fifty-three dollars for each person classified as poor, and much of that fifty-three dollars goes for salaries to people that are not poor.

Forty-four years later, the U.S. is involved in 3 wars. The latest “kinetic military action” in Libya is against a state that offers no threat to the United States, and is going forward despite no attempt to gain any sort of congressional approval. Spending on these wars since 2001 is over $1,175,000,000,000. The conservative Cato Institute cites federal spending on Health and Human Services programs to be $869 billion in the 2010 budget. No doubt, spending on poverty programs has grown since Dr. King’s day, and the quality of that spending versus simply an increase in the costs of services should be addressed by others far more capable than myself, to me, however, it is simply striking that in forty-four years military adventures and Asia and Africa continue to take primary budgetary importance over services designed to care for Americans who are in the most need.

Budget issues grip federal, state and local governments these days, and they are all over the headlines. There simply is not enough revenue to cover the services that people are used to receiving from their government. The Republican controlled House of Representatives is about to propose $4 trillion dollars in budget cuts over the next ten years. According to the Wall Street Journal “The plan would essentially end Medicare, which now pays most of the health-care bills for 48 million elderly and disabled Americans, as a program that directly pays those bills.” In Minnesota the budget proposed by the legislature “features a plan that forces more than 100,000 people at or near the poverty line from state-funded health insurance and instead provides a voucher to find insurance on the private market.” Transportation funding also threatens to get cut, to such an extent that a bus ticket in Minneapolis could cost $4 more per fare. Oh, and Minnesota’s budget also calls for a tax cut for businesses and individuals. Minnesota is not alone, of course. Residents of nearly every state could point to proposed budget provisions that seek to address deficits by cutting spending on those who rarely contribute to reelection funds.

The final bit of news that struck me today was a story about the institution of the President’s reelection bid.
According to the NPR story that I heard, the President is expected to raise a campaign budget of nearly $1 billion for the 2012 election. I am naïve and I am a projector. When I heard the words of Dr. King today, rightly, wrongly, simplistically or worse, racially, I thought about the President’s first run for office. I am sure that he never claimed to share anything with Dr. King. He did run a “Hope” and “Change” campaign, however. On Election Night, President-elect Obama stated:

This is our moment. This is our time – to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth – that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can’t, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people . . . .

To be fair, I love what has been done regarding nuclear arms control. I love the steps being taken to provide universal health care. I hope it survives the next budget. In many ways, however, things seem so much the status quo. What is to be expected, though, we’re still faced with issues relating to equality and social justice that were there forty-four years ago.

It came from the mid 70s...

This is one of Robbie Robertson's buddies. Last week my sister told me it was the perfect song for this time of year. It really blew her mind. From Third Down, 110 To Go.

Jesse Winchester - Midnight Bus

More rambunctious raucousness

Get it free here

I firmly believe that you can't consider an album among your favorites until you've had that one, perfect listening experience. Without that iconic memory and all the trappings that come along with it, CDs get scratched, albums get lost, mp3s deleted. I used to have a copy of the first We All Have Hooks For Hands album. Emphasize the used to. We just never had that moment.

I fancy myself a big fan of having a good time and that's been difficult on some of those late-night holiday weekends in Des Moines. So two years ago on Thanksgiving, despite only considering myself a borderline fan, I talked the sis Molly into running downtown with me to see this six-headed monster. You know, for something to do. Turns out the show was a real bust--one of those nights when there's more people in the band than in the crowd. I loved it. The energy was consistently high, the songwriting consistently strong. They weren't the tightest band I've ever seen, more like a tumbleweed--sharp, bundled and rolling. I had brushed shoulders with a couple of these guys in Vermillion before but this was the first time I had had to chat them up, hang out. It was fun. I bought their new CD because it seemed like the right thing to do.

A couple of days later I was back in the 'burgh getting geared for finals and jazzin' for another trip to Minneapolis. The Shape of Energy sat on my desk, still in the shrink wrap, for weeks until I finally decided to pop it in. I was totally impressed. I think I listened to it two or three times in a row. These guys didn't have hooks just for hands! This was the best guitar driven rock music I had heard that year without a doubt. At the time, I couldn't figure out how to get the album on to my iPod (I realize how stupid this sounds and I have since figured it out), so when I was packing for the break, I made sure to throw the disc in as well.

The next day, Butch picked me up at the airport around 10, 11 a.m. It was in the negatives but sunny--all in all, it felt miles better than Pittsburgh had the night before. We cruised down Lake Street high-fiving. After we grabbed way more beer than we needed, we rolled into the Skinhouse--old stompin' grounds. We cracked a few, told some shitty jokes, revved our engines. Now, if you Jon, you know how much this guy likes to rock. So I asked him if he wanted to listen to this sweet new album I just got. He gave me a "willing but not exactly sure why" shrug and grin. I'd been there, that was the attitude I had about their first album. "Wow. Kids from Sioux Falls. I can suffer through some of it."





Howling and Bellowing, the first track from The Shape of Energy.

Just like that, we were off. I cranked the volume, we shuffled between the couches and the fridge doing Jonny's punchin' dance. Franko woke up and wanted to know who was playing. We listened to it again. I think I played it at a party later that night, too. The first semester of law school was over and the stress of finals were gone. I was days from my birthday, partying with Jon and Franko before noon. I had been away for what seemed like a lifetime and I was more than happy to crawl back into the womb. This was the soundtrack.

Ten songs of electric guitars and piercing vocals built on snare clicks and an undercurrent of acoustic jangle. The first three songs can stand up with anything. "Howling and Bellowing" comes at you like the boys from Double Dragon with its jump kicks and sleeveless shirts. "Be Love, Be Wild," although a touch draggy and fatalistic, is wonderfully disorienting. It can surround my head. Rounding out the trio, "Made Up of Tiny Lights" is huge and I think it's safe to say that when you're listening to it, it's the most important thing coming out of your stereo. To say the rest of the album shambles around doesn't do it justice, but that's kind of what it does. "Records a Stone" conjures turn of the century, Ohio existentialism. The interplay between the winding electric guitars and the atonal violins in "Lessons Burned" displays a developing musical maturity. It's a great album. In fact, last Friday I listened to it with Zerfas and later that night saw that Lance had it on his turntable. It's been out for a year and a half.

I'm not about to say that I can have as strong of feelings for the new EP. I just got it, it's a Friday and I haven't had a good night's sleep in months. So, fresh ears, here we go.

Changes: Whoa, this doesn't sound like the righ...there it is. Nice guitar hook, snappy beat. Those keyboards in the back sound great. I'm still feeling the Ohio comment, it must have something to do with Eli's inflection. Big chorus--that could be a subtitle for the band, actually. First track and we already have a drum solo. Davis once said "drummers have big egos." I'm always amazed at how in sync their two drummer drumming is. Nice bass breakdown followed by an "oh yeah" moment that just doesn't quite explode like I expected. I'd like to hear this played on a steel drum.

Girls: I like the chunky, fuzzy keys. I don't know who these girls are--to notice that they love booze, they must really be drinkers. Here's the girl choir--they don't sound a whole lot different than any other choral groups they've sang with. They could be sexier. "It's not just drinks, it's who we are." Not exactly the highest opinion of girls. Here's a great running guitar line. It sounds kind of like a skier if you could ski on grass in the summer. Hold on, is that Nate Hoffman on the trumpet? For a band whose songs usually build and build and build, that was a nice step back. Foundation for a deck of cards. Yeah, downhill skiing in the summer with grass stains and shades.

Amy's Room: Pretty standard beginning. Are the girls singing background on this one? I notice my foot and head are bobbing--great clicks. To this point, this is the best song on the EP. The ghost voice in the background became an electric guitar--cool. A lot of longing and yearning and craving in this one. Slide guitar into another popping, jumpy electric guitar stroll. The rest of the way it seems like typical Hooks.

Trapped: I want to hear this one at the Buffalo Trading Post if it's still there. I don't know if I would put Eli's voice on top of such a down home ditty but it's not bad, in fact it works pretty well. Is that a jew's harp or a lazer in the background? They're staying truer to the form than I would've guessed and doing it really well. Nice solo. I don't know if I've heard their voices sounding so good together, this is pretty impressive.

Games: This has the end of the EP sound to it already. If I had a problem with The Shape of Energy it would be that it was a little lopsided towards the front. This sounds like a true closer. Not much jumping out at me on this one. It sounds like them. I always appreciate a tasteful party sound clip. I just heard "I'll shake and I'll spark." I don't know if I've heard a better match of voice to lyrics. And one little note at the end.

Off the top of my head, I guess I'd say this is another We All Have Hooks For Hands album. With the exception of those fat keyboard sounds, I think any of these songs would fit in well with the last album. That's not to say there isn't notable progression. For starters, it seems to be more patient. This, mixed with ever present off-the-charts exuberance, makes for some smarter sounding breakdowns where they're more in control. The older material always gave me the feeling that these guys would get together and kind of have a "who can be louder" contest. Here there's more cooperation, in the vocal delivery and the instrumentation. It's not a huge difference but it is noticeable and I think it's going to lead to more rewarding second and third listens. All in all, though, this is the same whiskey/upper buzz fuzz I've come to expect and appreciate. South Dakota Friday nights.

If you're too lazy to scroll back up for the free download link, here's another. Below is the video for "Girls."

Facile Criticism of Literary Classics

To quote from the Afterword to my edition of Uncle Tom's Cabin: "For the literary critic, the problem is simply how a book so seemingly artless, so lacking in apparent literary talent, was not only an immediate success but has endured." Th...usually Usually, I am loathe to criticize books that are part of the cannon. This is entirely different from criticizing the cannon itself, which has been the subject of plenty of legitimate criticism. But though the cannon should include more works by women and minorities, the works that are typically included are generally there for a reason. Who would I be to suggest that Shakespeare is overrated? What value would there be in me listing my ill founded complaints about Oedipus Rex or Paradise Lost? Mostly I just accept that these are great books and if I didn't fully enjoy them, it's likely that the problem is with me, not the book. I am especially loathe to criticize a canonical book that is written by a woman author. Nonetheless, here I go.

To quote from the Afterword to my edition of Uncle Tom's Cabin: "For the literary critic, the problem is simply how a book so seemingly artless, so lacking in apparent literary talent, was not only an immediate success but has endured." That is a good question, indeed.

Uncle Tom's Cabin is a melodrama written with the best of intentions. If its publication brought about the end of slavery even one minute sooner than otherwise would have been the case--and my understanding is that the book did have a significant propaganda impact--then for that I give it the highest praise I possibly can.

But it is not really suitable for modern readers except for those reading to try to understand the relationship between literature and current events. Judging solely by literary standards, the book is a failure. Characters are badly drawn, the plot depends on random coincidence, and the mood of the writing is melodramatic to unbearable degrees. Harriet Beecher Stowe's perspective, while progressive for her time, is clearly informed by her own cultural baggage that puts distance between the author and her characters. There is a reason that being called an Uncle Tom has become a insulting epithet.

Racial issues have become enormously complex, and this book no longer furthers the conversation. Get some Frederick Douglas or Toni Morrison instead.

Tuesdays with Beer: Jersey's

It's been a couple of weeks, but the Tuesdays with Beer feature returns. This week we are at bar/restaurant Jersey's, the one lonely alcohol outpost out on the bypass. This time it was a family affair, with Matt and I accompanied by (Matt's wife) Penni and four-year old Ian.

As we entered Jersey's, the first thing we noticed was that the music was somewhere near 120 decibels, around the same volume as a jet engine. This would not be so weird at a popular nightspot, but the fact that it was a 6 o'clock on a Tuesday, and there were less than a half dozen people in the joint made it rather conspicuous. The waitress apparently noticed our discomfort, because she quickly told us that she didn't know how to turn the music down. Eventually the quarters ran out and the Queen subsided.

Jersey's is not a bad looking place inside. On one side is a restaurant area with around a dozen large tables. The other side is the bar area. We sat at first in the restaurant and ordered a bunch of fried stuff: cheese balls, mini-corn dogs, and popcorn chicken. Also a flatbread Philly sandwich and a chipolte club sandwich. The food was...meh. Granted, the only competing bar restaurant in the area is Stadium, but, for instance, my club sandwich came on a hoagie bun, which was not expected. It wasn't exactly bad, but it wasn't exactly any different from a sandwich I might buy at a gas station, either. Jersey's food can leave an impression. When we walked in Ian said, "oh no, daddy we came here one time and ate outside and it wasn't very good." The mind of a four year old doesn't forget crappy food. But at least the nice sunny day on the patio was memorable.

On the other hand, the beer on tap at Jersey's is of better quality than the usual fare. They include Shiner Bock and Black Label, Woodchuck (for the ladies), Sam Adams Seasonal, Boulevard, Fat Tire, Mich Golden, Coors, Miller Lite, and--according to an advertisement--Madison's #1 beer Bud Light. Also, a good selection of bottled beers. If you can't find something to enjoy in the beer department, you are too picky. Boxed wine and champagne also available.

Like most area establishments, there is plenty of video lottery on hand, with a separate room cordoned off for your hardcore players. On the bar side of the venue, there is a Spider-Box game, which looks dangerous, as well as Big Buck Hunter (which is dangerous), a jukebox, dartboards, and a pool table. A sign indicated a beer pong league meets there, but they were not present tonight. A few seemingly random jerseys adorn the walls. Some are for Minnesota teams, while others appear to be bought from the dollar bin at Scheels, such as Yankees and Lakers jerseys that serve little apparent purpose. Perhaps what I like best about the bar area is the view out of a small, backward facing window of the grain elevator. As the sun went down we got a great look at one of the iconic small-town images.

Not unlike the Seasonal Sam on tap, we are theorizing that Jerseys is a seasonal bar. During the winter if feels small and bleak, but during the summer, you can enjoy the patio, order a pizza, and watch a train make it's leisurely journey down the tracks. It's a dead end bar that feels like it's going places. We hope to return to Jerseys later this year, sit outside in the summer sun, and get away from that God damned music.