How er ya doin

How er ya doin?

Yer a mess, no?

Yes I am. 

It seems, as time pitches its shadow, things change. These complicated strands that we weave as each day, each day, each year, become blankets and rugs that cover and smother and obfuscate.  Each word, each motion, every telephone call, another strand, another realization that it’s not like that at all.  That there is a wizard behind the curtain (gasp!).  That there is a curtain (heavens!).  That we hung the curtain ourselves, strand by strand (oh god!).

What the fuck do I mean by this obtuse, red table wine induced rant?  Sitting here, watching “Good Will Hunting” at midnight, dreading another day of work and responsibility, another day of trying to get up by 7 am and being lucky to make 8:30.  Typing my feelings instead of talking them.  Typing instead of writing.  Using cryptic, meaningless phrasing and banal alliterations, instead of climbing on the bar top, or desk top, or swinging from a rope in the barn and yelling random exultation’s . 

Tomorrow, I will arise at 7:30, or 8:00 or 9:00.  I’ve laid out my clothes before bed, so as not to waste any time getting ready - 10 minutes to shower and dress, 5 minutes to put in contacts and grab a quick bite, out the door, and to work in 10.  Since I’ve been doing the same job for 20 years, but, there’s likely to be no surprises.  Bad or good, it’s the unexpected that some of us live for.  

Do I care that you might read this - no.  do I care that you won’t - no.  So I sit here, now in bed, still drinking red wine, casting aspersions upon myself, throwing metaphors at glass houses.   Living by the sword (mightier than the laptop) and dying by degrees and the relentless humidity of Iowa Summer. 

Stalled at life’s intricate crossroads.  A tangled skein of missed opportunities and 2nd guessed decisions.  The shocking realization that 1) at 44, you’re too old for a lot of things (professional sports, astronaut, rock star), but still young enough to make some changes that will impact the way you look back on your life when you get old enough for the reflective, peaceful, rocking chair years. 

So what’s it going to be?  you’re a mess in your head, but nobody else knows.  You’re an empty vessel making loud noises, a tabula rasa that is only blank because you’ve forgotten more than you know and you realize that most of it is meaningless anyway.

What’s it going to be.  That is the question.

 

A Sewer of Music

Lately I seem to be searching.  Tired of the band, tired of recording, work sucks.  Creatively dormant, but still better off than Morrison’s (Jim, not Toni) ghost.  More Tao than Mao as they say.  In my previous post, I prosthelized that I was the music man.  Music defines me, always has. In my younger years, I worshipped at the arena rock alter.  Then I found the connection in small venues, where I could smell, feel and taste the performer.  But always, writing and performing was what I aspired to most.  Somehow, life and a semi-manic personality have always been at odds with that, but still, I’ve managed to have a pretty prolific amateur music career.  3 CD’s of original music and a lot of fun playing bars, street dances, festivals and events.  Still, it is the nature of the creative process to never become settled, to keep stretching out for the big payout.  

I decided not to book any more gigs.  Why? Not because I don’t enjoy the music, the adoration and approval.  I liked Thursday night practices, they just got a little blurry, out of focus and predictable.  I want something different.  I want uncertainty, and the laughter and screaming that comes with completely abandoning everything.  When I’m playing and drool on the top horn of my guitar, playing a blissful lead.  Lost.  That’s it.  I want to be lost so I can find what I don’t have.

Last month I went to Bonnaroo and rediscovered people who care about music for what it is at the moment, not what it looks like in the mirror.  Sure there were poseurs and pretenders, but wow, what a vibe of positive people.  Shiny happy people and lots of dust and sunshine.  It seemed life-changing at the time, and a fading fast, but I carry it with me.  

A couple weeks after Bonnaroo, I was in Chicago for “Taste of Chicago”.  Not quite the same.   Too many hungry mouths and invisible barriers. Police.  No police inside Bonnaroo.  Just friendly people, dancing, maybe tripping, maybe not.  Crazy music for hours.  

At 44 maybe I’m too old to create new things.  Fuck that.   If I can hurdle a few fences, my best years are ahead of me.  In fact, I won’t hurdle the fences, I’ll run right through the barbed wire, let the rusty wire tear scratches in my skinny white legs.  Scars define who I am. Scars and tattoos and memories.  

Salamagundi has a few more gigs, then I’ll starve, and wait to feast again.  Music bubbles out of me like a rain gorged creek - or a sewer system runoff.

 

How the fuck did I miss Maria McKee

Music is my THING.  Since 6th grade, when  Mrs. Odenhoven called me the “Music Man” in my Jr. High yearbook, I’ve been all about music.  My first concert in ‘78- Ted Nugent and Blackfoot, Cheap Trick or somebody was the start of a lifetime dedication to all kinds of music. From buddhist chants, to heavy metal, country, folk and pedal steel gospel, I was the resident expert.  So how did I miss Maria McKee?  Could be that her career, and my married life began about the same time, or that we just traveled in separate circles at the time - she favored cowpunk and theatre - after a stint with METAL, I became a blues lover, Stevie Ray Vaughn and so forth, with odd obsessions with Rage Against the Machine, Primus and Alice in Chains.  I bought a lot of music, I subscribed to all the magazines, I listened for her.  So how did I miss her.  Perhaps, more importantly - how did I find her?

Omaha, Nebraska, 2008, a few free drinks at the Hotel Magnolia, a walk down to what passes as bohemian in the Midwest. An antique mall that has old records. I like these places, because they don’t over-value records.  Sometimes they just say $2.00 all records.  I like that.  I play a game sometimes, especially when I find and unusual collection that I can tell came from the same person.  Interesting.  I browsed some cd’s in a box.  Elvis Costello, fringe blues artists, Petty, Dylan, ’90’s stuff.  One CD I don’t recognize.   For $3.00 I take a small chance, because the rest show the previous owner had (has?) taste.  ”Life is Sweet” by Maria McKee. 

Like the first taste of a quirky fine wine, passing expectant lips the music on this cd grabbed me.  I like to play games, like guess the vintage of this cd, and who does this sound like?  I was fooled, I placed this for recent music.  It was 12 years old.  After one listen with the music in the semi-background of the kitchen, working on the computer, I had to hear hear it in headphones - the true test.   

Great guitar tones.  An edge that I imagined (wrongly) as sexual tension. Maria plays guitar and sings, so the tension is within.  Lyrics that rival the great music poets; Dylan, Patti Smith, Lucinda Williams, Neil Young and Lennon. 

You have to listen to this album. 

 

The bitch is quick I tried to trip her up - She played Pandora with my soul

raw allanis patty smith floyd ahead of her time cranberries, grace slick

 

Crows can save the earth.

This story on National Public Radio caught my attention (click here for the real story).  Seldom do you hear an idea that is sheer genius, original AND so obvious that it makes you blurt out NO SHIT!  Here is the set up….. Every year in Monterey, CA there is an invitation only conference called TED (Technology, Entertainment and Design).  Inventors and thinkers are invited to give a one minute presentation on their thing.  I presume they win money, duh.  A self-proclaimed hacker named Josh Klein trained crow to pick up money and put it in vending machine for a reward of peanuts.  Genius.  Forget the greedy implications that I know you are thinking of.  His premise is that crows, and conversely other animals can be trained to pick up trash, find lost people and do all kinds of other human bidding.   Great, treat animals like crap, make a mess of the planet, then ask the animals to pick up after us.  Still, it’s a great concept once you get past that part.   The funniest part is the dumb squirrels.  They look at the vending machine a few times, and if there are no peanuts, they go play in traffic.  

 

Incest in Country Music?

First a confession. Sometimes I listen to country music stations. I say I consider it research because I like alt-country, and outlaw country, but as a rule I don’t like the god-fearing, punk hating, patriotic, sentimental pap that passes as country music these days. Today, over my drive home for lunch, I was listening to a modern country station. I was half paying attention when I heard “I’m the son of a third generation farmer, I’ve been married 10 years to the farmer’s daughter.”
What in the world??
Does that mean he married his sister?
Maybe I’m the only one that sees it that way, but it sure sounds fishy to me.

The song is: International Harvester by Craig Morgan.

 

The Gambling Pill

I just saw this commercial on TV that I coulnd’t believe what I heard. It was one of those “What did she say??” kind of moments.It was a typical pharmaceutical commercial, with the cute cartoon animation. The product is Mirapex. It is for restless leg syndrome, which I’m sure is a terrible thing, but it seems funny to me. You know how they talk quickly through the side effects? I swear they said one of the side effects is increased gambling. I looked at their website. Yep. It says may cause problems with gambling, compulsive eating, and increased sex drive. What the hell?!?! Now there is a pill that makes you gamble? Watch your drinks at the casino. And since when is increased sex drive a problem? Don’t they sell all kinds of things for just that purpose? I’m confused. And a little restless. Hmmm.http://www.mirapex.com

 

Wim Wenders

Watch a Wim Wenders movie tonight, he has the coolest name of all the famous movie directors. Seriously. It will make you use the part of your television brain that isn’t engaged during your average romantic comedy (Is any part of your brain engaged during a romantic comedy?).

Like most, when I enjoy a movie, it’s because I IDENTIFY with the story or actors. Wim’s movies are about freaks, from a freak’s perspective. We’re all freaks inside, and those who realize it, actualize in these masterpieces. Those who deny their inner freak are fantisizing, and as such, enjoy a different fantasy in their entertainment.

I just watched Million Dollar Hotel again, and it is a truly great movie. Here’s what Wender’s website says about Million Dollar Hotel…

The Million Dollar Hotel is a story of friendship, betrayal and the overwhelming power of unconditional love. A gang of unique outcasts and misfits live in a downtown Los Angeles flea-pit, known locally as the “Million Dollar Hotel.”
Their story is seen through the eyes of a lovesick innocent named Tom Tom (Jeremy Davies), who has fallen head over heels for the tarnished street angel Eloise (Milla Jovovich). As their relationship develops, the Million Dollar Hotel becomes the focus of a police investigation.

One of its residents, the engaging junkie Izzy, has come to a grisly end. To the amazement of his neighbors, he is revealed to have been the son of a billionaire media magnate. Every denizen of the Million Dollar Hotel falls under suspicion in the inquiry led by FBI hard-liner, Detective Skinner (Mel Gibson).

As Skinner’s investigation proceeds, the lines between murder and suicide, sane and deranged, become very blurred indeed.

A Mexican with a personality disorder, who thinks he was a Navajo chief, a recluse who thinks he is John Lennon, a cast of mental health cases, and a three-armed freak FBI agent on the case. The comedy is so tragic, you laugh and cry at the same time. I don’t usually enjoy Mel Gibson, but he does well here. Million Dollar Hotel is cool, but not his best movie IMO.

The first Wim Wenders movie I watched was “Until the End of the World” I had never seen anything like it. I bought the VHS tape because of the music. U2, Talking Heads, Lou Reed, T-Bone Burnett, Peter Gabriel, Can, Elvis Costello, Robbie Robertson and Blue Nile, Patti Smith and Fred Smith, R.E.M., Depeche Mode, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Jane Siberry with K.D. Lang - it doesn’t get any better than this in the cinema, folks!!

The movie is mesmerizing. At 3 hrs, you have to pause the film at least twice, for whatever needs you have. I doesn’t seem intermidable, like the Ghandi film. The kicker is that there is a directors cut which is 5 hours long.

It is sexy and scary and provocative. Even though it was made in 1991, it still has a futuristic quality, and probably always will, like Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (every stoner’s favorite silent movie). Until the End of the World is fucking cool, in an ageless, rockstar, sorta way.

Two other “must see” Wender’s movies are “An American Friend” (Dennis Hopper) and “Paris, Texas (Harry Dean Stanton).

Is this German-born artist your cup of tea? If you like most of the movies Hugh Grant has made, and if you bought the “Legally Blonde” boxed set, these quirky movies are not your best bet for movie night. If your ipod has playlists with Tom Waits, Ry Cooder, and Robert Fripp, and you like unconventionally stark sureallism, you might enjoy Wender’s stuff.

 

A Wes Freed Moon

Good night
here’s a Wes Freed moon for you

All that is is that is
Paint your pretty pictures
airbrush the ads and crank out the product
But the real man in the moon has crooked teeth and old scars
Paint me pink blood and ink
pull up your sleeves and show me your work
lay down on this old dryed out couch
smelling of smoke
and stale party tales
this two bedroom trailer has stories to tell
Like the time her brother almost beat the shit out of me
nothing is ever as pretty in the morning as it is by the light of the party inside
Smash your fist against the wall and laugh when the girls cry
Here is a Wes Freed moon for you
so just try and stay awake while we sort out the seeds and stems
and Bob Segar blasts out the window
just try and stay awake
It’s a Wes Freed moon tonight
black comic book birds cross the sky
underlit streetlight glow
it rained an hour ago
Power from the 3 dueces on my GTO
makes it easy to spin up the street
wakin up the town
watchin the lights come on, one by one.
readin books when I’m sober. watchin tv when I’m not
Always tryin to feel something
It’s all like a movie, or a 1 act play
The Hotel across the street where the railroad racks used to be
right before they tore it down
pushin things, breakin things
I walked 8 miles home and was almost sober when I got there
just as the county sheriff shined his light on the garage
Dad said “what the hell did you do now?”
but he didn’t turn me in.
Here’s a Wes Freed Moon for him
I could sure use a Wes Freed moon tonight

 

Kcuf.

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. Kcuf, Kcuf, Kcuf, Kcuf. It’s kind of like Jingle Bells if you say it enough times. Try it with me.. Kcuf, Kcuf, Kcuf, Kcuf, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. It’s like a Taoist mantra. Kcuf, Fuck.

When I was angry or sad, my mom used to tell me to punch a pillow. Kcuf, Kcuf. FUCK. This is so much better. When I was in College, Abbie Hoffman came to town to speak, after the lecture, he showed up at the College Street pub and beat everyone at trivia. He drank for free all night. He said Fuck a lot. He was the first famous personality I heard say Fuck. Kcuf.

Neal Cassady, Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsburg all said Fuck. Kcuf, kcuf, kcuf. Fuck.

Queen Elizabeth. No Kcuf or Fuck.

My younger brother died before me. Kcuf, Kcuf, Kcuf, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.

Many of my friends speak the language, without the proper inflection. Whilst drinking a bit, twixt the cup and the lip, many’s the slip. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

Behind the mic, you find that everyone talks the same talk. President B u s h. Movie Stars. Don Imus. The local meteorologist. KCUF

I’m going to bed. F****

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AUaWCcDlI5s

 

Best Song of the Year

It seems that this time of year, everyone wants to make a list of their favorite everythings. I am not going to make a list, I’m just flatout going to pick the best song I heard this year. Maybe the best song ever.

First a disclaimer: I did not listen to as much new music in 2007 as I usually do. My IPOD crapped out, and I didn’t really care because I spent most of my listening time reviewing mixes of our new CD; Broken Town. I did find time to check out some highly reccomended releases; Manchester Orchestra, Bright Eyes, Jayhawks, Wilco, Radiohead, Devandra Barnhart, Jose Gonzalez, My Chemical Romance, Nickel Creek and a bunch I can’t recall. Yes, it’s nice that indie artists are making headway and there’s some really good stuff in there, but the song that made this jaded listener take note was “Pensacola”, by John Bustine.

When I have a few minutes, usually at night, I listen to the podcasts of “All Songs Considered”. When I hear something I like, I find there website and listen further. When listened to the broadcast about John Bustine it sounded like something I would like. When I heard to the song it was so visceral that I actually exclaimed “Whoa!”. Here is the link to the story and song. What’s it sound like? To me, it channels Craker’s Kerosene Hat, Tom Waits and Pink Floyd. Want more? Alfred Hitchcock, Dante, Rimbaud and Casablanca. Find some uninterupted time, listen to it the first time, at a pretty good volume. You’ll want to listen to it again, but the first listen will hit you in the stomach.