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.