...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.
Friday, August 30, 2002
Friday, August 23, 2002
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.
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.
Friday, August 16, 2002
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.
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.
Friday, August 9, 2002
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.
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.
Friday, August 2, 2002
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!
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!
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