random saturday morning ponderfest

the plot of our life sweats in the dark like a face
the mystery of childbirth, of childhood itself
grave visitations
what is it that calls to us?
why must we pray screaming?
why must not death be redefined?
we shut our eyes

we stretch out our arms
and whirl on a pane of glass
an afixiation

a fix on anything

the line of life

the limb of a tree
the hands of he and the promise that s/he is blessed among women.

How can just a voice and guitar make such a big sound?

Shiny happy people

Did anyone else catch REM on The Colbert Report last night?

After a rather amusing interview -- wherein the host sat on a much larger stool than his guests, and asked Michael Stipe about picking girls out of the audience, and Peter Buck mentioned D. Boon --  Mike, Mike and Peter were joined by guitarist Scott McCaughey and ex-Ministry drummer Bill Rieflin for a pretty decent performance of their new "Supernatural Superserious."

Check it out here:

And here they are from nearly 25 years ago (can it be that long already?) on their very first television appearance with David Letterman:

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."

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?

More Rodrigo y Gabriela

Here they are again:

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:

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:::

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.

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...

Black Keys rule

It's a cold November night in Minneapolis.

Most likely the effin' coldest night of the year so far. It's one of those nights where the wind tears at your flesh and you can feel big bubbles of frostbite forming on your cheekbones as you walk down Hennepin Ave.

I'm in town for business and have a light day the next day. So, I call up some way old homies and suggest we meet for brewskies. Catch up on our lives, our successes, our trials and tribulations. Since I'm staying downtown, we decide to meet at the Rock Bottom. Tommy and DAve (The Wad) show up; Steve begs off due to prior commitment(s) with the wife.

We meet, sit, have some beers, tell some lies. We're waiting for one more friend of Tommy's, a psychiatrist, who's due to show up "any minute".

Some beers turn into a few more beers, and it's starting to get late by 45-year-old old man standards. We're about to head out, and the psychiatrist shows up. So we have one beer, and he asks if anyone is up for seeing the Black Keys, playing just down the street at the Ave. With a head full of beer, and a longing to visit First Ave., I say, sure, why not. I can vaguely remember hearing a few Black Keys songs on my iPod, and if nothing else, I'm getting out for some kulture in my old city.

So we head out into the arctic blast, and the doc stops and asks if I want a pinchie. Wow, what a treat! I haven't had any in eons, and I suspect it will enhance the show. So we fumble in the high winds for a minute, enjoy our treat, then duck around the corner and into the front door of First Ave.

Someone in the entryway asks if anyone needs tickets. Bonus! The doc grabs one, and I reach for another. But there are no others. I send the doc in, and I'll buy on at the ticket counter. But no! The show is sold out! I figure I'll wait a few minutes, see if anyone else has a ducat, and find the doc inside.

After a few minutes, the doorman shoves me outside, not wanting anyone blocking the door. So out I go. Damn it's cold. I can feel my ears freezing solid, ready to snap off if someone were to flick them. I figure I'm out there about twenty minutes as the number of fans entering dwindles down to nothing. I step back inside and inquire if any will-call tickets remain. "No sir," is the reply. Gulp. SONOFA. The doorman keeps looking at me like I'm an idiot, and it finally dawns on my cold-addled brain. I slip a Jackson in his pocket and he waves me in. The warmth and waves of sound enveloping me are equally welcome.

Funny, I'd always thought of the Black Keys as a larger group -- their sound always seemed so big. But up there in front of me are just a guy flailing around on drumkit and a guy with a guitar. The place is jammed. There is no sign of the doc.

I make my way to the right of the stage in the nick of time to narrowly avoid being leveled by the huge chunks of skronk that come flying out of that guy's guitar. Big, luscious sheets they are, rippking and fuzzy and sharp. I can feel that old familiar wilt to my cochlea. God, is he good! Damn, does that drummer pound! How can two guys make that much noise?

I never did see the doc again, but I have to thank him. What a great idea that was.