Hep cats & kittens

Q: What do you call a guy who hangs around a bunch of musicians?

A: A drummer!

Sorry!

I'm snowed in in somewhere north of Milwaukee in a quaint little town called Port Washington, where I've spent the last 4 working days dinking around at a newspaper and publishing house. I was supposed to be in Mankato, MN, at 9:30 am tomorrow, so I'm thankful that the snow spared me the six-hour drive there (and back).

So, I'm sitting in a hotel room with little to do (aside from more work, or post about the AMAZING but under-attended Knitters show I saw at the House of Blues on Friday, or seeing the Ramsey Lewis Trio in the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed Unitarian Temple on Saturday) than mine YouTube for grooviness.

In what might be one of the best lip-synching performances of 1983, here's The Three O'Clock on MV3, playing "With A Cantaloupe Girlfriend":



The Three O'Clock again, this time ruling on "Sorry". Lead vocalist Michael Quercio went on to join various incarnations of Game Theory, and lead guitarist Louis Gutierrez joined Mary's Danish:



Here's the definitive edition of the late, lamented band Game Theory, led by pop genius Scott Miller. This one's from their LP Big Shot Chronicles. I highly, highly recommend their Real Nighttime and Lolita Nation LPs. Real Nighttime's available on Amazon, if you can swing the 25 clams it'll set you back.



Julie Ritter, David King and Louis Gutierrez of Mary's Danish perform a live acoustic version of "Dodge City."

Holiday Travel

I have to drive from Chicago to Appleton, WI, and then on to southeast Minnesota on Wednesday -- so of course, the forecast calls for the first snow accumulation of the season. At least on the eastern leg of the trip. Being in a glass-half-full kinda mood, we only have 30 days until the hours of daylight start getting longer. So, we have that going for us. Which is nice.

To celebrate, here's 8-year-old Johnny R. of the Bolts covering my favorite Jayhawks tune. Awesome:



And here are the Bolts as a group, all 9-years-old as of August -- in another song about the sun:

Wednesday dinner in Indy

Age-Defying Protein Pancakes, courtesy of the Aristocrats:

Praise the Lord, the parking lot is full of pancake eaters. America loves pancakes, and I love America.

Belated Halloween post

My apologies to my thousands of readers for whom these may have prevented the loss of life or limb for your children on Halloween. Please review in 51 weeks.

Part One. Watch as a perfectly creepy witch costume devolves into a completely uncool wreck of reflective tape and "beautiful princess" costume over the course of 11 minutes:



Part Two. I'd be pouting, too! Abernathy Family members, note what time it is at 1:37 in. Time to party!



As an added public service, I'm including this 1955 educational film on how to spot pervs:



And be sure to check your candy carefully! You wouldn't want to wind up in San Francisco, the murderer of a hot dog who had a wife and seven children.

Tonight's Halloween Post

Yeah, I know the last two were probably way too long.

This one is mercifully short and lysergic:

Bobby's all right. He's a natural-born poet. He's just out-of-sight.

I know it's utterly predictable, and therefore lame, but what would a good Halloween soundtrack be without Bauhaus doing "Bela Lugosi's Dead"?

Before we get to it, however, here's a vid I saw 20-some odd years ago and have longed to see since. Through the magic of youtube, here's Bauhaus's amazing take on the T. Rex classic, "Telegram Sam":


OK, let's compare and contrast that with the original:


With that, we're kind of veering away from Halloween music, so let's get back on track with T. Rex doing "Jeepster." What? Yes, of course, it's Halloween music! Listen to the very last line -- "Girl, I'm just a vampire for your love -- and I'm gonna to suck you!" Not to mention that part about your vibrations burning off my feet...


Whew. On to the main event -- Bela Lugosi's Dead. Remember the opening scene in The Hunger? If I ever made eye contact with Catherine Deneuve from across the bar while she chain smoked and french inhaled like that, you can bet I'd let her rip out my throat and suck the life out of me. Besides, walking the earth Undead for eternity would be infinitely cooler if one got to do it hanging around with Bowie:


And to refresh your memory, here's the first ten minutes of The Hunger:


If you've time, here are a couple of bonus tracks. Oh, to be the cream...

All We Ever Wanted


Kick in the Eye

Don't go on the patio!

You better beware...



The B-52's are every sci-fi/monster movie you ever watched on a Saturday afternoon; the wild pool party Robbie and Chip threw when they got ahold of some beer and pot while Steve Douglas was on a business trip and Uncle Charlie was out getting his hemorrhoid lanced and Ernie was locked in his bedroom practicing the Mashed Potatoes; finding Jackie O's blood- and brain-spattered dress at a thrift store and then getting drunk and throwing up all over it because your boyfriend is with someone else; getting secret messages from the aliens on the staticy tv in the waiting room at the dog groomers; the twin threats of instant vaporization by atomic bomb and the slow wasting away of AIDS.

They also wrote some of the sexiest and most danceable songs ever.

Some say she's from Mars:



Where ya taking me, Devil?



I don't know...I feel like something's happening:



Lots of trouble:

Scary Mary

Be afraid...be very afraid...

Double Dutch

Who, me?

No thanks -- I'm content to just sit here on my lard-ass and watch:

I cloud nine when I want to

From the Music Scene -- a weekly series on ABC, circa 1969/70. Here's Sly & The Family Stone singing a medley of their hits:

Everyday People
Dance to the Music
Hot Fun in the Summertime
Don't Call Me N*gger, Whitey
I Want to Take You Higher

Check out the girl singing along with "county fair in the country sun" at 3:58 -- woohoo!

Incidentally, I saw the "Family Stone" this summer at a Taste of Minnesota, and they were so hot they nearly burned the place down. Sly wasn't there, but Rose was, and she's still a fox at 60. I had her autograph my shirt.

Monday Dinner Special

Tonight's Special:

Porky-Tater

I like mine well done.

Working on a building

The Rev. Louis Overstreet testifies:

Rev Louis overstreet - Working on the building
Uploaded by le-pere-de-colombe

Blog post of the month

So far:

Hatesexy

OK...maybe this one, too:

Perry Bible Fellowship

Then and Now

Then


Now

OK, so the guy wanging on the guitar with the ballpoint pen isn't exactly Eno (or even Phil Manzanera), but it still sounds pretty cool.

Best. Video. Ever.

Miss Brown to You

Confession time: Anita O'Day gives me the Woodiest of the Woodies. Scha-wing. There's that lazy, smoky, heroin-tinged voice...the effortless scatting...the band knowing how to kick it, but still lay back and be the coolest of cats...

Here's Miss O'Day singing "Sweet Georgia Brown" and "Tea For Two" at the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival -- obviously while she's riding the white horse. It starts out a little shaky -- she has a little problem with the stairs -- but then look out -- bam! She's got you flipped into a hammock and is swinging you in the hot afternoon.

Sadly, Miss O'Day passed away November 23, 2006.

This ain't no foolin' around

The Great Iraq Swindle:

How is it done? How do you screw the taxpayer for millions, get away with it and then ride off into the sunset with one middle finger extended, the other wrapped around a chilled martini? Ask Earnest O. Robbins -- he knows all about being a successful contractor in Iraq.

From Rolling Stone #1034

An interesting two hours

If you have them to spare:

Zeitgeist: The Movie

New comment on Rebuttal to a comment

The votes are coming in, and it's Pig-Pile On Peter.

I'm finding all kind of evidence that my opinion of fancy-pants englishman dancing could be misplaced. And someone else might have nailed it when they suggested it was a white boy thing.

Let's look at a few vids, then mix 'em up and see what we get.

Here we have James Brown doing The Skate (perhaps from the T.A.M.I. Show? Shindig? Can someone with a better memory help me out here?), along with a roomful of watusi dancers trying to keep up:



Here we have the Jackson 5 with Michael Jackson borrowing from James Brown and taking it up several notches with the Pop 'n' Lock:



I guess both of those put englishman dancing to shame. Well, let's try a little experiment. Let's take some englishmen and toss them into an all-American setting with plenty of dancing:



Hmm. Apparently the entire crowd dances better than the englishmen band (but they're still cool as ice). Mitigating factor, though, is Hef -- hitting on the whammy bar. Erase another point for the Americans.

OK, let's try the same setting with an American band:



Wow. Once again, the rock stars don't dance very well, but look closely at about 1:43 into the vid, just to our right of Barbie Benton. Notice the gentleman in the mauve jacket, striped pants and awesome white go-go boots. Watch for awhile...watch...

Did you see it? There! Christ on a bike! If that isn't Jesse Jackson shaking his booty like a wild man to the Devil's music, I'll eat my hat. Still, I guess the song IS about the Garden of Eden and all...

Well, that was a fun little experiment. Thanks to dissenting commenters for raising my consciousness and expanding my horizons!

Now let's flash-forward a few years. Reagan is president, and what do we get? Mere words cannot describe. Let me try anyway:

Take the rotting corpse of the young, rockin' Elvis, dress him in skin-tight black leather pants pulled down to barely cover his pubes and butt-crack, stuff a mic in his mouth like a ball-gag and give him a guitar-playing girlfriend with a perpetual sneer on her face. Germinate them in a sleazy Sacramento trailer park; soak in a beer-covered floor at CBGB, and let fester in the pale glow of a B-horror movie at 3 am; take that oozing mess and toss it in the rancid spunk of a B/D/S/M peep show booth in Los Angeles. They are as American as a moldy slice of apple pie and your stepmom coming home drunk and vomiting all over the shag carpeting and naugahyde.

Aww...let's have a look:

Does anyone know where I can get a pair of pants like that?

Rebuttal to a comment

Way down there, on my post called A Beautiful Mind, my friend Ana said in the comments:

frankly, david bowie dances like an englishman....not a compliment...

Well.

I thought Bowie's dancing in that version of "Stay" was pretty cool. (Not to mention Carlos Alomar being a guitar god...)

As one whose friends told him he once said, "Bowie could poop in a paper bag and I'd buy it*," I feel compelled to make a rebuttal. And I will back it up with proof:

Compare the Bowie englishman dancing with that of some of my other childhood heroes, Chuck Negron, Corey Wells and Danny Hutton of Three Dog Night in the video below. I guess they dance like what? Americans? And yes, their wholesomely powerful American voices could possibly blow Bowie's superior englishman dance moves out of the water. But still.

Observe:



I rest my case.

Disclaimer: I just know I am going to be burned now, when video of the 60-year old Iggy Pop or James Brown in the T.A.M.I. Show is presented to me as a more appropriate version of American dancing...

*I was baked.

More on my Bobbie Gentry fetish...errr...influence

I can't embed it here, but here's a link to a duet between Bobbie and Donovan! singing "There Is A Mountain". My head is going *boink*!

And, bonus: here's another video that gives me a point in my pants. I recommend watching this immediately after the Batman video down below. There is a section inside of my mind that looks like that Batman and this "Niki Hoeky" all the time.

Ohhhh...now I get it

The conspiracy theorist in me almost makes me wonder if this isn't the reason the bridge went down.

Four football fields wide! Wow!

I guess we can kiss those fall foliage tours to Duluth goodbye.

Of bridges

I started this blog a few years back, but didn't point it out to anyone. I didn't care who -- or if anyone -- would read it. I thought it might be fun to document the fun evenings my friends and I would have while dining and imbibing. I thought I also might teach myself a bit more than the basic html I already knew.

Then I got married, didn't write as much until my marriage was heading south, and eventually erased the whole thing. I think it's high time I wrote another post about dining, even though it was standard bar fare.

Last night I got together with some lads from my home town at The Village Tap in Roscoe Village. Petey, Skinner's Brother, and their friend J. and I decided to meet, hoist a few pints and connect after not seeing each other for quite a few years. (Actually, I'd never met J., but he was an old friend of the other two.)

So, we're sitting there, talking smart, telling lies, laughing, keeping an occasional eye on the Cubbies/Phillies game televised in the ubiquitous corner TV. We're eating pita and hummus, hot wings and drummies, and washing it all down with microbrews. At some point, I look up and notice the ballgame is no longer on. Some sort of calamity has struck -- CNN is on, and a bridge has collapsed. My eyes widen as I notice "Minneapolis" and "35W", my former and sometimes current stomping grounds. When I'm in Minneapolis, I cross that bridge every day at rush hour.

Our jaws hit the table. I don't have my cell phone with me, so I can't call any friends back home and get the skinny. Petey has his Blackberry with him, and calls his sister-in-law in Minneapolis. She gives us a little more information, and lets us know that everyone she can think of is safe.

I... I... I, I, I.

I don't know what to say, other than I hope those who were involved in the catastrophe are okay. My heart goes out to those who were smushed or have drowned, and their friends and families. I don't envy those who now have to make a daily trek to find another route across the mighty Mississippi.

The smartiepants over at The Aristocrats had something cogent to say about it, as usual. And have also put into words what many of us are thinking.

“No structural deficiencies” reported in 2006 on the bridge, according to Gov. Tim Pawlenty, however, it had been rated "structurally deficient" in 2005. Apparently still stinging from the heckuva job they did in New Orleans, the White House promises a "robust" federal response, to the tune of a whopping $5 million and some prayers. The Preznit also offered his sympathies, and used a press conference doing so to also slam the Democrats.

At least one pundit seems almost bummed out that terrorists didn't cause it, and whines about people "crawling out of their padded cells to pin the collapse on conservatives."

And 4o years ago, during the Summer of Love, Bobbie Gentry had a song about a bridge.

I was 5 years old, and perhaps I can trace my attraction to brunettes -- from youthful lusting after Raquel Welch and Agent 99, to adult lusting after my ex-wife -- to Bobbie Gentry.

I remember being excited to watch the Smothers Brothers each week. And one night -- bonus! -- they gave us this, performed live:

I didn't mean to step on that dog's paw

How can I be reincarnated when I haven't even died yet?

I'm pretty much speechless...

...over this bizarre little bit of video. David Bowie and Cher (yes, Cher) give us the weirdest medley ever. Enjoy:

bowie et cher: jeunes Amerikaner/song song blue/etc.
Uploaded by mrjyn

Vegas, baby.

For you Lounge people: even Eydie Gorme has a blog. Here's a great sample:

When we returned from our brief tour… Steve and I escaped for a few days to our sand castle on the beach in Malibu. When the tide comes in… the house goes out… and just basically hang out at the drug store waiting for prescriptions and occasionally run into Mel Gibson or Britney Spears. Terribly Exciting You Know!

Hotel Haiku IX

I dine. Screaming kids
muffled by Marshall Tucker
Muzak. Cain't be wrong.


Denouement:

Who took the last piece
of chocolate pie and ate
but one bite? Fuckers...

Blue Moon

I'm sitting in my old neighborhood in the City of Lakes, enjoying a fine summer evening, listening to groovy music, and watching the blue moon rise.

The scent of barbecued ribs is wafting up the street from Rudolphs, and I can hear people having a high old time down there.

Tomorrow I will travel to my hometown to play frisbee golf on a farm where we throw our frisbees at oil paintings and fixed pastels of nudes instead of wire baskets. Hawks will fly over our heads and deer will run across our course. A valley will bestow its beauty before us, and I will imagine the mixed children of white traders and M'dewakanton Dakotah living there in harmony before being forced out and rubbed out in the mid-1800s.

This farmland land was originally the heart of what was known as the Half-Breed Tract, and set aside by the US government for the offspring of white traders and their Indian wives. There's little about this in the history books, as it seems it's not desirable for The Rest of Us to know that whites and Indians once lived in harmony in the 1700s in this area.

How the land passed from the M'dewakanton and Santee people into mixed blood hands and ultimately into the hands of men like my great-great grandfather is an interesting one. Threats were made, and

At a meeting of those interested in the cause of the settlers, which was held at the Kelly House in Red Wing, March 17, 1856, a vigilance committee of 21 members was chosen to prevent any more scrip being laid upon the land already occupied. This committee was empowered to demand that in every case where scrip had been laid on the land of actual settlers, said scrip should immediately be raised. The members of the committee were men of dauntless courage and muscular power, and devoted their whole time and energy to the work until it was accomplished. Two of them stood as sentinels at the land office armed with loaded revolvers, constantly watching every transaction therein, being relieved by another two at stated times. In the meanwhile the majority of the committee were acting as detectives, arresting and bringing to trial those who had offended, the trial not being before a court of justice, but before the committee. There was at that time no courthouse and no jail, and the lawyers knew that the scrip holders were acting within their legal rights. The holders, however, were threatened and intimidated by the committee and through fear compelled to raise the scrip, though there is no record of any personal injury being inflicted on anyone. That such would have been inflicted in case of continued resistance there is little doubt, as one man was led to a hole cut through the ice in the river, and given his choice either to raise his entry of scrip or be put through the hole, and though he was a man of strength and courage, he found it prudent to submit. There were other cases of the same kind.

From The History of Wabasha County, Minnesota, chapter 3, 1920.

Picture: Chief Wabasha II, from 1823.

A Beautiful Mind

You people are fucked. You're living in a dream. You still sit here talking about the fucking Oscars. What rough beast slouch towards Bethlehem to be born. Yeets. The world, don't you see it. Bush let al Qaeda escape, the mountains. Then he has us invade some other country. It's more noble than watching these jack-off fantasies on TV if I were kicking their ass. It's like America. I mean this is still where people come to make it. It's a beautiful idea. And what do they get, bling, and come on for shit they don't need and can't afford.

-- Anthony Soprano, Jr.

But why should we hear about body bags, and deaths, and how many, what day it's gonna happen, and how many this or what do you suppose? Or, I mean, it's, it's not relevant. So why should I waste my beautiful mind on something like that?

-- Former First Lady, Barbara Bush

Why, indeed?

Today I'm wasting my beautiful mind on things like these:

ISS and Space Shuttle

Just watched the space station and shuttle cruise across the heavens. It was pretty cool.

"For the world is hollow and I have touched the sky."

-- Dave the Wad, quoting forbidden words on a Star Trek episode

Telly...

...how can you be so fuckin' suave?

Who else could have a smoke and quote a Bread song to a giant, wigged, vaseline-hazed head and make it the Epitome of Coolness?

OK, one more

I can't help it. I just have to share one more:

BUSHOMON


Courtesy of The Aristocrats.

Yummm...cheese sandwiches AGAIN!

How long before there are dozens of garage bands named The Screaming Paris Hiltons?

In other news...

Pixelated Scraps

For your listening and viewing pleasure -- you MUST click below:

Fujiya & Miyagi - Ankle Injuries

Fujiya & Miyagi will be playing at the Pitchfork Festival in Union Park on July 14th. And -- bonus! -- back again to the Empty Bottle on October 5th.

Here they are live at SXSW, courtesy of The Current (oh, how I miss the Current on my car radio).

More Rodrigo y Gabriela

Here they are again:

Did I just hallucinate this, or what?

Maybe one of those flashbacks They promised us has just happened.

Inexplicably, Lee Greenwood, Little Richard, James Brown and Weird Al Yankovic appear on Wheel of Fortune. Somewhere, Ed Grimley is jumping up and down and peeing his pants.

The 17-year itch

One of these little effers climbed up in my shorts and I didn't know it until I came back inside. Talk about losing a few years...

It's about 90 degrees and big thunderstorms are rolling in.

It'll be a respite from a day of heat, humidity and staring mortality right in the face.

How did I come to grok about my passing? Simple. Millions and millions of 17-year cicadas.

The next time these things come around, I'll be 62 years old (shudder), if I make it that long (knock on wood). They're everywhere here in suburban Chicago, flying lazy loops, filling the trees, chirping and chittering and buzzing like a fuzz guitar. Some classical concerts at Ravinia have been switched around with rock shows so that the little beasties don't drown out the music.

But these things are music in their own way, going in and out of phase like two chirpy jet engines thrumming and humming in cycles.

Speaking of music, I caught The New Standards tonight in a teeny little club in Wicker Park called Davenport's. The New Standards are a cover band -- but that's like calling the Grand Canyon a ditch. They play covers like you've never heard.

There were all of 17 of us in the audience, and the performance was relaxed, entertaining, and outstanding. With my nose to the grindstone once again, I didn't walk in until 30 minutes into the show, but was infinitely rewarded by making the effort to get there.

I'm not sure what I missed in the first 30 minutes other than the 'Mats "I Will Dare", but upon being seated and taking a pull on the first of my two-drink minimum, Britney Spears' "Toxic" came creeping out of this trio of piano, bass and vibraphone like pop voodoo.

Next up was Outkast's "Hey Ya", and it is not to be missed if you get the chance to say ya. The head of Steve Roehm's vibe mallet flew off in the middle of the number, prompting Chan to reveal that's one reason the jazz guys don't allow them into their camp.

Then we were treated to an incredible version of the Magnetic Fields' "The Book of Love" and a Lucinda Williams chestnut, followed by an improvised jam on Chan's own "Girlfriend". Chan also added to my mortal reverie with a version of "Is That All There Is?" that made Peggy Lee seem like a cloddish dunce. Not that her version is unfeeling, but Chan gives it that little tweak that he does -- and with Steve Roehm revealing his genius on the vibes, passing away in one's striped jammies doesn't seem all that bad.

"Under Pressure" was next, and John Munson's clear, soaring voice made me simultaneously wonder "Freddie Who?" and pine for the Toolmaster of Brainerd, the Trip Shakespeare treasure I haven't heard in years and years. I think I've spaced a few songs, but anyway...

Time for an encore, and this one delivered. We got Blur's "Song 2" -- you know, the one that's so easy to scream along to with the driving rhythm guitar and all the WOO Hoos? only this time, it was vibes, piano and Munson's inventive bass. And the fan-girl in the corner delivered with some well-timed WOO Hoo's of her own.

Shame that there were only 17 of us there, but that made it rather fun to hang out for a few minutes afterward, where nearly everyone had a drink with the band. And bonus! I picked up a CD for a paltry ten clams AND got to hear the latest gossip about Beej. One 27-year fan had driven up from Indiana with his posse, came up and said hi and recognized me from my myspace page. That gave me a little start, but I guess that's the whole point of social networking, innit?

Fuzz bass solo!

I'm sitting around feeling sorry for myself, because instead of hanging with my friends in Minneapolis (Bobby's in town to shoot a commercial) or seeing the New Standards (Suburb/Emmy winner Chan Poling, Semisonic/Trip Shakespearian John Munson, vibraphonist/percussionist Steve Roehm) play at a club in Wicker Park, I had too much work and had to keep the nose to the grindstone.

All done now, and just got the following message from Watt:

hear me work the thudstick w/steve hodges on drums for violinist chris murphy's "blues for bukowski" and yep, that's a fuzz bass solo I did in the middle of it - chris' idea!

Well, I'm a sucker for fuzz bass (particularly if it's in a Sly Stone or Tones on Tail song -- even Paul Revere & the Raiders) -- so here's Watt's contribution, and it's pretty groovy:



And yay! I can go see the New Standards tomorrow night, too, as their gig is a two-night stand.



Here they are covering Roxy Music's "Oh Yeah". They also cover Outkast's "Hey Ya", and even though their stripped down version is more subdued, it's still groovy enough to make me want to jump on the bed.

A Mighty Wind moment

Every year or two, around Memorial Day, I re-read Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee.

Each time I read it, I learn something new or remember something I'd forgotten.

And each time I read it, I am saddened and angered.

I finished my dog-eared copy again this morning, and then serendipitously stumbled across this performance of As Long As the Grass Will Grow. It's an Indian protest song, sung here by Johnny Cash, June Carter Cash, and Pete Seeger, on Pete Seeger's Rainbow Quest TV show in the mid-60s.



You can see more clips from Rainbow Quest here.

Nirvana

It's a Sanskrit word that literally means "to cease blowing"; a state of pure consciousness and bliss.

It's said that there are no shortcuts to nirvana.

But every time I see this, the world stops blowing for five and a half minutes:

Part 5: There's a tipsy ghost on the edge of my couch

If you weren't fortunate to be on the planet at one of their gigs circa 1981, here's Drinking With An Angel -- the song with which the 'Burbs usually ended their shows.

Seeing this is like being in Plato's Cave. You're only seeing a shadow of what it was really like to be there, but not the intense reality.

Beej would be sweating profusely, crowd surf for awhile, and then climb up the tallest structure he could find to scream out in agony and want for his missing angel and his misplaced juice. Bruce Allen would bring the song to a blistering crescendo and show us why he was the hottest guitarist in town (apologies to Steve Brantseg) -- and then it was over, like a well-timed orgasm.

We'd shuffle out into the night air, drenched through, grinning broadly, and -- once the adrenalin wore off -- sated until the next show.

I'm gonna go on the wagon.
I'm gonna ride that wagon to Heaven.
I'll just have one more for the road.

Part 4: Listen UP!

Your mayor's arrived.

Train's a-comin' -- with the boys.

The Suburbs play Music For Boys in 1981.

Part 3: "NOT your ordinary rock band"

The Suburbs play Yo Sa Ba II Noni in 1981.

A rare video document of the Beejtar in action!

What do you suppose Beej was on, anyway?

Part 2: Well they really make me flip

The Suburbs doing their classic Girlfriend in 1981.

Part 1: "An irresistible and eccentric rock & roll combo"

The Suburbs on KTCA-Channel 2's Night Times Variety in 1981. Here's Cigarette In Backwards.

Dig the hostess shaking her jumpsuit-clad booty after the introduction!

Why May is my favorite month

The place: somewhere in south Minneapolis.



The setting: Someone's back yard. Outdoor sculpture. Peonies ready to bust open. Other lush vegetation. Blossoms beaming and fluorescing in the fading light. A hot charcoal grill.



The menu: Grass-fed ribeyes. Fresh morels sauteed in butter. A delicious pasta salad. Roasted rosemary potatoes. Strawberries that explode in your mouth. Stella Artois. Summit Pale Ale. Some kinda red wine.



Activities: Forgetting about the previous 12 hours. Sidewalk chalk. Blowing off Art-A-Whirl parties to play tag with little girls. A jump rope for three. Discussing effective methods of squirrel control. Pro Tools in the basement studio. Crashing the neighbor's barbecue. Just Be-ing. A head full of fuzz. Big smiling. Big Fun.

Hotel Haiku VIII

Between Fargo and
Minneapolis -- yay! Here
comes a new supply!

Photo: Spotted on I94: the Bimbo Truck.

Resistance is futile

I'm sitting with some of the Abernathys at the Ridgewood Club in Minneapolis. I have a dime-sized chemical blister on the center of my tongue courtesy of an extra-large Thai Chicken from Uptown Pizza. My nose is running uncontrollably. (Yes, I tipped Mr. Pizza Guy large to prevent a derogatory blog entry about the pizzavores here at Ridgewood.)

While the other two Abernathys are surfing the web and arguing about tile selections for their new bathroom, I stumbled across this.



I know I will not get a wink of sleep tonight after reading it. Go ahead -- I dare you.

Pigs...

A police officer in Michigan and his wife made pot brownies with some confiscated doop and ate the whole pan. They got so paranoid they thought they were dying, and called 911. From a transcript:

Sanchez:I think I'm having an overdose. and so is my wife.
911: Overdose of what?
Sanchez: Marijuana...
Sanchez: We made brownies. and I think we're dead. I really do...
Sanchez: Time is going by really, really, really slow...
Sanchez: What's the score in the Red Wings game?
911: I've got no clue, i don't watch the Red Wings.
Sanchez: I just wanted to make sure this isn't some kind of hallucination I'm having.

You can read the AP article here, and hear the actual call here.

Wak!

Did you ever wonder about Donald Duck?

He appeared to be a sailor who ran around without any pants on. Those two characteristics always made me wonder what he was like when he wasn't entertaining us children in comics and cartoons, and why in the world Daisy let those three nephews hang around him.

Now we have even more evidence of his sailor man activities -- here's an anti-VD poster of him upset because he has no condom. You can bid on this piece of art here.

Must be nice to have a rich uncle.

You know you want one.

The special limited edition, complete 2-season box set of LAND OF THE GIANTS is heading our way this summer (24th July 2007). "Only" two Benjamins, but on sale for a buck fitty! Back in those days, two seasons were good for 51 episodes. I kinda gotta think that Sopranos or Entourage wouldn't be nearly as half as good as they are if they had to crank out an episode a week for half a year.

I don't remember much about LAND OF THE GIANTS, other than that it was always fun to see the characters climbing up a giant phone cord, or getting trapped beneath a giant thimble, or being harassed by a gargantuan cat. Oh, and "Valerie" gave me a giant something when I'd see her giant something elses. OK, so I was a pervy kindergartner.

Bonus! if you want to be a member of the Giants family, you can get a free membership here.

Postscript: my friend Kevin sent me this. I know if *I* was going on a spaceship, I'd bring my bathing suit, too.

Laff Riot

The Perry Bible Fellowship is the best comic running. There's little else that makes me spit so much coffee (or bits of Twizzlers or Cheese Nips or Swedish Fish, or even Summit) all over my keyboard.

Here's a sample:
(Click to enlarge)

Scarlett Johansson Why Don't You Love Me?

That's the best song title of the year, so far! And the song itself is pretty catchy, too.

Jai-Alai Savant is a local Chicago band, and you can listen to Scarlett Johansson... here. Ain't the internets a great thing?

If you're like me, you like your dub best served up on a hot summer day -- let it penetrate your bones and fog your melon. Drink a 12-cup pot of extra-strong coffee first, and you have an idea of the dub punk of Jai-Alai Savant.

Here comes the summer...

Two lost souls in a fish bowl

Rodrigo y Gabriela played an electrifying, sold-out show at Chicago's Vic Theatre in Lakeview last night.

I'd snagged a great seat: front row balcony, and being a total newb after hearing their album only once, wondered what kind of experience I was about to taste.

Describing Rodrigo y Gabriela's music is difficult enough. The act of describing it reminds me of the six blind guys trying to explain the elephant in the room. I've heard it called sensual, passionate, rhythmic, Jazz/Flamenco/Rock on acoustic guitars.

That's just one of the six blind guys describing what he felt of that elephant. I thought it sounded romantic and exciting and might make great dinner date music. To produce a better sonic picture, perhaps a little history is in order.

Rodrigo and Gabriela are originally from Mexico City, met as teenagers, and played in various thrash metal bands. A record label wanted them to record an album, so they talked the label into letting them record in Ixtapa, then did what any young band might do in such an environment: spend the time fucking off and partying. They parted ways with the label, and having no money, got some gigs playing in hotel bars for the tourist set. Not really knowing how to play the bossa nova that was expected of them, they fudged by playing acoustic guitar versions of Slayer, Metallica, and the like. When asked by vacationers, "What kind of music IS this?" they replied, "It's ancient Mexican music." One day they decided to up and go to Europe, so they flew to Paris, and then on to Dublin, arriving with $1,000 in their pockets. Not knowing much English, they soon burned through their money, and ended up busking. They built up their chops and reputation, and took off like a rocket from there. Their album was released last October in the US.

So, the description above of their music is only a sliver, and not accurate at all. The duo sauntered on stage, and the crowd went wild. The Vic holds 1,300 people, and it was the loudest noise I've ever heard 1,300 produce. They had no set list, instead preferring people to shout out songs Freebird-style, and they'd play them. Gabriela plays the percussive, rhythmic part on most songs, and Rodrigo usually does the finger-bleeding leads, though they traded off frequently. The stage banter was great, with Gabriela showing the devil rock horn sign after every song, and going off on long, hilarious stoner tangents while Rodrigo kicked around a soccer ball behind the stage. The F word was a frequent adjective, so one can tell they learned most of their English in Dublin.

And the covers they did were a lot of fun in this metal mariachi style. In an "I Can Name That Tune In One Note" moment, the crowd erupted, Rodrigo pointed to us, and we all sang along to Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here". I don't think I've ever sung along to that song in my life, but the words spewed from some unknown place inside me along with 1,299 other fans. And boy, were we good. Other covers included snatches of Smoke On the Water, Hotel California, Dave Brubeck's Take Five and a beautiful flamenco version of Stairway to Heaven with Gabriela on lead.

OK...I can see I'm just another blind guy in the room...best bet is to pick up this album. Or better yet: July 4th, Taste of Chicago, Grant Park.

Or even better yet: July 6th, Minneapolis, Basilica Block Party! :::making devil horn sign:::

4th Annual Codpiece Day

I could've sworn I read somewhere that the Preznit doesn't read email. But if one inspects closely above, it looks as if perhaps he read one of those penis enlargement ones that used to pile up in the junk drawer.

Either that, or they hired some intern at the White House who's handy with Photoshop. What else could explain the difference in the photo above?

The image on the left is from the official White House website. The image on the right is how it originally appeared.

And here's another interesting example of how history has been re-written -- this time with a doctored video:

Hotel Haiku VII

TV in my room
is so old, ESPN
scores are all cut off!

Quite possibly world's worst Holiday Inn (not counting Lexington or Miami), Indianapolis.

Photo: Drag.

Eh Toi!

Photo: Rosie Ledet, her awesome guitarist, and her 69-year-old father-in-law on washboard.

Just returned from the first weekend of the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival -- and what a great weekend it was. The weather cooperated: low to upper 80s and no rain all weekend.

Compared to last year, things are a bit different. Most of the watermarks have disappeared. Houses have been repainted or razed. Many buildings are boarded up, but the stinking heaps of detritus that were there last year are gone now. A few FEMA trailers squat in yards or driveways. In the Quarter, more than a few of the places I wandered past last year are now closed.

Music lovers turned out in droves, and the place was packed all three days.

Day One. I arrived at the fairgrounds in time to see the last couple of Eddie Bo's songs, then wandered around, caught an amazing performance by the Creole Wild West Indians, a bit of the Amazones: Women Drummers of Guinea, and grabbed a bite to eat. Caught the last two songs by the Subdudes, and was too lazy to walk all the way across the grounds for Dr. John, so I stayed put at the Gentilly Stage for T-Bone Burnett. What a treat! His band included Marc Ribot on guitar and Jim Keltner on drums. They pretty much tore the place up. Next, I blew off Van Morrison in favor of Lucinda Williams, and didn't regret it one bit. Lucinda's show at the House of Blues in the Quarter the following night was sold out, so I'm glad I got to see her.

Day Two. More wandering around and eating to start, then a few songs by Cajun accordionist Ray Abshire. Hung around the same stage for the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars. Scampered over the the Blues Tent to catch Tab Benoit, but couldn't even get near the place. Back to the Gentilly Stage for Calexico, and the best performance of the day. Calexico's mariachi-meets-Spaghetti Western sound had thousands smiling and dancing, and if they didn't know them, many new fans. Blew off Rod Stewart (thanks for the tip, Kev!) in favor of Norah Jones, who was mellow but superb. Unfortunately, she reminded me of my ex-wife. She was joined by local 21-year-old genius Trombone Shorty to join her on a song, and finished up with a Tom Waits song as I exited.

Day Three. Caught a couple of songs by local acts JD Hill & the Jammers and Vivaz (both excellent!), then saw Jean Knight & her Knights of Rhythm. Yes, that Jean Knight, who had a hit with "Mr. Big Stuff" back in '71. Then back to the Gentilly Stage for the New Orleans Social Club. The Social Club is a loose affiliation of New Orleans all stars, including keyboardist Ivan Neville (Cyril was a no-show), guitarist Leo Nocentelli, Meters bassist George Porter, Jr., pianist Henry Butler (a-farking-mazing), keyboardist Wilson "Willie Tee" Turbinton, vocalist John Boutte (who sang a blistering version of Annie Lennox's "Why"), and a host of guest stars, including Dr. John, Irma Thomas. Needless to say, this bunch was sizzling. They covered John Fogerty's "Fortunate Son" and the place went wild. Irma Thomas was up next on that stage, but I reluctantly left to get a bite to eat and satisfy my necrophiliac curiosity about Jerry Lee Lewis. The place was jammed, so I only got to see the Killer sing one line of "Whole Lotta Shakin' Going On", then set his bottom on the keyboard, and dodder offstage. Last Man (Barely) Standing, I guess. Hustled back over to the Fais Do Do stage to catch the last couple of Gillian Welch's numbers, which she performed with her partner, David Rawlings (and his 1935 Epiphone gee-tar). Standard Gillian faire (meaning really, really good) until they absolutely scorched the earth with a cover of "Jackson". Woo. Up next: Rosie Ledet & The Zydeco Playboys, and the highlight of the weekend for me. Rosie's a little spitfire who plays accordion, with her husband on bass, her nephew on drums, and her 69-year-old father-in-law on washboard. This guy is only three years younger than Jerry Lee Lewis, but it's obvious who is going to live longer. These guys literally ripped up the place and had the crowd going wild -- well worth missing Bonnie Raitt playing with her band and the New Orleans Social Club.

This morning. Was wandering around the Quarter and saw Keith Streng of the Fleshtones with his wife shopping for souvenirs on Decatur Street. Chaaaa!

Laissez les bon temps rouler

Not to taunt or anything, but I'm off to Nawlins for three days of the Jazz & Heritage Festival.

I hope I make my 5:45 am flight.

I will eat crawfish, étouffée, and pretty much whatever else is placed in front of me. I will get my haircut at that barbershop in the Quarter (if he's still open), and see scads of good music performances, including Eddie Bo, Dr. John, Van Morrison or Lucinda Williams (flip a coin, they are playing at the same damn time), Rod Stewart or Nora Jones (same damn "problem"), Calexico (yessss), Bonnie Raitt or Jill Scott (again, overlapping), Jerry Lee Lewis or Gillian Welch (same deal), some of the Nevilles and dozens of other acts. On Sunday morning, I will be at the Gospel tent in a futile attempt to let Jesus back into my heart.

I have my straw boater to protect my noggin from the sun (weather forecast: low to mid 80s, no rain), some SPF 50, and a pocket full of dead presidents.

I'll try and report when I return, if I return.

Troglodyte

OK, that last post was rather low-forehead knuckle-draggin' and mean-spirited, despite being spot-on.

To atone for my sin, here's a little bit higher-minded faire, worth checking out for legal consciousness-expansion.



If you're really into it, you can find podcasts here (you'll need iTunes). Plus, lectures from UC Berkeley, Yale, Princeton and elsewhere, all for FREE.

Feed your head.

Real cool time

Can i come over tonight?
Can i come over tonight?
What do you think i wanna do?
That's right
Can i come over tonight?
I say we will have a real cool time tonight
-- Real Cool Time

Iggy & the Stooges came over on Sunday night -- to the Congress Theatre in Chicago, that is. And we all had a real cool time.

Mitigating factor? I had a 9 a.m. appointment the next day in Winona, MN, that I couldn't weasel out of. Did it deter me? Uhm, no.

The only deterrence to anyone's Fun Time was that Steve Albini's band Shellac opened. Not that they were horrible, but their minimalist brand of skronk didn't quite fit with what the crowd had in mind for all-out rock 'n' roll. Plus, they said "Three more!" when the crowd was getting antsy and then played like nine more. They got more than a few boos, and the snotty drummer (Minneapolis boy, Todd Trainer, who has a really bad precious black circa-1982 MCAD hair do) lipped off to everyone with "And what's YOUR band called? We're WORLD FAMOUS." I just knew that most of the older guys in black leather jackets around me wanted to take him outside and chain whip him. Plus, the Congress has this really tall cool domed ceiling with a glowy red lozenge at the top, which made it sound like all we could hear was the drummer wailing on his tom, and not Albini's angular Gang of Four-like guitar flangs. It was like being on the Screaming Kid flight ALL the way from ORD to Narita, or having the AA buffoons all wired on coffee and blowing up one firecracker every three seconds right below your bedroom window at 3 am on July 5th when you have to be up at 5 that morning. And then the cops show up, so they quit and get on their Harleys and rap those off for like 20 minutes before peeling out. Anyway. It was really annoying, and not in a rock 'n' roll piss-off-your-parents way.

But before we knew it, the Stooges rocketed onto the stage and began blowing us away. From where I stood, it looked like Iggy had the body of a 25-year old, and he made Mick Jagger look like a cripple. Iggy turns 60 this Saturday (Happy b-day Ig!), and if I have those moves at 60, I'll be pretty darn happy.

They played quite a bit from the first two Stooges albums, and a bunch from their new disc, The Weirdness, which I confess I haven't heard. My faves were "I Wanna Be Your Dog", "1969" (Ron Asheton proved that he is THEE Rock Guitar God of the Universe with that one -- my ears are still going 'WEEEEEEEEEEEE'), "Little Electric Chair" and "TV Eye".

Mike Watt (yeah, from the Minutemen!) has been playing bass with the Stooges. Mike's got a tour diary going here on his hootpage. Miguel? You can be assured that Sunday night you were in the hottest band on the planet. Steve Mackay (who also played on Funhouse) wailed on sax.

Lord See that cat
Yeah I do mean you
See that cat
Yeah I do mean you
She got a TV eye on me
She got a TV eye
She got a TV eye on me, oh

See that cat
Yeah I love her so
see that cat
Yeah I love her so
She got a TV eye on me
She got a TV eye
She got a TV eye on me, oh
Right on, right on, right on
-- TV Eye

*I* want a TV Eye on me!

I'm the type to never recognize a TV Eye when one is on me, though. Maybe I walk too quickly. Maybe I have poor peripheral vision. I never know when I am being checked out. Somehow I miss the obvious (to others) clues.

I wonder about my own TV Eye. I hope it is subtle as I cast it about. I hope it is not scorching that woman's bottom as she strolls by.

So what is a TV Eye?

You can read about it in Please Kill Me, Legs McNeill's history of punk music (a great read, by the way, if you fondly recall the Stooges, Ramones, Blondie, New York Dolls, et al):

Kathy Asheton, younger sister of Stooges members Ron and Scott Asheton, recalls at one point how she came up with the term as shorthand for a term involving a vulgar term for her anatomy: "Twat Vibe Eye."

“TV Eye” was my term. It was girl stuff. My girlfriends and I developed a code. It was a way for us to communicate with each other if we thought some guy was staring at us...

Like, ‘He’s got a TV Eye on you. And if we had it then we’d use “I have...”

Iggy overheard us and thought it was really funny. That’s when he wrote that song “TV Eye.”

Yeah...I want a TV Eye on me.



Photos: (Top) Iggy Pop at Soldier Field, July 18, 1970. (Bottom) Iggy Pop at Congress Theatre, April 15, 2007, during "Real Cool Time."

Oh! And I went over to celebmatch and it says that I am a 98% intellectual match with Mr. Pop. Not sure what that says about either of us...

So it goes.

Back in elementary school, we'd periodically get to order paperback books from Scholastic or some similar paperback book club. We were always excited on the day our books arrived -- we were on a first name basis with the UPS guy (Gus!) who delivered them, and we secretly felt sorry for those kids who didn't get any.

If we ordered enough books as a group, Scholastic (or whoever the company was) would throw in a few free books. Sometimes the freebies were pretty good; other times they were rather odd. In any case, our teacher would put the freebies on the shelf for anyone to read.

When I was in fifth grade, one of the freebies happened to be Slaughterhouse Five.

Now, keep in mind that this was a parochial school, where we had Bible study every day, tons of "memory work" (I can still recite entire Psalms and hymns and even a chapter or twelve from books of the Bible). Class sizes were small, and classrooms were shared by two grades.

So, one day while the teacher was out of the room, some of the naughtier sixth grade boys were huddled near the book shelf, whispering and giggling. Usually when they were doing this, a home-made stink bomb was on the verge of ignition, cleverly manufactured from a ballpoint pen, a farmer's match, and a bobby pin. This time, however, the wicked glee in their eyes was a little different.

One of them had Slaughterhouse Five open, and there was a page that contained reference to a photo of a naked woman, a Shetland pony, and something called deedle-balls. We snickered and then quickly stuffed the book back in the shelf before the teacher returned. If anyone (like our teacher, and hence, parents) ever found out about that book, it would surely be burned. And, we would surely spend eternity sizzling in Hell.

I suspect Slaughterhouse Five became the second-most read book in school that year, after the source of our memory work, of course.

The phrase, "So it goes," appeared in it often. It was used to downplay mortality in the story, in which Mr. Vonnegut had a knack for showing us how we turn the horrifying into the mundane.

A year later, I was scrounging for science fiction books at the public library. I was a geeky kid, and I'd read most of what the library contained already as far as sci fi (I was nearly bitch-slapped once, and corrected that it was properly called SF). I asked the librarian if she knew of anything else that I might like. She pointed me to something called Sirens of Titan. Hmmm...it had won a Hugo award.

I checked it out.

Sirens of Titan turned out to be nothing at all like Bradbury or Heinlein. But there were those Tralfamadorians that I'd read about in Slaughterhouse Five the previous year. Hmm.

I didn't revisit Mr. Vonnegut's writing again until I was 19. The object of my affections that summer was Tanqueray gin. My friends and I would play several hours of Ultimate Frisbee and then go drink Tanqueray & tonics on 2-for-1night for $1.10. One day, I stumbled across a copy of Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions at a rummage sale, and noticed that the title was a reference to a gin-based beverage. Awesome! I picked it up and took it home.

This time, Mr. Vonnegut's writing had a completely different effect on me. I sought out and read the rest of his output, and eagerly awaited his new novels as they arrived.

Mr. Vonnegut died Wednesday at age 84. He has been called the Mark Twain of our time. News of his death showed up in the "Entertainment" sections of many newspapers, while the death of Anna Nicole Smith made the front page.

So it goes.

My favorite short piece of his is available here.

Go read.