30 January, 2013

For Ben, Mike, Tim and Steve.

I was playing "Invisible Ley" and Marge was like: "Who's this? It sounds like the last song on Side A of Abbey Road." Gee, homies, don't you wish it was her who kept the blog around here? Now let me tell you that these guys here - great guys. As my cousin Dagon from the Fallen Spirit (RIP) blog will tell you: "This band is playing great music. All the time!" These guys are kinda like what Burning Love might've sounded like if it had been started by a rowdy crew of Scandinavian nihilists whose Ian MacKawn'heigh was Dennis Liksin and also Ian MacKaye (footballer). Know what I mean?

Check 'em out. ¡Absoluto basura!


Marge made some dessert for y'all. Personally, I love it. And look here now. She's sleeping next to me, all cute and corpse-like, completely unawares of how happy she's made the world.

26 January, 2013

For the ulcer.

Or; Remaining Relevant.

I've just seen Bonnie "Prince" Billy and the Cairo Gang at the Carnegie Lecture Hall in Oakland. It was my first live Will Oldham experience though I've been a fan since McD bought I See A Darkness in . . . Kentucky, was it? I don't think I could've enjoyed the set any more if Bonnie had played even a single song I knew. And even if I had had any feeling below my waist  that feeling would've been to feel cramped anyway. The night was nothing but net. A total swoosh. I ate that last bit of very potent banana bread my guru gave me and I was there, man. The seating was Shakespearean but the acoustics were robust and at times shocking, like seeing Shamu live and getting splashed!

But besides his honey sweet voice and his intense animal eyes and his Southern-gentleman expansive pate, something else I noticed about B"P"B - who's in his early forties now - is that he's still relevant. Think about it, though, Will Oldham was a teenager in the 80s, his twenties were spent in the 90s, during which time he did Sundowners with Bill Callahan, who's also a member of the soon-to-be-mentioned club, and yet the guy's still cool. Many of the professors I've had and have at CCAC also belong to this club I've just created. A little club I like to call the No Forfeit Forties. If my twenties are like my adolescence all over again, in which I have a voice that is sensible because it's still innocent/ignorant to things like having a kid, but no one listens cuz they're either too young and dumb and creeped out or too old and stubborn and beat on then I'm exactly where I was when I was like seven. One's forties, then, according to the Law of Evens, must be a similar time of great understanding/being greatly misunderstood and consequently NGAFing, esp. when one is without kids. (The debate as to whether or not B"P"B has any children is ongoing between Margaret and myself.)

So how does one remain relevant then? Ms. Cavalier, my History of Women prof. - who's 44 I've figured out based on various hints dropped during her lectures - told the class on Friday that she reads (read: checks the sites of) like 5 newspapers every morning, unless she's running late. She listed 'em all off, too, so she was being honest. B"P"B remains relevant because he is so prolific. He's not worried about his hits and triumphs from the past, that much was obvious by his set list tonight. He might as well be melting down his older catalog for the materials to print his new stuff on. He just doesn't look back. As for me, I choose to listen to new music and read new books and see new movies and to hate on all of it as little as possible. Preach awareness everyday, use words when necessary. Negativity will ya age like cigarettes will. And they're all after the same thing anyway: your time.

That being said, here's a record that I actually paid money to download because they're playing around here soon and I really love their demo and I don't know I just wanted to own the EP. I'm hoping they have some vinyl in person. Yeah, these guys are that good. I will buy their record even though I never listen to records anymore because my phonograph is in the living room and I much prefer the solitary confines of my bedroom. Crazy how even typing it out and reading it back to myself doesn't stop me. So give 'em a chance. They might be posers, but you might be a hater. And if you don't at least check it out you'll get old quicker than you ought to.

19 January, 2013

For Ben.

This post is for Ben who's just got a new job here in the city which means he'll be returning very soon to the city to live once more. As a write this he's asleep on the futon out in the living room which disappoints me a little I suppose because he typically sleeps in my room when he crashes here and it'd be nice to be writing this while he was in bed next to me. *Pause*

Last night I was jamming the latest Merchandise record when everyone came home from the bar. I was with a few close friends myself and we were just chillin', passin' around a Mason jar of Bulleit and my roommate's legendary bottomless bowl. The music was right on but only for me as I realized I was the only one dancing. Which isn't atypical but they weren't even laughing and watching me; they just stared at their phones. They're not currently experiencing the heart break I am, I said to myself, and understood that it was despotic of me to subject them to my aural medicine, like pulling up my shirt and jabbing myself with an insulin needle right in front of them - okay, maybe not that bad, but the love/need for Children of Desire was not unanimous. So I put on a John Fahey record. And what happened next is a rare thing in this post-future age: Everyone just listened. We all stopped talking; we all stopped thumbing away at our phones; even the living dead lady who had trailed my roommates home - even she just sat there quietly slowly nodding her head to the music as she hopelessly tumbled further into the K-Hole. The record I put on was 1963's Death Chants, Breakdowns & Military Waltzes, which is not what I'm posting today, because I think the live record I'm posting is a better introduction to John Fahey. The Great Santa Barbara Oil Slick was my first Fahey record and it still remains my favorite. Spanning several of his early outputs TGSBOS is stacked with great jams like the bluesy, twangy, bar-b-que sauce dripping "The Death of the Clayton Peacock," the rejuvenating and down-covered "When Springtime Comes Again," the transcendental "When the Catfish Is In Bloom," and one of my personal favorites: "In Christ There Is No East or West."

So check this record out and stay tuned for more John Fahey, which will be posted sporadically and without regard to anything in the exterior world save my own whims - the way one's blog ought to be maintained.

"With its strong selection of songs and impressive fidelity, The Great Santa Barbara Oil Slick is a worthy summary of where Fahey was at this high point."