Oh, golly gosh, I am so glad that it is Christmas season once again, for it is only at Christmas that my neighbor, ZephyrTadwalter, makes her famous seasonal glug, full of wine and raisins and almonds and wine and rum and vodka and practically everything else I like; and so it is that I come to you brimming with Christmas cheer and goodwill, having completely forgotten that I don't work here anymore!
Actually, the truth is additionally that I missed you -or at least my idea of the proverbial, theoretical you - and yearned once again to inflict my opinions on you in regard to your no doubt at least partially impending holiday shopping and general mood.
So... jolly? Not jolly? What? If you're any kind of music fan you can't have helped noticing how little seems to be going on lately as a thoroughly beaten music business cowers further and further in the corner, totally punchdrunk.
Musicians are working less and getting paid less when they do, even as they lose all hope that the record biznezz will ever again make as much sense as it did even five or ten years ago, when it still made hardly any. There's less record companies spending less money promoting fewer, more conservative records, and it'll probably just get worse, because at this point there's no logical financial justification in considering a business that the internet has all but rendered obsolete. An intelligent person would do something else.
And as if that weren't bad enough, people who go to music clubs are suddenly faced with an entirely smoke-free environment in which you can clearly see every aspect of your poor, sad, drunken friends' deterioration as they slowly age before your very eyes.
You have to worry that the lack of smoke and haze may eventually kill the bar business entirely. Why, only a few months ago Lo Cicero's, my longtime favorite non-snooty Italian restaurant in Orleans, closed, no doubt right after the employees and patrons finally got a good look at each other. Which leaves me totally without acceptable garlic bread, meat loaf, and magic salad dressing alternatives, and thus plunging into the depths of despair.
On the other hand, if you really dig the rockin' sounds, then you're going to have to listen to something. In the clubs, the new all-lady band the Ticks has provided some good fun for all with their unpretentious, playfully sunny disposish, not to mention an array of costumes and fashion ideas that would make Carmen Miranda green with envy. Strangely enough, I haven't gotten to hear their new album, “So Young, So Bad” (no doubt available on their website, www.theticks.com) but I'm looking forward to it, with the usual baited breath.
Another good local shopping tip is the eponymous Calamity J and the Giants CD (available wherever fine Calamity J and the Giants products are sold), which is effectively the long-awaited solo debut of ex-High King Jay Cournoyer, and it was well worth the wait. Jay has long been one of the Cape's best voices, and he's a distinctive and cheerfully funky songsmith, too. This is one of the best home-grown recordings I've heard in years, and features cameos from members of NRBQ and the Incredible Casuals..
I'm also proud to point out that Patty Larkin of Wellfleet put out perhaps her best record ever this year, “Red = Luck” (Vanguard), coincidentally also one of the best albums anyone, anywhere put out this year. Buy lots! Distribute maniacally!
Meanwhile, here's some more wide-ranging suggestions -i.e., off-Cape! -from a major crank who basically hates everything, best stuff first:
The re-issue of Randy Newman's “Good Old Boys” (Rhino), with a whole disc of solo outtakes, was easily the most momentous and satisfying event of the year for me; he also has a new solo album out on Nonesuch. Another standout was the soundtrack to the movie “Amandla” (ATO/BMG), which features a wide range of African vocal and choral work, plus Abdullah Ibrahim, Hugh Masekela, and Miriam Makeba; it's fascinating terrain, studded with at least six absolute stunners.
The new Paolo Conte album, “Reveries”, is delightful, although I'd still recommend starting -as soon as possible -with his first American album, “The Very Best Of Paolo Conte” (both are on Nonesuch.)
Also liked Dengue Fever, the New Pornographers, the Shins, the Strokes (kinda), Danien Rice and Sondre Lerche (some), the North Mississippi All-Stars (mostly just “Meet Me in the City” off “Polaris”, though I heard good reports from their show last summer at the Beachcomber), the Beatles' cool re-imagining of “Let It Be Naked”, Joseph Arthur, Mark Erelli, Bleu, uh, Joni Mitchell's 2-disc “Greatest Hits” re-tooled, also on Nonesuch (“Travelogue”), uh, er...
Much better year for movies; briefly, you MUST, MUST, MUST see “Russian Ark” (number one on my hit parade -this brilliant, dreamy, one-marathon-take masterpiece had me sitting there with my jaw dropped to the floor for longer than any movie ever), “Aberdeen”, and “Spirited Away”; also the current HBO/ Mike Nichols version of “Angels in America”, which is flawed, needlessly intelligent, and sometimes a bit of a tussle, but definitely amazing and worth it (if it only had what might be the wonderful Meryl Streep's best work ever, it would be essential, but it has much more), and “All the Real Girls”, “Winged Migration”, “Lawless Heart”, “Dinner Rush”, “Blue Crush”, “Spun”, “Frida”, and “The Italian Job.” Surprise -pretty good year for movies!
Ok, that's it, merry Christmas.
Friday, December 19, 2003
Friday, June 20, 2003
Feature: Mark Erelli
(note - at this point, Kelp on Kape has been discontinued, but they still let the old boy write an occasional feature)
Is Mark Erelli the New Elvis of folk music? Or is that just a spiffy way to begin an article about him?
I know it sounds unlikely, but it's not entirely a moot point. Recently, no less an authority than the New York Times rhapsodized about him being a “gravelly-voiced heartthrob who has a way with a smirk”, and who can even think of the word “smirk” without thinking of the King? Sure, he was a rocker, and Mark's a folkie -or, perhaps, a semi-folkie. (Hell, he performs solo with an acoustic guitar, what would you call him?)
What is undeniable is that Erelli has a sincere and natural way of getting all the way inside a song that is most gratifying, plus actual pipes and even pizazz, as you may yourself notice at the First Encounter Coffeehouse in Eastham this Saturday, June 28^th when he makes his third appearance there.
Critics have also compared his latest album, “The Memorial Hall Recordings” (Signature Sound Recording), to the Band -again, a wonderful and intriguing group to be compared to, whether it's true or not. If I were a singer, and I got compared to the Band and to Elvis, I would quit right there -it's just not going to get too much better than that.
Mark is still a little green, and a little too easy-going to live up to all that, but he does somehow put you in mind of some great folks. He has a certain rasp to his voice that reminds many of Steve Forbert and John Prine, but he's a better, less mannered singer than either one - and he writes good songs, too!
Plus, he's modest. Cheerful, too (and probably thrifty, 'cause show folk usually are; not sure about his obedience.) Very unassuming about communicating -he just does it, and you don't see him setting up his stuff or anything! Basically, he throws a slider.
Here's what's great about the modest part: he just put out an album he wrote only four songs on, which is entirely unheard of in modern folk. In an era when people dependably put out whole albums of nothing but their own compositions, whether they're saying anything worth saying or not, Erelli actually does lots of other people's songs, all songs you've never heard of, all well-chosen.
Which makes him a good interpreter, which is refreshing; but the fact that his four songs stand out so well in this company also makes him a very promising songwriter. Two of them -the western swinging “What's Changed”, and the lovely instrumental (he wrote an instrumental! I love this guy!) “Little Torch” -are the best things on here.
The album is also interesting for the method with which it was recorded. To this end, Erelli and his band took up residency in a Civil War-era Memorial Hall in the small town of Monson in central Massachusetts, where “THE MEMORIAL HALL RECORDINGS was made in only three and a half days, with a minimum of overdubs. Mark says that during the recordings, the Hall itself became like another member of the band - “the fifth Beatle” -and the vibe is very real, woody, and, eventually, ingratiating.
I say eventually, because the album comes on pretty unassuming at first, and, in general, it's not aiming to be a world-beater. That's what's great about it: he's not trying to knock you over, he's just sidling up next to you. There's a trilogy of Civil War songs in the middle, moody and spare, and a couple of the others that are also dour and haunting, but the depressing stuff is leavened with joy and humor (“it's a fine time of year to watch you disappear.”)
The band is great, too, always spare and melodic, especially Kevin Barry (the Boston guitarist who seems to be everywhere lately) and accordionist Joe Barbato. There's a lot more accordion on here than you'd figure, and it's not that chordal, tejano stuff, but something much sparser, tuneful, and old-fashioned.
A person could miss a band like this, playing solo, but something tells me you won't. Erelli just loves singing: “Even when I was in middle school, y' know, and it was junior high when it wasn't really cool to like music class... we used to sing Joni Mitchell songs, and people would sing “Both Sides Now” kind of rolling their eyes, and I'd be sitting there going, 'god, I kind of like this... what's wrong with me?'”
He remembered his earlier appearances at the First Encounter fondly, musing that he thought it was one of those rooms that actually sounds great empty, but that he thought trying to get people to leave might be the wrong way to go in the long run. We both thought that those uncomfortable pews might polish a few of them off, but Mark said that that was just a normal part of “the puritanical sado-masochistic kind of experience” so sought after in today's modern folk music environment.
Could be a new kind of Elvis in the building.
Is Mark Erelli the New Elvis of folk music? Or is that just a spiffy way to begin an article about him?
I know it sounds unlikely, but it's not entirely a moot point. Recently, no less an authority than the New York Times rhapsodized about him being a “gravelly-voiced heartthrob who has a way with a smirk”, and who can even think of the word “smirk” without thinking of the King? Sure, he was a rocker, and Mark's a folkie -or, perhaps, a semi-folkie. (Hell, he performs solo with an acoustic guitar, what would you call him?)
What is undeniable is that Erelli has a sincere and natural way of getting all the way inside a song that is most gratifying, plus actual pipes and even pizazz, as you may yourself notice at the First Encounter Coffeehouse in Eastham this Saturday, June 28^th when he makes his third appearance there.
Critics have also compared his latest album, “The Memorial Hall Recordings” (Signature Sound Recording), to the Band -again, a wonderful and intriguing group to be compared to, whether it's true or not. If I were a singer, and I got compared to the Band and to Elvis, I would quit right there -it's just not going to get too much better than that.
Mark is still a little green, and a little too easy-going to live up to all that, but he does somehow put you in mind of some great folks. He has a certain rasp to his voice that reminds many of Steve Forbert and John Prine, but he's a better, less mannered singer than either one - and he writes good songs, too!
Plus, he's modest. Cheerful, too (and probably thrifty, 'cause show folk usually are; not sure about his obedience.) Very unassuming about communicating -he just does it, and you don't see him setting up his stuff or anything! Basically, he throws a slider.
Here's what's great about the modest part: he just put out an album he wrote only four songs on, which is entirely unheard of in modern folk. In an era when people dependably put out whole albums of nothing but their own compositions, whether they're saying anything worth saying or not, Erelli actually does lots of other people's songs, all songs you've never heard of, all well-chosen.
Which makes him a good interpreter, which is refreshing; but the fact that his four songs stand out so well in this company also makes him a very promising songwriter. Two of them -the western swinging “What's Changed”, and the lovely instrumental (he wrote an instrumental! I love this guy!) “Little Torch” -are the best things on here.
The album is also interesting for the method with which it was recorded. To this end, Erelli and his band took up residency in a Civil War-era Memorial Hall in the small town of Monson in central Massachusetts, where “THE MEMORIAL HALL RECORDINGS was made in only three and a half days, with a minimum of overdubs. Mark says that during the recordings, the Hall itself became like another member of the band - “the fifth Beatle” -and the vibe is very real, woody, and, eventually, ingratiating.
I say eventually, because the album comes on pretty unassuming at first, and, in general, it's not aiming to be a world-beater. That's what's great about it: he's not trying to knock you over, he's just sidling up next to you. There's a trilogy of Civil War songs in the middle, moody and spare, and a couple of the others that are also dour and haunting, but the depressing stuff is leavened with joy and humor (“it's a fine time of year to watch you disappear.”)
The band is great, too, always spare and melodic, especially Kevin Barry (the Boston guitarist who seems to be everywhere lately) and accordionist Joe Barbato. There's a lot more accordion on here than you'd figure, and it's not that chordal, tejano stuff, but something much sparser, tuneful, and old-fashioned.
A person could miss a band like this, playing solo, but something tells me you won't. Erelli just loves singing: “Even when I was in middle school, y' know, and it was junior high when it wasn't really cool to like music class... we used to sing Joni Mitchell songs, and people would sing “Both Sides Now” kind of rolling their eyes, and I'd be sitting there going, 'god, I kind of like this... what's wrong with me?'”
He remembered his earlier appearances at the First Encounter fondly, musing that he thought it was one of those rooms that actually sounds great empty, but that he thought trying to get people to leave might be the wrong way to go in the long run. We both thought that those uncomfortable pews might polish a few of them off, but Mark said that that was just a normal part of “the puritanical sado-masochistic kind of experience” so sought after in today's modern folk music environment.
Could be a new kind of Elvis in the building.
Friday, May 23, 2003
The Napkin' Mini-Tour of Terror
Greetings! I come to you in the best of spirits tonight, as we've actually had two nice days in a row, and our basement is finally starting to dry out!Also, it's skunk season, and one of the Kelp kanines was recently sprayed; I admit that the fact that this is good news says more about how bad this particular dog used to smell than how good it smells now, but that still spells progress as far as I'm concerned.
Speaking of progress, former Wellfleet resident (and member of the much missed No Sientos) Eben Portnoy has hit on a catchy idea: he's currently playing a series of shows in which the members of his band the Napkins are being killed off one at a time.
This is clearly a charming and innovative concept. After all, how many times have you been watching someone singing, thinking, “gosh, I wish he'd blow up”, only to have that not happen?
If nothing else, this is a promotional gambit to be reckoned with, and Eben's press releases about these shows have been a gold mine of interesting reading. Why, last week, in a fit of press agent zeal, he even invented the word “triumphance”, as in “it is with a heavy heart that I bring you this news [of the impending demise of the Napkins], yet with a heaviness imbued with a shining glimmer of triumphance.” If only Colonel Parker could've lived to see this!
Portnoy went on to say that the band would “eviscerate themselves in a gruesome public display during their mini-tour of terror” to promote their new Cd, “Love Hurts”, “a fresh- sounding EP primed to jump-start the posthumous careers of this hot-blooded young band.” Now that's promo!
My next door neighbor Denzel O'Sullivan was on hand for the first show last Friday at the Berwick Research Institute in Roxbury, and said that the announcer Mike Gibbons “told the story of the Napkins and their pact with the devil to become the world's greatest rock and roll band, but failed to read the fine print regarding a sacrifice of blood. Then, during the climax of the final song "Maya", as Eben sung out the words "with a whole lot of blood!" again and again, bassist Nick Sherman's chest hemmoraged and, sputtering streams of gore, soaked him, the stage, and the crowd. As he grabbed his chest the pool grew and darkened. He finally collapsed, twitching, with the ending of the chorus; but, loyal to his band, he finished the song before passing out.”To which one can only add, yay!!!
Then, last Tuesday at the Midway in Jamaica Plain, tragedy struck again: after the Napkins had (surprisingly) made it safely through their set and while the next act (the Put Out Kings) was doing theirs, Eben was himself suddenly accosted and then dispatched by the Put-Out Kings lead singer, who apparently also pulled out his intestines.
I know some of this seems a little far-fetched, but these young men are not, as far as I can tell, the sort to play fast and light with the truth -if Eben says the other band pulled out his intestines, they probably did. He does later go on to write that “my nose is filled with the smell of rotting meat and my vision grows dark” and signs the release “Hail Satan!”, but I think you can put that down to youthful exuberance.)
By the way, who told the new editor that i wasn't writing about local music? I didn't appreciate that one bit, and I know one of you did it, and when I find out who, they're gonna get a whuppin'. Now I actually have to write about local music, right here in the local music column, and you know darn well that's no good for any of us. How humiliating! Just leave the new editor alone!
Speaking of progress, former Wellfleet resident (and member of the much missed No Sientos) Eben Portnoy has hit on a catchy idea: he's currently playing a series of shows in which the members of his band the Napkins are being killed off one at a time.
This is clearly a charming and innovative concept. After all, how many times have you been watching someone singing, thinking, “gosh, I wish he'd blow up”, only to have that not happen?
If nothing else, this is a promotional gambit to be reckoned with, and Eben's press releases about these shows have been a gold mine of interesting reading. Why, last week, in a fit of press agent zeal, he even invented the word “triumphance”, as in “it is with a heavy heart that I bring you this news [of the impending demise of the Napkins], yet with a heaviness imbued with a shining glimmer of triumphance.” If only Colonel Parker could've lived to see this!
Portnoy went on to say that the band would “eviscerate themselves in a gruesome public display during their mini-tour of terror” to promote their new Cd, “Love Hurts”, “a fresh- sounding EP primed to jump-start the posthumous careers of this hot-blooded young band.” Now that's promo!
My next door neighbor Denzel O'Sullivan was on hand for the first show last Friday at the Berwick Research Institute in Roxbury, and said that the announcer Mike Gibbons “told the story of the Napkins and their pact with the devil to become the world's greatest rock and roll band, but failed to read the fine print regarding a sacrifice of blood. Then, during the climax of the final song "Maya", as Eben sung out the words "with a whole lot of blood!" again and again, bassist Nick Sherman's chest hemmoraged and, sputtering streams of gore, soaked him, the stage, and the crowd. As he grabbed his chest the pool grew and darkened. He finally collapsed, twitching, with the ending of the chorus; but, loyal to his band, he finished the song before passing out.”To which one can only add, yay!!!
Then, last Tuesday at the Midway in Jamaica Plain, tragedy struck again: after the Napkins had (surprisingly) made it safely through their set and while the next act (the Put Out Kings) was doing theirs, Eben was himself suddenly accosted and then dispatched by the Put-Out Kings lead singer, who apparently also pulled out his intestines.
I know some of this seems a little far-fetched, but these young men are not, as far as I can tell, the sort to play fast and light with the truth -if Eben says the other band pulled out his intestines, they probably did. He does later go on to write that “my nose is filled with the smell of rotting meat and my vision grows dark” and signs the release “Hail Satan!”, but I think you can put that down to youthful exuberance.)
By the way, who told the new editor that i wasn't writing about local music? I didn't appreciate that one bit, and I know one of you did it, and when I find out who, they're gonna get a whuppin'. Now I actually have to write about local music, right here in the local music column, and you know darn well that's no good for any of us. How humiliating! Just leave the new editor alone!
Friday, May 16, 2003
Jazz Fest, Part 2
Well, and here we are again with the exciting part two of our New Orleans Jazz Fest '03 coverage, or, almost, we are, anyway. And I'm Thurston Kelp, your jazz fest correspondent embedded in New Orleans, dressed up funny and ready to eat! (Of course, I'm using the word “embedded” here in the usual sense of “chatted with some of the musicians.”)
First, a word about why the Jazz Fest is so important to anyone seeking local music news: please know that I never once forget that this is, after all, very much a local music column, sometimes even with news about actual events alleged to have happened on this particular side of the bridge -and i take those responsibilities seriously. The local tie-in here, of course, is the Orleans-New Orleans connection: Orleans is a small, quiet town on Cape Cod, while New Orleans is bigger, noisier, more generally apocalyptic and insane, and not on Cape Cod. Where did we go wrong?
New Orleans is currently leading us in music, money, food, murders, football, magic, and voodoo; we're still leading them in quiet and beach, though. Still, we should try to keep up. Orleans should have a Jazz Fest, if only for the misunderstandings and confusion it would cause. Come on, everybody, let's get together and put on a show!
Which brings us back to, know your competition: after the first five bands on opening day (which is all I managed to cover last time), we made perhaps our best new discovery of the fest, which was Patrice Fisher & Arpa with Chiko & Rogerio of Brazil, a New Orleans/Brazilian hybrid featuring harp, violin, piano, nylon string guitars, a couple of horns, electric bass, and drums playing Ms. Fisher's gorgeous and thoughtful arrangements. They were most notable for being so tight, so sublime, and so oblivious to funk. Among Ms. Fisher's many recordings is “Wanderings” (Broken Records, available at Gourd.com), which features Chiko & Rogerio on 2 cuts.
Then over to the Blues Tent (via the Gospel Tent, of course; after a while, you learn to do as much as you can via the Gospel Tent) for a bit of Bob Margolin and Pinetop Perkins (guitarist Margolin had a nice, hard, stinging tone, and they managed to play a version of “Kansas City” that captured both the spirit and the letter of the original band track, which seemed almost shocking after all these years of bastardizing -who ever would have thought a simple, faithful version of “Kansas City” could sound so enlightening and refreshing.
Allen Toussaint, who is pretty much the Godfather figure of New Orleans rock'n'roll, played twice at Jazz Fest; we caught him in his jazz quartet disguise, which was one he had not tried previously. The set was casual, elegant, and pleasant -cool jazz for a cool day (Thursday was the only non-sunny day, which kept the crowd down a bit and made for very comfortable conditions;. actually, the whole weekend was notable for its unseasonable lack of serious heat or humidity.)
I know the next thing you're going to want to know is, what was Mrs. Kelp- my gently floating, flaffling fashion faun; the light, the way, woot, lawdey! -it's Mrs. K! -wearing, and I'm sorry that I cannot divulge that at this time, except to say that it was exceptionally tight and revealing, making me think from time to time, hubba hubba, that's some serious wife I have there.
She must have spotted me thinking that, because at that point she deserted me for Lucinda Williams; meanwhile, I was resolute in my determination to see Fats Domino, who I had never seen before, and who has always been one of my heroes. He also performs very rarely, and even less outside of New Orleans, so I figured I'd better not miss him. Sure enough, he was absolutely wonderful, timeless and un-changed, playing perfect, untouched arrangements of all his hits (when he did choose a higher note in “Red Sails in the Sunset”, the move was stunning by contrast), never once stopping for a breath between hits, still perfect after all these years.
So, OK, it's taken me two columns to tell you who we saw on the first day; better go into overdrive: Dylan was wonderful on Friday, playing almost nothing but keyboards, and smiling frequently (!!!) He played a version of “Mr. Tambourine Man” where he seemed to be singing as badly and perversely as he possibly could, sometimes cracking himself up in the effort; yet his band played it so beautifully that it somehow worked, mysteriously and profoundly. Then we watched the U.N.O Gospel Choir transform the Gospel Tent from a snooze into an eruption, as we rushed the stage like we'd seen the light.
We loved the New Leviathan Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra, all 30 or so of them, dressed nautically and playing pop music of the twenties and thirties (with a name like that, it hardly matters what you sound like); and I was told that Sam Butera, Louis Prima's famed sax man, was a riot on Saturday (I had to leave early, darn it.)
Sunday's highlights included a wonderful clarinetist named Tim Laughlin, who played nicely chosen standards with a beautiful, round tone (Tim also has a bunch of albums out -try timlaughlin.com); a procession of great zydeco accordionists including D. L. Menard, Sean Ardoin, and Mingo Saldivar at the Fais Do-Do Stage; serious gospel from some of Richard Smallwood's background singers; the Rebirth Brass Band, Dr. John, Ornette Coleman (who I still don't really understand), and the Plastic System Band of Martinique.
When we left, there were so many amazing people playing in the clubs on the Festivals' days off that I could hardly bear to leave; next year, I may in fact refuse. People should all go to this; please, please, do yourself a favor and go next year!
First, a word about why the Jazz Fest is so important to anyone seeking local music news: please know that I never once forget that this is, after all, very much a local music column, sometimes even with news about actual events alleged to have happened on this particular side of the bridge -and i take those responsibilities seriously. The local tie-in here, of course, is the Orleans-New Orleans connection: Orleans is a small, quiet town on Cape Cod, while New Orleans is bigger, noisier, more generally apocalyptic and insane, and not on Cape Cod. Where did we go wrong?
New Orleans is currently leading us in music, money, food, murders, football, magic, and voodoo; we're still leading them in quiet and beach, though. Still, we should try to keep up. Orleans should have a Jazz Fest, if only for the misunderstandings and confusion it would cause. Come on, everybody, let's get together and put on a show!
Which brings us back to, know your competition: after the first five bands on opening day (which is all I managed to cover last time), we made perhaps our best new discovery of the fest, which was Patrice Fisher & Arpa with Chiko & Rogerio of Brazil, a New Orleans/Brazilian hybrid featuring harp, violin, piano, nylon string guitars, a couple of horns, electric bass, and drums playing Ms. Fisher's gorgeous and thoughtful arrangements. They were most notable for being so tight, so sublime, and so oblivious to funk. Among Ms. Fisher's many recordings is “Wanderings” (Broken Records, available at Gourd.com), which features Chiko & Rogerio on 2 cuts.
Then over to the Blues Tent (via the Gospel Tent, of course; after a while, you learn to do as much as you can via the Gospel Tent) for a bit of Bob Margolin and Pinetop Perkins (guitarist Margolin had a nice, hard, stinging tone, and they managed to play a version of “Kansas City” that captured both the spirit and the letter of the original band track, which seemed almost shocking after all these years of bastardizing -who ever would have thought a simple, faithful version of “Kansas City” could sound so enlightening and refreshing.
Allen Toussaint, who is pretty much the Godfather figure of New Orleans rock'n'roll, played twice at Jazz Fest; we caught him in his jazz quartet disguise, which was one he had not tried previously. The set was casual, elegant, and pleasant -cool jazz for a cool day (Thursday was the only non-sunny day, which kept the crowd down a bit and made for very comfortable conditions;. actually, the whole weekend was notable for its unseasonable lack of serious heat or humidity.)
I know the next thing you're going to want to know is, what was Mrs. Kelp- my gently floating, flaffling fashion faun; the light, the way, woot, lawdey! -it's Mrs. K! -wearing, and I'm sorry that I cannot divulge that at this time, except to say that it was exceptionally tight and revealing, making me think from time to time, hubba hubba, that's some serious wife I have there.
She must have spotted me thinking that, because at that point she deserted me for Lucinda Williams; meanwhile, I was resolute in my determination to see Fats Domino, who I had never seen before, and who has always been one of my heroes. He also performs very rarely, and even less outside of New Orleans, so I figured I'd better not miss him. Sure enough, he was absolutely wonderful, timeless and un-changed, playing perfect, untouched arrangements of all his hits (when he did choose a higher note in “Red Sails in the Sunset”, the move was stunning by contrast), never once stopping for a breath between hits, still perfect after all these years.
So, OK, it's taken me two columns to tell you who we saw on the first day; better go into overdrive: Dylan was wonderful on Friday, playing almost nothing but keyboards, and smiling frequently (!!!) He played a version of “Mr. Tambourine Man” where he seemed to be singing as badly and perversely as he possibly could, sometimes cracking himself up in the effort; yet his band played it so beautifully that it somehow worked, mysteriously and profoundly. Then we watched the U.N.O Gospel Choir transform the Gospel Tent from a snooze into an eruption, as we rushed the stage like we'd seen the light.
We loved the New Leviathan Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra, all 30 or so of them, dressed nautically and playing pop music of the twenties and thirties (with a name like that, it hardly matters what you sound like); and I was told that Sam Butera, Louis Prima's famed sax man, was a riot on Saturday (I had to leave early, darn it.)
Sunday's highlights included a wonderful clarinetist named Tim Laughlin, who played nicely chosen standards with a beautiful, round tone (Tim also has a bunch of albums out -try timlaughlin.com); a procession of great zydeco accordionists including D. L. Menard, Sean Ardoin, and Mingo Saldivar at the Fais Do-Do Stage; serious gospel from some of Richard Smallwood's background singers; the Rebirth Brass Band, Dr. John, Ornette Coleman (who I still don't really understand), and the Plastic System Band of Martinique.
When we left, there were so many amazing people playing in the clubs on the Festivals' days off that I could hardly bear to leave; next year, I may in fact refuse. People should all go to this; please, please, do yourself a favor and go next year!
Friday, May 2, 2003
Jazz Fest, Part One
I think I should tell you something, right at the top, before you've even decided whether to read this or not, which is that I'm afraid I might have had too good of a time last week to be able to write properly at the present time. I feel there's a good chance this week I might have trouble using regular words, because of all the deeply silly things I have engaged in quite recently. And, by the way, Jazz Fest was swell this year.
I'm referring, of course, to the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, which I attended half of last weekend (you could attend the second half today -Friday, May 2nd- - if you're resourceful enough.) My experience has been that that is probably a good idea. I've been lucky enough to get down there every now and then -perhaps eight or ten days spread out over a couple of decades -and I've never had a bad day yet.
The fun starts before you even leave, too, because it's great to be going for a change instead of not going and hating the ones who are (like usual.) It feels nice to be on the receiving end of all that hared every once in a while.
Then there's the obvious advantage of being anywhere else other than here, the most obnoxious, rainy-snowy-sleeting what-the-hell pain in the neck weather location practically in history apparently so who would ever want to go to New Orleans (which was, as it turned out, beyond perfect and sublime in every regard: sunny, cool, and comfortable, and,... well, it's just there, it's not here, and it's just so riveting in its total foreign there-ness. I like it.
Did I mention the food and the music? Well, they had food and bands. It was cool. (Why did I return? Why?)
I knew this would be a good one at the airport when one of my music biz friends got searched and detained at one of the security points. It's always heartening to see one of your friends get in trouble -for one thing, it improves your own odds -so I was already in a really good mood.
I know the next thing you're going to want to know is, what was Mrs. Kelp- my gently floating, flaffling fashion faun, the light, the way, woot, lawdey -Mrs. K! -wearing, and I'm sorry that I cannot divulge that at this time, except to say that it was exceptionally tight and revealing, making me think from time to time, hubba hubba, that's no parka!
Many bands play at this thing -about 50 a day, on ten different stages, most of them with ties to the area, but lots from far away as well -and it's hard to resist the temptation to try to see them all for thirty seconds each. I started off with this method, but my group to a man forsook me once my planning got out of control on day 4 (some quite angrily, with great swearing and gnashing of teeth.)
Again, I fed off their hatred. Here's my analysis:
Thursday: Got there about an hour late, so missed the first round, and started with a dumb cover band (actually, the only cover band I've ever seen at the Fest, and not the only bad advice I got from the local critic's picks) in whacky costumes called Bag of Donuts, only to find out later that we plainly should've been watching the Wild Tchoupitoulas instead. We stopped the bleeding at the Gospel Tent, of course, with the Friendly Five Gospel Singers (the first rule of the Jazz Fest is, when in doubt, go to the Gospel Tent, which is usually both more rocking and less populated than the rest.
From there we cruised Kenny Neal, who started with a clueless medley of “I'm Ready” and “Little Red Rooster” that had us heading for the aisles in no time, just in time (after our first helping of Crawfish Monica) to catch our first major find, the Hackberry Ramblers, a cajun group who have been together for seventy years. At least two of the “boys” are in their nineties, and they were rough-hewn and personable as they sang my favorite line of the Fest: “I wish I had died as a baby” (which sounds particularly disingenuous coming from these guys.) They also played the funniest cover- “Proud Mary”- and instigated the first of many outbreaks of the dreaded Public Radio Boot Dance.
Then we crossed back over to the Blues Tent to see Big Al Corson, who was large in every respect, again via the Gospel Tent, then crossing back again (we were rookies, and made lots of needless crosses on the first day; by the end we had those pretty much eliminated) to catch a few songs of Austin's Tish Hinojosa, who was quite good albeit relatively refined.
And that did it for the first half of the first day (continued-)
I'm referring, of course, to the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, which I attended half of last weekend (you could attend the second half today -Friday, May 2nd- - if you're resourceful enough.) My experience has been that that is probably a good idea. I've been lucky enough to get down there every now and then -perhaps eight or ten days spread out over a couple of decades -and I've never had a bad day yet.
The fun starts before you even leave, too, because it's great to be going for a change instead of not going and hating the ones who are (like usual.) It feels nice to be on the receiving end of all that hared every once in a while.
Then there's the obvious advantage of being anywhere else other than here, the most obnoxious, rainy-snowy-sleeting what-the-hell pain in the neck weather location practically in history apparently so who would ever want to go to New Orleans (which was, as it turned out, beyond perfect and sublime in every regard: sunny, cool, and comfortable, and,... well, it's just there, it's not here, and it's just so riveting in its total foreign there-ness. I like it.
Did I mention the food and the music? Well, they had food and bands. It was cool. (Why did I return? Why?)
I knew this would be a good one at the airport when one of my music biz friends got searched and detained at one of the security points. It's always heartening to see one of your friends get in trouble -for one thing, it improves your own odds -so I was already in a really good mood.
I know the next thing you're going to want to know is, what was Mrs. Kelp- my gently floating, flaffling fashion faun, the light, the way, woot, lawdey -Mrs. K! -wearing, and I'm sorry that I cannot divulge that at this time, except to say that it was exceptionally tight and revealing, making me think from time to time, hubba hubba, that's no parka!
Many bands play at this thing -about 50 a day, on ten different stages, most of them with ties to the area, but lots from far away as well -and it's hard to resist the temptation to try to see them all for thirty seconds each. I started off with this method, but my group to a man forsook me once my planning got out of control on day 4 (some quite angrily, with great swearing and gnashing of teeth.)
Again, I fed off their hatred. Here's my analysis:
Thursday: Got there about an hour late, so missed the first round, and started with a dumb cover band (actually, the only cover band I've ever seen at the Fest, and not the only bad advice I got from the local critic's picks) in whacky costumes called Bag of Donuts, only to find out later that we plainly should've been watching the Wild Tchoupitoulas instead. We stopped the bleeding at the Gospel Tent, of course, with the Friendly Five Gospel Singers (the first rule of the Jazz Fest is, when in doubt, go to the Gospel Tent, which is usually both more rocking and less populated than the rest.
From there we cruised Kenny Neal, who started with a clueless medley of “I'm Ready” and “Little Red Rooster” that had us heading for the aisles in no time, just in time (after our first helping of Crawfish Monica) to catch our first major find, the Hackberry Ramblers, a cajun group who have been together for seventy years. At least two of the “boys” are in their nineties, and they were rough-hewn and personable as they sang my favorite line of the Fest: “I wish I had died as a baby” (which sounds particularly disingenuous coming from these guys.) They also played the funniest cover- “Proud Mary”- and instigated the first of many outbreaks of the dreaded Public Radio Boot Dance.
Then we crossed back over to the Blues Tent to see Big Al Corson, who was large in every respect, again via the Gospel Tent, then crossing back again (we were rookies, and made lots of needless crosses on the first day; by the end we had those pretty much eliminated) to catch a few songs of Austin's Tish Hinojosa, who was quite good albeit relatively refined.
And that did it for the first half of the first day (continued-)
Friday, April 18, 2003
The Stink of Spring
This stinks.
Only yesterday I was totally primed to have a glamorous day off -a day of leisure -after yet another terrible week of cold, rain, and sporadic disturbing work-like rustlings, when the Mrs. -the one and only true Mrs, my Light of Lights, the Spiritual Devourer of My Every Sentient Impulse (not to mention a bodaciously appealing slice of Ultra-Womanhood) -suggested that it might not be a bad idea for me to take the Kelp kanines out for a brisk trot around the Manor.
I've never liked poodles, or exercise, so it took me some time to warm to the idea, but in no time at all I found myself stuffing them into their little sweaters and setting out over the moors, with the little jerks yapping at my heels. It's a supremely humbling experience, and no real man much likes being seen with toy poodles -especially not fluffy pinkish-white ones with those little balls cut on their ankles and tails, and especially not when they have names like Mitzi and Bitzi; fortunately for my self-respect, the other one is named Evil Roy Slade, even though his disposition is in fact almost identical to that of Mitzi and Bitzi.
I couldn't help noticing on our tour of the neighborhood that more of it seemed to be under water than usual, and I determined to check the basement on our return to the Manor to make sure nothing had gone awry. Alas, on inspection I found the basement quite badly flooded, and the heat and hot water turned off as a result.
Immediately I called the oil company, who sent someone out who informed me that there was no way he'd be going anywhere near our basement until the standing water had been removed -something about not wanting to get electrocuted, he said (wuss!) So I spent much of the day alternately shivering and bailing out the basement, which remained quite completely full of water despite my best efforts.
Today I started the day needlessly early by buying a submersible pump, which is still pumping away as we speak, having made only minimal progress on reducing the water level in the last ten hours or so, and so I am hunkered over my computer, frozen, with icicles hanging from my nose and eyebrows, enjoying spring.
A few hours ago I borrowed a little space heater from one of the neighbors, which worked fine for about five minutes before it blew a fuse; and unfortunately, the fuse box is in the flooded basement, and I'm sure Mrs. K would not want me taking any chances trying to change the damn thing with a half foot of water still covering everything.
Still, this is our second night of no heat or hot water, and I'm starting to get a little edgy. Unfortunately, the oil guy seemed quite put out with me for asking him to risk life and limb so Mrs. K could wash her hair, so I don't think we'll be trying him again tonight. It is really cold though -the poodles are turning blue. Actually, I guess that's the silver lining, as it's really the first use I've found for a toy poodle: they seem to make serviceable thermometers. Who knew?
Spring indeed; I hate my life.
Wait, I think my bride is summoning me... you wait here...
Well, OK, I'm back, and the heat is back on now, too, thanks to Mrs. K. encouraging me to stop being such a wuss and wade in there and push the damn re-set button (which I did after donning every piece of rubber or rubber-like clothing I could find -stylin'!), and now we're back up and running and starting to thaw and maybe now I can write my damn column.
Yeah, right.
Only yesterday I was totally primed to have a glamorous day off -a day of leisure -after yet another terrible week of cold, rain, and sporadic disturbing work-like rustlings, when the Mrs. -the one and only true Mrs, my Light of Lights, the Spiritual Devourer of My Every Sentient Impulse (not to mention a bodaciously appealing slice of Ultra-Womanhood) -suggested that it might not be a bad idea for me to take the Kelp kanines out for a brisk trot around the Manor.
I've never liked poodles, or exercise, so it took me some time to warm to the idea, but in no time at all I found myself stuffing them into their little sweaters and setting out over the moors, with the little jerks yapping at my heels. It's a supremely humbling experience, and no real man much likes being seen with toy poodles -especially not fluffy pinkish-white ones with those little balls cut on their ankles and tails, and especially not when they have names like Mitzi and Bitzi; fortunately for my self-respect, the other one is named Evil Roy Slade, even though his disposition is in fact almost identical to that of Mitzi and Bitzi.
I couldn't help noticing on our tour of the neighborhood that more of it seemed to be under water than usual, and I determined to check the basement on our return to the Manor to make sure nothing had gone awry. Alas, on inspection I found the basement quite badly flooded, and the heat and hot water turned off as a result.
Immediately I called the oil company, who sent someone out who informed me that there was no way he'd be going anywhere near our basement until the standing water had been removed -something about not wanting to get electrocuted, he said (wuss!) So I spent much of the day alternately shivering and bailing out the basement, which remained quite completely full of water despite my best efforts.
Today I started the day needlessly early by buying a submersible pump, which is still pumping away as we speak, having made only minimal progress on reducing the water level in the last ten hours or so, and so I am hunkered over my computer, frozen, with icicles hanging from my nose and eyebrows, enjoying spring.
A few hours ago I borrowed a little space heater from one of the neighbors, which worked fine for about five minutes before it blew a fuse; and unfortunately, the fuse box is in the flooded basement, and I'm sure Mrs. K would not want me taking any chances trying to change the damn thing with a half foot of water still covering everything.
Still, this is our second night of no heat or hot water, and I'm starting to get a little edgy. Unfortunately, the oil guy seemed quite put out with me for asking him to risk life and limb so Mrs. K could wash her hair, so I don't think we'll be trying him again tonight. It is really cold though -the poodles are turning blue. Actually, I guess that's the silver lining, as it's really the first use I've found for a toy poodle: they seem to make serviceable thermometers. Who knew?
Spring indeed; I hate my life.
Wait, I think my bride is summoning me... you wait here...
Well, OK, I'm back, and the heat is back on now, too, thanks to Mrs. K. encouraging me to stop being such a wuss and wade in there and push the damn re-set button (which I did after donning every piece of rubber or rubber-like clothing I could find -stylin'!), and now we're back up and running and starting to thaw and maybe now I can write my damn column.
Yeah, right.
Friday, April 11, 2003
More on Woo/Cheap Gas Day
Lots of excitement here at the Manor this week, as Steve “Woo-Woo” Wood played his last show at the Prodigal Son again last weekend, and yesterday was Cheap Gas Day in Eastham, so the Kolumn this week is bound to be action-packed. Whoa! I think I'm hyper-ventilating! Here -hold my soup...
Once again, Woo-Woo was wonder-iffic at another one of what could be his last Sunday appearances (apparently for as long as, but not longer than, a week) at the Prodigal; many of the same people for some reason turned out yet again to wish him yet another fond farewell, many of them trading warm reminiscences of the other recent occasions when he already said he was leaving but didn't.
If Steve were a less galvanizing performer, it would be hard to forgive such a shoddy yet undeniably effective marketing campaign. After all, how can we miss him if he won't go away? I mean, I love him, but I don't think even Steve can pull off the farewell show scam for a fourth week. On the other hand, he plays with such verve, such zest, such... shasta, even, that it's more fun to say goodbye again to Woo than hello to anyone else.
Last week he got even more carried away than usual, in the process bouncing his guitar off the floor and knocking over his amp. Actually, he didn't just knock over his amp -he actually rolled on it. Now, it's not unheard of to smash your guitar or knock over your equipment, but how many entertainers nowadays have the consideration to go that extra mile and actually roll on their amps? Not that many. Steve's special.
So I was already in a good mood early in the week, even before Cheap Gas Day, which is pretty much my favorite holiday. Some of you will know it by its more traditional handle: “Tuesday.” That's the day Tedeschi's in Eastham gives a 6 cent per gallon discount, and there's no better time to catch Eastham's cheapest, looking guilty and trying not to look too excited.
Believe me, it's quite a crowd, and I ought to know, because I'm always in it. Please don't tell the rambunctious yet ethereal Mrs. K - who thinks of me as a big spender -that I'm involved; it is, in fact, kind of a confusing social situation, and for many of us a spot we're not anxious to be recognized at, full of furtive glances and hat brims worn low over the eyes. In fact, I was mortified the other day when a neighbor called out a cheery hello from pump number seven; at first I pretended to be someone else, and when that didn't work I offered the most cursory of greetings and then tried to act like she was talking to someone else.
I shouldn't really be embarrassed, as man's love of cheap gas goes back for thousands of years (or, if not thousands, pretty darn many, anyway.) Still, it must be acknowledged that being a cheapskate has its drawbacks as a spectator sport.
By the way, if it snows again next week, I'm definitely slitting my throat. Ta!
Once again, Woo-Woo was wonder-iffic at another one of what could be his last Sunday appearances (apparently for as long as, but not longer than, a week) at the Prodigal; many of the same people for some reason turned out yet again to wish him yet another fond farewell, many of them trading warm reminiscences of the other recent occasions when he already said he was leaving but didn't.
If Steve were a less galvanizing performer, it would be hard to forgive such a shoddy yet undeniably effective marketing campaign. After all, how can we miss him if he won't go away? I mean, I love him, but I don't think even Steve can pull off the farewell show scam for a fourth week. On the other hand, he plays with such verve, such zest, such... shasta, even, that it's more fun to say goodbye again to Woo than hello to anyone else.
Last week he got even more carried away than usual, in the process bouncing his guitar off the floor and knocking over his amp. Actually, he didn't just knock over his amp -he actually rolled on it. Now, it's not unheard of to smash your guitar or knock over your equipment, but how many entertainers nowadays have the consideration to go that extra mile and actually roll on their amps? Not that many. Steve's special.
So I was already in a good mood early in the week, even before Cheap Gas Day, which is pretty much my favorite holiday. Some of you will know it by its more traditional handle: “Tuesday.” That's the day Tedeschi's in Eastham gives a 6 cent per gallon discount, and there's no better time to catch Eastham's cheapest, looking guilty and trying not to look too excited.
Believe me, it's quite a crowd, and I ought to know, because I'm always in it. Please don't tell the rambunctious yet ethereal Mrs. K - who thinks of me as a big spender -that I'm involved; it is, in fact, kind of a confusing social situation, and for many of us a spot we're not anxious to be recognized at, full of furtive glances and hat brims worn low over the eyes. In fact, I was mortified the other day when a neighbor called out a cheery hello from pump number seven; at first I pretended to be someone else, and when that didn't work I offered the most cursory of greetings and then tried to act like she was talking to someone else.
I shouldn't really be embarrassed, as man's love of cheap gas goes back for thousands of years (or, if not thousands, pretty darn many, anyway.) Still, it must be acknowledged that being a cheapskate has its drawbacks as a spectator sport.
By the way, if it snows again next week, I'm definitely slitting my throat. Ta!
Friday, April 4, 2003
Happy Birthday to Woo
One of my favorite musicians of all time, Steve Wood, had his fiftieth birthday yesterday. So did Mrs. Kelp, herself a person of very graceful demeanor and regal (yet girlish) bearing, albeit crazy as a loon; and Steve is the same, except a lot less girlish. They're both kind of iconoclastic, I think, and it is for that reason that I'd like to sing them both a hearty chorus of “Happy Birthday” right here in the column – won't you join me?
If you don't mind, I'd like to talk about the song a little bit before we do it -I just really want it to come out right. Let's sing “Woo-woo” instead of Steve, partly because that's a nickname I invented for him years ago that really irritates him, and partly because it'll just sound better than “Steve”.
Mrs. Kelp's first name, if I remember correctly, is Vivian, though she prefers DeWanda; so let's go with Vivian. (I don't know, for some reason I just can't get used to DeWanda.) Then again, it's her birthday... OK, DeWanda. Ready?
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR WOO-WOO AND DEWANDA!
(slower)HAPPY (harmony)BIRTHDAY (building)TO (pause...) YOU!!!
YAAAYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It's not easy for a die-hard rocker like Steve to turn fifty, after being schooled for years in the theory that the really good ones aren't supposed to last that long. Frequently, it involves a considerable adjustment of one's expectations -which, again, can be embarrassing for those who were once so proud of not having any. But, hey, turns out that's why they called it rhetoric! and invented things like pirates and jelly beans to begin with.
At this point, Steve is as mature as the next person -even more so if the person is extremely immature -and people who knew him long ago are no doubt surprised to see him after all these years so completely unchanged. In fact, the last few months he has been flaunting his indomitability at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis with a series of “Drunk on Sunday” late afternoon/early evening bashes that have started to draw a pretty good crowd.
Of course, one of the many good things about the Prodigal Son is that it only takes forty or fifty people to pack it; it's homey, is what it is. They started out years ago doing mostly lower volume, acoustic acts, but they've slowly evolved into a place that rocks every now and then.
It's very comfy and living room like, but they do have beer and wine and a personable staff, and “Woo-woo” hadn't really found any good new bars to play in for awhile, and they obviously love him and vice-versa, so he's been playing more -downright regularly in fact -and consequently sounding better and better, usually with his son, Sam, on drums; and Sam's getting better all the time, too, to the point where he's playing with real confidence and authority; and they got Cliff Letsche, of the High Kings (also Steve's old confederate from Lester), to play bass, plus other musicians are dropping by and sitting in, and Woo just sounds great, just like always, with this gorgeous fatso guitar sound ripping out earthy, basic, primal rock and roll and moving like he doesn't have a bone in his body, just smokin', and they're blowing the roof off the place with great regularity and everything is peachy.
Except that they might have to dis-continue it or move it to another night in a week or two, due to a change in Steve's day job hours, so this Sunday might be the last Drunk on Sunday show for a while. Of course, they said that last week, too. My guess is, we might not be far from “Wrecked on Monday.”
Anyway, I can't tell you exactly when Steve “Woo-woo” will be at the Prodigal next, but if it's not Sunday, it'll be soon, and if I were you, I'd call the damn bar and see when. Then you can call me up and tell me, for a change.
Why do I always have to be the guy who has to find out all the stupid details about when and where something is supposed to happen? I'm sick of it! Go ahead, you do it! Find out when he's playing and call me! Here, I'll even give you the number: the Prodigal Son - 508 771 1337. Ask for David or Shelley. Then call me, tell me what they said -I'm at 508 247 8384. The hell with it; you're on your own. April fool!
If you don't mind, I'd like to talk about the song a little bit before we do it -I just really want it to come out right. Let's sing “Woo-woo” instead of Steve, partly because that's a nickname I invented for him years ago that really irritates him, and partly because it'll just sound better than “Steve”.
Mrs. Kelp's first name, if I remember correctly, is Vivian, though she prefers DeWanda; so let's go with Vivian. (I don't know, for some reason I just can't get used to DeWanda.) Then again, it's her birthday... OK, DeWanda. Ready?
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR WOO-WOO AND DEWANDA!
(slower)HAPPY (harmony)BIRTHDAY (building)TO (pause...) YOU!!!
YAAAYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It's not easy for a die-hard rocker like Steve to turn fifty, after being schooled for years in the theory that the really good ones aren't supposed to last that long. Frequently, it involves a considerable adjustment of one's expectations -which, again, can be embarrassing for those who were once so proud of not having any. But, hey, turns out that's why they called it rhetoric! and invented things like pirates and jelly beans to begin with.
At this point, Steve is as mature as the next person -even more so if the person is extremely immature -and people who knew him long ago are no doubt surprised to see him after all these years so completely unchanged. In fact, the last few months he has been flaunting his indomitability at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis with a series of “Drunk on Sunday” late afternoon/early evening bashes that have started to draw a pretty good crowd.
Of course, one of the many good things about the Prodigal Son is that it only takes forty or fifty people to pack it; it's homey, is what it is. They started out years ago doing mostly lower volume, acoustic acts, but they've slowly evolved into a place that rocks every now and then.
It's very comfy and living room like, but they do have beer and wine and a personable staff, and “Woo-woo” hadn't really found any good new bars to play in for awhile, and they obviously love him and vice-versa, so he's been playing more -downright regularly in fact -and consequently sounding better and better, usually with his son, Sam, on drums; and Sam's getting better all the time, too, to the point where he's playing with real confidence and authority; and they got Cliff Letsche, of the High Kings (also Steve's old confederate from Lester), to play bass, plus other musicians are dropping by and sitting in, and Woo just sounds great, just like always, with this gorgeous fatso guitar sound ripping out earthy, basic, primal rock and roll and moving like he doesn't have a bone in his body, just smokin', and they're blowing the roof off the place with great regularity and everything is peachy.
Except that they might have to dis-continue it or move it to another night in a week or two, due to a change in Steve's day job hours, so this Sunday might be the last Drunk on Sunday show for a while. Of course, they said that last week, too. My guess is, we might not be far from “Wrecked on Monday.”
Anyway, I can't tell you exactly when Steve “Woo-woo” will be at the Prodigal next, but if it's not Sunday, it'll be soon, and if I were you, I'd call the damn bar and see when. Then you can call me up and tell me, for a change.
Why do I always have to be the guy who has to find out all the stupid details about when and where something is supposed to happen? I'm sick of it! Go ahead, you do it! Find out when he's playing and call me! Here, I'll even give you the number: the Prodigal Son - 508 771 1337. Ask for David or Shelley. Then call me, tell me what they said -I'm at 508 247 8384. The hell with it; you're on your own. April fool!
Friday, March 21, 2003
War is Dumb
OK, I just have to ask: why is a great big country like us seriously considering making an unprovoked attack on a much smaller country like Iraq, ostensibly because they have a tiny portion of the same weapons we have? Can we really be this bent on haggling a good price for oil?
We keep hoping our president is less ignorant and malignant than he seems, but there's scant evidence to the contrary. The usual list of celebrity malapropisms attributed to Bush is a frighteningly impressive giant step beyond even Dan Quayle, and the look in his eyes -or, more accurately, the lack of same -instantly confirms that there's nobody home.
Worst of all, people who know absolutely nothing about politics or history or world affairs are going to start to pipe up, some of whom didn't even bother to vote in the first place.
People like me, for instance -people who know nothing about anything. People who never, ever talk about this kind of stuff are starting to, and that can't be good. (If you would only listen to me, I would gladly shut up.)
In all my years here at La Krepe de la Kape, I have never once written anything that was even vaguely political or topical, and darn it, I don't want to start now -for that would be giving in to terrorism -but this cowboy stuff has got to go. I'm completely mortified.
All this has made it hard to concentrate on what should be my first priority as your local music correspondent, which, of course, is this year's upcoming Oscar awards show!
Once again, it looks like the local music community has been shut out of the race completely -not only were none of us nominated, none of us were ever even in a movie to begin with. It's hard not to think about what might have been: Link Montana in “The Hours”! Randy Frost and Steve “Woo Woo” Wood in “Chicago” -the list is endfull.
By the way, Steve “Woo-Woo” Wood's regular Sunday happy hour shows at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis seem to be the talk of the town lately. Apparently, Eastham's P.J. O'Connell sat in last week, and things got loose and loud, to the point where some people's eyebrows were singed right off. I might drop by this Sunday myself, if I'm not in hiding.
I saw a remarkable new band up in Boston a week or so ago called “The Ninja” (and, yes, I agree that “The Ninja” is one of the least promising band names I've heard in quite a while.) They played a short but galvanizing set at the Midway in Jamaica Plain that recalled the energy of the Foo Fighters, but with more interesting melodies and arrangements.
They are fortunate to have what any great rock 'n' roll band needs most, which is a great drummer, in the person of Barnstable resident Finny Moore. Guitarist John McWilliams is also from Barnstable (used to be in the local band Degobah), so perhaps there's some chance they'll book something out this way soon -consider this an orange alert.
As to the Oscars, ah, I don't know, you pick. I'm rooting for Diane Lane (partly because she really was great in “Unfaithful”, but also because I just always root for Diane Lane) and for Christopher Walken (because I always root for Christopher Walken, and because a day without Christopher Walken is like a day without sunshine, and because I'd like to hear his speech.)
More importantly, I saw a fascinating movie last week called “Russian Ark.” For now, you'd have to go to Boston (Kendall Square Cinema in Cambridge, actually) to see it, and it's in Russian, too, so, I know, fat chance; but it is absolutely remarkable, a true jaw-dropper (and would be even if it wasn't shot in one gargantuan ninety minute-plus take.) Stately, moody, mysterious, haunting, and sometimes even playful, it reminded me most of the last hour of “2001”; like that film, it's open to a thousand different interpretations.
The crowded ballroom scene at the end is especially amazing, and has a strange Capra-esque quality: even the smallest, non-speaking characters seem somehow to lead full, fascinating lives. In a room full of hundreds of people swirling around, not one of them seems like an extra, and the effect is remarkable, stirring, and, in the final rapid pan down the stairs through the crowd and out the door to a lonely green-grey sea, unforgettable.
In the past, I've frequently found Russian movies hard to take, but I'll certainly be searching for anything else by director Aleksandr Sokurov (and probably not in vain, as “Russian Ark” is apparently his 31st film.
[Editor's note: I encourage all to please check out MoveOn.org: Democracy in Action]
We keep hoping our president is less ignorant and malignant than he seems, but there's scant evidence to the contrary. The usual list of celebrity malapropisms attributed to Bush is a frighteningly impressive giant step beyond even Dan Quayle, and the look in his eyes -or, more accurately, the lack of same -instantly confirms that there's nobody home.
Worst of all, people who know absolutely nothing about politics or history or world affairs are going to start to pipe up, some of whom didn't even bother to vote in the first place.
People like me, for instance -people who know nothing about anything. People who never, ever talk about this kind of stuff are starting to, and that can't be good. (If you would only listen to me, I would gladly shut up.)
In all my years here at La Krepe de la Kape, I have never once written anything that was even vaguely political or topical, and darn it, I don't want to start now -for that would be giving in to terrorism -but this cowboy stuff has got to go. I'm completely mortified.
All this has made it hard to concentrate on what should be my first priority as your local music correspondent, which, of course, is this year's upcoming Oscar awards show!
Once again, it looks like the local music community has been shut out of the race completely -not only were none of us nominated, none of us were ever even in a movie to begin with. It's hard not to think about what might have been: Link Montana in “The Hours”! Randy Frost and Steve “Woo Woo” Wood in “Chicago” -the list is endfull.
By the way, Steve “Woo-Woo” Wood's regular Sunday happy hour shows at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis seem to be the talk of the town lately. Apparently, Eastham's P.J. O'Connell sat in last week, and things got loose and loud, to the point where some people's eyebrows were singed right off. I might drop by this Sunday myself, if I'm not in hiding.
I saw a remarkable new band up in Boston a week or so ago called “The Ninja” (and, yes, I agree that “The Ninja” is one of the least promising band names I've heard in quite a while.) They played a short but galvanizing set at the Midway in Jamaica Plain that recalled the energy of the Foo Fighters, but with more interesting melodies and arrangements.
They are fortunate to have what any great rock 'n' roll band needs most, which is a great drummer, in the person of Barnstable resident Finny Moore. Guitarist John McWilliams is also from Barnstable (used to be in the local band Degobah), so perhaps there's some chance they'll book something out this way soon -consider this an orange alert.
As to the Oscars, ah, I don't know, you pick. I'm rooting for Diane Lane (partly because she really was great in “Unfaithful”, but also because I just always root for Diane Lane) and for Christopher Walken (because I always root for Christopher Walken, and because a day without Christopher Walken is like a day without sunshine, and because I'd like to hear his speech.)
More importantly, I saw a fascinating movie last week called “Russian Ark.” For now, you'd have to go to Boston (Kendall Square Cinema in Cambridge, actually) to see it, and it's in Russian, too, so, I know, fat chance; but it is absolutely remarkable, a true jaw-dropper (and would be even if it wasn't shot in one gargantuan ninety minute-plus take.) Stately, moody, mysterious, haunting, and sometimes even playful, it reminded me most of the last hour of “2001”; like that film, it's open to a thousand different interpretations.
The crowded ballroom scene at the end is especially amazing, and has a strange Capra-esque quality: even the smallest, non-speaking characters seem somehow to lead full, fascinating lives. In a room full of hundreds of people swirling around, not one of them seems like an extra, and the effect is remarkable, stirring, and, in the final rapid pan down the stairs through the crowd and out the door to a lonely green-grey sea, unforgettable.
In the past, I've frequently found Russian movies hard to take, but I'll certainly be searching for anything else by director Aleksandr Sokurov (and probably not in vain, as “Russian Ark” is apparently his 31st film.
[Editor's note: I encourage all to please check out MoveOn.org: Democracy in Action]
Friday, March 14, 2003
Returning a Video, Part 2
[In case you missed last week's thrilling episode, "Returning a Video, Part One", I had returned a video rental about a year late, and it was a movie I really, really hated, and I had just thrown myself on the mercy of Gil, the lucky Videorama employee on duty at the time, in a pathetic display of blubbering hopelessness, when, suddenly ...]
...I continued begging and wailing in abject terror of the Lord High Police of Videorama or whatever, saying I didn't have the money, "you can't make me do this, not for this movie, NOT FOR THIS MOVIE! No one, nowhere, no time, would ever rent the movie "Gung Ho", starring the always at least vaguely horrible Michael Keaton and directed by f-ing Opie, for chrissake, for more than two days, on purpose. I mean, have you seen this movie?"
At this point, I think my voice was starting to get a lot louder than I meant it to. "You should pay me for isolating it! That was one of the worst, most insulting, bleep bleep curse cuss splatter pieces of goddamn bleep bleepblip blip bloop-o cupcake expletive expletive bleeps I've seen in my whole darn life! You owe me! You owe me!"
I was getting a little worked up, and I inadvertently did a sort of a twirl into one of those small racks of movies on the ends of the bins, which dis-lodged entirely and clicked and clacked onto the floor. I knew I had gone too far, and I sputtered hasty apologies to Gil as I started picking up the videos off the floor, when I noticed, at the bottom of the heap, under an empty "Gung Ho" display box, a hand-written sign that read "Employee's Favorites: Gil."
I did the only thing I could do: I ran. As fast as my little legs could carry me, as far and as long as I could go, away from the scene of the crime, running, running, into my car; then drovedrovedrovedrovedrove, on and away into the night (home, in fact.) I no longer rent at Videorama, and i don't think my relationship with Gil will ever be the same. I've seen him since once or twice, in town, but now his eyes have that hollow look; it's obvious we'll both be scarred.
Luckily, I don't have that problem at "Video Super Mega World", which is where I rent now. We're still in the honeymoon period -they have no idea they're dealing with a such loose cannon.
(By the way, I hope this doesn't seem to be condoning the idea of renting bad videos for years at a time and never bringing them back and never paying for them; but on the other hand, if you're really positive you've found a movie that I will hate, I fully authorize you to throw it in a pond immediately, and commend you for acting larcenously on my behalf; because, as we all know, there are some movies that no one should have to pay to see, ever. Or even just see, period. To think of getting some of the hours back, unblemished, that we might have dashed watching, say, "Dude, Where's My Car" or "Chariots of Fire" or "The Vagina Monologues" is truly exhilarating.)
However, I am happy to say that all this is only a preamble to much gladder tidings: I have recently found a good movie, rentable not only at both Video Super Mega World and Videorama (and if you do get it at Videorama, please give Gil my regards and tell him how much I miss him and the gang), but at other popular chains like Bagbuster, Video Mortal Nuisance and Distant Marcel's Great Cradle of Videography, called "Dinner Rush", which features, among others, Danny Aiello and Sandra Bernhardt -actually, it's a great movie, and there aren't that many of 'em, so listen up.
It's about a popular and newly trendy Italian restaurant in New York City with mob ties, and it's greatest strength is that it captures this milieu -the snooty, high-tone dining room with a high-pressure, hot, crowded kitchen -perfectly. Fans of "Big Night", another old favorite about the restaurant biz, might particularly enjoy it, even though it is less funny; in turn, it is more atmospheric and realistic, albeit still very romantic and cinematic.
The movie is beautifully shot and scored, at times reminding me of Bernard Herrman and his wonderful music for "Taxi Driver", not to mention the dark, subdued neon look of the rainy city streets in the same film. "Dinner Rush" has interesting, believable characters and an elegantly scruffy soul; it might be the best thing we've seen since "Aberdeen" (and if you haven't seen that one yet, well, hurry up, dammit -it's at both Idle Times in Eastham (hi Jeanie!) and Down Under in Wellfleet.) (Not to mention Dr. Horse Video Emergency in Dennis, and Video Whoa Whoa Whoa! in Chatham -some of which are made-up places that shouldn't actually be gone to -especially not in this weather.)
Getting back to "Dinner Rush", though, I'd like to add that even Mrs. K (and by that of course I mean That Enchanting Goddess Who Watches TV More Than the Rest of The Planet Combined, and thus doesn't have to like anything if she doesn't want to; but still, surprisingly, isn't nearly as jaded as you'd think someone might be under those circumstances) quite liked "Dinner Rush" and heartily joins me in recommending it to one and all, despite the fact that it contains neither canine nor equine appearances of any kind, oh well.
...I continued begging and wailing in abject terror of the Lord High Police of Videorama or whatever, saying I didn't have the money, "you can't make me do this, not for this movie, NOT FOR THIS MOVIE! No one, nowhere, no time, would ever rent the movie "Gung Ho", starring the always at least vaguely horrible Michael Keaton and directed by f-ing Opie, for chrissake, for more than two days, on purpose. I mean, have you seen this movie?"
At this point, I think my voice was starting to get a lot louder than I meant it to. "You should pay me for isolating it! That was one of the worst, most insulting, bleep bleep curse cuss splatter pieces of goddamn bleep bleepblip blip bloop-o cupcake expletive expletive bleeps I've seen in my whole darn life! You owe me! You owe me!"
I was getting a little worked up, and I inadvertently did a sort of a twirl into one of those small racks of movies on the ends of the bins, which dis-lodged entirely and clicked and clacked onto the floor. I knew I had gone too far, and I sputtered hasty apologies to Gil as I started picking up the videos off the floor, when I noticed, at the bottom of the heap, under an empty "Gung Ho" display box, a hand-written sign that read "Employee's Favorites: Gil."
I did the only thing I could do: I ran. As fast as my little legs could carry me, as far and as long as I could go, away from the scene of the crime, running, running, into my car; then drovedrovedrovedrovedrove, on and away into the night (home, in fact.) I no longer rent at Videorama, and i don't think my relationship with Gil will ever be the same. I've seen him since once or twice, in town, but now his eyes have that hollow look; it's obvious we'll both be scarred.
Luckily, I don't have that problem at "Video Super Mega World", which is where I rent now. We're still in the honeymoon period -they have no idea they're dealing with a such loose cannon.
(By the way, I hope this doesn't seem to be condoning the idea of renting bad videos for years at a time and never bringing them back and never paying for them; but on the other hand, if you're really positive you've found a movie that I will hate, I fully authorize you to throw it in a pond immediately, and commend you for acting larcenously on my behalf; because, as we all know, there are some movies that no one should have to pay to see, ever. Or even just see, period. To think of getting some of the hours back, unblemished, that we might have dashed watching, say, "Dude, Where's My Car" or "Chariots of Fire" or "The Vagina Monologues" is truly exhilarating.)
However, I am happy to say that all this is only a preamble to much gladder tidings: I have recently found a good movie, rentable not only at both Video Super Mega World and Videorama (and if you do get it at Videorama, please give Gil my regards and tell him how much I miss him and the gang), but at other popular chains like Bagbuster, Video Mortal Nuisance and Distant Marcel's Great Cradle of Videography, called "Dinner Rush", which features, among others, Danny Aiello and Sandra Bernhardt -actually, it's a great movie, and there aren't that many of 'em, so listen up.
It's about a popular and newly trendy Italian restaurant in New York City with mob ties, and it's greatest strength is that it captures this milieu -the snooty, high-tone dining room with a high-pressure, hot, crowded kitchen -perfectly. Fans of "Big Night", another old favorite about the restaurant biz, might particularly enjoy it, even though it is less funny; in turn, it is more atmospheric and realistic, albeit still very romantic and cinematic.
The movie is beautifully shot and scored, at times reminding me of Bernard Herrman and his wonderful music for "Taxi Driver", not to mention the dark, subdued neon look of the rainy city streets in the same film. "Dinner Rush" has interesting, believable characters and an elegantly scruffy soul; it might be the best thing we've seen since "Aberdeen" (and if you haven't seen that one yet, well, hurry up, dammit -it's at both Idle Times in Eastham (hi Jeanie!) and Down Under in Wellfleet.) (Not to mention Dr. Horse Video Emergency in Dennis, and Video Whoa Whoa Whoa! in Chatham -some of which are made-up places that shouldn't actually be gone to -especially not in this weather.)
Getting back to "Dinner Rush", though, I'd like to add that even Mrs. K (and by that of course I mean That Enchanting Goddess Who Watches TV More Than the Rest of The Planet Combined, and thus doesn't have to like anything if she doesn't want to; but still, surprisingly, isn't nearly as jaded as you'd think someone might be under those circumstances) quite liked "Dinner Rush" and heartily joins me in recommending it to one and all, despite the fact that it contains neither canine nor equine appearances of any kind, oh well.
Friday, March 7, 2003
Returning a Video, Part 1
Hurry... must write column... think! think! Get ideas! Writewritewrite! Whoosh! All over. Drink more, go to bed. Maybe I'm in a rut.
Staying out till dawn with the Jet Pack and the Rat Set, partying and frivoling way more than I want to, but I'll do anything when I'm chasing down a hot lead or getting ready to maul a starlet with the sharpness of my razor wit, or plying my informants with cheap liquoo-ers until they give me the deep dish on the little hotbed of local music folks around here call "The Big Sweaty." I think it was Robbie Robertson of the Band who said, "it's a hard life", and it has been that way ever since he said it.
What the hell, so, let's talk about movies this week instead. In fact, let's analyze my video rental receipt, which was presented to me recently rather unceremoniously by one of my best friends at the local mega-chain, Gil, when he was in the process of pointing out to me that I had had the movie "Gung Ho" out for more than sixty-two weeks and owed more than two hundred dollars on it.
I, of course, was incredulous, and threw a big fit, declaring my innocence and my never-wavering longtime allegiance to Videorama (which, by the way, all my friends know I constantly bad-mouth everywhere in favor of the much artier and more interesting Down Under Video in Wellfleet, which I never actually go to because it's ten minutes out of the way.)
I left in a complete huff, and then of course in no time (three days) I started to piece together what had happened: I had mistakenly returned our vacation videos from when we went to the ranch instead of the "Gung Ho" video, which obligingly enough, turned up in the case for the vacation videos as soon as I checked. So, mystery solved!
Actually, I remembered "Gung Ho", too - it was a Ron Howard movie about the car industry with Michael Keaton, and I remembered particularly hating it -like, really, really, really HATING it. And I usually like Ron Howard's stuff -though there's always been something about Michael Keaton I don't (could be his unbearably unctuous attitude, or just his big old face with the big pixie eyebrows, or could just be that I don't think we should have to live in a world where both he and Tom Hanks are quite this successful. He's a really good actor though; but still, the hell with him.)
That movie was so bad -not just ha-ha, funny/bad, or inept, or fun for any reason, but the kind of bad that just makes you really furious with whoever made the damn thing, and you'd just love to press charges somehow, to hurt whoever did that to you. There was no way I could live with myself paying $200 for "Gung Ho" -I'd rather die.
Still, how to proceed? After all, we're talking about my video store here, and it's winter -not that my video store isn't very precious to me all the time, but in the winter, it's really a sort of sanctuary. It's amazing how long you can spend in there, hours and hours just strolling through the aisles, trying not to end up showing up on date night with two Tom Berenson movies.
And of course I know everyone in there (some rather intimately), most by name, and they all know me; they've become my friends (sort of), and I treasure the relationships we have together: me being late returning movies, them trying to get me the hell out of there at closing time... I would never want to jeopardize the happy times we've shared, and the luminously desirable Mrs. Kelp is delighted I finally have somewhere else to go. So, this is not a decision I take lightly. But, for "Gung Ho"? -I don't think so.
I donned my fatigues and combat gear, loaded the Olds with trunks of high-tech American weaponry, and set off for Videorama, confidant that once I fixed Gil with my steely gaze and threw myself at his mercy, begging on my knees in abject, tear-stained misery, that he would see that this was one $200 he would never receive.
Then, suddenly, [to be continued.]
Staying out till dawn with the Jet Pack and the Rat Set, partying and frivoling way more than I want to, but I'll do anything when I'm chasing down a hot lead or getting ready to maul a starlet with the sharpness of my razor wit, or plying my informants with cheap liquoo-ers until they give me the deep dish on the little hotbed of local music folks around here call "The Big Sweaty." I think it was Robbie Robertson of the Band who said, "it's a hard life", and it has been that way ever since he said it.
What the hell, so, let's talk about movies this week instead. In fact, let's analyze my video rental receipt, which was presented to me recently rather unceremoniously by one of my best friends at the local mega-chain, Gil, when he was in the process of pointing out to me that I had had the movie "Gung Ho" out for more than sixty-two weeks and owed more than two hundred dollars on it.
I, of course, was incredulous, and threw a big fit, declaring my innocence and my never-wavering longtime allegiance to Videorama (which, by the way, all my friends know I constantly bad-mouth everywhere in favor of the much artier and more interesting Down Under Video in Wellfleet, which I never actually go to because it's ten minutes out of the way.)
I left in a complete huff, and then of course in no time (three days) I started to piece together what had happened: I had mistakenly returned our vacation videos from when we went to the ranch instead of the "Gung Ho" video, which obligingly enough, turned up in the case for the vacation videos as soon as I checked. So, mystery solved!
Actually, I remembered "Gung Ho", too - it was a Ron Howard movie about the car industry with Michael Keaton, and I remembered particularly hating it -like, really, really, really HATING it. And I usually like Ron Howard's stuff -though there's always been something about Michael Keaton I don't (could be his unbearably unctuous attitude, or just his big old face with the big pixie eyebrows, or could just be that I don't think we should have to live in a world where both he and Tom Hanks are quite this successful. He's a really good actor though; but still, the hell with him.)
That movie was so bad -not just ha-ha, funny/bad, or inept, or fun for any reason, but the kind of bad that just makes you really furious with whoever made the damn thing, and you'd just love to press charges somehow, to hurt whoever did that to you. There was no way I could live with myself paying $200 for "Gung Ho" -I'd rather die.
Still, how to proceed? After all, we're talking about my video store here, and it's winter -not that my video store isn't very precious to me all the time, but in the winter, it's really a sort of sanctuary. It's amazing how long you can spend in there, hours and hours just strolling through the aisles, trying not to end up showing up on date night with two Tom Berenson movies.
And of course I know everyone in there (some rather intimately), most by name, and they all know me; they've become my friends (sort of), and I treasure the relationships we have together: me being late returning movies, them trying to get me the hell out of there at closing time... I would never want to jeopardize the happy times we've shared, and the luminously desirable Mrs. Kelp is delighted I finally have somewhere else to go. So, this is not a decision I take lightly. But, for "Gung Ho"? -I don't think so.
I donned my fatigues and combat gear, loaded the Olds with trunks of high-tech American weaponry, and set off for Videorama, confidant that once I fixed Gil with my steely gaze and threw myself at his mercy, begging on my knees in abject, tear-stained misery, that he would see that this was one $200 he would never receive.
Then, suddenly, [to be continued.]
Friday, February 28, 2003
Thoth! It's a Grammy!
Somehow, it got a lot later than I thought it would get tonight. Actually, it's a little hard to tell how later it really is, because I broke my main clock this afternoon, and the two back-ups can't seem to agree on anything. There's something nice about breaking a clock for a change (as opposed to the usual vice versa, I suppose), and the dreadfulness of the season makes it an apt time for a time out; it's just that it seems so late all the time, lately.
Well, what the hell, at least we're through with February.
Now that the opening Whine is Concluded, we shall pass on to gladder tidings, for I have seen such things lately of which I shall tell you frothily, and thith! Anon, yonder paragraph doth contain such great and plenty froth of fith wit waddles, dexter, thot, and ambiguity! Wot widdles!
Oops, ah, what... well, apparently the medication has started to kick in.
How about I try just one or two more openings, and then you can just pick the one you like (or, if necessary, hate least)? Here you go:
It was early one day - really early, like literally almost morning or something - when Hilary noticed something disturbing had happened to Tuesday's burnt porridge.
or
Well, hey you crazy nut bags! Have I got a bangeroo surprise for you all! It's time for our yearly Kelp Grammy Wrap-Up that we've never, ever had once before in history, and why? Well, I don't know, except, because... well, what the hell, it just is!
After all, I'm, you know, the big music columnist guy, so we may as well see if we can find out if they had the Grammys last week, and if anyone won any. Besides, this will give me another few moments to dweedle away on the internet like an idiot. You wait here. Have some nuts.
Oh! Well! You won't believe it! They just gave all the awards to Norah Jones, an artist whom I myself, have, in these pages, publicly liked. It's a great album, but in a very low-key, self-effacing way, charming rather than magnificent -a surprising subject for all this prestige! It also could be that her babe-aliciousness overwhelmed the voters, rendering her lovely tone and natural, unobtrusive way with a song almost moot. It's probably quite healthy for all concerned, with the possible exception of Ms. Jones herself, who I figure to be following up with some really bratty behavior in the near future (and who wouldn't?)
Actually, there were a few other satisfying developments this year besides: Flaming Lips won (for Best Rock Instrumental Performance, of all things); so did Foo Fighters, Solomon Burke, Doc Watson, Lee Perry, the Funk Brothers, and the Five Blind Boys of Alabama. Even Charley Patton won, and he's been dead for about fifty years.
Randy Newman also took home one (Best Song Written For A Motion Picture, Television Or Other Visual Media), following his long-delayed triumph at the Oscars; it was his third. Randy's a genius. Norah Jones should give him some of hers.
One of the best albums, ever, in the whole world, is Randy Newman's "Good Old Boys", which was originally released in 1974. It has recently been re-released on Rhino, with an extra disc of Randy playing demos of some of the songs from the record and an equal number of songs that didn't make it, accompanied by his laying out his original story line for the piece, much of which was discarded (along with its original title, "Johnny Cutler's Birthday.")
The songs are frequently brilliant -just as good as the album they were intended for, even when sometimes truncated -and the combination of his slightly confused, semi-illuminating narration and his strange, spooky, incisive songwriting is fascinating. If there's one thing the arrival of CDs and DVDs have taught us, it's that a great outtake is a very rare thing; "Johnny Cutler's Birthday" is full of them.
Of course, the experience would be well worth whatever the most mercenary, villainous record retailer might charge, if it only provided an excuse to listen to the original album again. It's a portrait of Huey Long's racist Louisiana of the 1930's and 40's, and it's scathing, bitter, outrageous, courageous, hilarious, and both heart- and ground-breaking. You can't write songs better than this -there's not a dud on here - and the arrangements are likewise as good as it gets. They don't make albums like this anymore; in fact, they never did. Listening to it is enough to restore hope.
A long time ago, I had a discussion with some friends in which each of us tried to name a songwriter who hadn't done anything lame, ever -a daunting task (after all, even the Beatles wrote "Octopus's Garden.") Randy was the only guy we could sort of agree on (and we were sort of upset with him for letting the Eagle's sing on "Short People.") Then, out comes the "Good Old Boys" re-issue (and by the way, you can tell it's going to be great, because they left the 'd' in "old") and it turns out they sang on that one, too. So somehow, Randy Newman got me to love, without reservation, an album that had the Eagles on it -without my even knowing they were on it at all!
He's a genius, folks -check this one out (again, if necessary.) Better grab a Norah Jones, too -she'll be needing to lay some money aside for her nervous breakdown.
Well, what the hell, at least we're through with February.
Now that the opening Whine is Concluded, we shall pass on to gladder tidings, for I have seen such things lately of which I shall tell you frothily, and thith! Anon, yonder paragraph doth contain such great and plenty froth of fith wit waddles, dexter, thot, and ambiguity! Wot widdles!
Oops, ah, what... well, apparently the medication has started to kick in.
How about I try just one or two more openings, and then you can just pick the one you like (or, if necessary, hate least)? Here you go:
It was early one day - really early, like literally almost morning or something - when Hilary noticed something disturbing had happened to Tuesday's burnt porridge.
or
Well, hey you crazy nut bags! Have I got a bangeroo surprise for you all! It's time for our yearly Kelp Grammy Wrap-Up that we've never, ever had once before in history, and why? Well, I don't know, except, because... well, what the hell, it just is!
After all, I'm, you know, the big music columnist guy, so we may as well see if we can find out if they had the Grammys last week, and if anyone won any. Besides, this will give me another few moments to dweedle away on the internet like an idiot. You wait here. Have some nuts.
Oh! Well! You won't believe it! They just gave all the awards to Norah Jones, an artist whom I myself, have, in these pages, publicly liked. It's a great album, but in a very low-key, self-effacing way, charming rather than magnificent -a surprising subject for all this prestige! It also could be that her babe-aliciousness overwhelmed the voters, rendering her lovely tone and natural, unobtrusive way with a song almost moot. It's probably quite healthy for all concerned, with the possible exception of Ms. Jones herself, who I figure to be following up with some really bratty behavior in the near future (and who wouldn't?)
Actually, there were a few other satisfying developments this year besides: Flaming Lips won (for Best Rock Instrumental Performance, of all things); so did Foo Fighters, Solomon Burke, Doc Watson, Lee Perry, the Funk Brothers, and the Five Blind Boys of Alabama. Even Charley Patton won, and he's been dead for about fifty years.
Randy Newman also took home one (Best Song Written For A Motion Picture, Television Or Other Visual Media), following his long-delayed triumph at the Oscars; it was his third. Randy's a genius. Norah Jones should give him some of hers.
One of the best albums, ever, in the whole world, is Randy Newman's "Good Old Boys", which was originally released in 1974. It has recently been re-released on Rhino, with an extra disc of Randy playing demos of some of the songs from the record and an equal number of songs that didn't make it, accompanied by his laying out his original story line for the piece, much of which was discarded (along with its original title, "Johnny Cutler's Birthday.")
The songs are frequently brilliant -just as good as the album they were intended for, even when sometimes truncated -and the combination of his slightly confused, semi-illuminating narration and his strange, spooky, incisive songwriting is fascinating. If there's one thing the arrival of CDs and DVDs have taught us, it's that a great outtake is a very rare thing; "Johnny Cutler's Birthday" is full of them.
Of course, the experience would be well worth whatever the most mercenary, villainous record retailer might charge, if it only provided an excuse to listen to the original album again. It's a portrait of Huey Long's racist Louisiana of the 1930's and 40's, and it's scathing, bitter, outrageous, courageous, hilarious, and both heart- and ground-breaking. You can't write songs better than this -there's not a dud on here - and the arrangements are likewise as good as it gets. They don't make albums like this anymore; in fact, they never did. Listening to it is enough to restore hope.
A long time ago, I had a discussion with some friends in which each of us tried to name a songwriter who hadn't done anything lame, ever -a daunting task (after all, even the Beatles wrote "Octopus's Garden.") Randy was the only guy we could sort of agree on (and we were sort of upset with him for letting the Eagle's sing on "Short People.") Then, out comes the "Good Old Boys" re-issue (and by the way, you can tell it's going to be great, because they left the 'd' in "old") and it turns out they sang on that one, too. So somehow, Randy Newman got me to love, without reservation, an album that had the Eagles on it -without my even knowing they were on it at all!
He's a genius, folks -check this one out (again, if necessary.) Better grab a Norah Jones, too -she'll be needing to lay some money aside for her nervous breakdown.
Friday, February 21, 2003
Patty Larkin Wahoo!
Wellfleet resident Patty Larkin has been one of the cape’s best-loved and respected musicians for decades now, a terrific performer who has amassed a body of work that is varied, original, and compelling. She also throws a mean Christmas party, and were I a less confidant correspondent, I might wonder if the reason I love her new record so much is in part because I had to miss the Christmas party this year, and I’m just jones-ing for some quality time with the divine Miss L.
Luckily, though, I am a trained, objective reporter, and thus impervious to that sort of distraction. And Patty’s new “Red = Luck” (Vanguard), is her best album yet; better even, I’ve decided (after much deliberation) than 1991’s “Tango”, which had been my favorite up to now. It is also her boldest album, and the one that the resembles the others least, which makes it all the more surprising that it would also be so thoroughly satisfying.
Despite excellent guest appearances by a number of folks (including Jonatha Brooks, Jennifer Kimball, Duke Levine, and Merrie Amsterberg), it also feels like her most intimate and sparsely arranged work to date, and the one that presents her remarkable singing and songwriting in the most stark (and effective) relief (perhaps a nod to the fine production work of Tchad Blake and Mitchell Froom.) Dark, moody, and direct, it’s a record that takes a little time to absorb, and I admit I’m still taking it in; but it’s already clear it’s going to be one of the best albums of the year. Here’s some early impressions:
The first track, “All That Innocence”, sets the tone admirably with an optigan-like percussion loop and counterpoint guitar melodies that set a barren stage for a vocal that might have sounded overly dramatic in a more conventional setting but works wondrously well here; somewhere in the middle there’s a sublime wordless vocal and mellotron section, a few concise bars of heaven tossed to the wind.
The top of “24/7/365” announces that drums are going to be used a little more aggressively on this album, and on this song that’s a mixed blessing, as the martial snare approach seems a little at odds with the rest of the sonic landscape; but at least there is one, with some real atmosphere and some nice, slightly hard edge electric guitar, and Patty’s vocal still gratifyingly front and center.
“The Cranes” again plays with emptiness and silken guitars behind a commanding lyric: “If you’re thinking of leaving, you’re leaving at a very bad time” -one of several lines on this record that might not read like much, but somehow, in context, it sticks to you and stays in your head. This one’s more typically Patty than most of the rest, albeit still on the dark side.
Then we get to another high point, “Children”, which might be the best Lucinda Williams song anyone’s written since “Car Wheels on a Gravel Road.” Her singing veers in many different directions on this album, perhaps in the spirit of Paul McCartney in the later Beatle years (who was that masked man who sang “Lady Madonna”?) This approach could have come off as undisciplined and affected, but instead seems spontaneously adventuresome -which is to say, you go, girl.
“Italian Shoes” is more comfortingly Patty, with a bracing splash of Ani DeFranco, and why not? -Patty did it first, anyway. Again, there’s a lot of space in these songs, sometimes almost a dry, noir kind of thing, and it offsets the passion of her vocal style really nicely. She’s had this feel on other records, but it’s accentuated even more on this one by cutting back on the window dressing -the arrangements are lean and mean, perhaps influenced by the downbeat Boston sound of folks like Morphine and the wonderful Merrie Amsterberg (who sings back-up harmonies on the record and opens Patty’s Cambridge show at Sanders Theater this Friday, February 21st (let’s charter a bus!!)
“Birmingham” is a little too much of a power ballad for me, but it almost works... it’s actually very pretty, and sounds great, lots of great elements, but in the end it comes out a little too Bryan Adams-y or something (I know I’ll be shot for that comment, and that I should be. In fact, what the hell, I’ll shoot myself -not this week, though.) And I don’t remember “Too Bad” that well -I think I was still trying to figure out how I felt about “Birmingham.”
Then we finally get to “Home”, an absolutely gorgeous acoustic ballad with just Patty and her guitar that is perfect, stunning, and short -I love it. There might be a tiny little touch of Rodgers and Hammerstein somewhere on this -at least I hope so. Hot on its heels is “Different World”, which sounds like a Richard Thompson steal to me (I know Patty’s a big fan, and so am I.) This one involves big (but, thank god, not huge) drums and ringing electric guitar lines and lots of dynamics, capped by a delightful baroque ending.
“Normal” is probably my favorite song on the record (so far), a tune at once so simple and yet so different from anything else. It almost sounds like the Eyesores, in their alternative/Astor Piazzolla mode: perfect, spooky, sparse, strange, and beautiful -this one is alone worth the price of admission. It’s followed by the title cut, a very pretty but not particularly noteworthy acoustic guitar and vocal fragment.
Next is one of those great little slices of pop heaven, as a slightly odd intro blossoms in to a Pretenders-like ringing guitar riff and rockin’ drum beat on “Inside Your Painting”-not overdone for a second, though, despite the line “you’re playing harmonica, I’m reading erotica”, which is absurdly memorable. Like I say, all an album needs nowadays to standout are a couple of songs this good; “Red = Luck” has five or six -phew!
“St. Augustine” could be bluegrass or celtic or -what the hell? She’s bamboozled us again! And the closing “Louder” not only rocks -its got a gypsy section!
Just buy the damn thing -I’m tired of tellin’ you!
Luckily, though, I am a trained, objective reporter, and thus impervious to that sort of distraction. And Patty’s new “Red = Luck” (Vanguard), is her best album yet; better even, I’ve decided (after much deliberation) than 1991’s “Tango”, which had been my favorite up to now. It is also her boldest album, and the one that the resembles the others least, which makes it all the more surprising that it would also be so thoroughly satisfying.
Despite excellent guest appearances by a number of folks (including Jonatha Brooks, Jennifer Kimball, Duke Levine, and Merrie Amsterberg), it also feels like her most intimate and sparsely arranged work to date, and the one that presents her remarkable singing and songwriting in the most stark (and effective) relief (perhaps a nod to the fine production work of Tchad Blake and Mitchell Froom.) Dark, moody, and direct, it’s a record that takes a little time to absorb, and I admit I’m still taking it in; but it’s already clear it’s going to be one of the best albums of the year. Here’s some early impressions:
The first track, “All That Innocence”, sets the tone admirably with an optigan-like percussion loop and counterpoint guitar melodies that set a barren stage for a vocal that might have sounded overly dramatic in a more conventional setting but works wondrously well here; somewhere in the middle there’s a sublime wordless vocal and mellotron section, a few concise bars of heaven tossed to the wind.
The top of “24/7/365” announces that drums are going to be used a little more aggressively on this album, and on this song that’s a mixed blessing, as the martial snare approach seems a little at odds with the rest of the sonic landscape; but at least there is one, with some real atmosphere and some nice, slightly hard edge electric guitar, and Patty’s vocal still gratifyingly front and center.
“The Cranes” again plays with emptiness and silken guitars behind a commanding lyric: “If you’re thinking of leaving, you’re leaving at a very bad time” -one of several lines on this record that might not read like much, but somehow, in context, it sticks to you and stays in your head. This one’s more typically Patty than most of the rest, albeit still on the dark side.
Then we get to another high point, “Children”, which might be the best Lucinda Williams song anyone’s written since “Car Wheels on a Gravel Road.” Her singing veers in many different directions on this album, perhaps in the spirit of Paul McCartney in the later Beatle years (who was that masked man who sang “Lady Madonna”?) This approach could have come off as undisciplined and affected, but instead seems spontaneously adventuresome -which is to say, you go, girl.
“Italian Shoes” is more comfortingly Patty, with a bracing splash of Ani DeFranco, and why not? -Patty did it first, anyway. Again, there’s a lot of space in these songs, sometimes almost a dry, noir kind of thing, and it offsets the passion of her vocal style really nicely. She’s had this feel on other records, but it’s accentuated even more on this one by cutting back on the window dressing -the arrangements are lean and mean, perhaps influenced by the downbeat Boston sound of folks like Morphine and the wonderful Merrie Amsterberg (who sings back-up harmonies on the record and opens Patty’s Cambridge show at Sanders Theater this Friday, February 21st (let’s charter a bus!!)
“Birmingham” is a little too much of a power ballad for me, but it almost works... it’s actually very pretty, and sounds great, lots of great elements, but in the end it comes out a little too Bryan Adams-y or something (I know I’ll be shot for that comment, and that I should be. In fact, what the hell, I’ll shoot myself -not this week, though.) And I don’t remember “Too Bad” that well -I think I was still trying to figure out how I felt about “Birmingham.”
Then we finally get to “Home”, an absolutely gorgeous acoustic ballad with just Patty and her guitar that is perfect, stunning, and short -I love it. There might be a tiny little touch of Rodgers and Hammerstein somewhere on this -at least I hope so. Hot on its heels is “Different World”, which sounds like a Richard Thompson steal to me (I know Patty’s a big fan, and so am I.) This one involves big (but, thank god, not huge) drums and ringing electric guitar lines and lots of dynamics, capped by a delightful baroque ending.
“Normal” is probably my favorite song on the record (so far), a tune at once so simple and yet so different from anything else. It almost sounds like the Eyesores, in their alternative/Astor Piazzolla mode: perfect, spooky, sparse, strange, and beautiful -this one is alone worth the price of admission. It’s followed by the title cut, a very pretty but not particularly noteworthy acoustic guitar and vocal fragment.
Next is one of those great little slices of pop heaven, as a slightly odd intro blossoms in to a Pretenders-like ringing guitar riff and rockin’ drum beat on “Inside Your Painting”-not overdone for a second, though, despite the line “you’re playing harmonica, I’m reading erotica”, which is absurdly memorable. Like I say, all an album needs nowadays to standout are a couple of songs this good; “Red = Luck” has five or six -phew!
“St. Augustine” could be bluegrass or celtic or -what the hell? She’s bamboozled us again! And the closing “Louder” not only rocks -its got a gypsy section!
Just buy the damn thing -I’m tired of tellin’ you!
Friday, February 14, 2003
Cupid's Arrow Hits Gym
I went to a gym tonight, for a second. Phew!
I was helping another friend of mine (an older person like myself) put up some fliers for his rock and roll band. Well, not helping him exactly - actually, I ended up doing it instead of him. He's told me on many occasions that the thing he hates most in life, now that he's an older musician type, is putting up fliers in his home town for his rock 'n roll band -he says it's the single experience in life he finds most humbling. So, to get him to shut up, I said, oh, Christ, fine then, I'll do it; give me the damn things.
There's only one thing in life worse than being middle-aged and putting up fliers for your rock 'n roll band, and that's being middle-aged and putting up fliers for your stupid friend's rock 'n roll band; I mean, how dumb can you get? Is there anything more pathetic in life than an actual musician?
So I go out there, in the snow, with my thumb tacks and broken tape dispenser (this is a quandary in itself: sure, it's broken, and a new one is only $1.29, but I've hardly used any of the roll -am I supposed to just toss it or what?) I don't know where I'm supposed to go; it has been ages since I've flyered.
I pull in for a donut at Dunkin' Donuts in Orleans, and on the way out I have to wait for a couple of cars backing out of Willy's Gym, long enough that I consider the idea of popping in there to put up a flyer -after all, it's a clientele that's at least ambulatory. I park; I go in.
There's about five hundred people in there, in the biggest room I've ever seen, working out on machines. Normal, regular looking people, strapped in to an assortment of dire-looking harnesses. The room goes on forever. Actually, it used to be Star Market. There are actually as many people exercising in this room right now as there were buying food twenty years ago. What the hell? I'm frightened. I start to babble; I drop my thumbtacks. I'm in there for about two minutes, yet I will never be the same. Either that, or I always will.
I start to think about my wife (or, more accurately, I resume thinking about my wife), who is not married to a nice looking person, or even to a person who is even thinking about trying not to get any worse looking. (Some of you may remember my wife from previous columns: gorgeous, celestial, perfect, loves animals and long walks in the other direction; keeps me from ever being bored or serious for too long or restless or being able once ever to predict anything about her; knows what I need at all times, and that it's best not to give it to me. Has figured out somehow how to always be hilarious and fascinating and lovely.
Cooks sparingly. Disagrees with me about colors. Hates when I write about her, especially when I just make up stuff about her -especially last week. Has no idea how utterly dependent I am on her at every moment, or how thoroughly much she enthralls me, luckily. Her- Mrs. K. I would post flyers for her band (if she had one), every day (if I had to), just to maintain proximity. The flyers could say anything she wanted.
I like her. We're friends. I tricked her into going out with me, and then marrying me, and then not divorcing me, somehow. I don't know how I did it. Even I think I'm a genius sometimes.)
I love her, is the real truth. She still makes me feel like I'm fifteen (funny how it's always your oldest friends that make you feel the youngest), and I'd like to take this opportunity to ask her, in the face of God and up to possibly as many as forty or fifty readers (or, at least, users), tops, if she will please be my valentine, despite the fact that just being in Willy's Gym made me nervous enough to drop my thumbtacks. Though I may be a burnt out husk of a man, I ask her to find a use for this husk, and to remember that this might be one way to keep the corn fresh.
As for local music, well, there isn't any for this week, really, except the music in my heart for her, which is protected by my burnt-out husk.
Oh, oh, right, except for one thing: the new Patty Larkin album is amazing, and possibly the best thing she's ever done (which is saying something.) It's bold, dark, and sensational, and I'll try to explain next week how badly you all need one; but why wait, there's no point in trying to resist, buy it ("Red=Luck", on Vanguard) right away! Along with the Rhino re-issue of Randy Newman's "Good Old Boys" (which includes an entire extra disc of Randy's solo blueprint for the original album with extra songs and Randy laying out the plot line.)
I'd also suggest purchasing a copy of Jonathan Safran Foer's remarkable book, "Everything is Illuminated." There you go: three sublime, deep, romantic pieces of art that will still fail to make you as happy and interested on Valentine's Day as I am. Ha!
I was helping another friend of mine (an older person like myself) put up some fliers for his rock and roll band. Well, not helping him exactly - actually, I ended up doing it instead of him. He's told me on many occasions that the thing he hates most in life, now that he's an older musician type, is putting up fliers in his home town for his rock 'n roll band -he says it's the single experience in life he finds most humbling. So, to get him to shut up, I said, oh, Christ, fine then, I'll do it; give me the damn things.
There's only one thing in life worse than being middle-aged and putting up fliers for your rock 'n roll band, and that's being middle-aged and putting up fliers for your stupid friend's rock 'n roll band; I mean, how dumb can you get? Is there anything more pathetic in life than an actual musician?
So I go out there, in the snow, with my thumb tacks and broken tape dispenser (this is a quandary in itself: sure, it's broken, and a new one is only $1.29, but I've hardly used any of the roll -am I supposed to just toss it or what?) I don't know where I'm supposed to go; it has been ages since I've flyered.
I pull in for a donut at Dunkin' Donuts in Orleans, and on the way out I have to wait for a couple of cars backing out of Willy's Gym, long enough that I consider the idea of popping in there to put up a flyer -after all, it's a clientele that's at least ambulatory. I park; I go in.
There's about five hundred people in there, in the biggest room I've ever seen, working out on machines. Normal, regular looking people, strapped in to an assortment of dire-looking harnesses. The room goes on forever. Actually, it used to be Star Market. There are actually as many people exercising in this room right now as there were buying food twenty years ago. What the hell? I'm frightened. I start to babble; I drop my thumbtacks. I'm in there for about two minutes, yet I will never be the same. Either that, or I always will.
I start to think about my wife (or, more accurately, I resume thinking about my wife), who is not married to a nice looking person, or even to a person who is even thinking about trying not to get any worse looking. (Some of you may remember my wife from previous columns: gorgeous, celestial, perfect, loves animals and long walks in the other direction; keeps me from ever being bored or serious for too long or restless or being able once ever to predict anything about her; knows what I need at all times, and that it's best not to give it to me. Has figured out somehow how to always be hilarious and fascinating and lovely.
Cooks sparingly. Disagrees with me about colors. Hates when I write about her, especially when I just make up stuff about her -especially last week. Has no idea how utterly dependent I am on her at every moment, or how thoroughly much she enthralls me, luckily. Her- Mrs. K. I would post flyers for her band (if she had one), every day (if I had to), just to maintain proximity. The flyers could say anything she wanted.
I like her. We're friends. I tricked her into going out with me, and then marrying me, and then not divorcing me, somehow. I don't know how I did it. Even I think I'm a genius sometimes.)
I love her, is the real truth. She still makes me feel like I'm fifteen (funny how it's always your oldest friends that make you feel the youngest), and I'd like to take this opportunity to ask her, in the face of God and up to possibly as many as forty or fifty readers (or, at least, users), tops, if she will please be my valentine, despite the fact that just being in Willy's Gym made me nervous enough to drop my thumbtacks. Though I may be a burnt out husk of a man, I ask her to find a use for this husk, and to remember that this might be one way to keep the corn fresh.
As for local music, well, there isn't any for this week, really, except the music in my heart for her, which is protected by my burnt-out husk.
Oh, oh, right, except for one thing: the new Patty Larkin album is amazing, and possibly the best thing she's ever done (which is saying something.) It's bold, dark, and sensational, and I'll try to explain next week how badly you all need one; but why wait, there's no point in trying to resist, buy it ("Red=Luck", on Vanguard) right away! Along with the Rhino re-issue of Randy Newman's "Good Old Boys" (which includes an entire extra disc of Randy's solo blueprint for the original album with extra songs and Randy laying out the plot line.)
I'd also suggest purchasing a copy of Jonathan Safran Foer's remarkable book, "Everything is Illuminated." There you go: three sublime, deep, romantic pieces of art that will still fail to make you as happy and interested on Valentine's Day as I am. Ha!
Friday, February 7, 2003
Girls Gone Wild
Can I be honest with you?
You seem like such a nice person; I hope it won’t seem presumptuous of me to say that. I just sort of need to talk to somebody, because I’m a little worried about something; well, maybe not worried, but concerned. No, worried.
You see, what’s happening is that I’m always catching Mrs. Kelp passed out in front of “Girls Gone Wild, Doggy Style” lately. I’m tempted to worry that this might mean Mrs. Kelp (to whom, incidentally, I am more than wedded, I am besotted, bewildernessed, and electrocuted; she enriches my every wretched synapse through the freezing cold terrible horribleness, like a terrier) is actually further into urban rap than I originally figured (after all, she is one fine, foxy lady); but it turns out that “Girls Gone Wild” just takes over on the channel she’s always falling asleep to late at night. So there is an explanation for it!
The thing is, I think it sort of makes her look bad. Once you get to a certain point in life, you just tend to worry when your wife watches “Girls Gone Wild, Doggy Style” more than twice a week. I mean, I’m not a young man anymore -and neither is she. What with Valentine’s Day less than a fortnight away, I’m a little nervous (and all the more so because I’m not all that sure how long a fortnight is.)
This isn’t the only problem I have with her viewing habits, either: why, earlier tonight she tried to get me to watch both “Just Shoot Me” and “Suddenly Seeking Susan” -in a row! (It’s worth mentioning that the latter features both Judd Nelson and Brooke Shields -in one show!) And I did try -because I do love her -but I did not succeed, because no one but her could possibly do such a thing. When I returned later, and she was dozing away to “Girls Gone Wild, Doggy Style”, I was positively relieved.
Then again, I suppose everyone is running a little ragged, what with the freezing cold terrible cold terribleness we’ve all been enduring lately. A friend called recently to regale me with the details of the Phil Spector murder case, but I was too busy watching “Joe Millionaire” to come to the phone. Winter is a horrible, agonizing platter of icy horrendous awfulness, but, you have to admit, it sure makes the rest of the year look pretty good. What we need around here is... more cowbell.
We also could use the return of “The Cheap Seats”, one of Cape Cod’s most beloved local music programs, which was recently canceled rather unceremoniously by WKPE. On contacting the show’s hostess and creator, Cat, last week, I was not able to glean much about the reason’s for the show’s sudden departure; it was clear that she didn’t feel at liberty to divulge much about the circumstances.
Cat has always been an ardent supporter and booster of the local scene, though, and it couldn’t hurt to contact the station at this point and give her a little support in return (not sure what ‘KPE has going for email, but their phone # is 508-790-3772.) For her part, Cat recommended supporting the other local music shows, like Suzanne Tonnaire’s Sunday night show on WPXC and Sue LaVallee’s Friday afternoon soiree on WKKL; she also said she’ll still be out there doing her bit wherever she can.
The good news is that Wellfleet’s Patty Larkin has a new album out called “Red = Luck” (Vanguard), and it’s adventuresome enough that I’ll need a few more listens before I can attempt an appraisal. What’s obvious early on is that she’s trying out some interesting new ideas, and even rocking a little harder in spots -all of which sounds encouraging to me.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t have any local dates scheduled in the near future, but she is playing at Sanders Theater in Cambridge on Friday, February 21st, with the wonderful Merrie Amsterberg (who also appears on her album) opening. If you’ve never been to Sanders Theater, it’s gorgeous and intimate and it sounds wonderful -well worth a trip over the bridge!
Next week: part one of a hard-hitting twelve part expose on why fudge isn’t as good as it used to be -stay tuned!
You seem like such a nice person; I hope it won’t seem presumptuous of me to say that. I just sort of need to talk to somebody, because I’m a little worried about something; well, maybe not worried, but concerned. No, worried.
You see, what’s happening is that I’m always catching Mrs. Kelp passed out in front of “Girls Gone Wild, Doggy Style” lately. I’m tempted to worry that this might mean Mrs. Kelp (to whom, incidentally, I am more than wedded, I am besotted, bewildernessed, and electrocuted; she enriches my every wretched synapse through the freezing cold terrible horribleness, like a terrier) is actually further into urban rap than I originally figured (after all, she is one fine, foxy lady); but it turns out that “Girls Gone Wild” just takes over on the channel she’s always falling asleep to late at night. So there is an explanation for it!
The thing is, I think it sort of makes her look bad. Once you get to a certain point in life, you just tend to worry when your wife watches “Girls Gone Wild, Doggy Style” more than twice a week. I mean, I’m not a young man anymore -and neither is she. What with Valentine’s Day less than a fortnight away, I’m a little nervous (and all the more so because I’m not all that sure how long a fortnight is.)
This isn’t the only problem I have with her viewing habits, either: why, earlier tonight she tried to get me to watch both “Just Shoot Me” and “Suddenly Seeking Susan” -in a row! (It’s worth mentioning that the latter features both Judd Nelson and Brooke Shields -in one show!) And I did try -because I do love her -but I did not succeed, because no one but her could possibly do such a thing. When I returned later, and she was dozing away to “Girls Gone Wild, Doggy Style”, I was positively relieved.
Then again, I suppose everyone is running a little ragged, what with the freezing cold terrible cold terribleness we’ve all been enduring lately. A friend called recently to regale me with the details of the Phil Spector murder case, but I was too busy watching “Joe Millionaire” to come to the phone. Winter is a horrible, agonizing platter of icy horrendous awfulness, but, you have to admit, it sure makes the rest of the year look pretty good. What we need around here is... more cowbell.
We also could use the return of “The Cheap Seats”, one of Cape Cod’s most beloved local music programs, which was recently canceled rather unceremoniously by WKPE. On contacting the show’s hostess and creator, Cat, last week, I was not able to glean much about the reason’s for the show’s sudden departure; it was clear that she didn’t feel at liberty to divulge much about the circumstances.
Cat has always been an ardent supporter and booster of the local scene, though, and it couldn’t hurt to contact the station at this point and give her a little support in return (not sure what ‘KPE has going for email, but their phone # is 508-790-3772.) For her part, Cat recommended supporting the other local music shows, like Suzanne Tonnaire’s Sunday night show on WPXC and Sue LaVallee’s Friday afternoon soiree on WKKL; she also said she’ll still be out there doing her bit wherever she can.
The good news is that Wellfleet’s Patty Larkin has a new album out called “Red = Luck” (Vanguard), and it’s adventuresome enough that I’ll need a few more listens before I can attempt an appraisal. What’s obvious early on is that she’s trying out some interesting new ideas, and even rocking a little harder in spots -all of which sounds encouraging to me.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t have any local dates scheduled in the near future, but she is playing at Sanders Theater in Cambridge on Friday, February 21st, with the wonderful Merrie Amsterberg (who also appears on her album) opening. If you’ve never been to Sanders Theater, it’s gorgeous and intimate and it sounds wonderful -well worth a trip over the bridge!
Next week: part one of a hard-hitting twelve part expose on why fudge isn’t as good as it used to be -stay tuned!
Friday, January 31, 2003
January Sucks, And You Do, Too
OK, look, it's the very tippy-tip end of January, and I have been so nice about it. Have I mentioned the intense and horrible cold and awful snow that will not go away because of the constant, depressing intense and horrible freezingness? Only once, last week, and pretty briefly for me. I HAVE BEEN AN ANGEL about all this, this... weather, and that is so over!!! It's time someone spoke out: I need warmer weather now, and I'm willing to kill to get it. And I will NOT write this kolumn under these condition. I can not.
I am, after all, an artist, am I not?
Nope, OK, I see what you mean. We will begin dred kolumn. Hopefully, my hatred of everything at this moment will just whistle by harmlessly, without decapitating any innocent passersby.
They had the superbowl last week; one of those teams won, I think it was Florida.
June from across the street called up last night and said they had some new kind of Cheetos down at the Superette she thought we might like and did we want some and when and what for and could she be any help about it or would we have to just get them ourselves? and I said, yeah, probably might be better if she didn't go to too much trouble on our account I think or something.
Winter on cape cod is a quiet time for many of us. It's beautiful, if you like freezing horrible cold terrible terribleness; and sort of pensive, as in, omigod, when will it be over? I remember when I first moved out here, it took me a while to get used to these long, quiet winters, when nothing good ever happens. Of course, now that I'm more used to them, I really hate them. You have to live out here for a good, long while before you can be as sick and tired of all this as people who have lived out here for a good long while.
I do get a little cranky this time of year. Mrs. Kelp, who skates, and has an almost Sonya Henie-like elfish fragility to her (especially from this angle), sometimes has to restrain me from lighting the dogs (which she does effortlessly, with a firm, well-placed swat.) .
Hey! Good news! We're at the halfway point! Let's all take a little stretch and get a snack...
OK, back to work.
Remember a few weeks ago when I said that I thought music -new music, anyway -was actually sort of improving? You don't? Well, good. It isn't. I was wrong. What a weird thing to say!
I mean, for a critic to actually say something was improving -you must've known something was wrong with me. I actually moonlight as a musician, too, occasionally -disgusting to admit, but it's true; I never told you that before, did I? Of course, both as a musician and a critic, I hate to admit anyone else is good; as a critic, because that means I can't disparage them; and as a musician because of just regular petty jealousy and hatred.
I have to admit, though, that I've played with way more great new bands and musicians this year than at any time over the past 30 years. It used to be that you could depend on hating random opening acts, but this year, for the first time, I think I actually liked more of the bands than I hated. Strange. I don't trust it either. Can't be true.
Maybe I'm just getting soft, but if that were true, I'd think movies had gotten better, too... movies sucked this year, except for "Aberdeen", "Big Bad Love", "Amelie", "Waking Life", "Door to Door", and a handful of others; but CDs may have actually gotten slightly better (which starts to make sense if you remember what a bad year it was for the record companies.) They're still not great, and it's hard to find ones that work all the way through, but so many folks are coming up with promising new ideas that I'm actually kind of encouraged. Spookie Daly Pride, the Eyesores, Vic Thrill, the Hives, Norah Jones, Bleu, Lightning Bolt, Shari Elf, the Shins, Amy Fairchild -that's a pretty good crop of young-uns for one year. On the other hand, vets like Beck, Flaming Lips, Los Lobos, Of Montreal, and James Taylor came through with compelling work, too There even seems to be a smidgen less ego and hooey (we seem to have gotten over rooting for whoever could drink and take the most drugs and make the biggest mess of themselves and keep strumming -which certainly explains why no one will hire me lately); likewise, angst is at less of a premium, which is OK by me, too.
But, you know, I'm changing my mind again about last year: it stank. Any year that ends with the death of Joe Strummer is not a year we need to hear any more about again. It's not that hard to find good bands, but the Clash were indispensable. He wasn't done, and we'll miss him a lot.
I am, after all, an artist, am I not?
Nope, OK, I see what you mean. We will begin dred kolumn. Hopefully, my hatred of everything at this moment will just whistle by harmlessly, without decapitating any innocent passersby.
They had the superbowl last week; one of those teams won, I think it was Florida.
June from across the street called up last night and said they had some new kind of Cheetos down at the Superette she thought we might like and did we want some and when and what for and could she be any help about it or would we have to just get them ourselves? and I said, yeah, probably might be better if she didn't go to too much trouble on our account I think or something.
Winter on cape cod is a quiet time for many of us. It's beautiful, if you like freezing horrible cold terrible terribleness; and sort of pensive, as in, omigod, when will it be over? I remember when I first moved out here, it took me a while to get used to these long, quiet winters, when nothing good ever happens. Of course, now that I'm more used to them, I really hate them. You have to live out here for a good, long while before you can be as sick and tired of all this as people who have lived out here for a good long while.
I do get a little cranky this time of year. Mrs. Kelp, who skates, and has an almost Sonya Henie-like elfish fragility to her (especially from this angle), sometimes has to restrain me from lighting the dogs (which she does effortlessly, with a firm, well-placed swat.) .
Hey! Good news! We're at the halfway point! Let's all take a little stretch and get a snack...
OK, back to work.
Remember a few weeks ago when I said that I thought music -new music, anyway -was actually sort of improving? You don't? Well, good. It isn't. I was wrong. What a weird thing to say!
I mean, for a critic to actually say something was improving -you must've known something was wrong with me. I actually moonlight as a musician, too, occasionally -disgusting to admit, but it's true; I never told you that before, did I? Of course, both as a musician and a critic, I hate to admit anyone else is good; as a critic, because that means I can't disparage them; and as a musician because of just regular petty jealousy and hatred.
I have to admit, though, that I've played with way more great new bands and musicians this year than at any time over the past 30 years. It used to be that you could depend on hating random opening acts, but this year, for the first time, I think I actually liked more of the bands than I hated. Strange. I don't trust it either. Can't be true.
Maybe I'm just getting soft, but if that were true, I'd think movies had gotten better, too... movies sucked this year, except for "Aberdeen", "Big Bad Love", "Amelie", "Waking Life", "Door to Door", and a handful of others; but CDs may have actually gotten slightly better (which starts to make sense if you remember what a bad year it was for the record companies.) They're still not great, and it's hard to find ones that work all the way through, but so many folks are coming up with promising new ideas that I'm actually kind of encouraged. Spookie Daly Pride, the Eyesores, Vic Thrill, the Hives, Norah Jones, Bleu, Lightning Bolt, Shari Elf, the Shins, Amy Fairchild -that's a pretty good crop of young-uns for one year. On the other hand, vets like Beck, Flaming Lips, Los Lobos, Of Montreal, and James Taylor came through with compelling work, too There even seems to be a smidgen less ego and hooey (we seem to have gotten over rooting for whoever could drink and take the most drugs and make the biggest mess of themselves and keep strumming -which certainly explains why no one will hire me lately); likewise, angst is at less of a premium, which is OK by me, too.
But, you know, I'm changing my mind again about last year: it stank. Any year that ends with the death of Joe Strummer is not a year we need to hear any more about again. It's not that hard to find good bands, but the Clash were indispensable. He wasn't done, and we'll miss him a lot.
Friday, January 24, 2003
The Kelp Challenge
OK, I stayed up really late last night trying to think of anything to write about and failed miserably, so today I did what I do whenever I'm absolutely desperate for something to do in the kolumn: I emailed some total bonehead questions to a typically fascinating assortment of the local musicianry. In fact, I issued the Kelp Challenge. Are you ready to take the Kelp Challenge?
The questions involved were as cheerful as I could make them, considering that there's hardly anywhere for local musicians to work in the winter, which leaves them all starving, hopeless, and shivering in the miserable freezing cold. Just to make it a little more excruciating, I decided on a multiple-choice format:
#1 - What the hell's wrong with you today?
a.) Got my head caught in a vat of lard.
b.) Depressed about having no life.
c.) Can't get band hired anywhere but the Land Ho.
d.) OTHER (please specify):
#2 - It's clearly too cold to live. If you were going to kill yourself this week, what method would you choose?
a.) Jump off a cliff.
b.) Drug overdose.
c.) Get my head caught in a vat of lard.
d.) OTHER (please specify):
#3 - How do you like them apples?
a.) Not much.
b.) Fine.
c.) What apples?
d.) OTHER (don't specify):
EXTRA CREDIT:
#4 - What would be your favorite way to destroy your computer?
a.) Throw it off a cliff.
b.) Cast it into the ocean.
c.) Smash it to smithereens with baseball bat.
d.) OTHER (please specify):
My first respondent was Pat Healy of the Providence band International Pen Pal, who will be one of six bands playing at the White Electric Benefit this Saturday (1/25) at Monahassett Mill in Providence with The Eyesores, Uno, Mahi Mahi, Ur Dog, and Pleasurehorse. Unfortunately, I had to disqualify Pat from the competition because he used the same answer ("d.) - Burned at the stake") for two different questions (#2 and #4.)
Bruce Maclean of the Maplewoods (who will appear this Saturday at the Land Ho in Orleans) made the same mistake on the same two questions with the answer, "tequila", and likewise was disqualified, thus drastically narrowing the field.
Jennifer Kimball, former member of the Story and current member of the Cambridge band Maybe Baby (who recently released their debut album, "What Matters"-more info at www.maybebaby.net), came up with a couple terrific answers to questions #3 and 4, saying that she wanted "to go hurling with the computer on the local basketball court. Get some little sweepers out to smooth the way..." and that she had just been writing a line in a song that went "bobbing for apples in a bathtub of pears" so she likes them apples. Unfortunately, she completely ignored the first two questions, so I was forced to give her an incomplete.
Even so, she had a slightly more complete incomplete than the Maplewoods' Jay Cournoyer, who worried that his answers might scare the other children, and so didn't submit any. He didn't say so, but I happen to know he's putting the finishing touches on his solo debut as well.
This brought us down to the last two entrants, Randy Frost (of Boom Boom Baby, who'll be at the Regatta in Fall River this Saturday, and at the Land Ho next Thursday, Jan. 30, and the Chatham Squire Friday, Jan. 31), and his Eastham neighbor P. J. O'Connell (who won't, though he does have a fine new CD called "Happy Go Lucky" out on the Edisun label -more info from P.J. himself at pigboy@cape.com -which features all the fellers from NRBQ; he said he vows to get the CD "out to press and radio before Presidents Day Weekend" and that he'll also "put up a poster at the Superette."
In the end, Frost barely nosed out O'Connell with the idea of hanging himself with his guitar cable, and with the following inventive answer to #4: "I would fill my hard drive with my own brand of music which I describe as a cross between industrial death metal, disco, polka and Tasmanian sheep herding music. This would cause a sonic and digital disaster so ugly that the computer would implode", even though O'Connell was impressive on #2, suggesting that he might die of "spontaneous combustion on a whale watch."
Congratulations to all our players this week, all of whom took the Kelp Challenge, and thank god that's over!
The questions involved were as cheerful as I could make them, considering that there's hardly anywhere for local musicians to work in the winter, which leaves them all starving, hopeless, and shivering in the miserable freezing cold. Just to make it a little more excruciating, I decided on a multiple-choice format:
#1 - What the hell's wrong with you today?
a.) Got my head caught in a vat of lard.
b.) Depressed about having no life.
c.) Can't get band hired anywhere but the Land Ho.
d.) OTHER (please specify):
#2 - It's clearly too cold to live. If you were going to kill yourself this week, what method would you choose?
a.) Jump off a cliff.
b.) Drug overdose.
c.) Get my head caught in a vat of lard.
d.) OTHER (please specify):
#3 - How do you like them apples?
a.) Not much.
b.) Fine.
c.) What apples?
d.) OTHER (don't specify):
EXTRA CREDIT:
#4 - What would be your favorite way to destroy your computer?
a.) Throw it off a cliff.
b.) Cast it into the ocean.
c.) Smash it to smithereens with baseball bat.
d.) OTHER (please specify):
My first respondent was Pat Healy of the Providence band International Pen Pal, who will be one of six bands playing at the White Electric Benefit this Saturday (1/25) at Monahassett Mill in Providence with The Eyesores, Uno, Mahi Mahi, Ur Dog, and Pleasurehorse. Unfortunately, I had to disqualify Pat from the competition because he used the same answer ("d.) - Burned at the stake") for two different questions (#2 and #4.)
Bruce Maclean of the Maplewoods (who will appear this Saturday at the Land Ho in Orleans) made the same mistake on the same two questions with the answer, "tequila", and likewise was disqualified, thus drastically narrowing the field.
Jennifer Kimball, former member of the Story and current member of the Cambridge band Maybe Baby (who recently released their debut album, "What Matters"-more info at www.maybebaby.net), came up with a couple terrific answers to questions #3 and 4, saying that she wanted "to go hurling with the computer on the local basketball court. Get some little sweepers out to smooth the way..." and that she had just been writing a line in a song that went "bobbing for apples in a bathtub of pears" so she likes them apples. Unfortunately, she completely ignored the first two questions, so I was forced to give her an incomplete.
Even so, she had a slightly more complete incomplete than the Maplewoods' Jay Cournoyer, who worried that his answers might scare the other children, and so didn't submit any. He didn't say so, but I happen to know he's putting the finishing touches on his solo debut as well.
This brought us down to the last two entrants, Randy Frost (of Boom Boom Baby, who'll be at the Regatta in Fall River this Saturday, and at the Land Ho next Thursday, Jan. 30, and the Chatham Squire Friday, Jan. 31), and his Eastham neighbor P. J. O'Connell (who won't, though he does have a fine new CD called "Happy Go Lucky" out on the Edisun label -more info from P.J. himself at pigboy@cape.com -which features all the fellers from NRBQ; he said he vows to get the CD "out to press and radio before Presidents Day Weekend" and that he'll also "put up a poster at the Superette."
In the end, Frost barely nosed out O'Connell with the idea of hanging himself with his guitar cable, and with the following inventive answer to #4: "I would fill my hard drive with my own brand of music which I describe as a cross between industrial death metal, disco, polka and Tasmanian sheep herding music. This would cause a sonic and digital disaster so ugly that the computer would implode", even though O'Connell was impressive on #2, suggesting that he might die of "spontaneous combustion on a whale watch."
Congratulations to all our players this week, all of whom took the Kelp Challenge, and thank god that's over!
Friday, January 17, 2003
The Future
Uh-oh: apparently someone has made a combination television remote control/cordless phone. It's called the My1Remote. At last you can lose both your remote control and your cordless phone with one economical bout of forgetfulness! The tag line is, "Make a phone call while turning on the TV!" I figure you'd still have one free hand to turn on the garbage disposal or turn up the stereo -surely, at that point, the phone call would be entirely and efficiently neutralized, making it that much safer to stay home and watch -more TV!
This incredible innovation is being made available to us through the fine folks at YouCanSave.Com (a subsidiary of WhatTheHellLetsCapitalizeEverythingForNoReason.Net), and it comes to us at a time when most people would rather spend fifteen or twenty minutes searching through all their couch cushions and most of their laundry before they lower themselves to actually get up and touch the TV. Best of all - it only costs $69.95!
They even encourage you to order by phone, and of course I hope you all will. When you do, make sure you have your television turned up all the way -that way, they'll know they're on the right track.
I'm telling you, the future is going to be beautiful! Why, I can envision the day when you'll be able to turn everything on at once, make six simultaneous phone calls to people you've never even heard of, get them all worked up about who's calling and what's that awful racket, and then turn everything off again, just by clapping! There's no end to the things we might accomplish!
Yes, the future is always a swinging place. Why, only last night I not only ate but actually started to like sushi, for no good reason! As a friend pointed out, it'll probably be no time before I'm jogging and smoking cigars. I have truly started to embrace all things modern, only to discover that, ironically, not all modern things seek my embrace (in fact, some of them filed complaints.)
No sooner had I enjoyed sushi and considered my future as an architect/mountain climber/lacrosse dad than I was whisked off to Fall River to see Dan Hicks at the Narrows Center for the Arts with some of Mrs. Kelp's gay, madcap friends. (Mrs. Kelp herself, as some of you may recall, is a viciously erotic, cat-like seductress -the kind men kill for, albeit much more friendly, approachable, and down-to-earth than most seductresses.)
Even though many people think of Dan as a retro type, in fact he is also getting modern-er all the time.Word is that he has completely given up drinking, which, for him, is deeply and recklessly futuristic. This is a kinder and gentler Dan, almost chatty compared to the old version. Strangely enough, Dan has apparently decided to embrace the future by doing more scat-singing and dancing in his shows, proving once again that there are things in the future that science has no answer for.
I am also compelled to announce that I have a very close friend (ridiculously close, really) who is appearing in a play this month, namely Steve Martin's "Picasso at the Lapin Agile", which is at the Orleans Academy through February 2nd. I'm told his is a very small part, which is fortunate given his entirely estimable talents. (I won't name him -you go ahead.) Apparently, there are also some real actors in it, hopefully deployed strategically so as to conceal his efforts from the more discerning viewers. In fact, that must be the case, as they already got a good review, though that was in one of the other, lesser papers.
You'll find this week's kolumn a bit shorter than usual, due mostly to the future being such a zippy location. People in the future won't have time to read -they'll be too busy dancing and scat-singing. The future will be fast, sleek, and technologically impressive, but we're still years away from solving our frightening scat-singing problem.
This incredible innovation is being made available to us through the fine folks at YouCanSave.Com (a subsidiary of WhatTheHellLetsCapitalizeEverythingForNoReason.Net), and it comes to us at a time when most people would rather spend fifteen or twenty minutes searching through all their couch cushions and most of their laundry before they lower themselves to actually get up and touch the TV. Best of all - it only costs $69.95!
They even encourage you to order by phone, and of course I hope you all will. When you do, make sure you have your television turned up all the way -that way, they'll know they're on the right track.
I'm telling you, the future is going to be beautiful! Why, I can envision the day when you'll be able to turn everything on at once, make six simultaneous phone calls to people you've never even heard of, get them all worked up about who's calling and what's that awful racket, and then turn everything off again, just by clapping! There's no end to the things we might accomplish!
Yes, the future is always a swinging place. Why, only last night I not only ate but actually started to like sushi, for no good reason! As a friend pointed out, it'll probably be no time before I'm jogging and smoking cigars. I have truly started to embrace all things modern, only to discover that, ironically, not all modern things seek my embrace (in fact, some of them filed complaints.)
No sooner had I enjoyed sushi and considered my future as an architect/mountain climber/lacrosse dad than I was whisked off to Fall River to see Dan Hicks at the Narrows Center for the Arts with some of Mrs. Kelp's gay, madcap friends. (Mrs. Kelp herself, as some of you may recall, is a viciously erotic, cat-like seductress -the kind men kill for, albeit much more friendly, approachable, and down-to-earth than most seductresses.)
Even though many people think of Dan as a retro type, in fact he is also getting modern-er all the time.Word is that he has completely given up drinking, which, for him, is deeply and recklessly futuristic. This is a kinder and gentler Dan, almost chatty compared to the old version. Strangely enough, Dan has apparently decided to embrace the future by doing more scat-singing and dancing in his shows, proving once again that there are things in the future that science has no answer for.
I am also compelled to announce that I have a very close friend (ridiculously close, really) who is appearing in a play this month, namely Steve Martin's "Picasso at the Lapin Agile", which is at the Orleans Academy through February 2nd. I'm told his is a very small part, which is fortunate given his entirely estimable talents. (I won't name him -you go ahead.) Apparently, there are also some real actors in it, hopefully deployed strategically so as to conceal his efforts from the more discerning viewers. In fact, that must be the case, as they already got a good review, though that was in one of the other, lesser papers.
You'll find this week's kolumn a bit shorter than usual, due mostly to the future being such a zippy location. People in the future won't have time to read -they'll be too busy dancing and scat-singing. The future will be fast, sleek, and technologically impressive, but we're still years away from solving our frightening scat-singing problem.
Friday, January 10, 2003
Chris Smither's Foot
Chris Smither plays a mean foot. He also sings well, plays some pretty good guitar, and writes some fine songs. He does many things well, even effortlessly; but the greatest of these, is foot. (Incidentally, they'll be appearing together again locally this Saturday the eleventh, at the First Encounter Coffeehouse in Eastham.)
His most recent CD, 2000's "Live As I'll Ever Be", was recorded live with no overdubs, and really kind of features his foot, which more than rises to the challenge, giving a performance of majesty, precision, and personality in a situation that anyone with half a shoe might find pretty darn uncomfortable. After all, when the other elements are Smither's widely acclaimed guitar playing and his relaxed, soulful singing, it might be hard for a single one of the artist's justly revered dogs to make much of an impression.
Ah, but this is no ordinary toe-tapping. For one thing, Chris goes that extra mile. He recently confided to this reporter that for each performance he sets up a special piece of particle board, carefully selected for its complete lack of a musical tone, so that he doesn't have to rely on what can sometimes turn out to be bad-sounding floors. He transports this piece of particle board in a specially constructed Anvil case (actually, no, he doesn't; that last part isn't true, but it's a nice idea, isn't it?)
He also doesn't use a unique microphone that was manufactured by an obscure German company specifically to get a nice sound out of a boot -but he does mike his foot. Some would say that made him a loony, but they'd be the ones who had never heard this pulverizing pup.
Because Chris Smither's foot rocks! You really couldn't ask for a better percussionist: always tasteful, always understated, always laying that beat right on the floor where it belongs. His tempos always cozy, his drummer impeccable -and any good musician will tell you that having a great drummer is half the battle with a band. He gets a great sound, he stomps with a great feel, and not since the golden days of Mungo Jerry has there been a foot artist like him.
When I interviewed Chris a few days ago, he talked about his feet for hours, succumbing to my relentless probing; he even divulged that the shoes have to be "expensive, thin-soled, Italian shoes."
He also confided that he was well into the recording of a new album, working at Signature Sounds in Palmer on, among other things, a cover of Dylan's "Desolation Row." Needless to say, I immediately accused him of using a twelve minute song to disguise a lack of new material, but he said he had cut "Desolation Row" down to a more manageable 8 minutes, and that it would be one of eleven songs, seven of which were originals (the remainder being covers of Mississippi John Hurt, Dave Carter, and Buffalo Springfield); so I slunk back to my little hole.
Chris has a very relaxed, engaging presence, understated but firm, that lets you know you're in good hands, and he's a good enough solo performer that his fans sometimes complain when he adds other musicians for his recordings. It is true that the intimacy of his live shows seems to be the best setting for a lot of his material, but he enjoys the opportunity to use other musicians when it comes up, saying that "the albums needn't be a reflection of the live situation; I just can't always afford a band." Still, he makes it obvious that he still enjoys the solo stuff just as much.
His voice is interesting, too, because in an idiom (white acoustic folkie/blues) that is ruled by over-singing, Smither usually undersells. It's not a lack of intensity, because he's got that, but he's also got a certain patient grace, a vaguely southern (he grew up in New Orleans) sense of dignity.
And a darn fine right foot, that's never on 1 and 3 when it's supposed to be on 2 and 4, thank god!
His most recent CD, 2000's "Live As I'll Ever Be", was recorded live with no overdubs, and really kind of features his foot, which more than rises to the challenge, giving a performance of majesty, precision, and personality in a situation that anyone with half a shoe might find pretty darn uncomfortable. After all, when the other elements are Smither's widely acclaimed guitar playing and his relaxed, soulful singing, it might be hard for a single one of the artist's justly revered dogs to make much of an impression.
Ah, but this is no ordinary toe-tapping. For one thing, Chris goes that extra mile. He recently confided to this reporter that for each performance he sets up a special piece of particle board, carefully selected for its complete lack of a musical tone, so that he doesn't have to rely on what can sometimes turn out to be bad-sounding floors. He transports this piece of particle board in a specially constructed Anvil case (actually, no, he doesn't; that last part isn't true, but it's a nice idea, isn't it?)
He also doesn't use a unique microphone that was manufactured by an obscure German company specifically to get a nice sound out of a boot -but he does mike his foot. Some would say that made him a loony, but they'd be the ones who had never heard this pulverizing pup.
Because Chris Smither's foot rocks! You really couldn't ask for a better percussionist: always tasteful, always understated, always laying that beat right on the floor where it belongs. His tempos always cozy, his drummer impeccable -and any good musician will tell you that having a great drummer is half the battle with a band. He gets a great sound, he stomps with a great feel, and not since the golden days of Mungo Jerry has there been a foot artist like him.
When I interviewed Chris a few days ago, he talked about his feet for hours, succumbing to my relentless probing; he even divulged that the shoes have to be "expensive, thin-soled, Italian shoes."
He also confided that he was well into the recording of a new album, working at Signature Sounds in Palmer on, among other things, a cover of Dylan's "Desolation Row." Needless to say, I immediately accused him of using a twelve minute song to disguise a lack of new material, but he said he had cut "Desolation Row" down to a more manageable 8 minutes, and that it would be one of eleven songs, seven of which were originals (the remainder being covers of Mississippi John Hurt, Dave Carter, and Buffalo Springfield); so I slunk back to my little hole.
Chris has a very relaxed, engaging presence, understated but firm, that lets you know you're in good hands, and he's a good enough solo performer that his fans sometimes complain when he adds other musicians for his recordings. It is true that the intimacy of his live shows seems to be the best setting for a lot of his material, but he enjoys the opportunity to use other musicians when it comes up, saying that "the albums needn't be a reflection of the live situation; I just can't always afford a band." Still, he makes it obvious that he still enjoys the solo stuff just as much.
His voice is interesting, too, because in an idiom (white acoustic folkie/blues) that is ruled by over-singing, Smither usually undersells. It's not a lack of intensity, because he's got that, but he's also got a certain patient grace, a vaguely southern (he grew up in New Orleans) sense of dignity.
And a darn fine right foot, that's never on 1 and 3 when it's supposed to be on 2 and 4, thank god!
Optimism ?!?
Well, this week I'm confused about something else, of course, which is this band International Pen Pal, who play this Saturday at the Prodigal Sun with those local darlings of the bog, the Ticks.
Have you seen the Ticks? The Ticks -Julia Randall, Emma Levy, and Sue LaVallee -are an extremely personable girl rock combo (if you don't count perpetual male drummer Sam Wood, who just got off probation and plays like it, and by that I mean, LOUD.) (Not unlike his dad, Steve "Woo-Woo" Wood, known far and wide as perhaps the hardest rocking Cape Codder in history.) Anyway, with this one exception, the Ticks are way cute, not to mention colorfully and cunningly clothed and coifed in seething, twisted, poolside agreeability. And I really shouldn't be writing about any of these people because I know them all too well.
Which brings me back to International Pen Pal, who I've only met once or twice, and thus can at least consider trashing. Or at least could, if the lead singer wasn't a friend of my nephew's. I will say that the four-song EP I heard didn't really get me much until the last song, an uncredited home tape called "Barbara Spinelli", which I thought was fairly hilarious and enjoyed quite a bit. Dammit, now I have to listen to the whole thing all over again.
I might not bother, except they're also from Providence, home of Lightning Bolt and the Eyesores (who are also friends of my nephew's.) Some of these bands are very original and playful, perhaps even innovative, and if the whole scene somehow takes off, it may someday come to be known as the "Providence Sound", or, better yet, the "Friends of Kelp's Nephew Dudley's Sound."
OK, so, what the hell, I'll listen again.
Hmmm. Well, it does sound better than the first time. First song's kind of interesting -OK changes, some nice lines -not terrible, even! Second song still bothers me: there's a ferociously recorded, not particularly well-played bell part that pretty much sabotages the rest, and the bits which you do happen to catch don't sound too zesty. But I still like that last one quite well, and -surprise! -#3 turns out to be rather lovely and somewhat rockin' as well. Hmmm.
Singer Pat Healey is of the glamorous Eben Portnoy School of Righteous Vocalizing; he has the indie sound, as if he were Jeff Tweedy's raspless, geeky little brother. (It's worth pointing out that Wilco's leader in turn sounds like Paul Westerberg's geeky little brother -where will it end?) Healey's lyrics are best when he goes out on a limb, which he does frequently; unfortunately, they're also worst then, too.
The main thing is, they're at least using their heads and trying to do things differently, make something new. We're finally getting beyond the point where musicians could realistically do it for the money, so weeding out those guys should work out to everyone's advantage. There's even the possibility we might start to see less slick, imitative, posturing crap, and things might actually get interesting again.
In fact, they already have.
In my opinion, music is actually getting better -it's a miracle! I know it's more my job to tell you how much more dreary and tiresome everything is now than it used to be, but I am forced to admit there's actually signs of hope. I mean, I can't remember ever writing at the end of a year that things actually improved; but there it is, shameful, but arguably true!
This may partly be the effect of the damn internet, and the playing field evening out -which surprised us all by totally sucking at first, but now is providing some actual perks, increased diversity being one. People have to work harder to find the good stuff because there's so much garbage to sift through, but it's all free, and you don't even have to leave to leave your house to get it (although you still might have to to understand it.) Younger musicians are more and more all over the map stylistically, and they seem increasingly far-flung; yay!
Which means you end up with strange new bands like the Eyesores, who provide a bracing alternative take on the moody tango music of Astor Piazzolla. Certainly, their instrumentation, which includes viola, accordion, string bass, radio, and, at a recent live show, even a little french horn, is part of the fun; but the arrangements and vocals also manage to surprise consistently.
Again, they're young, and some of the edges are a bit rough -for instance, they usually seem to be better off without their drummer, who's not terrible, but you don't miss him when he's not there, and sometimes you wish you were missing him when he is. Still, they're already breaking some intriguing new ground, and I recommend their latest release, "Bent at the Waist" (on the Handsome label, probably most reachable through www.handsomerecords.com), to anyone looking for a break from the same old same old.
Have you seen the Ticks? The Ticks -Julia Randall, Emma Levy, and Sue LaVallee -are an extremely personable girl rock combo (if you don't count perpetual male drummer Sam Wood, who just got off probation and plays like it, and by that I mean, LOUD.) (Not unlike his dad, Steve "Woo-Woo" Wood, known far and wide as perhaps the hardest rocking Cape Codder in history.) Anyway, with this one exception, the Ticks are way cute, not to mention colorfully and cunningly clothed and coifed in seething, twisted, poolside agreeability. And I really shouldn't be writing about any of these people because I know them all too well.
Which brings me back to International Pen Pal, who I've only met once or twice, and thus can at least consider trashing. Or at least could, if the lead singer wasn't a friend of my nephew's. I will say that the four-song EP I heard didn't really get me much until the last song, an uncredited home tape called "Barbara Spinelli", which I thought was fairly hilarious and enjoyed quite a bit. Dammit, now I have to listen to the whole thing all over again.
I might not bother, except they're also from Providence, home of Lightning Bolt and the Eyesores (who are also friends of my nephew's.) Some of these bands are very original and playful, perhaps even innovative, and if the whole scene somehow takes off, it may someday come to be known as the "Providence Sound", or, better yet, the "Friends of Kelp's Nephew Dudley's Sound."
OK, so, what the hell, I'll listen again.
Hmmm. Well, it does sound better than the first time. First song's kind of interesting -OK changes, some nice lines -not terrible, even! Second song still bothers me: there's a ferociously recorded, not particularly well-played bell part that pretty much sabotages the rest, and the bits which you do happen to catch don't sound too zesty. But I still like that last one quite well, and -surprise! -#3 turns out to be rather lovely and somewhat rockin' as well. Hmmm.
Singer Pat Healey is of the glamorous Eben Portnoy School of Righteous Vocalizing; he has the indie sound, as if he were Jeff Tweedy's raspless, geeky little brother. (It's worth pointing out that Wilco's leader in turn sounds like Paul Westerberg's geeky little brother -where will it end?) Healey's lyrics are best when he goes out on a limb, which he does frequently; unfortunately, they're also worst then, too.
The main thing is, they're at least using their heads and trying to do things differently, make something new. We're finally getting beyond the point where musicians could realistically do it for the money, so weeding out those guys should work out to everyone's advantage. There's even the possibility we might start to see less slick, imitative, posturing crap, and things might actually get interesting again.
In fact, they already have.
In my opinion, music is actually getting better -it's a miracle! I know it's more my job to tell you how much more dreary and tiresome everything is now than it used to be, but I am forced to admit there's actually signs of hope. I mean, I can't remember ever writing at the end of a year that things actually improved; but there it is, shameful, but arguably true!
This may partly be the effect of the damn internet, and the playing field evening out -which surprised us all by totally sucking at first, but now is providing some actual perks, increased diversity being one. People have to work harder to find the good stuff because there's so much garbage to sift through, but it's all free, and you don't even have to leave to leave your house to get it (although you still might have to to understand it.) Younger musicians are more and more all over the map stylistically, and they seem increasingly far-flung; yay!
Which means you end up with strange new bands like the Eyesores, who provide a bracing alternative take on the moody tango music of Astor Piazzolla. Certainly, their instrumentation, which includes viola, accordion, string bass, radio, and, at a recent live show, even a little french horn, is part of the fun; but the arrangements and vocals also manage to surprise consistently.
Again, they're young, and some of the edges are a bit rough -for instance, they usually seem to be better off without their drummer, who's not terrible, but you don't miss him when he's not there, and sometimes you wish you were missing him when he is. Still, they're already breaking some intriguing new ground, and I recommend their latest release, "Bent at the Waist" (on the Handsome label, probably most reachable through www.handsomerecords.com), to anyone looking for a break from the same old same old.
Friday, January 3, 2003
Golddiggers of 2002
2002 was a boring year, and I'm glad it's over, but just because it was boring doesn't mean I'm finished talking about it. In fact, some good things happened; let's see if we can remember any of them. Nah, the hell with it.
Oh, OK for one thing, quite a few interesting new faces popped up: the Strokes, Nora Jones, Lightning Bolt, Liz Janes, Vic Thrill, Bleu, Shari Elf, the Shins, the Hives -we arguably had a very strong crop of rookies.
Kay Hanley (of the now-defunct Letters to Cleo) put out a fun solo record ("Cherry Marmalade" on Zoe); as did Amy Fairchild ("Mr. Heart" on So Fair); another old friend, Eben Portnoy (formerly of No Sientos) debuted his new band, the Napkins (you can get their latest homemade project, "I've Been Wading", through thenapkins@capecod.com.) Boston buddies Bleu and Ramona Silver also made worthy contributions ("Redhead" on Aware and "Death By Candy" on Fingerprints, respectively.)
My pal Dylan from Instant Karma in Orleans put me on to a wonderful jazz group from the Hartford area fronted by Warren Byrd and David Chevan, whose album "This Is the Afro-Semitic Experience" was one of the most enjoyable listens I had last year, not to mention pretty much the only contemporary jazz release that really intrigued me.
These guys add steel guitar (frequently in an almost southern gospel/sacred steel frame of mind) to the usual sax-piano-string bass-drums routine, which gets even more interesting when circumventing the considerable stylistic territory they've staked out of jazz-to-reggae-to-klezmer. Luckily, the musicians have the taste, wit, and talent to keep it all swinging without getting too pretentious. (Warning: this one's probably only available on cape at Instant Karma -which is on Rt. 6 in Orleans, roughly across from the Blockbuster/Staples lot -or perhaps through their website, www.chevan.addr.com.) It's well worth tracking down.
Some of the old timers came through with some good stuff, too, like Beck, James Taylor, Los Lobos, the Flatlanders, Flaming Lips, Of Montreal, Komeda, Daniel Johnston, and Bonnie Raitt. Jane Siberry released a "Best Of" collection on Rhino called "Love is Everything" that makes a reasonable attempt at condensing her large and interesting catalog (and also may help us get through a whole year with nothing new from local fave Patty Larkin.) Even Sir Paul McCartney's latest debacle has a couple of nice moments on it, particularly the lovely "Riding to Jaipur", festooned with psychedelia and Indian instruments as if to provide a fitting send-off to dear Sir George.
The treat of the year for me, though, wasn't even released this year -or last year, either. I admit, I'm really late on this one -it was released in 2000. Still, you must be made aware immediately that the Muffs' "Hamburger" (Sympathy for the Record Industry), which is basically an odds-and-ends comp, is as good as any of their regular releases (and, in fact, much better than their last, '99's "Alert Today, Alive Tomorrow"), and that means it's a total blast. If you don't know them, imagine a cross between the Shirelles and the Ramones, including real melodies and personality, plus considerable propulsion.
I would be re-miss if I didn't mention that the Muffs are Mrs. Kelp's new favorite group. Her old favorite group was the Beatles, who actually managed to hold down the job for about thirty-five years. (Mrs. Kelp has never been fickle or flighty when it comes to matters of great importance. I still remember the first words she ever said to me, way, way back toward the dawning of time. And what she was wearing. And what happened the next day, too; but it's private.)
So, one reason I'm telling you that this Muffs album is indispensable is because I've been instructed to, and here at Kelp Manor, we've learned the importance of following instructions. But it's also because the record is quite brilliant right through while most of the rest of this list is really just brilliant in spots. Just for the record, the other guys who keep it up the longest are James Taylor (if you like James Taylor), Lightning Bolt (if you like having your head explode in an extremely noisy and riotous manner), the Strokes (if you dig that retro, minimalist schtick), Nora Jones (whose warm, understated singing and minimal arrangements arguably overcome inconsistent songwriting), and Warren Byrd and David Chevan (if you like jazz.)
Locally, I saw great shows from Zoe Lewis and Jennifer Kimball, and more fine work from young up-and-comers like Lovewhip, the Mayocks, Earth Junior, Steve Wood (whose Sunday afternoon open house shows at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis are reputed to be good fun), and Philo Rockwell King III, whose merchandising is as much fun as his show (which is much fun.)
Why, only the other night I saw a new band from Providence called the Eyesores who were remarkably interesting and original. Their instrumentation includes viola, bass, accordion, and french horn, and they're creating a hybrid of Astor Piazzolla and what? maybe the Velvets again? Whatever it is, it's not boring. I don't know- there might still be hope for 2002, retrospectively.
Ditto for '03 -keep your fingers crossed.
Oh, OK for one thing, quite a few interesting new faces popped up: the Strokes, Nora Jones, Lightning Bolt, Liz Janes, Vic Thrill, Bleu, Shari Elf, the Shins, the Hives -we arguably had a very strong crop of rookies.
Kay Hanley (of the now-defunct Letters to Cleo) put out a fun solo record ("Cherry Marmalade" on Zoe); as did Amy Fairchild ("Mr. Heart" on So Fair); another old friend, Eben Portnoy (formerly of No Sientos) debuted his new band, the Napkins (you can get their latest homemade project, "I've Been Wading", through thenapkins@capecod.com.) Boston buddies Bleu and Ramona Silver also made worthy contributions ("Redhead" on Aware and "Death By Candy" on Fingerprints, respectively.)
My pal Dylan from Instant Karma in Orleans put me on to a wonderful jazz group from the Hartford area fronted by Warren Byrd and David Chevan, whose album "This Is the Afro-Semitic Experience" was one of the most enjoyable listens I had last year, not to mention pretty much the only contemporary jazz release that really intrigued me.
These guys add steel guitar (frequently in an almost southern gospel/sacred steel frame of mind) to the usual sax-piano-string bass-drums routine, which gets even more interesting when circumventing the considerable stylistic territory they've staked out of jazz-to-reggae-to-klezmer. Luckily, the musicians have the taste, wit, and talent to keep it all swinging without getting too pretentious. (Warning: this one's probably only available on cape at Instant Karma -which is on Rt. 6 in Orleans, roughly across from the Blockbuster/Staples lot -or perhaps through their website, www.chevan.addr.com.) It's well worth tracking down.
Some of the old timers came through with some good stuff, too, like Beck, James Taylor, Los Lobos, the Flatlanders, Flaming Lips, Of Montreal, Komeda, Daniel Johnston, and Bonnie Raitt. Jane Siberry released a "Best Of" collection on Rhino called "Love is Everything" that makes a reasonable attempt at condensing her large and interesting catalog (and also may help us get through a whole year with nothing new from local fave Patty Larkin.) Even Sir Paul McCartney's latest debacle has a couple of nice moments on it, particularly the lovely "Riding to Jaipur", festooned with psychedelia and Indian instruments as if to provide a fitting send-off to dear Sir George.
The treat of the year for me, though, wasn't even released this year -or last year, either. I admit, I'm really late on this one -it was released in 2000. Still, you must be made aware immediately that the Muffs' "Hamburger" (Sympathy for the Record Industry), which is basically an odds-and-ends comp, is as good as any of their regular releases (and, in fact, much better than their last, '99's "Alert Today, Alive Tomorrow"), and that means it's a total blast. If you don't know them, imagine a cross between the Shirelles and the Ramones, including real melodies and personality, plus considerable propulsion.
I would be re-miss if I didn't mention that the Muffs are Mrs. Kelp's new favorite group. Her old favorite group was the Beatles, who actually managed to hold down the job for about thirty-five years. (Mrs. Kelp has never been fickle or flighty when it comes to matters of great importance. I still remember the first words she ever said to me, way, way back toward the dawning of time. And what she was wearing. And what happened the next day, too; but it's private.)
So, one reason I'm telling you that this Muffs album is indispensable is because I've been instructed to, and here at Kelp Manor, we've learned the importance of following instructions. But it's also because the record is quite brilliant right through while most of the rest of this list is really just brilliant in spots. Just for the record, the other guys who keep it up the longest are James Taylor (if you like James Taylor), Lightning Bolt (if you like having your head explode in an extremely noisy and riotous manner), the Strokes (if you dig that retro, minimalist schtick), Nora Jones (whose warm, understated singing and minimal arrangements arguably overcome inconsistent songwriting), and Warren Byrd and David Chevan (if you like jazz.)
Locally, I saw great shows from Zoe Lewis and Jennifer Kimball, and more fine work from young up-and-comers like Lovewhip, the Mayocks, Earth Junior, Steve Wood (whose Sunday afternoon open house shows at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis are reputed to be good fun), and Philo Rockwell King III, whose merchandising is as much fun as his show (which is much fun.)
Why, only the other night I saw a new band from Providence called the Eyesores who were remarkably interesting and original. Their instrumentation includes viola, bass, accordion, and french horn, and they're creating a hybrid of Astor Piazzolla and what? maybe the Velvets again? Whatever it is, it's not boring. I don't know- there might still be hope for 2002, retrospectively.
Ditto for '03 -keep your fingers crossed.
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