Yearbook

What a year it was for news! And not just for news, but for the people reporting the news; people like, well, me: your basic, blue-collar reporter, your average guy, your Joe Shmoe, getting closer and closer to stories that weren't even all that interesting the first time with my swarthy, in-your-face style of hard-edged local music journalism.

Sure, I rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but most of them deserved it. This was the year I really let the chips fall where they may: if I heard a record that really stunk, no matter how many of my close friends played on it, I said a lot fewer nice things about it than if it had been good. And this is my pledge to you, my constantly growing, changing, seething, roiling readership, for the future: if I hear something really bad, you'll know it right away by the virtually noticeable faintness of my praise.

2002 was also the year that the Cape Codder embarked on a bold, new experiment when we decided to expand our local music coverage to keep up with the public's increasing appetite for sensational, outlandish, muck-raking stories about local semi-celebrities and their foibles. Originally, I came to you once every two weeks; now, because of your near-constant clamoring (and probably hectoring, too), I'm in there every week, bringing you twice as much news about the exact same amount of actual events.

In other words, the same things happened again, as they tend to, but this year you probably heard a lot more about them. For one thing, now we have a van, the "Cape Codder Rocket News Van", that we're always zooming around in, trying to catch people doing something. Well, no we don't, but that would be cool, wouldn't it?

Looking back over the big stories of the past year, you can see that many of them were fake substitutes for stories that couldn't, and therefore didn't, exist. My challenge: not many things happened; how could I make them more involving?

Before I answer that question, I'd like to say a word or two about year-end issues of magazines, where they purportedly sum up the major stories of the year past and attempt to put them all in perspective; like the Rolling Stone Yearbook issues, in which we get to re-live what color Madonna's hair was last February. What a scam! It's a way to get a whole issue out without anyone actually having to do anything- a way to make nothing last longer. Let's take a crack at it!

The subject that tended to pop up the most was failure -usually my own failure to accomplish one task or another. Though this path had been fairly well trodden in previous years, I think the variety and scope of things I failed to do this year was much more impressive. I had problems getting celebrities on the phone for interviews (even people like Jonathan Richman and Bill Staines; I chased Bill around for three weeks before finally giving up.) Sometimes, when I found them, the result was even worse: I wrote two pieces on singer Lori McKenna that were so bad even I was embarrassed.

(By the way, is there anything more embarrassing than not being able to spell the word "embarrassing", despite having used it so often? I'd be completely sunk on that one without the spell checker.)

I also had no luck whatsoever picking the Oscars, and got in trouble for trying to sneak illicit clam chowder into a restaurant. At one point, I even retired, only to un-retire a week later when the money ran out.

When I wasn't apologizing for one debacle or another, the column bristled with lively stories about Liam Hogg sitting in with NRBQ, Dan Cormier (the guy who does the phone messages for the Wellfleet Cinemas), and the Fred Fried scandal (I did a two-part series on Fred using more strings than all the other guitar players, and yet he's still being allowed to roam free.)

I warned you about the Asian restaurant in the mall that changed overnight into a Cajun restaurant without changing any of the food; confessed to bouts of open sobbing at oldies shows; detailed some interesting new ways of torturing june bugs; and explained why the new James Taylor CD is like a rectal exam, except even better. In what can now be seen as a desperate attempt to attract a younger, hipper demographic, I even briefly changed my name to Jocko.

It was an exciting year; thank god it's over!

Khristmas at Kelp Manor

Is Christmas the one where you’re thankful? I might be getting this confused with some other holiday, as I am old and confused though still largely continent. No, I’ll bet that’s “Thanksgiving”, because of the “thank” part. So what is it we do on this one? Do we wear something? Is this the one with the hats? No, wait, that’s “Hat Day.” Ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Of course, Christmas is always whoops! -sorry an occasion of much good-natured merriment here at Kelp Manor, where the dwarves are even hungrier than usual this time of year, for they know jolly old St. Nickisonhiswhoa. Christmas is wicked intense, don’t you think?

Anyway, thanks SO MUCH for coming to our swingin’ Christmas soiree (I believe that “soiree” is French for something you’d eat in France), where we’ll no doubt be partyin’ down groovily until the wee, wee hours. Won’t you join us? Not actually, but in the sense of reading about it later? Wow! Cooool!!!

Hey, isn’t that my wife, the cruel, devastating, yet kinda young, kinda wow Mrs. Kelp? Hi, honey! (Look, she’s waving!) What? Oh, sure! Would you like to go and briefly meet my wife, the disastrously lovely and enchanting object of my ne’er flaccid zeal, da wif, Mrs. Kelp? She’s certainly been asking about you...

Honey! Oh honey! This is those people I’ve been telling you about, the Readers? The very same! (She always used to kid that you never existed.) You must’ve scared her out of her skin! I know! I am! Really? They’re taller than I pictured, too! Me, too! She says, you guys are so tall! Ha!!! Bye!

Isn’t she wonderful? Now, let’s go over to the kitchen and see what Yolanda, our Lithuanian houth girl and tragic chef, has cooked up for this merry occasion. Ooops! Well, nothing edible, obviously! Sorry Yolanda! We’ll come back later when she’s feeling better.

Ah, you’ve noticed the dogs! More than eighteen roving, medium-to-giant size dense black dogs acting really personable and affectionate, all at once, and forming a giant, writhing mass of coursing, roiling fur! Down! Down! No! No no no!

That little one’s Checkers. Look, he’s got different color toes; what a fine canine! He’s all excited about Santa. Aren’t you, little fella? Aren’t cha? Aren’t cha? Oh, yoouuu! Aren’t they precious?

For all those of you who may have the urge to hit the author in the head with a large mallet at this point, I’d remind you that that’s not exactly the spirit of Christmas, as entirely intended by our Lord and Savior, da Nazz. The spirit of Christmas would be more along the lines of: this person is a feeb, and certainly doesn’t have the wind to sustain this for more than a page, what the hell, we’ll leave right after. It’s a time to ignore your neighbor, as he would ignore you if he even noticed you in the first place.

For even as Joseph gave unto Mary a shawl, probably (or something), at Christmas; not wrapped, because they had no money for wrapping paper, but licked clean, for Joseph wath alwayth a funny guy at holiday time. They swaddled the Babe, who hit many a long ball, as if to say, Merry Christmas to all, batting for Tidwell, and whoa! watch out for that huge, rumbling, galloping cat! A cat so insane the dogs actually seem to respect it, a cat who could and would crush you like a pancake under her thundering hooves; our only cat (even I have my boundaries); dear Bill the Cat.

But I digress...

What I really meant to say, before I so rudely interrupted myself, is that supposing Christmas was the one where you’re thankful, (which I don’t think it is), then I would be thankful for the Sopranos. I know this sounds idiotic, because I always hate to hear people talking, or worse, writing, about TV shows (in part because, usually, I’ve never seen them); but this show has gotten awfully close to my heart. It’s the first TV show I can remember that absolutely could wipe the floor with any movie released the same year. (Bad year, maybe, relatively, but still...)

The acting and the writing are both as good as it gets, and it always manages to be completely unpredictable yet somehow strangely evocative of real life. The whole cast is flawless (save Miami Steve, who looks and talks like a “Dick Tracy” villain), but James Gandolfini and Edie Falco are beyond wonderful. Folks who can’t get beyond the violence and obscenities are missing a real, nasty, funny, soulful, brutal heartbreaker.

So if Christmas is a time to be thankful for all the wonderful things we have (which it isn’t), then, well, there, “The Sopranos” is something I’m really thankful for (along with the wonderful Italian dinner we frequently get with it, from our neighbor across the street, the Grand Duchess of Garden Lane and Keeper of Tiny E, who Sticks Her Butt Way Up in the Air When You Pet Her (whooo, boy, now there’s a good sounding Indian name!) (Oof! Excuse me!)

Man, this eggnog is totally happening! Oh, jeese, now I’m getting really mushy.

OK, you guys gotta go. Yeah, yeah, merry Christmas.

Flitting

Whoa! Hey! How you? Damn! Kolumn time already? Phew!

We've been so busy, flitting around to Broadway openings, hanging around w. rock stars, and changing our stove fan (see below) that we've hardly had time to catch our breath! My god, it's wretched being in such demand! My wife, the fetching (and when I say fetching, what I really mean is warm, funny, wise, fascinating, and, sometimes, even fetching) Mrs. K and I are pretty much overwhelmed at this time of year with invitations to rich people's houses for holiday revelry, and oooooo! hey! It's such a bore!

Still, we attend -and attend! -because these people seem to have better food than we do here at stately Kelp Manor, and I am (surprise, surprise) an eating type of guy. Why, only yesterday we went somewhere that had mutton, which is still one of my favorite delicacies, despite the many mutts in attendance here in The Great Hall.

But enough about me! My friend, the legendary Steve "Woo Woo" Wood, has embarked upon a series of appearances on Sundays at Happy Hour at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis, along with special guest stars such as Sue from the Ticks and Jay from the Maplewoods, and sometimes even longtime son/drummer Sam Wood, who appears when his grades are up to snuff, and no discussion, young man (Steve has always been nothing if not strict and authoritative.)

The door charge is $2.00 (which, I'm sure, leaves most of you out), as are the beers, and the whole she-bang takes place between the hours of 4 and 8 each Sunday. It's a veritable explosion of evenly numbered mayhem, and I like to think that the more intelligent amongst you might consider attending, as Steve is a close personal friend and acquaintance. Whoa!

But wait! That's not all We went out again! Me 'n wifey, all over the place! First, we went to NYC (and if that's not over the bridge, I don't know what is!), with our artist friend Dan Joy (his beret is still in our back seat!) to see an old friend and admirer of the startlingly coifed Mrs. K, namely one Steve Bakunas, now doing a stint on the Great White Way as "Cop #2" in Carol Burnett's autobiographical "Hollywood Arms": for some reason, we ended up eating dinner with the cast, much to their surprise and (artfully concealed) delight.

Steve used to do some acting locally (at the Orleans Academy, for instance), but this took place in an entirely different location that wasn't here at all. Also in the cast (and at the dinner) was Linda Lavin, who, if I'm not mistaken, is a well-known actress -as well she should be: man, I've never seen anyone get more juice out of bad writing in my life! These people were, by and large, famous and talented, yet they still ended up eating with us. How would you feel if you were rich and famous but still had to eat with me? It was all very ironic.

We were glad to get away, after all the trouble we had had with the stove fan (or, more accurately, with the stove fan filter cover) on Thanksgiving. A day or two before, with guests on the way, the light bulb on the light over the stove had blown, and in trying to change it, I became aware for the first time of our stove fan filter, and of our stove fan filter cover, both of which were sadly suffering from years of neglect.. I didn't know we had either one, until I failed to change the light bulb, and then, there they were, covered with stove fan gook.

At first I panicked completely, but the very, very, very, very smart Mrs. K slapped me hard, and I became suddenly tranquil, despite reading in my stove manual that it was recommended that I clean the stove fan filter approximately every two months.. Every two months? And here I'd lived at the Manor for more than two decades without noticing I even had a stove fan cover, let alone a stove fan cover filter! It was a revelation, and one that we're still coming to terms with, actually. All I can say is, you guys with stove fans are living on borrowed time, so get to work.

I heard from excellent sources that when Bob Dylan played recently in Rhode Island, he played a lot of piano, and covered songs like "Brown Sugar" and Neil Young's "Old Man", so I guess we can infer he's still totally nutty. Go get 'em, Jimmy! And that's the news...

Louder Than Lightning

OK, so last week I told you guys I went somewhere and saw something and had a good time, but then before I could tell you what it was I got distracted, talking about all the different things I can do while I'm driving, like file my nails, read National Geographic, etc. This week, I am determined to report on actual music events, starting with the Beck/Flaming Lips show at the Orpheum in Boston a few weeks ago.

The Flaming Lips started off with a dizzy, low-rent, psychedelic everything-but-the-kitchen-sink spectacular, which featured movies, confetti-filled balloons, and occasional band- and audience-members in furry alien and animal costumes. The mood was definitely celebratory (despite the lonely, displaced feeling of many of the melodies), with singer Wayne Coyne as our guide and amiable, outgoing ringmaster and cheerleader.

Then, after a short break (during which the Flaming Lips made an unusual point of packing up their own gear, right down to sweeping the confetti off the stage), Beck came on solo, dressed in a muted brown suit if I recall correctly, and sang three or four real shoe gazers off his depressing new album on a bare stage with only his acoustic for accompaniment (this fairly closely following the wild funk and choreographed dance moves of his recent "Odelay" shows!) You've got to give him credit -whatever it was, it wasn't pandering.

In fact, it was fairly challenging, and I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about it. Both the show and his new album, "Sea Change" (DGC), are surprisingly restrained, even dignified pieces of work, both often quite lovely and both often inhabiting that same lonely, yearning
terrain that the Flaming Lips are on lately; as different as their presentations were, their recent music is similar: often pretty and touching, rarely faster than mid-tempo, spacious, grand.

The Lips came on to back up Beck for the bulk of his show, and I was interested to see that the drummer had a completely different sound for the headliner, much drier and less affected. I had never been a fan of his playing, but the show pointed out that his playing is actually fine, it's just the histrionic, mushy-boomy faux-John Bonham drum sound that stinks -he sounded much better without it.

Anyway, I think Beck might be a genius of some sort; at the very least, he's a fine and unpredictable provocateur, and thus welcome anytime. The new album is moody and lovely, both way different and way better than his last.

That said, I'd be more comfortable with his latest guise if the register he sings in all the time lately didn't make him sound so much like Gordon Lightfoot, or that guy from the evil, post-Denny Laine Moody Blues -is it Justin Heyward? I'll bet it is.

Damn, I hate when I know things like that by mistake. If only I could remove the part of my brain that knows the names of obscure character actors from terrible TV shows I've never even seen -that part that not only reads TV Guide but, most tragically, retains things -if only I could fill that part with more useful knowledge, with something I wasn't embarrassed about knowing. Or not even that, perhaps just use it as a storage space for leftover paper clips and rubber bands or something -even that would be an upgrade. It's terrible knowing these things. I mean, Justin Heyward! Please!

I also went to Lupo's in Providence a couple of weeks ago to see Sonic Youth and Lightning Bolt, both of whom were fun, but a little less noisy than I expected. Both bands are interested in noise and dissonance, and I hadn't been to one of those shows for awhile, and I was wondering if noisy music had gotten any noisier than it had been in my hay day (back in the thirties or so.) I was even a little worried, and wondered if perhaps I should've brought some earplugs (something I've never done before in my life.)

I am surprised to report that it wasn't all that loud -you could always talk easily to the person next to you, and it wasn't ever painful or excruciating -afterwards, my ears weren't even ringing. Frankly, I was a little disappointed -I was sort of hoping to have my brains blasted out (more room for paper clips and rubber bands.) The music was fine, though, especially Lightning Bolt, a bizarro bass and drum duo who set up in the middle of the audience and started blasting away right after the other band got off (as is their won't); they were intense, hilarious, and riveting, and they got the crowd (which had been mostly stationary for Sonic Youth) moving in crazy waves.

Still, I got a little concerned that today's kids might not be getting their quota of deafening, thunderous, roaring, volcanic volume, and I strongly urge all loud rock bands to turn up a little. The point is, you shouldn't be able to talk to someone at a show like this -certainly not without yelling into their ear. The fact that it sounded fine has nothing to do with it -people just need to be blasted every once in a while; otherwise, their ears will get out of shape and flappy.

This week, for instance, we have Bim Skala Bim at the Beach Break in Eastham on Friday (the 6th), and Bruce Maclean and the Maplewoods appearing at the Claddagh in Harwichport on Saturday (the 7th), and I challenge both of these stalwarts to play way louder than usual, for only in great volume can true honor be granted. I know they won't let me down.

Knee Driving

I am so cool.

Lately, I have occasionally been going off cape to do things -y’know, culture stuff, bands and plays and stuff -in other areas that aren’t here. I have even, on more than one occasion, gone Over the Bridge. Four times I did it, I think, wait, one, two, threeeee... No! Three! Three times. Three times I went OveR the BridgE (see how when you type it like that, even the words look like little bridges! I love that!!) On my own, without anyone dying or falling ill, for no other reason than that it was my whim.

Also, though, and more importantly, it was da whim of da wife, the ever coltish, devilishly cunning, blazingly speedy Mrs. K (AKA the girl who put the “u” in Thurston), who got the urge for goin’, giving me full license to whisk her away for five fun-filled nights at the Copa in fabulous Buenos Aires, Havah Nagilah! Or, actually, not there, but somewhere else; and, we stayed with my cousin for one night and drove home the next -but otherwise, that’s just how it was! Crazy man, crazy!

I’m probably making it sound like more fun than you had to be there, but didn’t you know it? we had such a cool time! going wherever we must’ve went.

One of the big things I wanted to brag about here is that I have learned to be able to do many different things while I am driving, through a fantastic new process, and I’d like to tell you about it. I have found that I can not only listen to the radio and drink and eat and talk on the phone, I can also clean up the front seat (make sure all the trash is in one bag and the nickels, dimes, and quarters are in their corresponding compartments in the change dispenser), put the maps in alphabetical order in the glove compartment, trim my cuticles, and jeer at passersby. Early on I found myself slowly becoming able to perform these and many other basic tasks, once I discovered that I could basically DRIVE WITH MY KNEES!

Yes, sir, you heard me right: now, through the revolutionary new process of just trying to do it and what the hell, I have learned to drive my car almost entirely with my knees, leaving my hands free to catch up on important chores, like: making lists! paying those pesky bills! catching up with that new bestseller! vacuuming! playing the accordion! pottery! -even typing this article! Why, I can hardly remember the last time I used my hands for driving! I’m getting way more done, and -best of all -no one’s been killed so far!

Sure, there’s been a good deal of swerving around -even the occasional close miss -but joggers wouldn’t jog if they didn’t like to move around fast in the first place, would they? Anyway, I highly recommend the process to all and everyone here in the golden age of multi-tasking; after all, who has the time nowadays to just drive?

For instance, this week, when everyone had plenty to do getting ready for the big day with their families on Thanksgiving (and by the way, hope you had a great one, and that you and your family ate like pigs until you all passed out; happy Thanksgiving, one and all, from all of us here at Kelp on Kape!); what if on all those trips back and forth to the store, you could have used that time also peeling potatoes, shucking oysters, and making a lovely flaky pie crust? Wouldn’t that put you that far ahead of the game?

Driving with your knees is a terrific time saver, and I’m sure you’ll all think of all sorts of things to do with all the extra time you’ll have on your hands, once your knees take over!

Anyway, I was going to tell you all about our trips Over the Bridge, which started with a trip to Boston to see Beck and the Flaming Lips at the Orpheum, which was a swell show whose feature performers worked in sharp contrast to each other; and damn, I’d still like to tell you about it, but I just got a flat, and it’s almost impossible to write bumping along like this, so I will now conclude with a simple reminder to think about taking some of the care you’d normally put in to your driving and put it into something almost equally important, like doing a crossword puzzle; knitting; or picking ticks off a despised family member. Sure, it’s nice to get there safe; but isn’t it even nicer to get caught up on things for once?

Sure it is! On your knees!

All the News In Fits We Print

No music today; let's take a look at sports!

I have decided that the Patriots -the Superbowl Champion New England Football Patriots- will definitely not make it to the Super Bowl this year. No way. You guys are dreaming. And why? One simple reason: our kicker is doing product testimonials.

This is a crime against nature. Commercial appearances should only be awarded to players that actually handle the ball. Handle; as in, they touch it with their hands. Athletes who make their money with their feet, but not by running, are like children -they should be seen and not heard. More accurately, they're like really ugly children -they should neither be seen, nor heard. They should make their little kicks and go back to their rooms.

Field goal kickers and punters are embarrassing anyway, as they always signal failure -teams only kick as a last resort, when they've tried everything else and they're stuck. When the field goal guy comes on, the rest of the team is mortified.

Now, I know, Adam Vinatieri, the Pats kicker, is one of the best. He rarely misses, and he's made a lot of clutch kicks and won some games and so forth. Still, the fact that he is appearing on ads for such outfits as Papa Gino's and Tweeter can only be a harbinger of evil. Until they get one of the real players to do these ads, one of the actual football players who gets to touch the ball with his hands, they are doomed. Just thought you should know.

And that about wraps it up for sports; let's see what's happening in the world of business and high finance!

Like many people, I have margarine brand names I prefer and ones I don't. For instance, one margarine brand I never buy is "Lard-O"; to me, it sends the wrong message. On the other hand, my favorite product name of all time is still "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter", and recently I was reflecting on how the world might have changed had it become really popular. For one thing, I believe it might have spawned imitators, cheap knock-offs with names like "I Can't Believe It's Not "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter"", "Why, That's Damn Near Margarine!" and "Phew! At Least It Doesn't Seem To Be Lard-O!" For another thing... well, I can't really remember the other thing, but I'll bet it would've had quite an effect on the economy.

Now let's bid a fond adieu to the hustle and bustle of Wall St. and return to some follow-up reports on some of the people we got to know in recent issues. Michael Jackson, whose last album was panned here in the Codder, was recently seen dangling an infant from the balcony of his German hotel room by its ankles; though this was no doubt meant as some sort of appeal to the review, I must say that I think it's a little pathetic that he'd take it that seriously, and I still stand by my original opinion that the songwriting lacked direction.

I also finally hooked up with that crafty Bill Staines, the well-known folksinger and contemporary of Michael Jackson whom you may remember eluded me for a couple of weeks there. He said he got my calls and emails, and that he thought he did remember me from the old days, and that he hoped he could continue to avoid me throughout the new millennium. We laughed, or at least one of us did, and then I looked away for an instant and he was gone.

I did catch part of his show at the First Encounter (actually, the part that you could see through the crack in the door, as the place was sold out), and it was state-of-the-art folksinger stuff, friendly, unassuming, and pretty much baloney-free. He did a nice rap about the onset of senility, and ended all his songs a little quicker and with a bit less fuss than expected, which is rare and delightful.

I've always associated that sort of thing with Randy Newman, who often seems to catch his songs up short -before you can object, he's gone. It's a very necessary antidote to the Bruce Springsteen ending, which is grand, thunderous, and frequently infinite; really, an ending is the last thing you want to go on forever. In my opinion, the rare musician that actually ends things faster than you expect he will deserves some sort of special dispensation from the chancellery or 20% discount or something.

Report from Tinseltown: I finally saw "Punch Drunk Love", and it's pretty good, though not as good as Paul Thomas Michael What's-is-name's previous masterpieces, "Boogie Nights" and "Magnolia", and I'm disgusted to admit that Adam Sandler actually has some very fine moments in it, and hardly does any of that dreadful baby-talk thing he does so often; still, I wish it had been someone else, and I'll bet What's-is-name will make a better movie next time and that it won't have Adam Sandler.

NEXT WEEK -Frisky New Socks You Can Wear To The Doctor!

Jennifer Kimball

A funny thing happened to me on my way to the Jennifer Kimball article: I found out I had really sold her debut CD, “Veering From the Wave” (Imaginary Road/Polygram) short. Originally, I confessed some disappointment; I had been a big fan of her duo with Jonatha Brooks, the Story, and probably felt those records had set the bar pretty high, as they had been remarkably original. In retrospect, they were quite influential as well -you can see a little school popping up there a decade or so ago, founded by the Story, Suzanne Vega, Shawn Colvin, and Patty Larkin, who were basically taking some roots out of acoustic music and substituting a little mystery and some production values. Thank you, lawd!

Anyway, hard act to follow. And me being a butthead, I neglected to notice that there were more than a few great songs on there, as I had originally reported; in fact, there was a whole stretch of great stuff! I still maintain that she saved all the best stuff for the second half, but, jeese, there’s some great stuff on here I missed completely, like “The Revelations”, which is one of those blasts of pop I’m always talking about, complete with Beatles-like piccolo trumpet and vaguely Arabian-sounding tape loops or something. Delightful! And the lovely ballads “World Without End” and “Lullaby” -wonderful.

And here’s the kicker: two of the cuts are just Kimball playing solo, sans backing and overdubs, and, despite the fact that the other players are impeccable throughout (especially guitarist Duke Levine, who also played with the Story, and who definitely knows a nice, lonely, dreamy landscape when he hears one), these solo tracks are both definite high points.

Which is lucky for us, because for her upcoming appearance at the Stand Up for Choice concert for Mass NARAL, the state-wide pro-choice organization, on Thursday, November 21st, at First Parish Universalist Church in Brewster, she’ll be performing solo. (Spunky local poetry slammer Kristin Knowles will no doubt be appropriately dazzling in the opening slot.)

You’d think Ms. Kimball would be nervous, but when I spoke with her last weekend, she seemed OK. We chatted for about an hour when I declared all the Important Questions asked and answered, only to realize shortly after I got off the phone that I had completely neglected to ask her about her remarkable career as a background vocalist -she’s sung on about sixty albums in the past decade or so. A high amount like that would imply that she not only sings good, but she’s not obnoxious. I think that’s what gives her the edge over the other background singers; but I forgot to ask her about that, too. I had to email back -very embarrassing.

She says that she once did a (paid) audition for the “Folger’s in your cup” jingle, and that it was humiliating. She also cut some tracks for a Christian singer named Paul Beloche, but only on the condition that she not have to “sing I love God sort of stuff” (Jennifer is a Presbyterian, not a zealot.)

Her most thrilling background singing moment? “Singing with Jackson Browne on a tour with him, with the Story opening as a duo, for two weeks in the fall of '93. There were these cool parts on a tune from his '93 record, and one show was kind of unplugged -he didn't have his whole band -and we jumped up on stage and recreated those parts so beautifully he brought us out every night after that to do the same. Tooting my horn, I'm afraid; but it was fun.”

She’s also involved at present in at least a couple of other side projects: Wayfaring Strangers, with violinist Matt Glazer, Andy Statman on clarinet and mandolin, banjo maverick Tony Trischka, and a host of guest vocalists (the album, called “Shifting Sands of Time”, came out last year on Rounder); and Maybe Baby, a band she formed with her boyfriend Ry Cavanaugh that will soon release its debut album, “What Matters.”

Both these bands lean heavier on roots music than Jennifer does on her own. The Maybe Baby album features a lovely Appalachian-flavored song called “Coal Machine” and a nice little pop song called “Little Live Things”, both written by Kimball.

The Story occasionally used unusual, sometimes even dissonant harmonies, and had a sense of adventurousness that was rare in acoustic music (it’s fitting she hooked up with Trischka, a Thelonious Monk disciple who similarly brought an edge to bluegrass banjo about twenty years ago.) The quirkiness occasionally carried over into the lyrics, and Jennifer acknowledges that she and Jonatha are still big Roches fans; so that’s just one more reason to like her.

I’m going.

Experiments With Food & Napkins

Hi! I’m having old Chinese food -want some?

My wife, the impossibly delightful, improbably de-lovely Mrs. Kelp, says that I never eat leftovers, so once again I have set out to prove her wrong. Actually, for much of this year I have been experimenting with the idea that many foods keep a lot longer than you’d think, in many cases going well beyond the usual one-week rule. It is also my contention that just because a food is no longer its original color, that’s no reason to abandon it; these changes in hue are natural and beautiful, and we New Englanders who so laud the changing colors of the seasons should learn to better appreciate these cycles of nature (so often referred to as “going south”, or, more commonly, “rotting”) instead of running away at the first hint of toxicity.

Tonight, for instance, I have been feasting on some Chinese carry-out from about ten days ago. Sometimes, it’s better not to scrutinize things too closely -even I drew the line at the boneless spareribs and chicken wings, not so much because of the greenish tinge so much as some rather odd changes in texture (I even went down the hall to get my glasses for more accurate identification.) The rice looked fine, though, and the beef (which was just a little green) and the broccoli (which is green anyway, so who knows?) were in some kind of sauce that I chose to assume must have contained many preservatives.

On closer inspection, I was amused to find that the beef and broccoli seemed to be in the process of trading colors, which I’m hopeful will be OK in the long run, as long as there’s still the same amounts of green and brown overall. I figure as long as I don’t die in my sleep tonight, I can consider the meal a success. If nothing else, there’s more room in the refrigerator.

I must say that I found it a little upsetting when the first words I heard following this sumptuous repast were those of the Napkins’ Eben Portnoy on their new, self-burnt CD, “I’ve Been Wading”, which begins:

“I don’t care who you are - you’ve done something wrong
I don’t care how nice you seem -you’ve done some evil things
I don’t know your motivations - I don’t care how well you kiss
I don’t know who you are - but I believe in justice.”

Man! It’s like he’s seen my kitchen!

Actually, I’ve followed Eben on and off ever since he was in Nauset High and gave me a tape by his band No Siento that still ranks as one of my favorite local tapes ever. At the time, he was playing noisy amplified stuff, veering a bit towards Replacements-style pop; more recently, his stuff is quieter and more acoustic, though equally alternative-sounding (i.e. lots of strumming and bad singing, a la the Mountain Goats or Jonathan Richman.)

On “Wading”, the vocals are right up front, and the lyrics, which were always interesting and a little quirky, are more meticulous; these are both welcome developments. The Napkins’ instrumentation is also a bit more varied, encompassing not only piano and violin but a zombie choir featuring one Meghan Patrick, who is the official girlfriend of my friend and neighbor Denzel O’Sullivan (that’s right, folks, the fix is in.)

The CD has its ups and downs, and perhaps works better as an encouraging sign of things to come than as a fully realized whole; but it’s never terrible, rarely less than interesting, and the good stuff is kind of a blast. “Haunted House Party” employs some fairly eccentric intermittent drumming, both backwards and forwards, in a reflective, personal two-minute rumination on the nature of love. The closer, “Retribution”, is gleefully and quietly screwy, as Eben asks “Will you punish me? Will you be my pilgrim?” over pump organ chords and occasional dissonant guitar noodling. I’ve got to admit, it has been ages since anyone asked me to be their pilgrim.

You can catch the Napkins in action this Friday, November 15th, at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis, along with Jonathan Guardia (who, according to this here press release, “plays the soundtrack for blood running down mountain riverbeds!”); they’ll apparently both be accompanied by the abstract projections (???) of Boston filmmaker Brittany Gravely. What the hell!

Further Remembrances

Well, OK, I’m very upset about this whole Bill Staines thing. which really has not occurred. Some of you (or, to be precise, probably about two of you) may remember from last week that I had hoped to interview Bill sometime prior to his appearance at the First Encounter in Eastham this Saturday; you may recall me mentioning that he was an old friend, who I remembered as a great guy, and whom I hadn’t seen in years, and how I was looking forward to getting re-acquainted and all.

Well, he hasn’t answered any of my phone calls, so I emailed, and he also hasn’t answered any of my emails, and I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me. There’s always the chance that he may remember me less fondly than I do him, if he’s even the guy I’m thinking of in the first place. I think he is, though. I wonder if I did something awful I’ve forgotten about back then, maybe he hates my guts or something. I don’t know! I’m irritated, and I’ve been drinking.

Now I am finding (and eating) every single nut in the house. I’m finding that the drinking is not enough (although it’s fine as far as it goes -I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong) and so I’ve also assembled an eating disorder. Pass anything.

It’s just, he seemed like such a nice guy, eight billion thousand years ago (assuming it was him.) I thought we were getting along great, and here it turns out he hates my guts.

I hear he’s a really good folksinger. Actually, I remember him being quite good, back in the old days -or, at least, I remember someone being quite good. To tell the truth, when I really think about what I was into thirty years ago, I mean... it could’ve been almost anyone. And besides, this guy just won’t call me back, which I think pretty much proves he remembers me! It must be the same guy!

I can’t believe he doesn’t like me anymore. I’m almost positive I wouldn’t have done anything all that horrible. Maybe he’s just stuck up, because of being so famous and all and the fast life and the groupies and what-not. Who needs him, anyway? What a jerk.

If you see him this Saturday, don’t say anything about me- I just don’t think I’m ready yet. Still, go, check out his show; in fact, what the hell, let’s let bygones be bygones and make him the pick of the week -the Kelp Pick of the Week, yeah, that sounds good. I give this show my highest recommendation, because I think I almost kind of pretty much remember this guy, and, if it’s the guy I think it is, he actually wasn’t very objectionable and kind of knew what he was doing (if I remember correctly.)

I just don’t know why he hasn’t called. God, I hope he’s OK! Karie Miller (the guiding light of the First Encounter coffeehouse and also my neighbor, and let me tell you that’s not always a bed of roses) said at one point that she thought Bill might not be a big computer person, might not be keeping up real good with his email, etc., and that makes sense. Maybe that means he doesn’t have a cell phone, either. I mean, he’s a folksinger, for god’s sake; he probably rides a bike and smokes clove cigarettes. Why would he have a phone?

I’m sure he still likes me. Actually, if you do see him this Saturday, just tell him Thurston says hi. No, tell him I was going to stop by, but my chauffeur had the night off, but that I still remember him fondly. No, “warmly.” No, just say “Thurston asked after you” and “he was warm.” Wait, do you think that sounds too needy?

The nuts are gone now, and I’m all by myself. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve gone too far; if, in my rush to be accepted and admired, I’ve forgotten all that was decent and fine about myself, and instead plunged into a maelstrom of despair and decay. Sure hope not!

Next week: my special weekend with Bradford Dillman. Ta!

Bill Staines Profile, Probably

Hi! It’s me again. Again with very little exciting news, as expected.

I saw a picture of a box last week. It was pretty.

My aunt had a boat.

See, in the journalism business, you’ve got to be open-minded, because you never know where your next hot lead is coming from. It could be something that sounds totally stupid at first, and then, voila! -it morphs into something that’s almost better than nothing! Well, sometimes it does; not always. (That’s why it’s called, “journalism!”)

Lobsters are stupid. When was the last time a lobster hosted a symposium? -hell of a long time ago.

See, I’m hoping eventually I’ll say something that’ll somehow lead to some other thing, and then that’ll lead to something else; and then in no time the page will be full of words and the column will be done!

Good world series so far, huh?

I certainly like young, good-looking women! Let’s think of one together... I know, Jayne Mansfield!

That reminds me, I have I a very old friend named Bill Staines who’s performing at the First Encounter Coffeehouse in Eastham this weekend, probably on either Friday or Saturday. Unless it’s next weekend, in which case it’s still Friday or Saturday. Or Sunday, maybe. I think it’s this weekend. Pretty soon anyway.

I knew Bill briefly about thirty years ago, and he was a hell of a guy, and put on a swell folksinging show; and I’ll bet he still does, if it’s the same guy.

He’s put out a bunch of records over the years; unfortunately, I haven’t heard them, which is a pity, under the circumstances. I’l bet they’re pretty good, though. Normally, I’d try to get one, somehow, but I called, and he’s away. Alaska, actually, this week. So.

By the way, I just tuned into the Netscape News, and it said “Is Adam Sandler a genius?”, and I’d just like to, as soon as possible, go right on record with the answer, “no.” That guy Paul Michael Thomas Bobby or whatever his name is, the director (he’s got like twelve all-american first names), the one that did “Magnolia” and “Boogie Nights” (both of which I worship; ok, I’ll look it up dammitIhateyou; OK, it’s Paul Thomas Anderson, you happy?)(At least I was close), is possibly a genius of some kind; basically, if he can even get me to consider paying money to go out and see a movie starring Adam Sandler, he is either a genius or a spectacularly sneaky, evil wizard.

Anyway, his new movie “Punch Drunk Love” just came out, to rapturous reviews, and I know they’re probably right, but, damn -Adam Sandler? You mean, literally everyone else was busy? If this movie makes me like Adam Sandler, then, well, I don’t know; I’m just not all that comfortable with it. Do I have to?

If DVDs were really cool they’d have versions of movies where you could substitute actors. I admit it, I’m apprehensive. If Mr. Bobby can put this one over, then he truly is a genius.

I guess I could look up when Bill’s playing, too. What the hell, though, I don’t even know it it’s the same guy or not. This is stupid.

OK, fine, I looked it up, he’s not playing until next week anyway, on Saturday, November 9th; so never mind.

He might not be any good anyway -like I said, I’m not sure if it’s the same guy I think it is -but If you go, tell him ‘hey” for me, unless it turns out not to be him. Then feel free to kind of give him the cold shoulder.

Saluting the Service Industry

As I’ve said many times, I could write this column in my sleep -the trouble is, I’m an insomniac, and having to write it when I’m awake is really annoying.

Also annoying: there’s not enough bars around here, especially open ones. On Cape Cod, an alarmingly large percentage of bars -perhaps 25 or 30% -are only open about 25 or 30% of the time, because they close on Labor Day or Columbus Day and don’t re-open until Memorial Day or the fourth of July, which is just plain cowardly, if you ask me.

The good bars -the upright, stalwart, year-round bars -know that they offer a valuable service to the community, and that having us all drink in our houses can only make the homicide rate sky-rocket. The brave and selfless members of our local restaurant and nightclub business, though largely unsung, are truly the backbone of both our industry and our culture -yet they are constantly ignored in the local media (still so inexorably smitten by firemen.)

It’s perhaps ironic, then, to note that without bars, there might very well be no firemen; clearly, the first fireman was out of his mind on something. Not to mention the fact that without drunk people, there would probably be less fires to begin with. That bartender or waitress across from you is making a serious contribution to your spiritual well-being almost every day, and have you ever once really stopped and said “thank you?” Of course not, because you’re nothing but a bastard person!

Well, maybe you’re not a bastard person, at least not all the time. Maybe you’re not entirely evil, technically; maybe you at least mean well. If that’s the case, don’t you think it’s time you took that special bartender or waitress aside and told it what means to you, or gave it an especially large tip, or gratified it orally? Really, that whole fireman thing is so last week -this week, let’s all hug a bouncer!

Which reminds me, I forgot to wish you all a happy Sweetest Day last week! Sweetest Day is really one of my all-time favorite holidays, special because it’s really the one holiday that, year after year, we refuse to celebrate, the one occasion where we all just quietly draw the line, as if to say, no, no amount of marketing will force this one down our throats. We probably could’ve parlayed it into another day off, but we stuck to our guns on this one -hell, no, we wouldn’t go. And so, a belated happy Sweetest Day to one and all!

I ran into Zoe Lewis of Provincetown the other day; she had just returned from a gig in Las Vegas, and spoke highly of her visit to the Liberace museum. Zoe has also started work on her next CD with her band, recording with local rock impresario/new dad Chris Blood in Orleans at Trout On Wheels (TOW.) Zoe must be one of the hardest working women in show biz, always traveling hither and yon -it makes me shudder to even think about it.

You know, I’m really serious about this bouncer-hugging thing. I mean, bouncers especially. Heck, bartenders and waitresses at least get some gratitude, sometimes, but when was the last time anyone went out of their way to thank a bouncer? You know, “thanks for throwing me out onto the street, I was completely ossified and probably shouldn’t’ve been hanging on that ceiling fan to begin with. You’re a nice man -will you be my friend?” You just don’t hear that any more.

Or any less. You hear it the exact same amount you always did, which is never. So hug a bouncer -you’ll be surprised you did, and so will he. Let’s make every day like Sweetest Day!

I’ve got to go.

Nothingness

Nothing happened last week. Nothing. I wish I could say otherwise, but that’s just the plain truth -nothing occurred. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I also have it on excellent authority that nothing will happen next week either.

Now, as you might imagine, this puts me in rather an awkward position. As a current events/news kind of guy, an on-the-spot reporter, if you will (or, at least right near the spot), a person who basically makes his living exclusively from observing other people’s lives and activities (rather than having them myself); a leech, a parasite (two! two! two scourges in one!) who reduces their fragile, complex realities to tawdry caricatures and sleazy innuendo, like a vulture hovering over carrion, I have always been that rare kind of guy that just loves his job. Heck, when I was a little kid I used to dream about having a life like this, and now that I do, it’s even better than I thought it would be.

A slow news week, though, is one thing; I mean, if necessary I’m completely capable of blabbing on for pages and pages about very little, you know, the slightest little item. I once did a three part series on a bongo player who almost put in his own kitchen cabinets; and I’m always happy to review albums that are two or three years old. I’ll print gigantic pictures I just found in someone else’s office of someone I don’t know, just to take up space sometimes (I do it pretty subtly, so hopefully you can’t really tell.)

What we’re hitting here lately, though, is not a slow news week, but actually a non-news week, and there’s not much even I can do with that. Give me the slightest table scrap, and I’ll gum it to death; but I’m not a magician, and I can’t (though would) lie to you: there’s absolutely nothing going on.

As you know, my usual strategy at a time like this is to check in on the rather willowy and beguiling Mrs. Kelp for her take on the situation, which is usually witty and unpredictable and full of fun. Unfortunately, though, right now there really is no situation, and at any rate Mrs. K is napping, a state no one who knows her would dare interrupt.

Many years ago, we had an old golden retriever named Ben, whose hips eventually gave out completely, to the point that he couldn’t walk at all. Mrs. Kelp (radiant in her diaphanous kimono with matching beret and cigarette holder) were forced to load him onto an old rug and clumsily drag him outdoors for his constitutionals. You’d think a beautiful, athletic fellow like Ben would be shattered by such a handicap, but, to the contrary, he seemed to love this whole process.

Getting so old and out of it apparently sort of cracked him up, and in general he was happy as a clam in his declining years. Though he had been a bit of a Casanova in his youth, always seen with the finest looking bitches in the neighborhood, he had no trouble relaxing his standards when it came to dating in his dotage. The fact that he couldn’t go anywhere really gave his field a clearer delineation than it had ever had before, and being a practical type, he cheerfully consented to hump absolutely anyone that got close enough -the male/female issue had completely passed by the wayside.

Strangely, at point that his bark became both higher pitched and more consistent, but he was so obviously pleased with himself that we really couldn’t kill him, so we just changed his name to Queenie and installed one of those wheelchairs that go down the banister carrying Barbara Stanwyck, and they eventually both died and that was that.

East Side Story

Great news! Turns out my rectum is fine after all -the doctor says I can go back to eating as many mixed nuts as I want!

I’m trying to think if anything else happened this week...; nope.

There’s at least one thing ready to happen soon, though -tonight, in fact, for many of you, Friday, the 11th of October, to wit Tommy Carns and Aaron Spade, ex-Hitchhikers and prodigal sons, two good old friends having a bit of a reunion at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis.

They’ve both spent the last few years primarily in California, but Aaron came back to stay in July, while Tommy’s just in for a visit. Some of you may remember my raving about Tommy’s solo album “Get Up and Fall Down” (Indo) a year or two ago; he’s an interesting, idiosyncratic musician as well as an engaging performer and a compelling songwriter -as is Spade, whose “work” locals may know from the dreaded Incredible Casuals; they should perhaps consider going anyway.

I’ve known them both for years, having seen them as teenagers at a Nauset High talent show where Aaron did a ridiculously good Mick Jagger imitation on the Stones’ “Off the Hook” (great choice.) Aaron was also in The Greatest High School Musical of All Time, the Nauset High production of “West Side Story”; in fact, it was his friend Ed Andrews who was pressed into the pivotal role of Tony at the last possible second when the original actor became unavailable, giving the performance of a lifetime, a performance that high school theater people still talk about in hushed, reverent tones. It was a milestone.

I believe Aaron himself was a gang member, though I don’t recall whether he was a Shark or a Jet; certainly, the Puerto Rican-via-Hyannisport accents on the Sharks were another high point. I would pay big money for a video tape of this legendary production. I’d mow lawns... I’d even pick up my room.

Please, let there be someone, somewhere, who has the video tape. Call me any hour of the day or night -this is my private number: 508 240 2733. Call collect. I’ll do anything. You can come over to the manor for dinner; I’ll have the glittering, unbelievably sparkly, and relentlessly phosphorescent Mrs. K whip up a soufflé. (By the way, that’s pronounced “soo-flay”, not “soo-ful”; it’s practically French, y’ know.)

Some of you may remember my having a bit of an identity crisis here a couple of weeks ago over my unexpected approval of the new James Taylor album (I thought I was hipper than that.) As you may recall, I was pretty depressed over it, and I ended up trudging down to the record store to buy other records by washed up has-beens I’d given up on to see how deep the problem ran. I even bought a Bruce Springsteen album (well, used -I’m not entirely insane!), and was relieved to see that I still find him kind of grunty.

I mean, you know his heart’s in the right place, but on most of “The Rising” (Columbia), he kind of sounds like he has a touch of Bono’s Disease, which causes taking yourself too seriously. He sounds like an honest man, straining under the weight of a great burden -could it be the Mantle of the Future of Rock?

Fortunately, there’s an exception to the rule, which is a tune called “Let’s Be Friends (Skin to Skin)”, the latest in a long line of rip-offs of the song “Groovin’” by the Young Rascals. “Groovin’” is a wonderful song, and a lot of the songs that have trod in its footsteps have come out pretty well -apparently, you can scarcely go wrong with that whole summer-y, good vibes kind of thing, and the Boss doesn’t; in fact, he sounds positively relieved to be singing something that isn’t Important.

The song is an oasis, but it’s also a mirage, as the rest of the album seems duty-bound; even on “Mary’s Place”, the chorus of which goes “Meet me at Mary’s place -we’re gonna have a party”, he still sounds kind of grim, as if this party is going to be a lot of work, but if we all pull together, somehow we’ll pull through. Jeese. So I still don’t love Bruce Springsteen -I’m going to be well again! And did I tell you the good news about my rectum?

By the way, my next-door neighbor Anne McKenna pointed out that I spoke in error last week in my praise of HBO’s “Curb Your Enthusiasm” when I identified the show’s creator as Larry Gilbert -that’s not his name, that’s some other guy. The real “Curb Your Enthusiasm” guy is Larry David, and he is indeed funny as hell. So, sorry. Go ahead, sue me.

Dear Thurston

I used to write my column every Sunday night, but now that both football and the Sopranos are back on TV, I'm finding that not only has the going gotten tough, but I have not gotten going.

At this point, on Sunday I frequently watch two football games, the Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm (which is a great new find, a half hour comedy starring Larry Gilbert, who wrote Seinfeld; he's very annoying, and it's very hilarious, and it comes on HBO right after the Sopranos, before I can get up), then, the rest of another football game; at this point, I find myself ready for one thing and one thing only: Sportscenter on ESPN. Sunday has become the day that I watch television until my eyes implode.

After all that, I'm supposed to write a column that's all erudite and stuff? Fat chance!

I'm starting to think I might be better off making it into an advice column where you all write in about your deepest, most personal embarrassing sexual problems and I reply with glib answers and ridicule. Or, if you prefer, I'll be sensitive and caring -what the hell! It'll be a sort of "Dear Thurston" thing... yeah! This is a great idea!

Write me some damn questions about something you shouldn't have done to your girlfriend and I'll agree you probably shouldn't have done it -but gently, without completely crucifying you, usually, unless you seem to need a good kick in the pants, in which case my answer will really cut to the chase, and I'll be quite disarming in my candor and directness. C'mon, write me some questions! It'll be fun!

OK, don't, then.

DATELINE: WEST HARWICH! Noted musician Bruce Maclean (aka Link Montana) has moved there, and his band the Maplewoods (who will play at the Claddagh on Rt. 28 every Saturday starting October 12) have apparently changed from a trio of forty-ish males to a trio of teenage girls, on the evidence of the cover photo on a live CD they have in limited release. Actually, they still sound like guys, though -perhaps there was some mistake at the printer's...

Bruce was also involved in the recording of the new Greg Johnson CD, "Songs for Space", which you may start seeing some signs of (inquiries may be addressed to Greg at 266 Tonset Rd., Orleans, MA. 02653.)

Bruce said he'd also been spending some time at the Olde Inn at West Dennis, which he's always spoken highly of; he said both Dave Hickey (who plays there on Friday and Saturday) and Patsy Whelan (who plays Tuesdays) were well worth hearing, even though they play Irish music. (I've always been frightened of Irish music.)

DATELINE: ORLEANS! Noted soundman/entrepenuer/big time record executive Chris Blood reports that he just had a baby, eventually adding that wife Susan was also involved; the happy result is Lucy Amelia Blood, who is very, very small but already sports a winning smile; suitors may apply at the Trout Towers Casino.

DATELINE: EASTHAM! In desperate attempt to recover from suddenly liking James Taylor again, noted journalist Me listened to a Flaming Lips compilation of older material on Rykodisc called "The Symbolic Birth and Early Life of the Flaming Lips" (itself a compilation of material from two other Flaming Lips compilations covering the years 1983 to 1991.) They're strange, they're hip, they're young, -I always like them. It was boring as hell.

The identity problem continues...

James Taylor Rectal Exam

When we last met, I was having a bit of an identity crisis because I had suddenly started to like James Taylor again. Of course, my hope was that I probably just needed to give it some time to subside, but now, a week has gone by, and I still kind of like him.

It wouldn’t be a problem if I was a girl. For a girl, it’s normal to like James Taylor; but for a guy, well, it’s just not accepted. Usually, if a guy likes James Taylor, it’s either because he’s at the point where he’ll do absolutely anything to get any girl to hang around with him, or because he has lost all self-respect for himself as a man, and he knows that if other men discover his secret, they may descend on him like a pack of lions on an antelope and rip him to shreds. Basically, it’s a sign of helplessness.

A couple of years ago, I turned fifty, and a musician friend told me that at that age, it’s a good idea to get a rectal exam, because a lot of guys get cancer of the colon. In retrospect, he may have just been enjoying a bit of harmful fun at my expense, but at the time I did take him seriously, and (in a relative explosion of responsibility) I voluntarily submitted to an inspection of my nether area.

As you might imagine, I was nervous, and made a bit of a joke to the doctor as he was putting on his rubber gloves that I had really not been looking forward to this event that much. Unfortunately, not only did I not get a laugh -I barely got a reaction of any kind, and at the time I thought, well, the least a guy should be able to do at a time like this is laugh at your jokes!

Later on, though, I decided that not laughing at all might be better than laughing too much -after all, it’s not really a time for frivolity, and heaven forbid he come out with a whole bunch of funny lines of his own. I started to realize that a doctor in this situation is really in a rather precarious situation, audience response-wise. Eventually, I realized that when I volunteer to be put in a situation like this, liking James Taylor doesn’t seem half so bad.

Thinking back, I probably haven’t checked out his last few releases all that closely, though I do have a friend who played me some highlights, which (luckily for whatever minor esteem I have left as a rocker) sounded pretty boring. The last things I remembered liking were in 1975 on an album called “Gorilla”, a cut called “Mexico” and a beautiful ballad called “Sarah Maria.” However, that album also contained the dreaded “How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You”, so I ran like hell, and my past never caught up with me until now, when I find myself once again sheepishly admitting, oops! I like James Taylor.

Listening to his latest, “October Road” (Columbia), was surprisingly satisfying in a comfort food, meatloaf kind of way. He hasn’t changed, and none of the songs are startling or showy, but they still have lots of wonderful voicings and details and great acoustic guitar playing and the modest virtues of great songcrafting. It seemed to me to have more interesting songwriting than I’ve heard from him in a long time, like he’s doing more than going through the motions, though he still has the wisdom to always make it sound like he’s coasting.

The opening “September Grace”, “Carry Me On My Way”, “Baby Buffalo”, “Caroline I See You” -all have classic grace, depth, beauty, and thoroughbred lines; there’s even a much-needed change-up or two, in the funny, Cole Porter-ish “”Mean Old Man” or the anti-war screed “Belfast to Boston” (the latter surprisingly features cameo appearances from Kay Hanley and Michael Eisenstein of Letters to Cleo.) And there’s no age problem at all, seeing as he always seemed like he was about fifty anyway. )I’ll bet his doctor laughs like hell at all his jokes.)

All in all, I actually like the whole album very much.

I must be losing my damn mind.

Lori McKenna

Singer-songwriter Lori McKenna comes to the First Encounter Coffeehouse in Eastham next Saturday, September 28th, complete with an intriguing little handful of mysteries. For instance:

How does a fledgling folksinger from Stoughton raised on Broadway musicals, J. Giels, and James Taylor end up with the strong, lonesome peal of a Nashville veteran?

How does a thirty-two year-old mother of four find time for writing, recording, traveling, and playing shows?

How could someone who describes herself as by nature quite a reticent performer (she says she “never really intended on leaving my house”) end up with this incredible air of authority to her work, in the process attracting a large enough following to sell out large venues like the Somerville Theater surprisingly early in her career?

She sings with such assurance, like she’s telling you the plain truth, like it or lump it, totally direct and definite. She’s not a blaster, but when she lays it down, it stays down. And she’s got this definite country thing, this twang, even in her pronunciation (when she sings, that is; it’s not a part of her speaking voice) that she insists arrived without her ever having heard much country music at all. She’s never winsome, never whispery, never cute -she somehow cuts right through all that and goes straight to the meat at the heart of her songs, which are more often about things being wrong than things being right.

And she doesn’t just sound country -she sounds tough. She doesn’t know how she got this voice, though she does say her whole family sang a lot: “I have one sister and four brothers, and they all sang better than me. I was the quiet one, because everyone else could really sing. I really don’t know where it comes from. I did have a grandmother that always loved to sing and couldn’t sing; there’s maybe some of her in it...”

True to the folk genre in their mostly autobiographical nature, her lyrics are sometimes as sharp and deep as her voice, as on the chorus of what might be her best song, “Never Die Young” (dedicated to her mother, who died when Lori was four):

I am the one who will never die young
I am a martyr and I cannot hide
But I’m not a winner, I’m just brilliantly bitter
I’m sealed by my skin, but broken inside

At her best, her lyrics are thoughtful, incisive, and almost novelistic, but (again, paradoxically) she insists she isn’t much of a reader (though, when pressed she confesses admiration for the writer Toni Morrison and Anita Diamant’s recent “The Red Tent”, adding that she loves Oprah Winfrey and used to read a lot of Oprah’s Book Club recommendations, but “got embarrassed being the one with all the books with the ‘O’ on them.”)

So far, she’s released two CDs: 1998’s “Paper Wings and Halo” and last year’s “Pieces of Me” (both on Catalyst); the latter features guest turns from Richard Shindell, Jennifer Kimball, Ellis Paul, Meghan Toohey, Kris Delmhorst, and a full band. She says musicians love her because she never tells them what to do (“I just say, ‘OK, here’s the song -don’t mess it up’, and then I love whatever they do”), but adds that Meghan Toohey (“Ms. Smarty-pants arranger-person”) has been helping out a lot (“her overthoughts counter-act with my lack of any thought.”)

Her next release will be something she calls “the kitchen tapes”, which she said she recorded by herself at home on her new mini-disc recorder, somewhat in the warts-and-all tradition of Springsteen’s “Nebraska” or Michelle Shocked’s “Campfire Tapes.”

Recording at home? With four kids? “Well, this was before my one year-old was born -I just had to wait until they went to school.”

The result will be an internet-only release that she’ll also sell at live shows. Meanwhile, she’s also starting sessions for her next “official” album with her band at High & Low in Boston (a loft studio originally set up by Morphine’s Mark Sandman), sandwiched in between increasingly high profile gigs (she’s already done the Newport Folk Festival and Lilith Fair) and -oh yeah! -raisin’ them pesky chillens, some of whom are morphing into road managers and guitar players as we speak.

Not to mention reading all those books with the “o’s” on them...

Emersonmania

Well, I certainly don’t think anyone’s going to be very happy with me this week, since I’ve once again failed to cough up even the faintest scent of anything remotely reportable. That is to say, Greetings! It is the news once again I don’t have.

I don’t mean to make excuses, but sometimes I get a little depressed around this time of year from both mourning the summer and dreading the winter, which this year seemed to descend even more abruptly than usual on the dot of Labor Day, instantly making things cold, gray, and gloomy.

Sometimes it’s quite impressive how on schedule life can be. One minute I’m surfin’ in the sun with my wahini baby, and the next, I’m a drone, intermittently punching keys in the glow of the cathode ray, too dead to dream, a burned-out zombie at the end of the line. Which, I hope, somewhat explains if not altogether mitigates the frustratingly low quality of my writing in the winter months (roughly, September through June), not to mention the subsequent dull, muffling effect it has on my, uh, personality.

I do try harder to write good in the summer, the better to attract the attention of many more rich white people/prospective patrons. Many of them has complement me on my writing two or three time. While my writing, I think, at its best, has never really been about winning awards so much as not winning them (which it has done more of), it is my writing that is here, now, and thus most likely to be read by you at this time!

And with that, let’s check our top (only, really) story: the new Chris Emerson record is out, and he might be from Cape Cod!

The reasons I think he might be local are: I just started getting his emails out of nowhere, and my editor got his debut CD, “Tourist” somehow, and it’s on Monomoy Records. All the evidence screams Cape Cod.

Except that he sounds like Bryan Adams. In one of the reviews (from the electronic press kit someone emailed me), my Boston Globe colleague Steve Morse compared him to Richard Marx; and, while I don’t think I’ve ever heard or would like Richard Marx, I’ll bet he sounds just like Bryan Adams. Chris is very slick, competent, arena-ready, and bland -maybe even a guy who actually likes arenas. All in all, I guess I’d say no great shakes in the music department. I have not seen the future of rock and roll, but I’ll bet it’s not Chris Emerson.

It being the first week after Labor Day, though, the Chris Emerson phenomenon demanded further investigation (my thinking being, basically, so what if he’s boring, he’s the biggest story to hit this sleepy burg all week, and let’s dig up all the dirt we can, without actually working on it much.) I have to admit, the result in the office has been a veritable explosion of Emersonmania that almost raged out of control for a good twenty, twenty-five minutes, as I furiously sped from one internet dead end to another.

First, I went to his website, www.chrisemersonmusic.com. For about ten seconds, it flashed the word “loading”; then it types out the words "chrisemersonmusic.com”, accompanied even by synchronized typing sounds, and then the computer crashes.

Or, at least, my computer did a couple of times; but then, I have a very old computer, actually a 1965 Hoover Flashtalk 4000, one of the great vacuum companies’ last steam-powered versions. I’m thinking of getting a new one, as it’s getting harder and harder to find parts and re-fills, etc., but I love the old, wood-cabinet look.

Then I went back to the electronic press kit and was amused to find a line about his being like “a young Darryl Hall!” and also having had one of his songs used on “Dawson’s Creek”, and then remembered how much I had disliked Aerosmith and the Doobie Brothers when I first heard them and then considered the possibility that Chris Emerson might someday be a very rich man, the kind of man who could buy or sell a little maggot like myself any day of the week.

Then I noticed that someone had emailed me a “Chris Emerson E Card”, and I didn’t even know what an E Card was! It turned out to have links to four of the songs I’d already disliked from the album, and then, all on its own, it typed out the words “chrisemersonmusic.com”, accompanied again by synchronized typing sounds, and by another crash of my computer.

So I was not really able to find out all that much about Chris Emerson, and still don’t know, for instance, if he’s even from Cape Cod or not. He strikes me as an enigma, a man who makes the sounds I don’t need to hear much of; but from where?

End O' Summer

...And so the summer straggles to a close. The locals have all assumed that glassy-eyed stare we get during the last week of August, the one you see on exhausted marathon runners late in the race that says "I can't hear, see, or breathe, but I will cross that finish line."

Yup, we've survived another one. Some of us have even prospered, but at what cost? Some of us are still recovering from that hot spell - and some of us still aren't. I know some people whose brains actually melted in August and just stayed that way. They were mostly people I was trying to avoid anyway, but now I'm really trying. Service people, waitresses, medical personnel -their scars may never heal.

Why is it so difficult? Is it because of the long hours (after all, some Cape Codders work as much as three months out of the year)? Pressure from our (insane, usually inbred, sometimes even Irish) families? Or is it just because all tourists are bastard people?

You might be surprised at the responses I got to these questions and others, had I in fact bothered to ask anyone anything. As it is, I guess we'll always wonder.

While I didn't actually talk to anyone while researching this particular article, I have observed that some of them are in pretty sad shape, not least of all Tom Brophy, owner of the Cape Impressions gallery in Wellfleet, who is said to be working (or at least thinking about working) on a jingle for radio ads for the gallery. Tommy used to be in a local heavy metal band called Meat the Rabbit, so one anticipates a massive, sledge-hammer approach for the jingle.

I assume the lyrics will be all about the lovely landscapes, pottery, and stained glass they have (and remember, I speak as a person who doesn't really believe in pottery), which should give the ads an interesting tension when juxtaposed with thrash-metal. (Like I say, it sure was hot there for awhile.)

Another thing that happened right around that real hot spell was that Link Montana (AKA Bruce Maclean, leader of the Maplewoods) started sending out his press releases in French, which is never a good sign; as a result, now I have no idea where they're playing -only that they are (somewhere.) Before he lapsed into French, they were playing Sunday happy hours at the Claddagh in West Harwich, so he may be still (though there is reason for concern over how well a French band might go over in an Irish bar.) Personally, I'm hoping for plenty of Francoise Hardy and Plastic Bertrand covers. (I'm talking about Africa hot!)

Meanwhile, my good friend Barry Dwight Larmarno has announced plans for something called Larmarno's Suicideland, apparently a theme park for people who want to kill themselves. The rides -among them the "Head's Up!"; "Trust the Arab!" and the Demarollercoaster -did sound pretty intriguing, but lining up all the financing could be tricky. Still, best of luck to ol' Barry Dwight (who also recently wrote a musical about corn that he insists on performing at all hours of the day and night in a bizarre series of drive-by singings.) (It's not the heat, it's the damn humidity...)

Last week, when part of my brain toasted up pretty bad, I gave ringing recommendations to new albums by both Of Montreal ("Aldhils Arboretum", on Kindercore) and the Flaming Lips ("Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots", on Warner Brothers), and, while I do in fact still really like both of them, I thought maybe I should add that I doubt if anyone else will. They're both obnoxious and excruciatingly whimsical, and feature bad singing and questionable musicianship. The Flaming Lips album really only has one mood, which is magical/overbearing/majestic/depressing, while the Of Montreal is rather scattered.

Still, I love them both. They're both trying really hard to do something that is really different, and succeeding. They also share a quality that a lot of great albums have: they don't sound like much at first, but they keep growing on you. Don't get 'em, though; you'll probably hate 'em. (Ooo! Reverse psychology!!!)

Other cool things to do this weekend include a rare solo appearance by Aaron Spade opening up for the always rockin' Greenheads at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis tonight (Friday); and Babaloo at the Wellfleet Beachcomber on Saturday, Aug. 31 (they're sometimes billed as a punk mambo band, but the accent is on the mambo.)

Reprinted with permission of the Cape Codder, Orleans, MA.

Kelp Objects

I’d like to file an objection; actually, perhaps a few of them.

First of all, how come I’m always typing lately? If computers are really making my life so much easier, how come I’m having to spend more time than ever with them? I can’t type - I never said I could. Why is it a good idea for me to spend more time typing? You people are insane.

Let me stress this point: YOU PEOPLE ARE INSANE.

I am not myself lately, and neither is anyone else; but you people are... insane.

See if you agree: abducted girls are starting to turn up too quickly.

Please don’t misunderstand, I’m glad for them and everything, but it’s getting so I can’t turn on my computer without another little girl turning up missing on the Netscape-idiot-version-of-the news, and then ten or fifteen minutes later they’re back again, happy as clams. Apparently, young girls today can barely get through their morning constitutionals without Maury Povich showing up with a film crew, and I think it’s time someone stood up and said, “well, the heck with Maury Povich! Young girls are important, too!” and I hope someone does, and soon, too.

There; I’m glad I got that off my chest.

While I’m at it, though, I’d like to say a word or two about my cell phone experience; something along the lines of: I’ve had it, and I hate it. I started out with the expensive version, but it turned out to be too expensive. Then I did sort of a sneaky version, with a couple of different companies; this, too, proved too expensive.

Eventually, I acknowledged total defeat and wonderment, and surrendered to the slavish begging and stalking of my original phone company, who apparently had never really gotten over losing me all those months ago. They gave me an extremely generous offer to return, and when I finally accepted, I could tell they were ecstatic, even though they tried to cover it up with a particularly lengthy computer verification process, which, of course, I now recognized as a sort of lover’s plea.

Anyway, so now I’m back with Verizon, and we’re both very happy -despite the fact that so much energy was expended without anything at all happening.

-A natural segue is ever I heard one, and why not? Let’s see what’s happening on the music scene:

Of Montreal and Flaming Lips, two sunny, contemporary psychedelic bands with death obsessions, have new albums out, and that can only be good news. Both bands are quirky beyond belief, and both might have (in theory, at least) serious lead singer problems, in that neither of their lead singers has a good voice (unless you invoke the Neil Young rule, in which case everyone has a good voice.)

Still, I absolutely love both these bands, and their lead singers, who both succeed on levels that mere competence could never attain. In both cases, I can forgive my friends who don’t get it, but I still have a hard time trying not to convert them. The songs are strange and funny and sad and soulful, and the bands share at least one more peculiar quality: they both seem like they’re from another time and place than the here and now -they both seem a little lost.

Of Montreal’s new album is called “Aldhills Arboretum” (Kindercore), and it’s being touted as a back-to-basics sort of affair using a bunch of stuff from their live act and less studio tinkering than usual - strange proposition for a band that has never been known for either their roots or their rock. As players, Of Montreal are primitives, but as a writer and arranger, leader Kevin Barnes is a true, crazy, obsessive original; the combination intrigues me endlessly. I’m not sure I can really justify or explain it -for instance, guys who say the band are way too whimsical are obviously entirely correct -but I love them.

Same for the Flaming Lips, whose languid “Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots” (Warner Bros.) is a logical extension of their last, “The Soft Bulletin” -except this time it’s even driftier and has more strings. At first, it seemed a little monotonous, but it has already grown on me quite a bit. They still haven’t shot that horrible drummer, who still plays too loud on everything, as if to say, “YOU PEOPLE ARE INSANE!”, but, you know, without him it might be difficult to for the Lips to flame as much as they do, I suppose. Like Of Montreal, these guys sing a lot of rather absurd lyrics, but they do it in a much more earnest, almost sculptured way, which sounds like a bad idea, but seems to work, somehow; it’s hard to figure.

On the local front, Lovewhip, a wonderfully vivacious and enjoyable world beat band, hit the Land Ho in Orleans next Thursday, August 29. The only time I’ve ever seen the Land Ho totally happy and properly rocked, Lovewhip were the perpetrators, and they’ve gotten better since, with new drummer Jamil and saxophonist/vocalist Nancy, plus the personable Erin Harpe on guitar/vox and Jim Countryman rockin’ like a maniac on bass.

You really should try to check them out, because they’ve got personality, which the great Lloyd Price always said was a really good thing to have.

Jocko on Kape

The top of my dog’s head smells pretty good this week. This is because my wife, the exquisitely monikered Mrs. Kelp, has been spending plenty of time brushing and grooming the entire dog, to the point where some of it (in this case, the very top of the head) doesn’t smell too bad, which is a pleasant change of pace. Just goes to show the kind of thing you can accomplish when you put your mind to it.

Seeing as it has been too hot lately to think or live or breathe, and also seeing as my first choice replacement for a normal real life activity (i.e. trying to get the new sprinkler to rotate properly) has ended tragically (I broke it), I have decided to enter an exciting new phase of my dotterage in which I invent new nicknames for everyone. C’mon, kids! It’ll be fun!

First and most importantly (because it is urgent for me to find a nickname for myself that I’m comfy with before someone comes up with one that I hate and get stuck with forever, like “Fatso”, “Nancy Boy”, “Thunder Thighs”, “Mr. Twister”, or “Fatso”), I hope that in the future you will all give serious consideration to the idea of addressing me as “Jocko”. I know this might seem like kind of a big change -after all, my regular name, “Thurston”, does have quite a different sort of feeling to it -but I’m hopeful that with the passage of time eventually “Jocko” will be adopted by all with great goodwill, and perhaps someday change my personality completely.

By the way, some of you may wonder how I happened to settle on “Jocko” in particular; basically, it was on a whim. Now that I have it, though, I am already starting to change into someone who is smaller and more wirey and has a cup.

I am going to call Mrs. Kelp -whose real name, of course, is “Mrs. Kelp” - “Juney”, partly of course for the alliteration (Jocko ‘n Juney), and partly because it’s a month I like. I haven’t told her this yet, because sometimes I find it helpful to get someone in a more expansive mood (or, better yet, drunk) before announcing their new nickname, and because she’s still mad at me about breaking the sprinkler.

Our dogs, Ramona, Weasel, and Turbo, will now be called “Buster”, “Horace”, and “B.J.”. The livestock will still be called “the livestock” -after all, even I still have better things to do than to go around re-naming horses and donkeys. Our cat, Helen, is rarely called in the first place -who calls a cat? -but if I absolutely need to call it for some reason, I’m going to call it “Jeff”.

Along the same lines, I have decided to start calling my editor, whose name is Joe, “Bill”. I had at first considered something more fanciful, like “Louie”, “Little Sparrow”, or “Montana Mike”, but eventually decided on “Bill” because it was shorter, more austere, and generally more Joe-like; after all, I have to work here. Likewise, I have decided to change the name of the newspaper from the Cape Codder to “the Herald Tribune”, which is a perfectly good newspaper name that no one’s using much lately. The column itself will of course be called “Jocko on Kape”.

Let’s get back to music! A couple of weeks ago I happened to see the New York City band Sputnik open for somebody (I don’t remember who) at some bar somewhere (I don’t remember where.) Their drummer, whose real name is Nigel but whom I now call “Mr. Twister”, had forgotten or mis-placed his drums (a fairly common occurrence amongst drummers) and ended up playing baby stool for the whole set.

I felt bad for him -after all, the band had driven a long way and were excited about making their cape debut, and a baby stool is much less magnificent in both sound and appearance than a drum kit. Still, I had to admire the panache with which he attacked this alternate instrument -if there’s any bands out there looking for a really wicked baby stoolist, well, just give us a call here at the Herald. Just ask for Jocko.

Old People Are Pathetic

Old people are pathetic.

I would state this less flatly if I werent myself in my fifties, and if I hadnt recently turned into the kind of person that gets all emotional at oldies shows, despite the fact that I almost never get emotional anywhere else. (My wife, the luminous, incandescent, excruciatingly delightful Mrs. K., will back me up on this; to her, I am the second coming of Bob Newhart -deadpan, a post -even though we both acknowledge that, inside, I am a seething inferno.)

I first noticed this a few years ago, when I almost had a complete mental breakdown at a Beach Boys show in Hyannis. I died a thousand times. I wept uncontrollably; I yelled obscenities. I lost it. I dont know what happened. And then, nothing like that for years, just fine, as if nothing happened. Stuff would occur -good friends would die or be killed, or lose it in any of a thousand ways -but I was a rock, I was not shook, and life would go on, having almost as little effect on me as ever.

Then last week I went to see the Lovin Spoonful at the Melody Tent, and somehow re-entered the eye of the hurricane.

Is it true that its all nostalgia, that the reason I love these bands is because I was finding out amazing things about them at the same time as I was finding out amazing things about myself and the rest of the world? Is it really just totally because I was that age, newly romantic, first feeling both that good and that bad -is it really just circumstance, just timing? Or were songs like Daydream and Dont Worry Baby and Rain on the Roof just plain more profound than anything that ever happened before or since? I know what the answer probably is, but my heart wont give in.

Back in the sixties, when they had all their hits, the Lovin Spoonful were the epitome of a great, strange, New York-via-the-Ozarks sophisticated, unpretentious, direct vibe, gentle but firm. They happened to sing Do You Believe in Magic at a time I was starting to, and when I think about them I think about being sixteen and getting drunk for the first time, and falling in love for the first time.

I had a girlfriend in NYC., and the bands we were hung up on were both local bands: the Young Rascals and the Lovin Spoonful. Compared to the Young Rascals, the Lovin Spoonful were puppies -not sweaty, not intense, of no particular ethnic group; gentle, really, friendly even, completely uncool, but with these songs that just went through us, shambling, mid-tempo songs of devotion, good vibes, and sunny afternoons: You Baby and You Didnt Have To Be So Nice and Didnt Wanna Have To Do It and Darlin Be Home Soon. We figured John Sebastian had to be about the coolest guy in the world.

Then, after only a few years, the band broke up, unceremoniously, amidst vague rumors of drug busts, indiscretion, and betrayal. Sebastian made a couple of disappointing solo records and lost his voice; the rest of the band made an album or two without him and then threw in the towel.

A couple of years ago, they (original drummer and bassist Joe Butler and Steve Boone and Sebastian replacement Jerry Yester) picked the towel back up again and started doing some shows, and darned if they didnt have a moment or two at the Melody Tent, especially on Daydream, which they had the wisdom and precision to perform largely without bass and drums and in the most flawless, perfect, relaxed tempo you could imagine (which is not as easy as it sounds -its hard for most bands to resist the temptation to make everything faster and more exciting live.)

They did make the audience sing and whistle along (which always annoys me -it seems to me that if youre paying that much money, you should be able to leave that sort of thing to the pros), but they somehow resisted the clapping-over-the-head gesture that I so hate -for that song, anyway. They looked old -especially Joe Butler, with his silvery coif, no longer on the drums but out in front singing and employing an assortment of ghastly gestures and Mike Love-like anti-moves -but, hell, Daydream was never exactly cutting edge to begin with, and they just nailed it, and you had to hand it to them. People still needed it, it still felt right, the old bastards could still do it, still provide this elusive bliss, against all odds. I misted up.

Then they did a medley of Mr. Tambourine Man, Walk Away Renee, California Dreaming, and a couple of other songs they had nothing to do with, sounding like an anonymous lounge band, and I wanted to kill them. Utter senile garbage and pandering, and Id be thinking, how can this be going over? and looking at the happy crowd of middle-agers as if theyd just hatched from pods in The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, thinking, damn, how did we ever get here? How did we go from all those possibilities to being these tired old jerks who cant tell the difference between good muzak and bad, these pathetic old people with beers and shorts in a big tent watching these washed-up mutton heads? I was furious; I was spitting; I was crying again.

A minute later theyre doing Summer in the City and Im thinking, man! what a song! Where does that song come from? It doesnt sound like anything then or now, and yknow? theyre playing it pretty darn good. Damn, they lost everything, and now, after thirty years or whatever, theyre still hanging on to the last shreds of the incredible thing they once were, the last link to this vanishing feeling. Right, misting up again.

Confused! Crazy! Is this the worst thing Ive ever seen, or the best? Is my life truly as over as everyone elses? Or is there still some point in believing in those ancient dreams buried so far under all that dust and decay?

Old people are pathetic.

Beat the Klock

I’ll be trying to write my coulmn this week extra fast because my computer is crashing every fifteen minutes or so lately because of the heat, so I just have to make sure this doesn’t take any longer than fifteen minutes... see if you notice any difference...

One of the big changes you’re likely to notice might be a total lack of attention to detail; by that I mean that I might not have enough time to spell-check or to confirm any facts or ideas that might happen to be reported here or use actual English and having the serntences work out in the ordinary way, which, I think, is one of the things (or, if you prefer, some of the things) I’m so well-known for - my exquisite grammar and very happy prose style, which, in this case, I might not be as good as (or, at least, I doubt it.)

Usually, we are most painstaking here at Le Krepe de la Kape about meticulously checking and, in fact, personally combing through each piece of hard evidence in order to make each and every kolumn absolutely as actual as possible, but this wek we might not have time to. In fact, we don’t. Can’t. Computer could blow up any second. I might even have to stop using commas completely.

(By the way, some of you will no doubt be fascinated to know that when we use the word “we”, we actually mean “I”; we just don’t want it to sound too lonely up here at Kelp Manor, which it isn’t, not as long as I have the pert ‘n perky Mrs. K. and her extensive team of large, dusty canines carrening through the empty, cavernous hallways here at stately Kelp Manor at all hours of the day and night. Pulks, we just like the idea of having a big staff working round the clock on -well, nothing. This, I guess.)

At any rate, we hope you’ll bear with us during this difficult time until the damn weather cools down and our stuff works again; but if you can’t, well, so long, sucker -we always knew we’d never really be able to count on you anyway. Nice reader you turned out to be! I don’t know why you even buy newspapers to begin with, you faithless, indigent guppy.

And again (or, if necassary, for the first time), thanks to my real readers, the little people who support me through thick and thin, regardless of whether my computer is working properly and the time it might take to make the sentences normaller that I don’t have this week. You guys are the salt of the earth, and I’ll never forget you, no matter where I gok and no matter how rich and famous I become, because you’re the people who will have made me what I am, if I ever become anything.

Oops! It blinked -better go faster...let’s see, what do I usually write about? Oh yeah, local music -haven’t heard any lately. Well, no local bands, anyway. I’ve had guests. I’ve heard some music locally, like, getting groceries, or at a restaurant, or on TV, but I haven’t met up with any actual musicians lately, I don’t think.

No! Wait! Here’s one -Zoe Lewis! I saw Zoe last week at Esther’s in P’town (where she works every Sunday, Monday, and Thursday) and she was absolutely wonderful and charming as always. How could I forget? I love Zoe. Go see her immediately. If possible, bring a lesbian!

What else happened? Oh, yeah! Philo Rockwell King III at the Sandbar in West Dennis -I’ve been meaning to tell you guys about this one for weeks. If you’re looking for the nostalgic, Patty Page, fifties version of Cape Cod nightlife, look no further -Rock King at the Sandbar is the entire package. Rock is a musician/comedian who has played out here for about forty years; he’s corny, funny, and occasionally salty in the traditional sense: generally, without dirty words. He even does wife jokes (he said his was named “Cobra.”)

The waiters sing along and seem to know most of the punchlines, which isn’t too surprising, seeing as Rock is pretty much the only act that plays at the Sandbar, which is iteslf a total fifties throwback, a dark, wooden shack out near the bay beach that serves nothing but cheap drinks and free popcorn. Even the prices are fifties: the cover charge was $3.00, and Mr. King was selling his albums -all vinyl, as he is still putting the finishing touches on this first CD -at an amazing 4 for $10.00.

Still, the best deal at the Sandbar was on the gorgeous Philo Rockwell King III tumbler glasses, which feature a picture of Rock that gradually comes to light as the drink goes down, looking dapper in a tux, lovingly framed under a piano keyboard. We bought six of them at a scandalous $3.00 each, meaning to give thenm away as presents, but have only been able to bring ourselves to part with one. Actually, I wish we’d bought more.

There! OK, done! Phew!

Latest Taliban Plot

Stand back! There will be none of my usual jokes and small talk this week, for this week I bring news that can only be characterized as very, very, very bad: someone has written -and, worse yet, had produced! -an opera version of "Little Women"; will the terror never end?

While it is true that we are probably in no immediate danger, as the production has so far been confined to Cooperstown, NY, I still feel, seeing as that is basically only one state over, that it's a little too close for comfort. Plus, I think they said it had already appeared on PBS, which makes me very uneasy.

I speak as one who has always had an open mind (yeah, right) where new and unorthodox artforms are concerned, and one who has always been ready to suspend my disbelief for anything that gets a few good reviews. The latter tendency has led me down the garden path straight to oblivion more than once: yes, I saw both "Gladiator" and "Forrest Gump", not to mention the last movie version of "Little Women."

This time, however, they have pushed me too far; I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it any more. Sure, it got an OK review in the New Yorker; that doesn't mean it shouldn't be banished forever to the furthest outposts of Hell's slimy nether-region. The thought even occurred to me that this could be Osama's latest and most sinister plot to undermine and destroy our way of life, but I'm not sure even he could be that devious.

I don't know why talented people get involved in these situations; it's hard to imagine a priority list that long. They just seem to get stuck on certain things, like "The Count of Monte Cristo", for instance -they just made that again, too. Why? No one knows, and no one went the last twelve times, either. Maybe they're thinking that if they just change a couple of things, it'd finally be perfect. Who knows?

Theater people are nuts. They're still trying to shove Shakespeare down our throats, even though no one has any idea what he's talking about half the time. Which is fine, I'm used to that; but an opera version of "Little Women"? I'm sorry, that's over the line. Where's Jesse Helms when you need him? A lynching would be too good for 'em.

Moving on to things that a regular human being could actually want to do, it's worth mentioning that Steven Wright, known for his animated, hyper-kinetic brand of slapstick humor, is at the Melody Tent in Hyannis tonight (Friday, July 26th.) This weekend also features a particularly good line-up at the Wellfleet Beachcomber, with the up-and-coming Spookie Daly Pride up tonight and the Figgs on Saturday; both bands are exceptionally entertaining, with Spookie working the funky/swampy side of the street and the Figgs submitting cheerfully to the loud and fast rules.

It also says in my notes here that Eric Short (of Big Eric Short and -omigod! the Little Women! See, it is a conspiracy! -though Eric says the ladies, bassist Susan Goldberg and drummer Diane Gateley, now prefer "Big Eric Short and the Mojo Women"; I suggested they combine both ideas and call it "Big Eric Short and the Big Short Little Mojo Women", but there's still no news on when a settlement might be reached) has bought and is working on a new house, and, well, of course he would've bought it before he started working on it, that's stupid, you wouldn't just start working on a house for nothing. Unless someone had hired you, or was paying you to work on the house -that's a situation where you might be working on a house you hadn't bought, I guess.

In any case, we certainly wish him luck.

You can find what's left of Eric at Harry's in Hyannis on both Tuesday and Wednesday nights: Tuesdays with Big Eric Short and the Little Taliban Mojo Opera Women (how about that one? that's pretty good, hah?) and Wednesdays with 57 Heavy, who also play every Thursday at the Captain's Club in West Dennis. The exceptionally dusty Mr. Short also appears every Monday at the Brew House in Hyannis with Care Factor Zero, in addition to his day job at Charlie's Music. We urge him to give something up immediately, as he is clearly working too hard.

Although on the other hand, if he does start up a new band (and no time like the present, y'know, if you want to make a killing in the music business), he should definitely call it "What's Left of Eric"; this is an excellent band name. Good luck with the new band, Eric!