Here's my Christmas present, to you, right off the bat, no foolin' around like usual, because this is IMPORTANT: Marisa Monte, "Infinito Particular" (EMI); buy this album right away. Especially if you like Brazilian music, and extra-especially if you like both Brazilian music and the Beatles, because that's how melodic and lilting and perfectly crafted this stuff is -so good, it makes you resort to using the B-word. Or, perhaps more accurately, the C-word, as in Caetano, Caetano Veloso, for many years the cornerstone of MPB, which stands for "Musica Populiera Brasileira", i.e. modern Brazilian popular music.
Both Marisa and Caetano draw from the well of Joao and Astrud Gilberto, who first popularized Brazilian samba music in 1964 with the latter's famous recording of "The Girl From Ipanema" with Stan Getz, which established a template that's still very much in evidence in modern Brazilian pop: samba rhythms, sophisticated chord voicings (very frequently on acoustic guitars), and an aversion to breaking a sweat. Astrud Gilberto never sounded like she was working -she sounded like someone humming idly and carelessly while swinging in a hammock in a hillside breeze.
One difference is that while Marisa Monte's singing is equally effortless, it's a good deal more polished. A friend of mine who saw Gilberto sing confirmed that she that it was part of her style to sing just a little flat, as if singing in tune might've been a little too much trouble (in fact, he said she sang the one note in "One Note Samba" flat enough that it wasn't much fun.) Monte's pitch, on the other hand, is flawless, yet it sounds so easy that you imagine she couldn't sing a bad note if she tried. She never pushes, never betrays any sign of exertion, like singing was breathing, and the effect is remarkable.
She's been around for about 15 years or so, and she's a superstar at home; and her latest releases "Infinito Particular" and "Universo Ao Meu Redor" (both of which she released simultaneously this year on EMI) are all I know about her (except for a cut on David Byrne's Cole Porter compilation a few years ago, and a smattering of her work with New York producer Arto Lindsay, both of which they easily surpass; among her other fans are Laurie Anderson and Ryuichi Sakamoto). "Infinito Particular" is especially wonderful, an album that's just gorgeous all the way through -there isn't a bad song on it.
Care for a test drive? Go to marisamonte.com, and check out her video of a song called "Ate Parece." Now, I could be wrong about this, but I'm fairly certain I've never recommended a video in this column - I probably watch about three of them a year. However, this one is as stunning as it is simple and unassuming: just a single close-up of Monte singing the song directly to the camera, which occasionally starts to absent-mindedly drift off to the side as if it were slightly distracted -at which point the singer the singer gently bats the lens back toward her face. Again, hypnotic, effortless, perfect -you've just got to check this out.
A good American companion piece would be the BMG re-issue of Sam Cooke's "Night Beat" album, which completely surprised me. For one thing, I thought I'd heard pretty much all of his best stuff already, and that much of it was over-produced and over-commercialized, needlessly gussied up with strings and ultra-white sounding background choruses, and a portion of his catalog does lean that way. Not "Night Beat", though, which is sparse, atmospheric, and economical throughout, like a soulful version of Sinatra's "In the Wee Small Hours Of the Evening", with the same late-night vibe, and nary a string or a background vocal anywhere!
Other faves of '06: "The Essential Yo Yo Ma" (Legacy/Sony Classical); "The Harry Smith Project", Hal Wilner's fascinating box set of live, modern performances of obscure folk material by Elvis Costello, Wilco, Beck, Garth Hudson, the McGarrigle Sisters, and many others, which features a coupler of wild, hilarious David Thomas (Pere Ubu) performances, one to an arrangement by Van Dyke Parks (an unlikely but delightful match); Paul Simon's "Surprise", which features some swell sonic landscaping courtesy of Brian Eno; the Beatles by way of Sir George Martin (and his son's) re-workings for Cirque Du Soleil, which is sometimes heinous but frequently pretty swell if you can get over some ill-advised mash-it-ups; Elvis Costello and Allen Toussaint's enjoyable "The River In Reverse"; Los Lobos's "The Town and the City"; and an ancient album of the 12-string Portuguese guitar called "Guitarra Portuguesa" by Carlos Paredes that I saw Costello had recommended on Amazon that -sure enough- blew me away.
I was also grateful for Bob Dylan's "Theme Time Radio Hour" show; for "Deadwood" and James Spader and William Shatner's hilarious turns on "Boston Legal"; and even for "Dancing With the Stars" for some reason I totally can't explain (yo, Emmitt!)
Not to mention an old book by former chef Anthony Bourdain called "Kitchen Confidential" that I can't seem to buy enough copies of (there's always been one friend or another who I think needs it desperately); or the movies "Hustle and Flow", "Millions", "Prime", "Winter Passing", "Northfork", and "The Best of Youth"; and the deep-fried turkey and oyster dressing dinner they serve at the Coast in Orleans. Go forth and purchase, and Merry Christmas!
Friday, December 29, 2006
Friday, December 1, 2006
Thanks for Robert Altman
Well, so it's a few days after Thanksgiving, and I'm just starting to get the hang of being anywhere other than the couch, and resuming less frantic feedings; right now (for instance), as I write this, my mouth is, at least relatively, unfull. I may possibly be getting to the end of the prolonged period of procrastination so many of us embrace at the back end of a holiday, where you feel like you live in a huge, slow, heavy house for big fatsos.
We take Thanksiving very seriously here at Kelp Manor -in fact, it has always been our favorite holiday - and this year's festivities were second to none. We ate everything we could get our pudgy little hands on, and then sloshed it down with the same horrendous swill I always lay in for my guests at holiday time. There's nothing like buying some really cheap, awful wine, safe and secure in the knowledge that your victims will all be too ossified to know the difference.
The stage diving was more accomplished, and the incomprehensible babbling in tongues was more eccentric than ever, as a particularly varied and charming group of contestants vied for the honor of being designated "Mayor of Drunktown" (a non-paying, not particularly complementary or honorable annual honorarium with non-valedictory arboretums.) This year's campaign was even more hotly contested than usual, with the outcome in doubt until the very last moment, when the judges awarded the mayoral seat to one Ellen Prell "Hot Dog" DeSilva, who only stopped twirling just recently. (Congratulations also to the First Lady, and to his extensive retinue.)
The trouble is, nowadays I look like this no matter what, and nobody knows the trouble I've seen voluntarily.
Which brings me around to something that's very much on my mind the last few days, which is the loss of Robert Altman, one of history's best and most iconoclastic directors, not to mention most lovable rogues. He made big, generation-defining movies like "M*A*S*H", "Nashville", "McCabe and Mrs. Miller", and "The Player"; great experiments like "Short Cuts", "Popeye", "Gosford Park", "The Company", and "California Split"; even utter flops like "Quintet". He earned the right to flop every now and then, because he was taking chances, doing anything other than making the same movie over and over again.
For me, he's on that short list of directors whose movies I always needed to devour instantly on release, regardless of the subject or the cast. Not that he was ever remotely cast-deficient; most of his films feature hilariously large and fascinating collections of the coolest actors playing the smallest parts for the lowest dough. If he won less than his share of awards, he made up for it in a steady avalanche of peer approval, and not just because he made good movies, but because making them was fun.
He was prolific, creative, edgy, and funkily elegant throughout his life: the last movie he completed, a collaboration with Garrison Keillor called "The Prairie Home Companion", is just as casual and funny and profound as anything he ever did, and, as usual, chockful of great actors (Lily Tomlin, Tommy Lee Jones, and especially Meryl Streep, all at their best.) Now that we've lost him (how could we be so careless? -first the Sagamore rotary, now Altman!), it feels like a beautifully nuanced, lingering goodbye. Though frequently hilarious and joyful, the movie somehow also has the feeling of a friend holding your hand through a difficult time. Apparently, Altman knew he was dying of cancer when he made it, but kept it to himself- as he also did, amazingly enough, with a heart transplant he had more than a decade ago without anyone finding out about it until he mentioned it at an awards show about a year ago.
He seems to have been a remarkably generous, non-meddlesome type (especially for a director!), and one of the lucky by-products of this attitude (and of his apparently unflagging energy) is that he did director's commentary tracks for a large number of his films, and they tend to be the exception to the rule in that he actually sounds engaged and focused, and the commentaries as a result are relatively informative and charming. "The Prairie Home Companion" hits the spot on that level, too, as Kevin Kline actually asks him some good, pertinant questions, and Altman has enough respect for his audience and his work to answer them graciously, and occasionally even seriously.
He said some interesting things: he doesn't necessarily read his scripts before he starts filming (didn't on "Prairie Home Comapanion", for instance); he's also well-known for not being overly fussy with his actors, who seem to bask in the autonomy he routinely awards them. He seemed to place a particularly high value on finding the right collaborators and letting them loose.
He seemed to have an uncommon respect for his audience, evinced by his fluid, flowing idiosyncratic camera work, which always had a feel and a rhythm that was all his own. In his last movie, the camera almost never stops moving; even on close-ups, it's still in motion, albeit very slowly, sometimes almost undetectably. It's a sort of amiable, relaxed drifting, and in the voice-over, he says that he always avoided telling the audience where to look. He also avoided telling them what to listen to, his patented overlapping dialogue a case very much in point. But he sure gave us some faulous choices!
Usually, when someone dies, you're sad for them and their family, but you get over it. Sometimes, though, a person is just plain irreplaceable, and you never stop thinking about them or missing them. For me, that list includes John Lennon, Andy Kaufman, a personal friend or two, and now, Robert Altman. There'll never be another like him.
We take Thanksiving very seriously here at Kelp Manor -in fact, it has always been our favorite holiday - and this year's festivities were second to none. We ate everything we could get our pudgy little hands on, and then sloshed it down with the same horrendous swill I always lay in for my guests at holiday time. There's nothing like buying some really cheap, awful wine, safe and secure in the knowledge that your victims will all be too ossified to know the difference.
The stage diving was more accomplished, and the incomprehensible babbling in tongues was more eccentric than ever, as a particularly varied and charming group of contestants vied for the honor of being designated "Mayor of Drunktown" (a non-paying, not particularly complementary or honorable annual honorarium with non-valedictory arboretums.) This year's campaign was even more hotly contested than usual, with the outcome in doubt until the very last moment, when the judges awarded the mayoral seat to one Ellen Prell "Hot Dog" DeSilva, who only stopped twirling just recently. (Congratulations also to the First Lady, and to his extensive retinue.)
The trouble is, nowadays I look like this no matter what, and nobody knows the trouble I've seen voluntarily.
Which brings me around to something that's very much on my mind the last few days, which is the loss of Robert Altman, one of history's best and most iconoclastic directors, not to mention most lovable rogues. He made big, generation-defining movies like "M*A*S*H", "Nashville", "McCabe and Mrs. Miller", and "The Player"; great experiments like "Short Cuts", "Popeye", "Gosford Park", "The Company", and "California Split"; even utter flops like "Quintet". He earned the right to flop every now and then, because he was taking chances, doing anything other than making the same movie over and over again.
For me, he's on that short list of directors whose movies I always needed to devour instantly on release, regardless of the subject or the cast. Not that he was ever remotely cast-deficient; most of his films feature hilariously large and fascinating collections of the coolest actors playing the smallest parts for the lowest dough. If he won less than his share of awards, he made up for it in a steady avalanche of peer approval, and not just because he made good movies, but because making them was fun.
He was prolific, creative, edgy, and funkily elegant throughout his life: the last movie he completed, a collaboration with Garrison Keillor called "The Prairie Home Companion", is just as casual and funny and profound as anything he ever did, and, as usual, chockful of great actors (Lily Tomlin, Tommy Lee Jones, and especially Meryl Streep, all at their best.) Now that we've lost him (how could we be so careless? -first the Sagamore rotary, now Altman!), it feels like a beautifully nuanced, lingering goodbye. Though frequently hilarious and joyful, the movie somehow also has the feeling of a friend holding your hand through a difficult time. Apparently, Altman knew he was dying of cancer when he made it, but kept it to himself- as he also did, amazingly enough, with a heart transplant he had more than a decade ago without anyone finding out about it until he mentioned it at an awards show about a year ago.
He seems to have been a remarkably generous, non-meddlesome type (especially for a director!), and one of the lucky by-products of this attitude (and of his apparently unflagging energy) is that he did director's commentary tracks for a large number of his films, and they tend to be the exception to the rule in that he actually sounds engaged and focused, and the commentaries as a result are relatively informative and charming. "The Prairie Home Companion" hits the spot on that level, too, as Kevin Kline actually asks him some good, pertinant questions, and Altman has enough respect for his audience and his work to answer them graciously, and occasionally even seriously.
He said some interesting things: he doesn't necessarily read his scripts before he starts filming (didn't on "Prairie Home Comapanion", for instance); he's also well-known for not being overly fussy with his actors, who seem to bask in the autonomy he routinely awards them. He seemed to place a particularly high value on finding the right collaborators and letting them loose.
He seemed to have an uncommon respect for his audience, evinced by his fluid, flowing idiosyncratic camera work, which always had a feel and a rhythm that was all his own. In his last movie, the camera almost never stops moving; even on close-ups, it's still in motion, albeit very slowly, sometimes almost undetectably. It's a sort of amiable, relaxed drifting, and in the voice-over, he says that he always avoided telling the audience where to look. He also avoided telling them what to listen to, his patented overlapping dialogue a case very much in point. But he sure gave us some faulous choices!
Usually, when someone dies, you're sad for them and their family, but you get over it. Sometimes, though, a person is just plain irreplaceable, and you never stop thinking about them or missing them. For me, that list includes John Lennon, Andy Kaufman, a personal friend or two, and now, Robert Altman. There'll never be another like him.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
The Case of the Missing Rotary
Well, and now here I come, hippity-hop over hill and dale, spreading joy and all those amusing little folksy tidbits of mine you've all so grown to love, let's have a picnic! (By the way, special thanks to PJ O'Connell of Eastham, MA., for nominating the word/words “hippity-hop” for inclusion in this week's extravaganza, and for correctly sensing that it/they would indeed add the precise amount of extra “zest” that this opening paragraph had lacked up until then.)
Fine. Well. So. The big story this week of course (or one of them, anyway) being the recent absence of rotary at the bridge.
Now, probably this may shock some of you, as I know that in general most of my readership prides itself on its inability to travel past Hyannis (and only that far during emergencies, and even then you have to multi-task like a son of a bitch to prevent having to go back there ever), so you may not know this, but for the past fairly lengthy time period, they've been digging around down there by the bridge, and apparently what ended up happening is that someone stole the damn rotary.
Or at least that's how it appeared to me the last time I drove to Boston, and got over the bridge and -whoa! -no rotary at all! Did you hear about this? Absolutely missing. And on the one hand, I can't imagine how someone could pull that off, but on the other, well, I saw the digging; I mean, for months I saw the digging, but I never once asked anyone about it or tried to report it or anything. Which is just another example of how apathetic we've become as a nation, myself in particular -I'm obviously part of the problem.
I haven't seen anything about it in the papers, but I can't imagine I'm the only one that's noticed. I mean, it is kind of glaring. You can tell someone's embarrassed about it, because it's still kind of a mess, with just a bunch of those little cones kind of scattered around for no particular reason.
It does turn out, however, that there is a real upside to its disappearance, in that you can drive over the bridge way faster now. In fact, if you get a good head start, you can just race over that thing. It's like this great roller coaster now, where if you really go like hell on the way up the bridge, you can actually get airborne as you fly over the hill, sometimes for as long as two or three hundred yards! Of course, you'll go a lot higher and further the faster you go on your approach, sooo, don't spare the spark plugs!
Actually, it seemed to affect my driving time between Boston and Eastham much more drastically than I had figured. I used to always allow two hours to go to Boston, but my business (which, as you might imagine, is basically low-end thievery) took me to Somerville, which always added another three hours (both ways. It took me a long time and much bitter experience to learn how incredibly long it takes to get from Boston to Somerville; no matter how tricky you try to get about it, and despite the fact that Boston and Somerville are almost right next to each other, it's still three hours.) (Lovely drive, though.) (And all the shopping!)
So I was pretty surprised that now that the rotary's been disappeared, the trip takes about 35 minutes, one way. Of course, that's driving as fast as I can, really late at night. My car (it's a late model Buick LeBaron)'s speedometer goes up to, I think, 140, and it was totally pinned; by the time we landed from the jump on the bridge on the way back, we were almost in Mashpee! So, I don't know exactly how fast I was going, but we got in to Kelp Manor maybe a little more than 35 minutes after leaving Johnny D's.
Anyway, a big thumbs up for not having a rotary -you're gonna love it!
Fine. Well. So. The big story this week of course (or one of them, anyway) being the recent absence of rotary at the bridge.
Now, probably this may shock some of you, as I know that in general most of my readership prides itself on its inability to travel past Hyannis (and only that far during emergencies, and even then you have to multi-task like a son of a bitch to prevent having to go back there ever), so you may not know this, but for the past fairly lengthy time period, they've been digging around down there by the bridge, and apparently what ended up happening is that someone stole the damn rotary.
Or at least that's how it appeared to me the last time I drove to Boston, and got over the bridge and -whoa! -no rotary at all! Did you hear about this? Absolutely missing. And on the one hand, I can't imagine how someone could pull that off, but on the other, well, I saw the digging; I mean, for months I saw the digging, but I never once asked anyone about it or tried to report it or anything. Which is just another example of how apathetic we've become as a nation, myself in particular -I'm obviously part of the problem.
I haven't seen anything about it in the papers, but I can't imagine I'm the only one that's noticed. I mean, it is kind of glaring. You can tell someone's embarrassed about it, because it's still kind of a mess, with just a bunch of those little cones kind of scattered around for no particular reason.
It does turn out, however, that there is a real upside to its disappearance, in that you can drive over the bridge way faster now. In fact, if you get a good head start, you can just race over that thing. It's like this great roller coaster now, where if you really go like hell on the way up the bridge, you can actually get airborne as you fly over the hill, sometimes for as long as two or three hundred yards! Of course, you'll go a lot higher and further the faster you go on your approach, sooo, don't spare the spark plugs!
Actually, it seemed to affect my driving time between Boston and Eastham much more drastically than I had figured. I used to always allow two hours to go to Boston, but my business (which, as you might imagine, is basically low-end thievery) took me to Somerville, which always added another three hours (both ways. It took me a long time and much bitter experience to learn how incredibly long it takes to get from Boston to Somerville; no matter how tricky you try to get about it, and despite the fact that Boston and Somerville are almost right next to each other, it's still three hours.) (Lovely drive, though.) (And all the shopping!)
So I was pretty surprised that now that the rotary's been disappeared, the trip takes about 35 minutes, one way. Of course, that's driving as fast as I can, really late at night. My car (it's a late model Buick LeBaron)'s speedometer goes up to, I think, 140, and it was totally pinned; by the time we landed from the jump on the bridge on the way back, we were almost in Mashpee! So, I don't know exactly how fast I was going, but we got in to Kelp Manor maybe a little more than 35 minutes after leaving Johnny D's.
Anyway, a big thumbs up for not having a rotary -you're gonna love it!
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Sweden - Land of the Swedish
[Warning: the following includes occasional swearing, and thus may be inappropriate for more sensitive readers; but fuck them, anyway.]
OK, here's a low point for you, if you're interested, and I sure as hell can't think why anyone would be...
My stupid band, the Indelible Casuals (about whom Dave Wilson -not The Dave Wilson, but the other one -once said, “I've never seen three guys make so much noise for so long”) suddenly got it in our tiny heads that it would be a great idea to go on a tour of Sweden. Out of nowhere, we decide, yes, Sweden, fucking excellent. (And jesus, I just dotted an “e”... whaddaya know.)
Did we know anyone in Sweden, or have fans there, or had we released any records there, or interests there, or any hope of making any money whatsoever there, or any conceivable reason at all for going there apart from change of pace?
Nope.
One of our guitarists (we always carry an extra) had a friend over there who booked bands who thought he could book us enough gigs to do a short tour, a couple weeks maybe; thought he could get us $600 a week each, and for the Casuals, in October, that pretty much qualified as a windfall, so, presto! off we went.
Suffice it to say that we haven't been anywhere together in about fifteen years and why the hell we would suddenly pick fucking Sweden -Sweden! -is just... utterly, majestically unfathomable, and all the more so exactly right now, as I write to you from -you guessed it, Sweden.
Not to mention that the members of the band, the actual Indelibles, don't even like each other any more, necessarily. I mean, we've been working together for twenty-five years or so at this point (except for the one new guy, the rookie, who only joined about fifteen years ago but somehow got caught right up on the whole hatred thing we had going already almost right away through his natural god-given abilities.)
Ask anyone who has been in a band that long, and I'm sure they'll be delighted to tell you how little they can stand their colleagues, but I defin... dif... oh fucking christ I just dotted the “e” in “definitely” so many times in a row I had to give up writing the word completely for a bit and come back after I composed myself.
I was trying to say that I can definitely stand my idiots less than anyone else can stand theirs, and I know this for sure, and I will fucking dot anything that moves, I am so certain.
So here's what happened so far in this (goddam fucking) tour:
Sure enough, it's a disco. There's ten people there, and they actually like disco music! After our first (way too loud) set, the swarthy middle-eastern owner very courteously offers us the opportunity to play way less than originally agreed upon, and we are delighted to comply. (Unfortunately not quite lost in the “crowd” is a burly, drunken, bearded fellow who keeps trying to hug us, and a woman with spiky blond hair who doesn't speak enough english to be understood but who will not stop trying, even in the midst of our neo-modern entertainment presentation when we really should be trying to do our, uh, show. She wants to be our manager; she wants to cook us dinner; she's down to her last couple of brain cells and she wants us to have them.) There's incredibly loud disco music; there's smoke; we leave as fast as we can.
We don't draw quite as well the second night, so we only have to play one set. It's a corker. As we pack up, the spiky blond pointedly ignores us, perhaps feeling snubbed from the night before; but, luckily, the burly guy is back for more hugs (obviously not feeling at all snubbed from the night before); and the club's d.j. is snickering at us with a couple of friends. Do you know what's lower than being snickered at by a d.j.? Me neither. Very possibly fucking nothing. Unless it's having one of your guitar players then dissect your performance on the drive back to Hofors. Yup... that sucks.
Got home, though, got through it just fine (after all, we're men.) Got home to smoke the last few particles of the World's Smallest Piece of Hash, Part 2 (we had dealt with the World's Smallest Piece of Hash Part 1 at exactly the same time the night before.)
After the boys returned to their rooms, I noticed that the W.S.P.H. has made me feel more buoyant and zesty than usual, so I start going over a new song I had started on the night before on the acoustic guitar the promoter had graciously loaned me, eventually getting to the point where I think it might be a good idea to record a quick demo version on my old nemesis, a portable Sony DAT recorder (a total piece of garbage, by the way, as most DATS are, but worse. I'd love to smash it to a thousand pieces. It's a Sony TCD-D100 -don't ever buy one unless you're a big fan of being endlessly fucking irritated.)
So I very considerately head out to the foyer of the lobby of the hotel, a place I have already established will be entirely deserted at this not particularly late hour, where I can make a small amount of noise without bothering anyone, and once I get down there and get a chair in position I notice that I have cunningly left my guitar back in my room, so I trudge back up there, only to find that I have also left my key in my (fucking) room. I already know there's no one on duty, no office open, and no one around at all. It's clear that I'm screwed.
So, great, I have to wake up one of the other assholes to get them to move whatever unmentionable detritus/old food/extensive semi-edible souvenirs of a fun-filled week in Hofors off their fucking couch so I can fail to sleep there.
On the way back up the stairs (after a quick, hopeless double-checking of the lobby for the missing key), I reflect on my candidates for New Best Friend: a deaf guy, our drummer, who probably won't hear me; a guy who can always sleep through anything (guitarist #1); and Roger Ebert Jr (guitarist #2), who had so recently delivered the post mortem.
I pick the deaf guy, who, sure enough, doesn't answer, so I spend the night on the wicker couch in the lobby, but only after writing this whole sordid tale with a pen tightly attached to a gigantic paperweight -the only writing utensil I could find.
God, I love show business!
OK, here's a low point for you, if you're interested, and I sure as hell can't think why anyone would be...
My stupid band, the Indelible Casuals (about whom Dave Wilson -not The Dave Wilson, but the other one -once said, “I've never seen three guys make so much noise for so long”) suddenly got it in our tiny heads that it would be a great idea to go on a tour of Sweden. Out of nowhere, we decide, yes, Sweden, fucking excellent. (And jesus, I just dotted an “e”... whaddaya know.)
Did we know anyone in Sweden, or have fans there, or had we released any records there, or interests there, or any hope of making any money whatsoever there, or any conceivable reason at all for going there apart from change of pace?
Nope.
One of our guitarists (we always carry an extra) had a friend over there who booked bands who thought he could book us enough gigs to do a short tour, a couple weeks maybe; thought he could get us $600 a week each, and for the Casuals, in October, that pretty much qualified as a windfall, so, presto! off we went.
Suffice it to say that we haven't been anywhere together in about fifteen years and why the hell we would suddenly pick fucking Sweden -Sweden! -is just... utterly, majestically unfathomable, and all the more so exactly right now, as I write to you from -you guessed it, Sweden.
Not to mention that the members of the band, the actual Indelibles, don't even like each other any more, necessarily. I mean, we've been working together for twenty-five years or so at this point (except for the one new guy, the rookie, who only joined about fifteen years ago but somehow got caught right up on the whole hatred thing we had going already almost right away through his natural god-given abilities.)
Ask anyone who has been in a band that long, and I'm sure they'll be delighted to tell you how little they can stand their colleagues, but I defin... dif... oh fucking christ I just dotted the “e” in “definitely” so many times in a row I had to give up writing the word completely for a bit and come back after I composed myself.
I was trying to say that I can definitely stand my idiots less than anyone else can stand theirs, and I know this for sure, and I will fucking dot anything that moves, I am so certain.
So here's what happened so far in this (goddam fucking) tour:
- First day, in the airport in Boston, I somehow fumble an exchange of my driver's license with a security guard and lose it.
- Turns out we're staying at a small hotel in a tiny town out in the middle of nowhere called Hofors, in the northern province of Gastrikland (and never was a theme park more accurately described) for the entire first week (I think we get to come back a bit in the second week, too!) Nice folks, good food, clean, basic accomodations. Two channels, both Swedish (a source of mild consternation toward the end of week one; not to say that we were ungrateful for the late-night re-runs of “Cagney & Lacey”, because, goodness knows, it's nice to catch up, and who knew the Swedish were so crazy about “Cagney and Lacey”?)
- On arrival in Hofors, we are notified that our first gig has been cancelled. To make up for it, the promoter books a second night later in the week at a club we were already playing in Sandviken, about thirty miles away; which sounds reasonable, until we actually play there.
Sure enough, it's a disco. There's ten people there, and they actually like disco music! After our first (way too loud) set, the swarthy middle-eastern owner very courteously offers us the opportunity to play way less than originally agreed upon, and we are delighted to comply. (Unfortunately not quite lost in the “crowd” is a burly, drunken, bearded fellow who keeps trying to hug us, and a woman with spiky blond hair who doesn't speak enough english to be understood but who will not stop trying, even in the midst of our neo-modern entertainment presentation when we really should be trying to do our, uh, show. She wants to be our manager; she wants to cook us dinner; she's down to her last couple of brain cells and she wants us to have them.) There's incredibly loud disco music; there's smoke; we leave as fast as we can.
We don't draw quite as well the second night, so we only have to play one set. It's a corker. As we pack up, the spiky blond pointedly ignores us, perhaps feeling snubbed from the night before; but, luckily, the burly guy is back for more hugs (obviously not feeling at all snubbed from the night before); and the club's d.j. is snickering at us with a couple of friends. Do you know what's lower than being snickered at by a d.j.? Me neither. Very possibly fucking nothing. Unless it's having one of your guitar players then dissect your performance on the drive back to Hofors. Yup... that sucks.
Got home, though, got through it just fine (after all, we're men.) Got home to smoke the last few particles of the World's Smallest Piece of Hash, Part 2 (we had dealt with the World's Smallest Piece of Hash Part 1 at exactly the same time the night before.)
After the boys returned to their rooms, I noticed that the W.S.P.H. has made me feel more buoyant and zesty than usual, so I start going over a new song I had started on the night before on the acoustic guitar the promoter had graciously loaned me, eventually getting to the point where I think it might be a good idea to record a quick demo version on my old nemesis, a portable Sony DAT recorder (a total piece of garbage, by the way, as most DATS are, but worse. I'd love to smash it to a thousand pieces. It's a Sony TCD-D100 -don't ever buy one unless you're a big fan of being endlessly fucking irritated.)
So I very considerately head out to the foyer of the lobby of the hotel, a place I have already established will be entirely deserted at this not particularly late hour, where I can make a small amount of noise without bothering anyone, and once I get down there and get a chair in position I notice that I have cunningly left my guitar back in my room, so I trudge back up there, only to find that I have also left my key in my (fucking) room. I already know there's no one on duty, no office open, and no one around at all. It's clear that I'm screwed.
So, great, I have to wake up one of the other assholes to get them to move whatever unmentionable detritus/old food/extensive semi-edible souvenirs of a fun-filled week in Hofors off their fucking couch so I can fail to sleep there.
On the way back up the stairs (after a quick, hopeless double-checking of the lobby for the missing key), I reflect on my candidates for New Best Friend: a deaf guy, our drummer, who probably won't hear me; a guy who can always sleep through anything (guitarist #1); and Roger Ebert Jr (guitarist #2), who had so recently delivered the post mortem.
I pick the deaf guy, who, sure enough, doesn't answer, so I spend the night on the wicker couch in the lobby, but only after writing this whole sordid tale with a pen tightly attached to a gigantic paperweight -the only writing utensil I could find.
God, I love show business!
Friday, June 23, 2006
Boston Garage Band Weekend
This week armed with delightful news I come trotting down the hill, anxious to enlighten you all as to a delicate, refined concert event taking place this evening and the next (Friday and Saturday, June 23 and 24, in fact) featuring many renowned, responsible artistes such as Triple Thick, the Tampoffs, the Swindells, the Konks, the Coffin Lids, Nikki Corvette and the Stingers, the Konks, the Dogmatics, and Muck & the Mires. Yes, a chic little soiree on the beach called the Boston Garage Band Weekend at the Wellfleet Beachcomber. (By the way, the shows start early, 8pm on Friday and 6pm on Saturday; and run late, in order to give the contestants additional time to unravel.)
There's few things more Massachusetts-y than garage rock. There's also a certain kind of dumb that we have here in Massachusetts that people who live in other states will never really have a shot at, and it's the very kind of dumb that has always made the bay state's long, flavorful list of great contributions in the field of garage rock all the more, uhhh -awesome. Do I hear Jonathan Richman? The Real Kids? The Lyres? Hell -Barry & the Remains?
For one thing, punk rock always sounds best -or at least most excruciating -with a Mass accent. I know a lot of people would say that THE classic punk rock accent would be British, perhaps Cockney or Liverpudlian (ah, Liverpudlian -one of my all-time favorite pluralizations! they don't make pluralizations like that anymore!), but I maintain that sometimes, those guys sounded extremely stupid. I mean, even the Jam sounded like the Gumbies more than they really needed to.
Which isn't to say that you don't want stupid -you do. And our native Massachusetts accent has always filled the bill there, investing everything we say with that certain patina of cluelessness that leaves people wondering if we could possibly be worth talking to, ever. Even worse, a lot of us are loud, too, probably from years of trying to drown out New York. Then once you talk about people like this actually singing, well, then you're really in for it. And that “then”, in possibly its most real, unvarnished, and joyous state, is garage rock.
It's also a great genre for an extended party, more social than musics that require detail work or dexterity of some kind -like punk rock, one of the main premises is that anyone can do it, and this weekend, anyone will! For one thing, it's the kind of stuff you can play smashed; perhaps even better, for that matter, given the unlikely goals at hand; and that kind of thinking means the bands will probably be in a good mood, and/or totally drunk. (You can't really do a job like this right if you don't pitch in.
Fortunately, most of the musicians will be housed locally, albeit far, far from not-all-that-gracious Kelp Manor.)
The motel parties also are legend, now that the Boston Garage Band Weekend has become an annual event, and in fact, (according to promoter/benefactor Henry Marculella), it was an extension of the early Dune Tune shows, founded and promoted by the late, great Trey Helliwell (always remembered mushily at times like these.)
Most of the bands are from Boston, and a lot of them are friends (guitarist J.J. Rassler, for instance, is in both Triple Thick and Downbeat 5), so there's a summer camp aspect -they tend to stay over, maybe hit the beach, and it's a nice change of pace for some of the poor bastids that are spending most of the summer sweltering in Beantown.
And it's nice for us because we get a pretty undiluted shot of Boston rawk, and all its uni-colored coats.
Songs to watch for include Triple Thick's “Demon In My Mind”, the Black Clouds' “Thing From Beyond”, the Coffin Lids “Have My Way (With the 5, 6, 7, 8's)”, and Nikki Corvette's “Back To Detroit”. The titles pretty much tell the story. Expect fast, loud, and relentless. Also good moments from the Downbeat 5 (whose guitarist, Jen D'Angora, is one of Boston's most charming and timeless rock goddesses); from Nikki Corvette, an old pro from Detroit in the late seventies; and from Muck and the Mires, who not all that long ago won Little Steven's Underground Garage Battle of the Bands, and (like a few of these bands) do their share of European touring.
Then again, there's Jay Allen, who usually performs solo his hit, “Toaster Oven”, a portion of which goes:
“Toaster oven / I give you all my lovin' / Toaster oven / You make my english muffin
But when I needed you most / You went and burned my toast”
Genius! Nothing to do with garage rock as far as I can tell (garage rock not being known much for its wit and irony), but, hey, when you get a shot at a chorus like that, why ask why?
One request before we wrap this up: on the subject of loud, I call on all the bands involved to do their part, and remember that there's no point in music like this being less than deafening. This is a rare opportunity for us provincials to get our brains reamed out at hellish volume, and I do hope you won't skimp, as there's nothing sadder than folks trying to be politely raucous.
Besides, the sound man there is a friend of mine, and I like to see him earn his money.
There's few things more Massachusetts-y than garage rock. There's also a certain kind of dumb that we have here in Massachusetts that people who live in other states will never really have a shot at, and it's the very kind of dumb that has always made the bay state's long, flavorful list of great contributions in the field of garage rock all the more, uhhh -awesome. Do I hear Jonathan Richman? The Real Kids? The Lyres? Hell -Barry & the Remains?
For one thing, punk rock always sounds best -or at least most excruciating -with a Mass accent. I know a lot of people would say that THE classic punk rock accent would be British, perhaps Cockney or Liverpudlian (ah, Liverpudlian -one of my all-time favorite pluralizations! they don't make pluralizations like that anymore!), but I maintain that sometimes, those guys sounded extremely stupid. I mean, even the Jam sounded like the Gumbies more than they really needed to.
Which isn't to say that you don't want stupid -you do. And our native Massachusetts accent has always filled the bill there, investing everything we say with that certain patina of cluelessness that leaves people wondering if we could possibly be worth talking to, ever. Even worse, a lot of us are loud, too, probably from years of trying to drown out New York. Then once you talk about people like this actually singing, well, then you're really in for it. And that “then”, in possibly its most real, unvarnished, and joyous state, is garage rock.
It's also a great genre for an extended party, more social than musics that require detail work or dexterity of some kind -like punk rock, one of the main premises is that anyone can do it, and this weekend, anyone will! For one thing, it's the kind of stuff you can play smashed; perhaps even better, for that matter, given the unlikely goals at hand; and that kind of thinking means the bands will probably be in a good mood, and/or totally drunk. (You can't really do a job like this right if you don't pitch in.
Fortunately, most of the musicians will be housed locally, albeit far, far from not-all-that-gracious Kelp Manor.)
The motel parties also are legend, now that the Boston Garage Band Weekend has become an annual event, and in fact, (according to promoter/benefactor Henry Marculella), it was an extension of the early Dune Tune shows, founded and promoted by the late, great Trey Helliwell (always remembered mushily at times like these.)
Most of the bands are from Boston, and a lot of them are friends (guitarist J.J. Rassler, for instance, is in both Triple Thick and Downbeat 5), so there's a summer camp aspect -they tend to stay over, maybe hit the beach, and it's a nice change of pace for some of the poor bastids that are spending most of the summer sweltering in Beantown.
And it's nice for us because we get a pretty undiluted shot of Boston rawk, and all its uni-colored coats.
Songs to watch for include Triple Thick's “Demon In My Mind”, the Black Clouds' “Thing From Beyond”, the Coffin Lids “Have My Way (With the 5, 6, 7, 8's)”, and Nikki Corvette's “Back To Detroit”. The titles pretty much tell the story. Expect fast, loud, and relentless. Also good moments from the Downbeat 5 (whose guitarist, Jen D'Angora, is one of Boston's most charming and timeless rock goddesses); from Nikki Corvette, an old pro from Detroit in the late seventies; and from Muck and the Mires, who not all that long ago won Little Steven's Underground Garage Battle of the Bands, and (like a few of these bands) do their share of European touring.
Then again, there's Jay Allen, who usually performs solo his hit, “Toaster Oven”, a portion of which goes:
“Toaster oven / I give you all my lovin' / Toaster oven / You make my english muffin
But when I needed you most / You went and burned my toast”
Genius! Nothing to do with garage rock as far as I can tell (garage rock not being known much for its wit and irony), but, hey, when you get a shot at a chorus like that, why ask why?
One request before we wrap this up: on the subject of loud, I call on all the bands involved to do their part, and remember that there's no point in music like this being less than deafening. This is a rare opportunity for us provincials to get our brains reamed out at hellish volume, and I do hope you won't skimp, as there's nothing sadder than folks trying to be politely raucous.
Besides, the sound man there is a friend of mine, and I like to see him earn his money.
Friday, June 2, 2006
Kelp Kombination Sum-Sum-Summertime Movie Preview, Khristmas Wrap-Up and Oktoberfest Special
So, we've made it through Memorial Day -and many of us without killing anyone! That's fine, but soon it will be summertime – a terrific time to stay inside huddled in the dark while all the maniacs are here. Not that all “summer people” are necessarily “maniacs”, but they are.
Of course, all of us native, “down cape” people are so grievously inbred in the first place that a few months of shaking, drooling, drinking, and cable (to paraphrase the old Bill Haley song) usually sounds like just the ticket and not that noteworthy a change anyway from our usual malingering stupor. (Oh, you answer it.)
So, yes, a lot of us will be hiding. Staying pretty much to ourselves. Putting Frontline on the dogs.
Ah, yes, the Kelp Kennel, filled to the brim with twelve wet dogs -I can see it all now! It'll've been hot, and humid; the dogs will have been hot and uncomfortable, then swum, then wet and hot and uncomfortable, and also smelly, as you might expect a hot, wet, uncomfortable dog might be on a slimy, awful, hot, humid... oh my god...
Summer! Yes, summer how I love it how I hate it! So wafting, so imperial, so pecuniary!
When else would one eat potato salad?
I would like it noted that herewith I have officially inaugurated a new season of complaining with a pre-emptive strike, a visualization, if you will, of blistering, muggy days to come. I know we haven't quite had any days like that yet exactly, but why wait for something to actually happen to start whining about it? In fact, while I'm at it, I'd like to remind everyone that only slightly behind summer is winter, and that's bound to be a period of freezing desolate depressing horribleness, including (as it does), Christmas, which everyone will again be quite annoyed by.
Which makes it just about time for the Kelp Khristmas Wrap-up, in which we address all your shopping needs with marvelous little tips and sprightly suggestions, including “Get a job, for crying out loud!” and “Come down from there this instant before you break your neck! What're you trying to do, give us all a heart attack?”
Mittens are a lovely gift, or perhaps a nice scarf or other fabric-oriented item. Twelve wet dogs -one for each month of the year! -could make a wonderful gift for that lucky someone that doesn't have them yet, and what a wacky surprise! Here, take mine.
Of course, most of the movies that will be opening during the horrid, stifling, sweaty months ahead will be released on DVD just in time for Christmas -and thus ends the Kelp Sum-Sum-Summertime Movie Preview! They'll open, they'll close, they'll come out on DVD -take my word for it, that's exactly how it'll go down. Some will feature some of your favorite actors, pushing the envelope in ways you probably never even imagined! Others will feature the same old garbage, endlessly -recycled, with Sandra Bullock and Tom Berenger.
And this fall, why not read a good book? I always heard “Angela's Ashes” was pretty good.
Of course, all of us native, “down cape” people are so grievously inbred in the first place that a few months of shaking, drooling, drinking, and cable (to paraphrase the old Bill Haley song) usually sounds like just the ticket and not that noteworthy a change anyway from our usual malingering stupor. (Oh, you answer it.)
So, yes, a lot of us will be hiding. Staying pretty much to ourselves. Putting Frontline on the dogs.
Ah, yes, the Kelp Kennel, filled to the brim with twelve wet dogs -I can see it all now! It'll've been hot, and humid; the dogs will have been hot and uncomfortable, then swum, then wet and hot and uncomfortable, and also smelly, as you might expect a hot, wet, uncomfortable dog might be on a slimy, awful, hot, humid... oh my god...
Summer! Yes, summer how I love it how I hate it! So wafting, so imperial, so pecuniary!
When else would one eat potato salad?
I would like it noted that herewith I have officially inaugurated a new season of complaining with a pre-emptive strike, a visualization, if you will, of blistering, muggy days to come. I know we haven't quite had any days like that yet exactly, but why wait for something to actually happen to start whining about it? In fact, while I'm at it, I'd like to remind everyone that only slightly behind summer is winter, and that's bound to be a period of freezing desolate depressing horribleness, including (as it does), Christmas, which everyone will again be quite annoyed by.
Which makes it just about time for the Kelp Khristmas Wrap-up, in which we address all your shopping needs with marvelous little tips and sprightly suggestions, including “Get a job, for crying out loud!” and “Come down from there this instant before you break your neck! What're you trying to do, give us all a heart attack?”
Mittens are a lovely gift, or perhaps a nice scarf or other fabric-oriented item. Twelve wet dogs -one for each month of the year! -could make a wonderful gift for that lucky someone that doesn't have them yet, and what a wacky surprise! Here, take mine.
Of course, most of the movies that will be opening during the horrid, stifling, sweaty months ahead will be released on DVD just in time for Christmas -and thus ends the Kelp Sum-Sum-Summertime Movie Preview! They'll open, they'll close, they'll come out on DVD -take my word for it, that's exactly how it'll go down. Some will feature some of your favorite actors, pushing the envelope in ways you probably never even imagined! Others will feature the same old garbage, endlessly -recycled, with Sandra Bullock and Tom Berenger.
And this fall, why not read a good book? I always heard “Angela's Ashes” was pretty good.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Special Mother's Day Kolumn
Omigod. well everyone's all a twitter here at Kelp Manor this week as Mother's Day is almost upon us, careening around the bend in only two and a half weeks, so of course we're all decorating and writing songs for the jubilee and rehearsing them and then some guy gets sick so you've got to find someone at the last minute and then that's always chancey, but then sometimes it works out just fine for no reason whatsoever, and I think that this is one of the miracles of Mother's Day: that you can do that, and not get hurt!
And I'd like to dedicate my column this week to my original mother, the graciously (some would say almost alarmingly) buxom and austere original Mrs. Kelp - while still acknowledging and even simultaneously celebrating the present Mrs. Kelp as well, of course (although they are, in fact, both extremely still present, but the new one, this one here, the apple of my eye, the phenomenally gifted and prodigiously talented and still appealingly down to earthingly youthful Mrs. K, of whom I am presently married, this isn't her. It's the other one.)
The one I was talking about before is the one to which I refer to, i.e., me mum. The one I sprang from, initially. And I had planned plenty more biting humor for this spot right here, but now that I'm here I'm more than tempted to say something sappy about how much I love her and how much she's a pip on every level and charming and beyond in a way higher percentage of the time than anyone else I know, and that I treasure her, and thank you, and Happy Mother's Day.
But where would that get me?
I know to her I'll always be the toxic little dwarf who set her car on fire that stifling August evening, after the basketball game.
Still, there's nothing like Mother's Day to set your pulse a roiling, is there?
And, wait! But there's so much more set up for us in the frenetic prelude to Mother's Day, what with Nurse's Day (which is like Mother's Day squared, really- especially if they ARE mothers. That's coming up next week! Right after Cinco Da Mayo, whatever the hell that is! (I certainly don't want to be insulting to anyone here, but that one just doesn't sound local.)
And all this so soon after Administrative Professionals Day last Wednesday! I mean, it's Friday, and I'm still completely hungover from that one. Man! Can those people drink! And then they do this wild kind of administering that's definitely not for the faint of heart. I'm glad you weren't there. It was horrible.
I do love holidays, love to get dressed up (though, uncharacteristically, I still haven't decided what my costume will be for Nurse's Day); love the parades, the excitement, the intense odors, the happy dancing. Actually, what I'd really like is to have Kelp Day, where I stay home and people bring me presents and talk about how I've helped them (mostly with my mind.) (I've always tended to shy away from physical labor -that's just always been my favorite labor to shy away from. As a result, all these years later, my physique is still hard as a couch.)
Before we conclude, I'd just like to add that though this column may not seem to address any local music topics directly, without mothers the whole local music scene would be quite different indeed.
Think about it! And remember: don't forget!
And I'd like to dedicate my column this week to my original mother, the graciously (some would say almost alarmingly) buxom and austere original Mrs. Kelp - while still acknowledging and even simultaneously celebrating the present Mrs. Kelp as well, of course (although they are, in fact, both extremely still present, but the new one, this one here, the apple of my eye, the phenomenally gifted and prodigiously talented and still appealingly down to earthingly youthful Mrs. K, of whom I am presently married, this isn't her. It's the other one.)
The one I was talking about before is the one to which I refer to, i.e., me mum. The one I sprang from, initially. And I had planned plenty more biting humor for this spot right here, but now that I'm here I'm more than tempted to say something sappy about how much I love her and how much she's a pip on every level and charming and beyond in a way higher percentage of the time than anyone else I know, and that I treasure her, and thank you, and Happy Mother's Day.
But where would that get me?
I know to her I'll always be the toxic little dwarf who set her car on fire that stifling August evening, after the basketball game.
Still, there's nothing like Mother's Day to set your pulse a roiling, is there?
And, wait! But there's so much more set up for us in the frenetic prelude to Mother's Day, what with Nurse's Day (which is like Mother's Day squared, really- especially if they ARE mothers. That's coming up next week! Right after Cinco Da Mayo, whatever the hell that is! (I certainly don't want to be insulting to anyone here, but that one just doesn't sound local.)
And all this so soon after Administrative Professionals Day last Wednesday! I mean, it's Friday, and I'm still completely hungover from that one. Man! Can those people drink! And then they do this wild kind of administering that's definitely not for the faint of heart. I'm glad you weren't there. It was horrible.
I do love holidays, love to get dressed up (though, uncharacteristically, I still haven't decided what my costume will be for Nurse's Day); love the parades, the excitement, the intense odors, the happy dancing. Actually, what I'd really like is to have Kelp Day, where I stay home and people bring me presents and talk about how I've helped them (mostly with my mind.) (I've always tended to shy away from physical labor -that's just always been my favorite labor to shy away from. As a result, all these years later, my physique is still hard as a couch.)
Before we conclude, I'd just like to add that though this column may not seem to address any local music topics directly, without mothers the whole local music scene would be quite different indeed.
Think about it! And remember: don't forget!
Friday, March 24, 2006
Nothing Happening
Well, folks, we're rolling into that time of year where I just want to kill myself, where it's easier to report on what isn't happening than on what is happening, because THERE IS NOTHING HAPPENING!
I remember early in my lengthy, dignified, and storied career as a respected local music journalist I would find this to be one of the most challenging times of the year because of the entire absence of anything to write about, and though a great deal of time has elapsed since then, in which man has made great strides in so many different regards, still, it must be noted that nothing is going on now at all. Nothing. At all.
Or, you could look at it this way: all those things that go on the rest of the year, aren't going on now either. Not here, anyway. And all the things that are going on everywhere else (and there are many of them, too, fascinating things that we can barely even dream about) are likewise completely missing. I would be happy to tell you about something, but I can't because there isn't any. And, speaking as a journalist, that makes this a particularly harrowing time of year for the writing and everything, because there's a complete lack of subjects.
This is where my years of expertise in the field go right down the drain. No one could possibly write about anything now. A lot of people would start making up things, and in the past, when I was just a cub reporter and the vast confines of the Community Newspaper Company were way smaller, I, too, went this route more than once, inventing fake bands and giant, lavish non-existant nightclubs for them to play at. However, over the years, my prose has ripened to the point that the integrity of my unflinching gaze spares the reader nothing, leaving me crusty, bitter, and frozen, like an out-of-date bagel.
The club report reads like this: stay home! Give up. No one is playing anywhere, and I'm not sure when or even if they ever will again. This could be it. All that fun we had already? -just be glad you had that. Sit down and shut up.
I thought the Sopranos starting up again would help, but jeese, Tony's in a coma- great! When I grew up, that never would've happened. Can you imagine tuning into “I Love Lucy” and she's on life-support and Ricky and Fred and Ethel are all standing around the bed, waiting for her to come to, and that's the whole show? And it took them two years to think of that?!?
Somebody, book a show, get divorced, have a heart attack, make a sandwich, anything! I will be happy to write about it. In fact, if anyone, anywhere, knows about anything that happens, I will pay you five hundred dollars and publish your picture on the front cover, practically (except for those last two things.)
For not until people do things can we write about them. To write about things that don't happen, honestly, and with the kind of detail and focus which should've won me many national and international journalism-type awards, that is the challenge, and it is a challenge from which I shall never shrink.
[For a taped transcript of tonight's commentary, please deposit $18.50 and kick the machine once, sharply, on its snout.]
I remember early in my lengthy, dignified, and storied career as a respected local music journalist I would find this to be one of the most challenging times of the year because of the entire absence of anything to write about, and though a great deal of time has elapsed since then, in which man has made great strides in so many different regards, still, it must be noted that nothing is going on now at all. Nothing. At all.
Or, you could look at it this way: all those things that go on the rest of the year, aren't going on now either. Not here, anyway. And all the things that are going on everywhere else (and there are many of them, too, fascinating things that we can barely even dream about) are likewise completely missing. I would be happy to tell you about something, but I can't because there isn't any. And, speaking as a journalist, that makes this a particularly harrowing time of year for the writing and everything, because there's a complete lack of subjects.
This is where my years of expertise in the field go right down the drain. No one could possibly write about anything now. A lot of people would start making up things, and in the past, when I was just a cub reporter and the vast confines of the Community Newspaper Company were way smaller, I, too, went this route more than once, inventing fake bands and giant, lavish non-existant nightclubs for them to play at. However, over the years, my prose has ripened to the point that the integrity of my unflinching gaze spares the reader nothing, leaving me crusty, bitter, and frozen, like an out-of-date bagel.
The club report reads like this: stay home! Give up. No one is playing anywhere, and I'm not sure when or even if they ever will again. This could be it. All that fun we had already? -just be glad you had that. Sit down and shut up.
I thought the Sopranos starting up again would help, but jeese, Tony's in a coma- great! When I grew up, that never would've happened. Can you imagine tuning into “I Love Lucy” and she's on life-support and Ricky and Fred and Ethel are all standing around the bed, waiting for her to come to, and that's the whole show? And it took them two years to think of that?!?
Somebody, book a show, get divorced, have a heart attack, make a sandwich, anything! I will be happy to write about it. In fact, if anyone, anywhere, knows about anything that happens, I will pay you five hundred dollars and publish your picture on the front cover, practically (except for those last two things.)
For not until people do things can we write about them. To write about things that don't happen, honestly, and with the kind of detail and focus which should've won me many national and international journalism-type awards, that is the challenge, and it is a challenge from which I shall never shrink.
[For a taped transcript of tonight's commentary, please deposit $18.50 and kick the machine once, sharply, on its snout.]
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Kelp Goes Folky
Two major bits of news have developed lately in the ever-evaporating world of music, and, surprisingly enough, they both come under the heading of “good news”, though either one could eventually cost you money. I think you should go to Memphis next February, is my first idea; my back-up idea for when you fail to do that is, you should at least buy the debut cd of an amazing young singer-songwriter named Abigail Washburn. It's called “Song of the Travelling Daughter” (on the Nettwork label, easily available at abigailwashburn.com.) (Perhaps you won't be too much further annoyed -I don't know, you just looked a little, uh, disgruntled or something -if I observe that ordering Cds from the artist's websites are generally the best way to make sure they get a good cut, other than buying it from them at a show.)
Abigail plays banjo, mostly things with Appalachian acoustic roots, frequently accompanied by a cellist, singing sometimes in Chinese, and her album is called “Song of the Travelling Daughter.”
Sounds just awful, doesn't it?
C'mon, let's go to Memphis next year! It'll be fun!
Let me explain:
OK, so I'm sitting on the plane with this kid, who looks like he's maybe 16 or something, seems like a nice guy, quiet, reading “Tuesdays With Morrie” it looked like (I'm blind as a bat without my specs, and could be way off on this, but his book sort of scared me), so I'd been cordial, but cautious; and then somehow it comes out he's a musician, playing cello with a woman who plays banjo and sings in mandarin chinese, and for some reason that did sound really interesting at the time, and you know what? They were absolutely breathtaking and thrilling and one of the best things I've seen in years! And I saw them in a hotel room! The guy, whose name was Ben Sollee, was an excellent, elegant cellist!
We were all attending the 18th Annual Folk Alliance Conference in Austin, Texas. I had been to one of these a couple of years ago, and totally loved it, mostly because of their tradition of tolerating guerilla showcases, which are sanctioned on two or three floors of the hotel that hosts the convention. Guerilla showcases are just shows people play in their hotel rooms, which is most appealing to me not only for the obvious intimacy, but for the fact that it allows singers to perform without microphones or p.a.systems (most of the music here is acoustic and unampilfied), and I'm telling you, hearing good singers right next to you with no mikes is a great thing! I really can't recommend it highly enough.
So what happens is, you're just drifting through this hotel corridor, sticking your head in from time to time when you hear something interesting (and, I do mean, testing the water and proceeding with caution -there's definitely some rooms here you won't want to go too far in by mistake. Watch out -there's some bad, embarassing music here; really not that much, but that is why you don't go all the way in right away.
But, damn, the informality of it is really quite charming, and you run into amazing new talents with astonishing regularity -and sometimes they do, too, because there's a good amount of oddball spontaneous jamming involved, which can sometimes, again, be seen as a liability -but why would you want to? It's sloppy, of course, but glorious, really. And such a constant delight to feel so in on the action -at least to hear what a great singer actually sounds like.
I used to have a hard time with opera singers, because I didn't like the general idea that there should be one perfect idea of how the human voice should sound and it's Caruso or Pavarotti or Mario Lanza or whoever, it sounded in my ignorance like they were all trying to sound the same, and I grew up on guys like Dylan and Jagger and guys who made a point of sounding different and peculiar, so I had a hard time with opera, until I heard a stage-hand who turned out to be a moonlighting opera singer sort of warming up standing right next to me, at which point it suddenly became evident that it was gorgeous. I still don't buy opera Cds, but every genre, no matter how lame, has its magicians.
And that's what I saw, frequently -magicians. I saw a band called Houston Jones -who I would've avoided like the plague on the basis of their name alone, but again, that's why this works: I was in the hall! They sounded great, so I went in! A six-piece band from the Bay Area, complete with drums, no p.a., and you can hear every note and every word just fine, and they're ridiculously talented and polished and when they lay down a country groove, it stays laid down.
And this is the other thing: I don't even like country music! But when I'm at these things, suddenly I do -it's weird! We also saw a great Slavic group -whose name I didn't get unfortunately- with mandolin, accordion, and clarinet, playing all these wild time signatures with real bite and precision and passion; great Austin players Frank Meyer and Karen Mal (he of low voice, wry observation, and leisurely tempo, sometimes with Ms. Mal in tow, an exceptional singer, mandolinist, and occasional prompter (I'd met them both on my earlier foray into Folkdom, and been thoroughly knocked out.) Not to mention locals Greg Greenway and Zoe Lewis, among others.
I even got to hear my old friend Jonathan Edwards, who still puts out energy like he couldn't run out if he tried- he just sounded great, like he always did. For this, I had to sneak into one of the Folk Alliance showcases, but at this point, I was a seasoned guerilla, and folk bouncers don't strike fear in the hearts of anyone.
But still! A big bunch of mostly country/folk rootsy stuff -I'm sure it sounds terrifying on paper, but you have to go! I mean, I hate all that stuff! Especially banjo! Especially Apalachian folk music! So what about this Abigail Washburn person? I mean, did I just lose it at this thing or what?
Of course not! I'm out of time, but don't wait until next month for me to explain why I love Abigail Washburn so much, just buy the damn thing -take my word for once! It's either that or Memphis, which is where they'll be holding the Folk Alliance next year, again in the middle of February. You can register for the convention itself, which is a good place to learn about the music business (gag) or try to make contacts (urgh) and well worth it just for the great entertainment they showcase themselves in larger halls with p.a. Systems and lights and everything.
Or you can just get the room and be a guerilla, wandering the halls until dawn, in search of nice, fresh, un-adulterated, un-ampilified (and sometimes even unplanned) music meat.
Expect a satisfying feast, folks...
Abigail plays banjo, mostly things with Appalachian acoustic roots, frequently accompanied by a cellist, singing sometimes in Chinese, and her album is called “Song of the Travelling Daughter.”
Sounds just awful, doesn't it?
C'mon, let's go to Memphis next year! It'll be fun!
Let me explain:
OK, so I'm sitting on the plane with this kid, who looks like he's maybe 16 or something, seems like a nice guy, quiet, reading “Tuesdays With Morrie” it looked like (I'm blind as a bat without my specs, and could be way off on this, but his book sort of scared me), so I'd been cordial, but cautious; and then somehow it comes out he's a musician, playing cello with a woman who plays banjo and sings in mandarin chinese, and for some reason that did sound really interesting at the time, and you know what? They were absolutely breathtaking and thrilling and one of the best things I've seen in years! And I saw them in a hotel room! The guy, whose name was Ben Sollee, was an excellent, elegant cellist!
We were all attending the 18th Annual Folk Alliance Conference in Austin, Texas. I had been to one of these a couple of years ago, and totally loved it, mostly because of their tradition of tolerating guerilla showcases, which are sanctioned on two or three floors of the hotel that hosts the convention. Guerilla showcases are just shows people play in their hotel rooms, which is most appealing to me not only for the obvious intimacy, but for the fact that it allows singers to perform without microphones or p.a.systems (most of the music here is acoustic and unampilfied), and I'm telling you, hearing good singers right next to you with no mikes is a great thing! I really can't recommend it highly enough.
So what happens is, you're just drifting through this hotel corridor, sticking your head in from time to time when you hear something interesting (and, I do mean, testing the water and proceeding with caution -there's definitely some rooms here you won't want to go too far in by mistake. Watch out -there's some bad, embarassing music here; really not that much, but that is why you don't go all the way in right away.
But, damn, the informality of it is really quite charming, and you run into amazing new talents with astonishing regularity -and sometimes they do, too, because there's a good amount of oddball spontaneous jamming involved, which can sometimes, again, be seen as a liability -but why would you want to? It's sloppy, of course, but glorious, really. And such a constant delight to feel so in on the action -at least to hear what a great singer actually sounds like.
I used to have a hard time with opera singers, because I didn't like the general idea that there should be one perfect idea of how the human voice should sound and it's Caruso or Pavarotti or Mario Lanza or whoever, it sounded in my ignorance like they were all trying to sound the same, and I grew up on guys like Dylan and Jagger and guys who made a point of sounding different and peculiar, so I had a hard time with opera, until I heard a stage-hand who turned out to be a moonlighting opera singer sort of warming up standing right next to me, at which point it suddenly became evident that it was gorgeous. I still don't buy opera Cds, but every genre, no matter how lame, has its magicians.
And that's what I saw, frequently -magicians. I saw a band called Houston Jones -who I would've avoided like the plague on the basis of their name alone, but again, that's why this works: I was in the hall! They sounded great, so I went in! A six-piece band from the Bay Area, complete with drums, no p.a., and you can hear every note and every word just fine, and they're ridiculously talented and polished and when they lay down a country groove, it stays laid down.
And this is the other thing: I don't even like country music! But when I'm at these things, suddenly I do -it's weird! We also saw a great Slavic group -whose name I didn't get unfortunately- with mandolin, accordion, and clarinet, playing all these wild time signatures with real bite and precision and passion; great Austin players Frank Meyer and Karen Mal (he of low voice, wry observation, and leisurely tempo, sometimes with Ms. Mal in tow, an exceptional singer, mandolinist, and occasional prompter (I'd met them both on my earlier foray into Folkdom, and been thoroughly knocked out.) Not to mention locals Greg Greenway and Zoe Lewis, among others.
I even got to hear my old friend Jonathan Edwards, who still puts out energy like he couldn't run out if he tried- he just sounded great, like he always did. For this, I had to sneak into one of the Folk Alliance showcases, but at this point, I was a seasoned guerilla, and folk bouncers don't strike fear in the hearts of anyone.
But still! A big bunch of mostly country/folk rootsy stuff -I'm sure it sounds terrifying on paper, but you have to go! I mean, I hate all that stuff! Especially banjo! Especially Apalachian folk music! So what about this Abigail Washburn person? I mean, did I just lose it at this thing or what?
Of course not! I'm out of time, but don't wait until next month for me to explain why I love Abigail Washburn so much, just buy the damn thing -take my word for once! It's either that or Memphis, which is where they'll be holding the Folk Alliance next year, again in the middle of February. You can register for the convention itself, which is a good place to learn about the music business (gag) or try to make contacts (urgh) and well worth it just for the great entertainment they showcase themselves in larger halls with p.a. Systems and lights and everything.
Or you can just get the room and be a guerilla, wandering the halls until dawn, in search of nice, fresh, un-adulterated, un-ampilified (and sometimes even unplanned) music meat.
Expect a satisfying feast, folks...
Monday, January 23, 2006
Winter on Cape Cod
I thought we might start out this week with a brief discussion on REASONS TO LIVE ON CAPE COD IN THE WINTER, as I assume there must be some, I know there have to be some, but they were not coming to me as quickly as I hoped and in fact this is now my second day trying to find some, which I will helpfully list for you now (very slightly below.)
The police won't let you live anywhere else.
Insatiable desire to be where the action was.
Too poor to live here in the summer.
Too sensible to live here in the summer. (You can make your own ones up of these, just start with “too” and then stick in any old word and then end up with “to live here in the summer.” Go on, it's fun! Try it.)
The fascinating word games they have here.
To see if living here this winter could possibly be as bad as living here was last winter.
More and more bars with free movies.
You get to meet all those lovable inbred local eccentrics whose relatives lock them in their basements on Memorial Day so they won't bring down property values. (My family locked me and my siamese twin brothers Martin and Morten in our basement right through our teenage years, and the room acquired a fragrance that was a bit unsettling, yet somehow totally beguiling.) (By the way, my other half, the startlingly lovely yet kinda strict Mrs. Kelp, still threatens me with that in the springtime when I'm starting to frisk about too much.)
Great for people who want to desperately unravel.
Women more approachable than usual (or at least you'd think they would be.)
It's cheaper than Tahiti, and much nearer to the world centres such as Worcester and Taunton.
Cable.
Bridge too scary.
Good spot for folks who hate everywhere else.
But really, when it all comes down to it, it's because of its utter fabulousness, because the people are so kooky and OUTRAGEOUS, the livin' is easy, the fish are jumpin', and because it seems so much more light and airy now that we got rid of all those stupid trees.
No, really, it's the little things, those tiny things that happen every day, or don't, that make you feel like you really, really live somewhere kind of special, or not. Like the sound of yourself stepping briskly into a big ass babbling goldang brook where your driveway used to be. Like the cozy, thrilling knowledge that you didn't give it your all, but you appeared to. Like wet socks at work. These are the glory days!
Because it is winter on Cape Cod, I occasionally will pass along news of exciting developments in the video rental field, and this week I have particularly fine news: next Tuesday, “The Aristocrats” is being released on DVD, “The Aristocrats”, being one of the funniest movies I've seen in years. Basically, it's a collection of different comedians' takes on a classic joke that gets grosser and grosser until it truly reaches the great beyond. It's the filthiest, vilist thing I've ever seen, roughly the equivalent filth-wise of probably about a solid year in the van with the Spampinato-era Incredible Casuals (don't know why I'd think of them, or him, in particular -I'm sure a lot of other musicians are disgusting, too.)
This is not an idea that should work (or at least that was my reaction on first hearing the premise, prior to seeing the film.) But the filth and simple malevolence of the many genius minds at work here (including George Carlin, Sarah Silverman, Lewis Black, Joe Franklyn (!!), Gilbert Gottfried, Penn & Teller, and scores of others, including a revelatory segment from Bob Saget, of all people, doing perhaps the filthiest version yet and dying laughing in the process) puts it over big-time. It sounds dumb, but it actually cuts a little deeper than you'd think somehow, and at the end there's a feeling of elation at the sheer scope of the depravity.
A word of caution: don't know what they'll have on this for extra footage, but start with the theatrical edit if you can. I made the mistake of watching the expanded “uncorked” edition of “The Wedding Crashers” last week instead of the regular version, and it was very long and pretty terrible, which I hadn't expected -the theatrical version couldn't've been that bad. Again, the harsh reality -why do you think they call them “deleted scenes”?
The police won't let you live anywhere else.
Insatiable desire to be where the action was.
Too poor to live here in the summer.
Too sensible to live here in the summer. (You can make your own ones up of these, just start with “too” and then stick in any old word and then end up with “to live here in the summer.” Go on, it's fun! Try it.)
The fascinating word games they have here.
To see if living here this winter could possibly be as bad as living here was last winter.
More and more bars with free movies.
You get to meet all those lovable inbred local eccentrics whose relatives lock them in their basements on Memorial Day so they won't bring down property values. (My family locked me and my siamese twin brothers Martin and Morten in our basement right through our teenage years, and the room acquired a fragrance that was a bit unsettling, yet somehow totally beguiling.) (By the way, my other half, the startlingly lovely yet kinda strict Mrs. Kelp, still threatens me with that in the springtime when I'm starting to frisk about too much.)
Great for people who want to desperately unravel.
Women more approachable than usual (or at least you'd think they would be.)
It's cheaper than Tahiti, and much nearer to the world centres such as Worcester and Taunton.
Cable.
Bridge too scary.
Good spot for folks who hate everywhere else.
But really, when it all comes down to it, it's because of its utter fabulousness, because the people are so kooky and OUTRAGEOUS, the livin' is easy, the fish are jumpin', and because it seems so much more light and airy now that we got rid of all those stupid trees.
No, really, it's the little things, those tiny things that happen every day, or don't, that make you feel like you really, really live somewhere kind of special, or not. Like the sound of yourself stepping briskly into a big ass babbling goldang brook where your driveway used to be. Like the cozy, thrilling knowledge that you didn't give it your all, but you appeared to. Like wet socks at work. These are the glory days!
Because it is winter on Cape Cod, I occasionally will pass along news of exciting developments in the video rental field, and this week I have particularly fine news: next Tuesday, “The Aristocrats” is being released on DVD, “The Aristocrats”, being one of the funniest movies I've seen in years. Basically, it's a collection of different comedians' takes on a classic joke that gets grosser and grosser until it truly reaches the great beyond. It's the filthiest, vilist thing I've ever seen, roughly the equivalent filth-wise of probably about a solid year in the van with the Spampinato-era Incredible Casuals (don't know why I'd think of them, or him, in particular -I'm sure a lot of other musicians are disgusting, too.)
This is not an idea that should work (or at least that was my reaction on first hearing the premise, prior to seeing the film.) But the filth and simple malevolence of the many genius minds at work here (including George Carlin, Sarah Silverman, Lewis Black, Joe Franklyn (!!), Gilbert Gottfried, Penn & Teller, and scores of others, including a revelatory segment from Bob Saget, of all people, doing perhaps the filthiest version yet and dying laughing in the process) puts it over big-time. It sounds dumb, but it actually cuts a little deeper than you'd think somehow, and at the end there's a feeling of elation at the sheer scope of the depravity.
A word of caution: don't know what they'll have on this for extra footage, but start with the theatrical edit if you can. I made the mistake of watching the expanded “uncorked” edition of “The Wedding Crashers” last week instead of the regular version, and it was very long and pretty terrible, which I hadn't expected -the theatrical version couldn't've been that bad. Again, the harsh reality -why do you think they call them “deleted scenes”?
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