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.
Friday, February 28, 2003
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!
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