We've Moved!

If you've found yourself here somehow - well, frankly we're a little surprised, because you were supposed to be redirected to the blog's new location, Kelp.ChandlerTravis.com

So ... go there now ... please ... we won't be updating here anymore!  It's nice over there - new design, pictures, really looks great!






You know you want to....

Bob Dylan - "The Tempest"

Bob Dylan's latest album, “Tempest”, his 57^th (counting live albums and Columbia's “Bootleg” series), is as comfortable as an old shoe, and for all the right reasons. It's not like there's no surprises: he's as inscrutable as ever, at one point offering the fourteen minute title song about the Titanic, a sea chantey that's as much about the movie as the original trusty disaster, but somehow the album remains afloat (and I say that as a known despiser of sea chanteys.)

There's other lengthy disaster songs on here, too, all sung in Dylan's current hard won “Groggy Went A' Courtin'” croak. As always, Bob dares us to hate him, and the list of dusky and questionable ingredients could easily lead to big time suckitude. So how does the end result end up being so delightful, especially after so many rides on this particular merry go round?

Magic and wizardry is about all I can venture, though it bears mentioning that this band he's been playing with the last decade or so is possibly his best ever, and it's not like he hasn't played with some fairly passable bands before. The sure handed air of confidence he brings to everything he does lately helps some, too -you don't often get to hear people who know exactly what they're doing as much as this guy. Even when he's just sawed off a big limb he's gone way out on, you just know he'll have a happy landing -he's gotten to be sort of the Wily Coyote of American song.

And, man, when everything's working, you just can't beat him. The opening track, “Duquesne Whistle", is such an occasion: starts off like an old 78, and then kicks in with an easy going groove that's just pure freedom -you could listen to it all day. “Listen to that Duquesne whistle blowin'” -sounds great! Who knows what he's singing about? Who cares? It's like a rickity old freight train on a velvet pillow. It's not the lyric, it's the gorgeous sound of the words the old bastard's singing over that percolating, chugging little rhythm section and that great guitar riff -perfection.

And co-written by Robert Hunter?!? What th'?

I don't care about lyrics that much, I just care about a great line every now and then that rises out of the muck to tickle my imagination while I revel in the sound and in the feel, and if there's actual ideas in there, something different and somehow intriguing, well, at this point that verges on the miraculous. I'm really more of a melody guy, and it sort of seems like on his last few albums, elder Bob has developed a growing respect for melody, something he's rarely been any slouch at to begin with. Actually, that's a dumb thing to say, he's always written amazing melodies; it's just that lately, as a singer he seems to stick closer to the bare bones of the melody -he's singing simpler, and letting the melody do the work.

And, god, how do you explain that voice, that phrasing? To be getting as much out of the pipes he's got left is just so fascinating in itself, and now you get the usual plethora of interesting choices (most of the best ones possibly dictated by the writing) plus an increasing large dollop of discipline and even reserve, which at this point sometimes feels like another insidious trick to maintain the mystery inherent in all things Bob-ish.

The songs are a really strong, strangely coherent bunch -it all sounds like the same guy on the same day. For the most part, the album starts with the best song, “Duquesne Whistle" , and then a whole bunch of other great ones, generally going slowly downhill, reaching it's nadir on “Tempest”, which, again, still isn't half bad for a sea chantey. I mean even that one doesn't make me want to kill myself or anything. Even surrounded by other really long dirges -the one that follows it, for instance, “Roll On”, which is really gorgeous... I don't know, the album just sort of drifts off, but for some reason it just works. The whole thing. You can totally listen to the whole damn thing multiple times -crazy, man!

Could easily be one of his best. It's my favorite since “Love and Theft”- high praise! Love it.

Makes no sense. Magic.

In the allmusic.com guide under album themes, the themes listed for “Tempest” are: Guys Night Out, Late Night, Road Trip, Hanging Out, and (naturally), Reflection. I really don't think I could have said it better myself. It's nice to have help with stuff like this, and I vow to pay more attention to the allmusic theme listings from now on. Thanks, Bob -you gave me that, too!

Originally published at In Review Online

Old Cape Cod

[originally published in The Noise, a most excellent Boston-area music magazine published by T Max - you can read the original here]

There is no way NO WAY to write a summer preview that isn’t entirely heinous. It’s just a given. Summer previews are, almost without exception, a week off for writers so they can just put in a list of projects, interspersed with liberally quoted press releases, and thus not have to say or invent anything real for a change. Also a week off for readers, who are best served by a quick scan of the list to note anything they’re remotely interested in, so they can catch up with it later when it’s actually happening and being written about by someone other than publicists. Summer previews suck—it has always been thus.

And with that let’s see what’s happening on the tiny peninsula of Cape Cod, an area that, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, scarcely exists except for two or three months a year, and whose greatest contribution to the world of pop culture in the last 50 years was made by Moulty & the Barbarians.

Or was it? I have to admit that there’s actually a larger amount of music being made by regular people out here that doesn’t suck than I’ve ever perceived before (and I’ve lived out here for, like, seven, maybe eight hundred years.) I offer, as evidence, Tripping Lily, Patty Larkin, the Greenheads, the Parkington Sisters, Kami Lyle, the Spampinato Brothers, the Ticks, Carla Kihlstedt & Matthias Bossi and whatever they’re called this week, Sarah Swain, Fred Fried, Bruce Maclean (aka Link Montana), Polka Dan & His Beetbox Band, and all my stupid bands [Ed: readers should know that some of the bands that Chandler, I mean Thurston, plays in are the Incredible Casuals, the Chandler Travis Philharmonic, & Three-O, and the Catbirds].

And christ, what I really wanna say more than anything else is, to whoever I forgot in my journalist schmear, I love you and you are great and good and I’m so sorry if I haven’t included you, but I have 20 minutes to finish this fucking thing now, and fuck off (but in a nice way.)

God, I can’t believe I’m doing this! This is such a bad idea…

So, anyway, if you can see any of these people, you really should. Let’s see why and where or something: Tripping Lily—very appealing young quartet (counting the bassist, the always estimable Laird Boles, tho who does count bassists, anyway?) (and I speak as a bassist, myself, a really fucking bitter bassist.) (And don’t think I won’t be using that word “fuck” again pretty soon, to pep things up as needed) (and more parentheses! parentheses are great) with great harmonies working around a single mic. My favorite song of theirs is a Christmas song called “Santa Will Find You” that’s just such a stunner, go buy it now, please. Do yourself a favor, NOW!! I’ll wait here.

Take all the time you need.

Right. They’ve got a handful of shows up on their website, trippinglily.com, two with the Cape Cod Symphony (which they did last year, too, so it must’ve gone okay; and a couple of Citizens Bank Summer Concert Series appearances, in Hyannis and Chatham for free outdoor shows on July 3 and August 8.

(I’m definitely never doing this again. I shouldn’t be doing it now.)

Oh, crap: end of first page, one band covered. I told you this would suck. Stop reading, NOW! JUST STOP.

Okay, your life…

Well, the Greenheads I like so much I stole their guitar player. And their bass player frequently rides horses with my wife, the humblingly lovely Mrs. Kelp, the brazen slattern for whom shame is just the name of a Western hero mis-spelled; or, at least, did until she got (as the Unknown Hinson would say) “pregnunt again.” I speak, of course, of Sarah Swain, who’s in about 12 bands, and just finished up her second album (recorded at David Minehan’s Woolly Mammoth studio, with her band, Jerry Smith, Liam Hogg and Ron Siegel as well as special appearances by Terry Adams of NRBQ, Steve Wood of the Greenheads/ Catbirds, the Ticks, and Monica Rizzio of Tripping Lily.) Sarah even covers one of my fabulous songs, poor thing. She’ll be doing a handful of jobs this summer and then having Stanley.

The Greenheads guitar player I stole is Steve Wood, who is a brute, and who plays with Rikki Bates, Dinty Child, and myself in the Catbirds—we’ve got a new album, “Catbirds Say Yeah,” coming out in about twenty minutes. I’ve stolen him before; he’s ridiculous. We’ll be working at the Juice in Wellfleet, the Starvin’ Marlin in Brewster, Bubala’s in P’town, the Beachcomber in Wellfleet… anywhere with the requisite $45.

Oops, forgot singer/ songwriter/ fab guitarist Patty Larkin, who’s, like, clearly one of our best and brightest and has been all along. Patty plays rarely locally, but when she does it’s always a special occasion, and she’s a very special and magnetic performer. Looks like we only get a couple of cracks at her this summer in Massachusetts, August 2 at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston and in Wellfleet (her hometown) at the Congregational Church on August 9 (a benefit for Peaked Hill Trust.)

Speaking of maddeningly gifted guitarists, if you’re a guitar player and you really want to feel like shit and a total slacker, check out Orleans jazz guitarist Fred Fried, who plays the eight-string guitar (I’ve told him this is cheating, having extra strings; he does not care.) His wizardry is not of the lightning-fast ilk, but of the crazy chord clusters family, and can be experienced Wednesdays at the Lyric in Yarmouthport and at Bubala’s in P’town (in that order, perhaps); and Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights at Mooncusser’s in Harwichport, Stewart’s in Eastham, and the Harvest in Dennis, respectively (all nice restaurants that also serve music, the pick of the litter being Bubala’s and the Harvest Gallery Wine Bar.)

Look, this is running long, I can’t get all these people in here, I’m totally screwed!

You’ve got to see Kami Lyle, whose husband, bassist Joey Spampinato (NRBQ, Keith Richards) accompanies her, along with guitarist Tad Price; Kami’s a keyboardist/trumpetist/total babe and one of the funniest people in the world, and she’ll be playing Wednesdays at Bubala’s (although that’s what Fred said, too—one of ’em has to be lying) and a whole lot of Mondays at the Harvest Gallery Wine Bar in Dennis, as well as some Arts Foundation of Cape Cod Summer Concerts at Brooks Park in Harwich at 6pm, Monday, July 16,and at Peg Noonan Park in Falmouth on Friday, Aug. 10 (also 6pm, also free).

Carla Kihlstedt is the violinist and singer for (until recently) a largely instrumental band called Tin Hat (formerly the Tin Hat Trio) and she, too, is just a ridiculously exquisite musician with an extraordinary range, which her husband percussionist, etc.-ist, helps her exploit to the fullest in a variety of settings (among them, the Sleepytime Gorilla Museum, Now You, and other exotically named projects. Tin hat’s new album, which Carla describes as “the usual tin hat intimate chamber vibe with the occasional well-placed doozy of a horn or string arrangement,” also includes some e.e. cummings poems set to music, and the previews I heard last spring were exceptional; as is their new Rabbit Rabbit Radio project, a subscription series where, for a dollar a month, you get a (usually fairly elaborate) new song, plus a new video, and some blogs, but presented so nicely, the word “blog” won’t even occur to me. This stuff is definitely on the edge-y side for the land of cod, but fascinating, and YAY!

And Zoe Lewis, jesus, you gotta see Zoe, whose voice reminds me of a young Ella Fitzgerald (and higher flattery doesn’t exist.) She’ll be playing the Viking Princess Sunset Cruise out of MacMillan Wharf in P’town every Wednesday, as well as occasional appearances at the Velvet Lounge and Cabaret (in P’town), Bubala’s, Welllfleet Pres Hall and the Harvest. They’re also bringing back her musical, Snail Road, which will return to an undisclosed location in Provincetown (perhaps the Art House, which is where it was last year) for two weeks in September.

And now I’m just fucking out of room, but check out one of the Cape’s goodest r’n’r bands, the Spampinato Brothers, July 8 at the Wellfleet Beachcomber with the Baseball Project, July 19 for free at the Nauset Beach gazebo in Orleans, and July 20 at Passim in Boston. And Bruce Maclean AKA Link Montana, who sometimes plays with dem Spampinatos and they with him, at the Pearl in Wellfleet every Sunday afternoon, as well as Joe’s Beach Bar in Orleans, O’Shea’s (a fairly fab Irish bar), the Sandbar, and the ubiquitous Harvest in Dennis. You may sometimes spot my drummer, Rikki Bates, tapping along gently to Link’s island rhythms.

I’ve completely left out the Parkington Sisters and Polka Dan’s Beetbox Band, respectively one our loveliest and least lovely local products. You should find out where they’re playing and go. (The Parkingtons do the Facebook/ Myspace thang, and their albums and live shows are full of wondrous moments; the Polka Dan bunch also do the Facebook thang, and their drummer David knocked a bunch of stuff over last Christmas, and they’re kind of hilarious.

And the Ticks, omigod, the Ticks, how could I forget the Ticks! The Ticks are the cutest band ever, probably even cuter than the Elbows… it’s like if Jonathan Richman had three girlfriends, and then disappeared himself! They must be playing somewhere… quick, check theticks.com.

You may also spot some of my 12 bands, including the previously alluded to Catbirds, the Chandler Travis Philharmonic, Philharmonette, and Three-O, and even the Incredible Casuals, most of whom will be relentlessly underfoot throughout summah, 2012, at many of the afore-mentioned venues. (Sorting may be accomplished at surprise!… chandlertravis.com).

Tin Hat Trio

Forgive me. I've been gone for more than a year, I think. It got to the point where my own ignorance unsettled me so that I had to stop writing entirely for a while, but now I'm back and ready to flaunt it again, just like the old days. This will be great! I've missed you all teddibly!

And you are so glad to see me, too, even though you don't know it yet, because I have come back for a reason: to urge you to take in the Parkington Sisters / Tin Hat show this Wednesday, October 27th, at 8pm at the Wellfleet Library. I'm not telling you how much it costs on purpose. Whatever it is, just pay it, is my advice.

For one thing, it's just hilarious when they have bands at libraries. For another, both of these bands are quite capable of moments both beautiful and heart-breaking, and heart-breaking, in particular, can be really good. (Of course, beautiful's no slouch either). In fact, I'd be shocked if this wasn't one of the best shows on cape this year.

Many of you must know the Parkington Sisters already, I would think, as the progress of these talented local darlings is something us locals have had the delightful privilege of witnessing first-hand these last few years. I've written favorably of their varied and nuanced work in the past, and would be here again today if the group hadn't asked me nicely to shut up about how much I like their new album until after it's officially released early next year; suffice to say, until then, that it's called “Till Voices Wake Us”, and that it's a very nice step forward.

I was stunned to hear of a Tin Hat appearance on Cape Cod, as the band comes from the west coast (Oakland, CA), and at this point they're perhaps more well-loved than well-known. My colleague Keith Spring, local curmudgeon and keyboardist and a man not to be trifled with, brought them to my attention 2 or 3 years ago, and I think they're remarkable. Their press material says that they are interested in blurring the line between composition and improvisation; I think what really blurs that line is the exceptionally focused melodicism of the soloists, who consistently provide thoughtful tune smithing where noodling might've ended up.

Both violinist Carla Kihlstedt and clarinetist Ben Goldberg are virtuoso musicians, and either could obviously play whatever they wanted, but their priority is concision -there's no chafe, nothing there that doesn't really need to be there, no speedy baloney. All the musicians seem to share a love of beautiful tone, and sounds that are full and round and warm set against odd rhythms.

The music is frequently melancholy, often vaguely European (though Kihlstedt maintains they see it the other way in actual Europe), and usually instrumental (though the violinist may sing a song or two -a lovely version of “Willow Weep For Me”, for instance, which they recorded with Willie Nelson singing not long ago, though Carla's is much better-er.) The influences range from tango and gypsy and even (especially for guitarist/riff-meister mark Orton) Brazilian music to Bartok, Elliott Carter, and Charles Ives.

Things are combined which haven't been before. On “Hotel Aurora”, on their recent “Foreign Legion” album, they manage to sustain a mood that is both sprightly and sinister, while on “Asterisk”, composer Goldberg effortlessly summons up the spirits of Bix, Duke, and Jimmy Giuffre.

Like anything precious, they're hard to describe: when I ventured “chamber jazz”, Carla said I was in the ballpark, but that she felt closer to the “chamber” part of the equation. No longer a trio, their instrumentation in Wellfleet will include accordion, piano, guitar, dobro, violin, and the rarely heard but fascinating contra alto clarinet (on record they've also incorporated celeste, harp, trumpet, pump organ and more). They've played with Tom Waits, and among their film score credits is a beautiful soundtrack for a very fine movie called “Sweetland”. One of the projects they're working on now is setting a collection of e. e. cummings poems to music, which they're currently writing in preparation for recording and a (nother) European tour. (More information is available at www.tinhattrio.com).

Meanwhile, violinist Kihlstedt and her husband, drummer and Dennis native Matthias Bossi, have recently taken up residence in Dennis, where they are sure to be welcomed with open arms (Matthias has family there), so I want you all to be real nice to them. They're in the midst of customizing a large bus for family life on the road (the pair have a baby daughter, Tallulah), and not long ago the engine gave up the ghost, though another seems to be on the way; in addition, the pair recently started a drum / violin duo called Now You.

A drum / violin duo on a forty-foot bus with no engine? -hopefully, you religious types out there will file a prayer for little Tallulah.

Remembrance of George Mattesini -long live the Guru!

First of all, George was peculiar. Take everyone in the world you've ever met, and then just forget about them, because George was nothing like them. We were close largely because we were both record collectors -not CDs, but records, we were both record homos. We wanted to hear everything. We engaged in feverish conversation about obscure shit that no one else cares about. Together with my band the Incredible Casuals, we drove all over New England, playing one-nighters, some bitchin', some lame, frequently in his van. He even got involved in some of the recording sessions. We smoked pot, and farted around.

I mentioned his van: I've never known a human who felt closer to his van. He had a long series of white vans (usually white -I think he had a blue one at one point, but usually white, or formerly white before being covered liberally in city soot.) George frequently slept in his vans, and usually had piles of albums in them, and possibly -I don't think I'm making this up? -once, an actual turntable. And he liked making long drives spur of the moment, for instance even in recent years showing up suddenly at the Beachcomber from NYC, ready to roll.

When I hung out with George, he was just starting to fool with playing music a little bit, so I didn't know him well as a player, most of that came later, but always marveled at his loopy, playful touch on the bass. He was the First Of the Extremely Loud Snorers (Fred Boak being The Second, years later), and either one of them were really impressive on a nightly basis -it was like sleeping with World War One.

He was also a conspiracy theorist, and would gleefully detail the exploits of the Masons, for instance, who he seemed the most suspicious of, at the slightest provocation, always forecasting the grimmest outcomes with a Cheshire cat grin. Perhaps it was the grin and the theories that led to his nickname, the Guru.

I'll miss the Guru. He was one of those people you could not see at all for years, and then see him and fall right back into a natural rhythm like the last time you saw him was yesterday. There's never enough of those people. I can't imagine him not being in a van somewhere. I'll bet he still is in a van, somewhere.

So long, bub.

Flutes n' Banjoes

A musician friend of mine once told me that the thing that depressed him most about being a songwriter was the knowledge that the more prolific you are and the more prodigious and heralded your output, the greater the likelihood was that someone would eventually arrange one of your songs to include a flute solo. To him, the flute is the worst instrument ever, but can any musical instrument be truly evil on its own? Of course not -unless it's a banjo. Banjos are way worse than flutes, although flutes are indeed extremely heinous. Actually, flutes might be even worse. It's so hard to pick!

Flutes, of course, are willow-y and gentle, coquettish, bewitching; and should all be destroyed. Of all the musical instruments, the flute is the least butch, yet it is also the instrument most likely to be used to exterminate rats. Apparently, some flautists are horned, which again makes me a little wary about the whole operation.

Banjos on the other hand are loud, cockeyed, and belligerent, in the manner of a guest who tells bad jokes and will not leave. They were first discovered about twelve years ago on the same day as sex with barnyard animals, which might or might not be a coincidence. Orchestras very rarely have banjos, because even musicians have to draw the line somewhere.

Flutes are feminine, banjos are masculine; as always, either gender can wear you out completely in about ten minutes. But still, in the hands of a brilliant virtuoso, a flute becomes... well, no, it doesn't; banjo doesn't either, they both get, like 5% better, which is still pretty intolerable. And this isn't just my opinion, either -it's just plain true.

So which is worse, flute or banjo? I guess we'll never know for sure, which only makes it that much harder to figure out which one to cast into the ocean first. I could go on, but what's the use?

It's like the weather we had in June -awful. The End.

Before we go, I'd like to mention some totally worthwhile things I might've been writing about this week in greater detail, if flutes and banjos didn't exist:

NEW CDs: “Bitte Orca” by the Dirty Projectors -bracing, challenging, never dull; “boatclub” by boatclub -debut CD from Oakland, CA band that includes ex-Cape Codder Tom Carns also challenges, but sounds great and rocks in a free-spirited and open-hearted yet occasionally cynical manner; and “Love Letter To Andromeda” and “Holy Tweet” by Terry Adams -the former being an adventurous, mind-blowing solo recording on prepared piano and celeste, while the latter is an unexpectedly consistent blast of rootsy pop from NRBQ's resident genius with a new band that makes a respectable stab at filling the gap they left.

BANDS THAT DELIVERED: Dumpstaphunk at the Wellfleet Beachcomber -for my money, their album doesn't really do the job, but these Neville chillen were wonderful live, especially Ian Neville, who showed why rhythm guitar can still matter; and Samite at the Payomet Arts Center, who was gentle and elegant but still got the hippies up on their feet last Sunday armed with nothing but a kalimba.

GOOD MOVIES TO RENT: “Quid Pro Quo” and “Two Lovers.”

ON THE OTHER HAND, NO MATTER HOW LONG IT KEEPS RAINING, STAY WELL CLEAR OF: “Gran Torino” and “He's Not That Into You.”

Kelp on Grace

I have some strange rules about cowboy hats, rules that no one should ever hear, that I'd like to share with you now. The first and most important rule is that while I find I can accept cowboy hats in fiction or movies, I find them completely incongruous in real life, and for some reason I'm almost never happy to see one there. I feel the same way about buccaneer hats, and Indian feathers, for that matter: they just don't blend.

It's almost too bad, because cowboy hats are a trip to wear. For one thing, I think they actually make you look taller, but also, more like a pirate. Plus, you're actually 50% more likely to have a mustache if you're wearing a cowboy hat (in fact, as soon as you put a cowboy hat on, you can actually feel one starting to grow! Try it -I swear to god!)

I have a friend who wears a cowboy hat -someone I know personally -and I'm trying to figure out how I feel about that. He seems to be normal otherwise, and, y'know, kind of a nice guy, who doesn't really seem that depraved, other than the hat.

On the other hand, he has chosen New York City as a great place to play country music, so of course all kinds of warning signals go off there, too. And apparently about half of his songs are about drinking, and that does represent a serious commitment of some sort. The four albums Jack put out after his relatively earnest debut, "Introducing The Sounds Of Jack Grace", were called "Stayin' Out All Night", "I Like It Wrong", "The Martini Cowboy", and (now, his soon-to-be-released) "Drinking Songs For Lovers." One does detect a certain thrust, and Jack seems to be a very personable sort of fellow, thankfully less drunk than his set list would lead you to believe.

Problem is, long ago, I promised Jack I would never listen to his music, if he would reciprocate and never read my column. And I believe he's kept up his end of the deal (I mean, say what you will about Le Codder, it's nothing if not avoidable), but I find myself curious about the music. I mean, there's some great titles on here: "If You're Gonna Raise A Drunk", "When The Morning Margaritas Hit You Right" " (which has a great line about "waking up at the crack of ice"), and my favorite, "The Worst Truck Driver In The World"... the guy can definitely write a lyric.

Hell with it, he sent me the damn thing, I'm going to listen to it.

NO! That's just the devil talkin'! YES! YES! I'm a listenin'! I'm a' listenin'!!

This starts out kind of in Johnny Cash territory... lots of cool songs about drinking, and you know? I haven't been drinking enough lately anyway, I believe I'll take the hint, try to get in the spirit of things...

Sure enough- this sounds better! Banjo on track five, and it's not really bothering me... yup, the booze is working. Just heard "I Drank Too Much Again", and then "Drinking & Gambling", wait, this isn't killing me... more booze... it's FINE! I don't know what I was being so uptight about!

Then you get "The Worst Truck Driver", which is definitely my fave; and "Ugly" is interesting, and "It Was a Really Bad Year"... it's almost like salsha! damn, this is OK. Yeeaaahhhhhh! Capitol O-k, phew i'm getting slakkurrd. This a really good ban...

Another thing I like about Jack is, he's got another band that does all bastardized country versions of (whooooooaaaaa) Van Halen songs called (mmmmmm...) Van Hayride. Now, lots of people might get a idea like that, but Jack actually did it. It's like wearing a cowboy hat on earth!

The Jack Grace Band appears at Joe's Bar and Grill on Main St. in Orleans this Friday, April 10th, and at the Squealing Pig in Provincetown thish Shaturday, Apl 11nch.

Celebrity Apprentice

I feel a little sheepish about admitting this, but I no longer remember what I was going to write my column about tonight. At one point, I think I really had a pretty good idea for one, and sort of remember even pitching the idea, but, boy, it's gone now.

And the thing is, let's face it, I'm an older gentleman and then some. and there's a very good chance I'm finally losing my brain completely, but really, I shouldn't look at it like that, because, man, what am I going to do, shoot myself? No! You get up, you shuffle along, you try to make the best of it, even though you know you can't win, you're going down, you know your body is in serious decline, times ten, really, I mean, it's obvious, I'm done. I'm old, and tired... hell, I can't even remember...

I remember I called Douglas and said I definitely had something going, it's an idea that will be no sweat to write, a natural for the paper and quite a human interest story at that in the way the girl finally comes to accept the cat after Johanna gets lost in the fire, even though technically, it's not even her cat.

I'm also upset because I'm in Florida at my crazy parents' house and using their stupid Mac and can't find the damn spell check which could be embrawrassing. See? Crrp!

Damn, what was it, though? I can remember all the little things I was going to add to my central conceit, but absolutely have no trace of what the headlining notion might've been. Hmph.

As long as I'm here, though, and faced in your general direction, I would like to observe: regarding "Celebrity Apprentice", quick, blow up all these people now while we've got them all in one room, before any more if 'em slip out (we already missed Andrew Dice Clay, and we might never get a chance to blow him up with a bunch of other people this annoying again.)

Opportunity is knocking, people! They must film this somewhere; just find out where, and bring bombs.

Again we learn that celebrities are the worst, most relentlessly nasty slime around, but it never hurt this bad. I actually sort of wanted to know which one got kicked off, but I already had to take about a half hour off in the middle of the show because the people were just SO awful, and then I got back in, figuring I'd catch the last fifteen minutes and see who got booted, so I watched again for about ten minutes and I really had only five minutes to go to find out who got the ax and I COULD NOT DO IT.

By the way, I consider myself a person who can watch ANYTHING. Literally. At the Manor, we have the TV on at all times, partly for enjoying, but just as much for bludgeoning, and covering up the relentless yapping of the Kelp Hounds, black as night, dark as pitch, senselessly howling deep into the night, and you know, we both enjoy it. Mrs. Kelp, still ravishing at 26, of course, has her "progrums", as she says, and they last all day and all night, but do mask the noises of the other animals, which is all to the good.

And I can watch all of them. I can watch "Will and Grace" without even breaking a sweat. I almost enjoy some of ABC's daytime soaps. Oprah, Dr. Phil -again, celebrities, horrible people I am sworn to despise, but I pretend I like them for my wife's sake, and no one is the wiser. If they had a show called "Where's My Stitches?", I would be able to watch it. "Carry My Broach" -I could watch that, too.

I only got beat once. "Orange County" was the one that broke me down. We watched on DVD, a whole bunch of them in a row, and I did, I watched them, a whole season, but I totally drew the line at Season Two. It was the same as trying to wait for the end of "Celebrity Apprentice"... I just couldn't go another step. Like a Spartan with about eighty spears in him, I finally collapsed.

We've all had similar experiences, and you know, now that I think about it, I'd kind of like to hear yours. If you're so idle and bored that you'd like to consign another few minutes of time that could've been used for something positive to oblivion, then by all means write to me here at Le Codder. Describe to me the occasion on which a television hurt you the most. It may've been one too many episodes of "Cannon", or a particularly difficult "Three's a Crowd". Or, who knows? -even a passing relative. There's so many possibilitities (damn this keyboard!)

I know you haven't gone unscathed, and we can help! Well, there's only really one of "us", and no, we can't actually help, but we would if I could

Tell us your story: write a letter (about watching TV! What could be more perverse?)
to me at: Hard Luck Tales Of Miserable Viewing '09, Box 113, Eastham, MA 02642. And if anyone does, I promise to read it, right here in Le Codder, although not necessarily aloud if I think it's scary.

We thank you.

Antoinette Rules!

A belated happy Mardi Gras (or whatever you call it a week or two later in french) to one and all, even as we all try to act normal after receiving the terrible news that the Empress of the Universe, Mrs Manaugahide, and one of the last Real Baby Dolls, of course I could only be talking about the one and only Antoinette K-Doe, is dead, way too soon, the youngest sixty-six year old I ever met. As some kind of symbolic gesture that we're all still struggling with, she accepted her new assignment on Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras Day itself, the last day of revelry, a brief but massive heart attack having prompted her decision early in the morning. No one would've thought she'd have had it that way.

You have to assume she would've put it off until Ash Wednesday if she could have, because the widow of the legendary performer and personality Ernie K-Doe (the original hit singer of "Mother-in Law", "Certain Girl" "Ta Ta Ta Ta Ta Ta Te Ta Ta", who was, coincidentally. the Emperor of the Universe, not to mention Mr. Maunaugahide) loved Mardi Gras, and Mardi Gras loved her back. Together, they embodied all the earthy wonder of N'awlins in ways so simultaneously elegant, primitive, charming, and hilarious that the world could only marvel. They were also both very much the glorious figments of their own imaginations.

So great were their powers and their concentration that when Ernie died, in 2001, he only missed a handful of jobs before going back to fulltime, as Antoinette quickly acquired an Ernie K-Doe mannequin, which she outfitted with a little speaker in its chest and Ernie's clothes, jewelry, and wig. Darned if in no time Ernie the II wasn't working just as many dates as the real Ernie ever did, and spending just as much time in their bar, the Mother-in-Law Lounge. holding court while relaxing between engagements. (The last time I saw him there, he had no hands -they were out being manicured. At the time, I didn't even ask, but later on, I wondered about that a little.

Now, I once bowled with Ernie K-Doe. In fact, I even shared the stage with him at Tipitina's one time, and he was a delight (And, by the way, if it weren't for Ernie's having had one, the Chandler Travis Philharmonic would've never had their valet, as Fred Boak learned everything at the feet of Ernie's man, during a flood -but that's another story.) Anyway, the new Ernie is ok, -you can definitely tell the difference, but it's better than no Ernie at all.

Years later I saw a play, again in New Orleans (of course), this time in the downstairs room of the Mid-City Rock and Bowl, that was at least in part a biography of both Ernies (man and mannequin), in which Antoinette starred as her own mother, Ernie's "Mother-in-law" of legend. About midway through the play, the mother-in-law, well portrayed by Antoinette until this point, morphed somehow into an older woman, who obviously had never been in a play before and didn't know any of the lines; still, she gamely soldiered on, supplying a few muted words of some kind whenever one of the other actors seemed to be asking her a question. After the scene had gone on for four or five minutes, she wandered off, and the next time we saw the character, it was again played by Antoinette. Later on that night, during the part of the night when the audience and performers dance to some records, and consumed by curiosity, I asked Antoinette why her character had changed in mid-stream. She replied matter-of-factly that she had received a call on her cell phone, and one of her friends had filled in for her while she was taking the call.

My head is swimming with Antoinette stories, and I didn't know her well at all. One thing I can tell you is that she was soooo cute! Also that she leaves a huge hole in a city with too many already (luckily, despite murder, flood, and devastation, it's still a magic city.)

And so energetic! When she first chose Ernie from the crowd of available suitors (not all that long ago, either, as they became a couple around 1990), he was a washed-up, occasionally unruly alcoholic, but she somehow got him back up and running with a vengeance. And the merchandising! I have plates, pillows, and even a toilet paper holder bearing his (and, sometimes, Antoinette's) likeness(es.) And not only did Ernie keep working after his death -he even ran for mayor, and, I'm told, did quite well.

My sister, Nurse Ticky Travis, was (you guessed it) a nurse at Charity Hospital in New Orleans for many years, and attended Ernie when he was dying, and there got to know Antoinette, who she remembers as staying by Ernie's side for days on end in a rumpled pink poodle skirt, bobby sox, and ponytail, trying to coax him back to life with the threat that "the nurse is coming to fool with Charlie." She was sure she could rouse him with this strategy, as Charlie was their nickname for (as Alex Haley might put it) his maleness, but even that didn't do it. For his part, Ernie, largely unconscious, still wore his maximum impact jewelry and Louis XV wig on his death bed.

The city (and his young wife) threw him a hell of a wake, with Baby Dolls, Skeletons, and every conceivable local music luminary you can think of (including Allen Toussaint, Jean Knight, Walter "Wolfman" Washington, (the usually reclusive) Barbara George, Davell Crawford, and Monque-d, not to mention the backup band of your dreams) -and this was just for the wake! And don't worry: Antoinette sold out her funeral, too.

Ernie's funeral was also a party and a half. My sister's hospital was very relieved that they had been able to recover Ernie's body in time (it had turned up missing for a time during it's stay in the morgue as Antoinette secured a burial site, eventually settling on St. Louis Cemetary #2, noted in the "Haunted New Orleans" Tour website with the following: "You don't even want to think about visiting St. Louis Cemetary #2 -it's in a very rough neighborhood. Pass it by." Hey, I can take a hint...

So much more: Antoinette appreciated Ticky's care at Charity so much (which made sense: Ernie had always said that he was "the greatest boy-child ever conceived at Charity Hospital", and always considered himself a Charity baby) that she held up Ernie's huge funeral a day to wait until my sister could make it; Antoinette at the Mother-in Law during Katrina, ready and willing to fight off invaders; Antoinette in infant gear at Jesse Hills' funeral, reviving the "Baby Doll" tradition; but maybe most of all, Antoinette at the Mother-in-Law Lounge, dispensing free drinks, red beans and rice, gumbo, even tiny little glasses of free champagne when Obama got elected, with the cutest, friendliest smile....

She was a dynamo, and a generous person. She'll be missed big-time.

Bob and Ray

[Originally published in two parts in the Barnstable Patriot on March 6th and March 13th, 2009, and reproduced with permission from the Barnstable Patriot (and thank you, Ed Maroney and the Barnstable Patriot, for the delightful assignment!]

To me, Bob and Ray have always been the Beatles of comedy (in other words, the best there is), and when I recently saw a new DVD of theirs, “An Award Winning Film by Bob & Ray”, for sale at my local Booksmith bookstore in Orleans -indeed, not just for sale, but on display at the check-out counter! -I had to ask myself, what kind of time-warped hallucination was this? Ray's been dead for almost twenty years, and I really hadn't been expecting anything in the way of new material.

For one thing, they're not that popular -even in their prime, they were never household names, never best sellers. They were just completely original, incredibly beloved and ridiculously, truly, madly, and deeply hilarious -but not so's you'd notice. You never saw them in stores or magazines; their names were never on everyone's lips; they weren't even on TV that much. In fact, they were basically radio guys, who (with timing that can only be described as “peccable”) first appeared on the scene right around the time radio took a TV-induced nose-dive. They were on the radio, for god's sake -no wonder you never heard of them!

Even at that, they were somewhat regional, having started out at WHDH in Boston in the late forties and spending most of their career (as late as 1987) broadcasting out of New York City, making them kind of a northeast thing. They did log some TV time, first with a daily fifteen minute show of their own on NBC (in the process shortening “Kukla, Fran, and Ollie”, not a particularly popular move at the time), but also guesting on “What's My Line”, Ed Sullivan, Johnny Carson, and later Letterman and Saturday Night Live, on which they hosted and also did a prime-time special, “Bob & Ray, Jane, Laraine & Gilda”.

Sound familiar? Well, maybe not, but I'll tell you who loves Bob & Ray: comedians. All of the above (Carson regarded them highly enough that, years later, they were given permission to use Tonight Show” footage on this new DVD, which is rather rare) is just the beginning. Sports and newscaster Keith Olbermann contributed particularly excellent liner notes to the project (making the observation that Bob & Ray's parodies of daytime radio soap operas outlasted the thing they were satirizing by a couple of decades); other fans include Garrison Keillor and Jerry Seinfeld, both of whom inherited their heroes' ear for excruciatingly mundane and redundant subject matter.

The writers and cast of SNL worshiped them, though Bob Elliott today says that even so, Franken and Davis would not let them off the hook about performing Rod Stewart's “Do You Think I'm Sexy”, despite their protests (the song ended up being the hit of the show.) Kurt Vonnegut aptly described them as having their own field of gravity, and my good friend George Carlin not only bought scores of Bob & Ray products (first reel to reel tapes -!!! -in the seventies, then cassettes in the eighties and nineties, on into CDs over the last decade or so) for himself, but also lucky me (and, of course, we were both always after whatever vinyl we could scrounge!)

So, it would not be an over statement to say that I was glad to see “An Award Winning Film By Bob & Ray”, and I am very happy to report that it completely lives up to (and perhaps even beyond) expectation in every area except length (it's only a little over forty minutes of material, even including the “Mary Backstayge, Noble Wife” audio set to the “Bonus! Bob & Ray Personal Photo File”.) Fortunately, even the photo file is fun, and the centerpiece of the DVD, a short film of the duo cutting some radio spots in 1968 by Orleans filmmaker David Jacobson, is nothing less than revelatory, revealing a couple of guys with an amazing work ethic improvising great material to order the way most people make a sandwich or write a letter, just like breathing, no big deal.

This attitude led to the production of a mountain of material over their forty year-or-so career that goes way beyond prolific. RadioArt, a not-for-profit label run by Larry Josephson, has 28 different Bob & Ray sets in their catalog at bobandray.com, all but two of which contain four CDs each -which equals, strangely enough, exactly 100 CDs, most of them between fifty and sixty minutes each. What kind of guy puts out 100 Bob and Ray CDs? You've got to wonder.

And that's not all they have out by any means -there's also Darryl Hawkins, who runs a company called Radio of Yesteryear (www.originaloldradio.com) out of Berea, Kentucky, who offers yet another hundred-plus hours of Bob and Ray, available in 10 or 11 hour chunks via mp3s on CDs (the website notes that these are “not playable on most regular CD players”, implying, I assume, that you could use them in your computer), available for $7.00 a pop -certainly the bargain of the century, as the RadioArt CDs go for a relatively daunting $34.95 plus shipping per four hour, four CD set, but I haven't seen the packaging, and was unable to find out whether they do a proper job of paying performance royalties (I did ascertain that RadioArt does.)

All this came to light while trying to track down information on which of their many releases a new listener might want to start with, which has emerged as today's $64,000 question. Amazingly, despite RadioArts 100 hours and Radio of Yesteryear's 100 plus, many of my favorite Bob and Ray tracks are out of print at this point, in some cases because they were originally issued on larger companies like RCA (Bob seemed to agree that 1960's “Bob and Ray On a Platter” might be the rosetta stone, including my single fave comedy track of all time, “Two Face West”, a five minute improvisation concerned exclusively with two cowboys trying to get off their horses) and Columbia (which originally released “The Two and Only”, Bob and Ray's successful Broadway show.) Both albums were re-released on RadioArt at one time, but the licensing fees proved prohibitive.

Adding to the fun is that RadioArt and Radio of Yesteryear cover some of the same ground, but both also have some exclusive material; and the liner notes can be a little sketchy, so the whole thing is really fairly bewildering. All parties seem fairly flummoxed by the concept of putting out a short “Best Of” style compilation (Bob Elliott said that it would be like trying to pick a favorite child, to which I wish I'd replied, but really, who has hundreds of children?), and one can certainly understand why, as that's a hefty bit of treasure hunting. But the question remains, where to start? Even getting through my own collection was hard, because most of them are on loan, like candy stripers, out there helping people...

The good news is that a good chunk of the Bob & Ray RadioArt catalog is available online at itunes, Rhapsody, Yahoo, and emusic, etc., so you can try a few cuts without leaving your house. Larry Josephson recommends starting with their “Carnegie Hall: Night Of Two Stars”, and it's a sensible approach: it's only two discs, and is a good attempt to collect some of their best bits -I'd especially suggest the “Slow Talker” routine, “The Komodo Dragon”, “Speaking Out”, “Wally Ballou at the Paper Clip Factory”, and perhaps the McBeeBee Twins. The only downside is that it's recorded with an audience, and Bob & Ray are unique among comedians in the regard that they were actually at their best without a live audience, taking full advantage of the intimacy that radio affords.

Which brings us back to the DVD, which is, as noted, too short and features some segments with an audience (the Tonight Show clips); and some would say that they're better off unseen, though that's a little extreme. David Jacobson's film segment of them at work, though, is just priceless, and despite it's brevity, the DVD actually covers a lot of bases, and makes quite a nice little intro -at least until “Two Face West” gets re-issued.

I'm only a little ashamed to admit that I cheerfully (though nervously) used all of the above as an excuse to interview Bob Elliott, something I considered years ago and decided I just wasn't up to, not just because he's a genius, but because I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep a straight face. Luckily, it was just a phone call, and he couldn't have been more charming. Now in his late eighties, he was sharp as a tack, and delighted to observe that the Elliotts are probably the only family in the world to have provided three generations of comics who have been featured on “Saturday Night Live” (Bob's son Chris was a cast member in the eighties, as Chris's daughter Abby is now.)

Among his observations:

“Everything we do was based on elongating whatever the idea was and carrying minute, unimportant things to big levels, and that's what made 'em good, but it also required time and they don't have that now.”

“We were testing ourselves, to see what we could get away with. On the Cavett show, we did Wally Ballou in a diner interviewing the chef, and all he was making was a fried egg sandwich, but he described everything that went in to this, the preparation, and we had to kill time till the hot plate heated up. We did about 7 minutes, frying an egg -one of Wally's biggest achievements.”

“Ray was funnier as far as doing original funny reactions and lines, than I am.... I was the -what do they say? -the arsenic in the pudding...” Ray always did remarkable female characters, never falling into using falsetto, and “Ray's voice got deeper and deeper as he got older... [Ray's character] Mary Backstayge was the disciplinarian, and Ray could bring things back down to earth through her character when he had to.” They both loved the overly treacly MC's of daytime TV, and Bob did a mean Arthur Godfrey impersonation (“I did it better when I was smoking”.)

The pair didn't socialize extensively -they got to see plenty of each other at work -but they always got along well, and the two clans (Bob had 5 kids, and Ray had 6) occasionally vacationed together, once in Hawaii ... “It was always fun... it was really difficult” when Ray died of a hereditary kidney disease about 20 years ago after having been on dialysis the last 10 or 11 years of his life... “how he did it is amazing, because he never complained about it, never complained, and we didn't have to lose any particular work that I can remember... it's difficult -he went too soon...”

We also talked about our mutual love of bad singers (“Leona Anderson! -we picked the farthest offbeat that we could”, including the wonderful Jo Stafford (Jonathan and Darlene Edwards) and even Florence Foster Jenkins... somehow I resisted the temptation to ask if I could have a crack at his record collection, but, Bob, if you're reading this, I really, really need a crack at your record collection...

More great Bob and Ray stuff to check out? -Mary Backstayge, Noble Wife; Dean Archer Armstead; Aunt Penny's Sunlit Kitchen; Mr. Science; Wally Ballou's interview of Professor Groggins on the occasion of the launch of his satellite, which was made of “folding chairs , mostly, and some balsa wood, like you say”, and flew at an altitude of about 15 feet for awhile until it hit a barn; anything with Calvin Hoogevin, or his soul mate, Webley Webster's book reports... You can also find them on Sirius and XM radio, on channels 117 and 163, respectively... hey, there's only a couple hundred hours out there -party down, peoples!

Long Live the Eastham Cuisine!

Let's see, where was I? Ah, yes, my semi-annual year end wrap up...

I think we're all agreed that 2008 was basically a crap year. This week, let's focus on loss, betrayal, and disappointment, and, in so doing, see if we can nudge '09 toward being even worse.

Of course, attitude is everything. You can look at 2008 as the year Obama was elected president, or you can look at it as the eighth year in a row George Bush was president.

In 2008, I lost time, money, self-respect; hair, my temper, mind, nerve, cool, and will to live; and a couple of restaurants I used to really like eating at, but the greatest of these is restaurants I used to really like eating at.

I hear the Seadog in Eastham may re-open in the spring, and I hope it's true, as the Seadog is the closest thing we've had to a diner in Eastham in years, always nice people (thank you Gary and Tracy!), happy to go out of their way to please (I once made them put Bearnaise sauce on a hamburger; my wife, the always fashionable and lithe Mrs. K., could never get over that they offer salads served on top of a bed of french fries; and there was also the time Gary gave me a remote-controlled helicopter for no reason.) Good folks, regular old comfort food, free remote-controlled helicopters - I hope they re-open, but I'm worried.

Back in the fall, D'Arturo's closed. They gave it a good go, too, with an actual in-house p.a. system and a stage for the bands (pretty rare on cape these days), plus, they could make a respectable burger.

Unfortunately, discerning drunks who drive tend to avoid that Rt. 6 stretch in Eastham, which might not be a problem except it's pretty much the only stretch we have in Eastham. I've often said that we should try harder to appeal to drunk people, not only because they're dangerous, undiscerning, and entertaining, but also because they lose things and have trouble counting. To me, it's a dream demographic, but I can't seem to get the powers that be on the same page.

This shouldn't surprise me, as no town on cape prizes its invisibility as much as we do -thus our town slogan, “Keep Drivin'!" (My idea was to add, “unless you're drunk, in which case, stop and set a spell!”, but the town council would have none of it at the meeting, and I was jeered and poked at.)

Or what about the Coast in Orleans, also closed! Terrible idea! Again, good bunch of folks, occasionally great food (on the right night, the deep-fried turkey dinner could be insanely wonderful; on a bad night, you might find yourself questioning their storage methods, but hey, I like to take a chance, nothing ventured, nothing gained.) Plus, they occasionally had some good music and it was a comfortable, nice sounding room and I really tried to talk 'em up but nobody listened and now they're gone and I'm upset, dammit.

Where am I supposed to eat? This place has just been going to hell in a hand basket, ever since Lo Cicero's closed a few years ago -now there was a place! Now, we've got no diversity -we don't even have Friendly's to kick around any more.

The one good thing that happened in 2008 was when some unidentified maniac went to a great deal of trouble to drop a piano off in the middle of the woods in Harwich, implicitly for hiking musicians and various other rusticators and assorted riffraff to use however they saw fit. This completely charming idea was immediately ruined, of course, by the local constabulary, who hauled the piano into the basement of the police station -hard to believe too many folks are going to be jamming away down there.

I say, put the piano back. Perhaps the soothing music can take our minds off the fact that there's no place to eat.

Kelp Year End Shopping Tips (or some damn thing...)

Alrighty, I'm going to try to make this pretty damn snappy, because I've got things to do, so pay attention. I have some shopping I've got to get to.

Well, not shopping, exactly. Because of course I'm making my presents again this year, but even more so, because of The Economy. We're all going down the tubes, sayonara, the jog is up, it's curtains, yes, I'm talking to you, the economical Climate is a not so good. So I'm making my presents this year, because nothing says “cheap” like some awful thing I've made on my own in my room. This year it's pottery, making pottery, most terrible and heinous things that no one could ever want.

Last year I made a big point of getting everyone sweaters, which they hated, totally, invariably despised, so, somehow, I've got to top that. I'm very excited. It's going to be an excruciating, urn-filled holiday season for my friends and loved ones; even casual acquaintances will be made more uncomfortable by the hopeless despair that only pottery can offer.

Which means I've decided to combine my annual godforsaken Christmas Shopping Tips column with my dreaded Year-End Wrap-up column, just in the hope that we can get them both over with faster and I can get back to my kiln.

Movies – nope. Lame year. Sorry -unfortunately, no good movies were released this year. Certainly not ten of them. I could shoot for three, or four, maybe. You can probably blame it on The Economy.

I liked “In Bruges” and “Sweetland”. And we both loved “Wristcutters” and “Vicky Christina Barcelona” (the latter is particularly good if you like gorgeous women.)

Oh, wait, I think I thought of some more: “Daywatch”, the Russian sequel to “Nightwatch” (and not quite as great, but they're both fun); loved “Superbad”, and “Lust Caution” (talk about two movies that are almost identical!); and “Goya's Ghosts” (as fevered, wondrous and ridiculous as another old favorite, Coppola's “Bram Stoker's Dracula”), “This Is England” (which is probably from '07), “Before the Devil Knows You're Dead”, “Snow Angels”, and especially “The Fall” (which is a bit like a darker, more morbid “Time Bandits” in the way it confounds expectations.) OK, I guess I did like some movies.

Does that mean I liked some new music, too? I doubt it. I hate music.

Wait, though, there were some great songs and ok albums. Old pros Randy Newman (with his new “Harps and Angels”), Al Green (“Lay It Down”), David Byrne and Brian Eno (“Everything That Happens Will Happen Today”), and Bob Dylan (with his new outtakes and rarities collection from the last decade or so, “The Bootleg Series Vol. 8: Tell Tale Signs ”) continued to dazzle, as did intriguing new pros Deerhoof (“Offend Maggie”), the Ruby Suns (“Sea Lion”; their earlier album is swell, too, especially if you love later period Beach Boys), and even Nada Surf (“The Weight Is a Gift”.) I also finally, belatedly got going on Elliott Smith (in particular, an album called “New Moon”), and kinda dug the Dodos and the Teeth; and right now I'm listening to an extremely striking new album called “Mythomania” by a group I've never heard of called Cryptacize. So, yeah, again, still some good music. Eleven, again. Wow -creepy.

Oh, man, here we go again -I'm out of room, and I'm half way through. OK, never mind; go buy some of these records for people for Christmas, or download 'em or whatever you kids are doing nowadays. Or rent the videos.

Or just relax! Make some pottery. Scare people.

THURSTON KELP, POLITICAL ACTIVIST

I made a political phone call. I did. Me. To someone else. When I was awake and everything.

You who know me understand that this action flies in the face of everything I have always stood for. In fact, it has always been my ambition never to pay any attention to politics under any circumstances, never, no matter what. For instance, I don't believe I have ever mentioned a politician by name in these pages, for one very simple reason: mostly, I don't know their names.

In years past, sometimes, I have voted, sometimes not; when I have voted, it has been because my wife -my bride, my sexual love partner, the original, one and only Mrs. Kelp (for whom I harbor unnatural affections) -asked me to, and specified my ideas on the subject, not overburdening me with motivation, but in most cases merely proferring a short written list. I take her suggestions invariably, for She is Wise, not to mention my sexual love partner; plus that means I don't have to listen to any of the actual bozos themselves, which has worked out so well for me over the years, I can't tell you.

Perhaps you may wonder what would cause me to suspend such a practical policy. Let's see, how do I say this tactfully? It was fear that one of the candidates- I won't say which one, in order not to outrage anyone- seemed uniquely unqualified (best not to mention which one she was exactly) -might have a chance of serving. I was apprehensive, concerned, queasy, all at the same time. Kinda jumpy.

I told my darling wife I was thinking of pitching in and making some phone calls for the opposite party (again, probably best not to identify the candidate precisely, lest I be knifed, shot or burned; for the sake of discretion we'll just call him, “That One”), and what did she think of that idea. She commented that perhaps I had lost some of my crayons, and wondered how I, a person with no knowledge whatsoever of politics and current events, planned to answer spontaneous questions on those subjects intelligently. To my credit, I saw where she was coming from, and went back under the couch.

Much to my surprise, the nagging feeling that I should be pitching in somehow would not go away, and a few weeks later, at the urging of the 400^th email from MoveOn, I actually made some calls. The first guy who answered was very nice, but I kept giggling, and had to excuse myself. Then, just to keep the laughs coming, I called my aged but still intermittently zesty parents, thinking they'd at least get a hoot out of it, but I only got about two sentences into my pre-written spiel before my mom, not recognizing my voice -and why would she, with those sentences! -said, “Oh, thank you, but we've already voted. Goodbye!” and hung up on me. Only my second political call, and already my own ma had declared me a total stranger!

I didn't really make that many calls, probably just about twenty, and half of those to answering machines (the tip sheet specified not leaving messages, but I ended up leaving a couple, figuring you can't ignore the answering machine vote), but they were all over, Florida, Colorado, Pennsylvania, Montana, Ohio -they'd give you the numbers and a little script if you wanted, which got tossed pretty quickly. “Hi, this is Thurston from Massachusetts, quite possibly the least politically informed person in the entire commonwealth, saying, vote for That One! I endorse him! Do what I say!” -this was just one of my angles.

I had some nice conversations. Actually, my mission was to get other supporters of That One who lived in swing states (swing states! -what a concept!) to actually drive somewhere to spend a few hours making phone calls to other voters in their regions. So the object of my phone call was to talk people into making more phone calls. Definitely talked to some nice folk, preaching to the choir, but jesus! -I was voluntarily making unsolicited political phone calls! What had become of me?

Luckily, after about twenty calls, I finally found the nicest guy in Florida who seemed to have been considering the idea anyway, and he said sure, he'd do it, and I was done. I had actually made a recruitment! At which point I gave up completely, probably never to return to activism. And even though my guy said in his acceptance speech that there was much hard work ahead, and that we'd all have to work together, I had already determined that it was unlikely I'd be all over that one, so anxious was I to return to my privileged life of social indolence and decay.

But hey, it sure was fun when he won, huh? Man, I'm telling you, that was a night.

Kelp on the latest Dylan "boot"

If there's one lesson music collectors have been relentlessly taught in the last couple of decades of having record companies sell us re-packaged material over and over in slightly expanded editions, it's that there's a reason most outtakes were outtakes. I've always wanted to believe otherwise, partly because some of the artists represented are no longer still at it, but even more because I just don't want to believe that major corporations are right about anything; but it's the same thing as deleted scenes from favorite movies -even when they're deleted from really good movies, too often the viewer ends up agreeing for one reason or another with the original decision.

In pop music, even the greats didn't leave behind nearly as much as you'd wish they had. The Beatles and the Stones, for instance, had their catalogs exploited so completely when all that stuff was new that there just wasn't much left over, to the extent that nowadays people end up listening to alternate mixes with the most minor changes imaginable. Turns out we didn't really need vaults for most of this stuff after all!

As in most other regards, however, Bob Dylan is a major exception to this depressing rule -not really that surprising when you consider how favorably some of his recent albums (“Love and Theft” and “Time Out Of Mind” both come to mind) compare to his heyday. He should be completely irrelevant by now, but instead, the latest volume of his cast-offs, “Tell Tale Signs, Rare and Unreleased 1989 – 2006”, which is also volume 8 (!!!) of his bootleg series, is amazingly powerful and in fact is in many ways preferable to his last CD of original material, 2006's “Modern Times”, which wasn't half bad itself.

I really can't tell you what I like so damn much about Bob. After all, he's an incredibly mannered singer, frequently pretentious as all get out, a noted poseur, rootsy to the point sometimes of not seeming to care all that much about melodies at all, and he has always seemed to have a flagrant disregard for the process of making records, using very little of all the studio chicanery available to him and usually seeming pretty happy to get in and out as fast as possible.

Of course, when everybody else was getting real slick there in the eighties and nineties, his steadfast first take approach grew to have a certain charm, just as Neil Young's did when he and Bob seemed to be the last guys on earth who refused to buy guitar tuners. But I've never been a big guy for combing through lyrics that sound like literature, plus Bob's basically still kind of a folkie who frequently writes songs that are way longer than my attention span. What the hell -why would I care about this?

Well, just because Bob is still one righteous stud, is all I can figure.

First, let's be practical: there's some math involved here: the “normal” version of “Tell Tale Signs”, has two CDs and a fucking booklet, all for only $15.99 at Amazon, and the booklet has what they call your extensive (and actually exceptionally good) liner notes by Larry “Ratso” Sloman. Hell, it's a pretty good deal for 27 mostly high quality Bob tunes and a fucking booklet so lovely yet so chunky that it could fairly be called, a “book.”

So far so good, but check this out: there's another, different version for rich people! It looks pretty similar, but it has all the same stuff plus another (as usual) exceptional CD (twelve tracks and easily as good as either of the others), plus a vinyl single (two largely redundant selections), plus an additional book(let) or book or whatever, now don't get me going on that again, OK, but I'd pretty much say “book”, that has a large selection of his single sleeve cover art over the years -no doubt something you don't need that badly, unless you're an un-repentant geek or hopelessly wealthy, in which case, line up, Rodney, that'll be $115.99. Does that seem crazy to anyone else? Like, possibly a hundred dollars is a lot to pay for a CD, a single, and a book(let) or even a fucking book. So I don't know what the hell you wanna do about that, hey don't shoot the messenger, I'm just trying to help. His batting average doesn't change much over the course of the three CDs -christ, he's old as a hill but still batting about .600 and hitting one out of the park every 3 or 4 at-bats, a great power hitter and definitely still hitting to all fields -an amazing value in any league.

The two CDs a normal person would buy contain: a great, loping “All Shook Up” Elvis version of “Dignity”, which is a song I could swear I'd heard from him elsewhere, but couldn't find during my extensive research; an incredibly mangy, rabid vocal on a live take of a song from “Love and Theft” (one of my real favorites) called “Lonesome Day Blues” that is basically a seminar in “bad” singing (only in the sense that it always sounds nowadays like Bob is on the verge of losing whatever meager pipes he had, though of course they're wonderful pipes to me; but still, when he covered “Froggy Went A'Courtin'” or whatever the hell that was, back when he did those one-man trad/folk albums in the nineties, jesus, that was rough, but Bob has always demanded a long rope, and who better to endow with one? I only meant to say omigod what an amazing singer, how can he do all that, all those different voices over the years, what is he a fucking ventriloquist or what?

How does he make himself so compelling? What makes this magic work? Twenty thousand Dylan imitators down the road I should know that I'll never figure that out, and neither will you. It's like, agnosticism, or something.

Where was I? Oh yeah: a less-revolutionary-than-usual version of “Everything Is Broken” (from “Oh, Mercy”, which I don't remember paying much attention to), but this is a nice little rocker; a spooky little acoustic bass and organ number called “Dreamin' Of You” (as is frequently the case, I don't really know what he's singing about here -just haven't gotten around to it yet -but he sure sounds good doing it)...

The tragic third big money CD that no one could possibly afford contains a ridiculously groovy thing called “Marchin' To the City” (most of this stuff is from “Oh Mercy” and “Time out Of Mind”, both beautifully produced by Damiel Lanois -I knew the latter was great, and I'm figuring I better check out “Oh Mercy” again, too); the better of the two versions in the collection of a tune called “Born In Time” that's just a nice pop tune with some slightly Chinese melody lines... and generally lots more whole new songs he's never released before; but try to forget about that one, you really probably shouldn't be spending that much money on pop music at your age.

The regular, poor people's version also has a long, stately, gorgeous tune called “Cross the Green Mountain”, apparently from the sountrack to “Gods and Generals” (there's a few songs from soundtracks here, but this one is particularly stunning); the better of the two nice mariachi versions of the leisurely, traditional “Red River Shore”; and each CD has one of three -count 'em, 3 – wonderful versions of a “Love and Theft” tune called “Mississippi” that are 180 degrees away from the relatively modern-sounding version they released originally (which still worked -it's just a great song – but I like all the alternates better); as Ratso says in the notes, “I could listen to a whole album of various takes of it.” Usually, that's pretty boring in practice, but, like I said, there's exceptions to rules...

It's not like this is all great, just most of it. There's some solo-ish, folky thing I don't care for much - the live take of “The Girl On the Greenbriar Shore” is pretty bad, as are both takes of one called “Ring Them Bells”; other than that, though, it's really all at least pretty listenable -which is a little strange, too. You can put on whole sides of Bob's last few records as background music nowadays, which I never would've figured would ever be the case; but somehow, Bob's kooky-froggy singing is, yes, almost re-assuring at this point, despite how often he's warning us of the apocalypse. It really has been fun having a little Bob party lately...

See, now in just thinking about these songs I remembered that I hadn't paid enough attention to the song he sings with Ralph Stanley, “The Lonesome River”, which I loved, a true battle of car-horn singers; and then remembered liking the one before it, a little ballad called “Miss the Mississippi” that features a great, silly/pretty little harmonica interlude where he bulldozes along through these changes that his harp doesn't really have enough notes for, (or does it?) -jesus I'm really strarting to like this one, too. Looks like I got kind of a Bob fad going here, which is pretty damn fun, for a change.


Bob Dylan, “Tell Tale Signs, Rare and Unreleased 1989 – 2006” - ***and ½ – crazy ol' Bob, in his latest, most comfy incarnation a la “Love and Theft”, “Time Out Of Mind” and “Oh Mercy”, still provides more high quality music than normal people should expect or afford.

Of Montreal's "Id Engager"

OF MONTREAL- “Skeletal Lamping” -

Over the last decade or so, there has been no new band I've respected or been dazzled by more thoroughly and consistently than Of Montreal (who actually hail from Athens, GA., and are the brainchild of singer/songwriter Kevin Barnes.) I've been proselytizing for this bunch for years, and been rewarded with many albums that I consider masterpieces, not to mention surprises. “The Bedside Drama A Petite Tragedy”, “The Gay Parade”, and “Coquelicot Asleep in the Poppies” all come to mind quickly, and there's lots of other highlights scattered through the surprisingly large catalog they've built up over the years; I've also seen them a few times, and that's always been a blast, too.

Their last couple of albums have sent interest in the band sky-rocketing, which is delightful, especially if you've gotten used to seeing creativity of this magnitude routinely ignored; but these albums have also gotten more and more techno-oriented and less human sounding, partly due to the presence of less humans: in the studio, the band, always largely a one man show anyway, seems to use the other band members contributions less and less (though they're all credited on the new CD, they're getting harder and harder to find) -and therein lies the rub. Their latest, “Skeletal Lamping”, continues the trend, and, while it's an impressive piece of work with more than its quota of interesting ideas, the band's prior achievements make it look to me like another step in a less rewarding direction.

Track one, “Nonpareil Of Favor”, makes nice at first with a bit of hammered dulcimer, but it only takes a few seconds before the techno bass drum and Kevin as both David Bowie and Prince sets the tone for what's to come, followed by about a half minute of more normal-sounding Kevin, followed by his announcement that he is “cracking his sweet love”, followed by a particularly relentless crashing and pulsing section (hello, Lightning Bolt!) that lasts for almost 4 minutes.

The next one, “Wicked Wisdom”, starts with the assertion that “I'm a motherfucking headline oh bitch you don't need to know it”; shortly after, he adds, “I'm just a black she-male”, which hadn't been my assumption. Here, he's starting to make a mistake that millions before him have made by counting on the fact that the listener will be fascinated, or at least curious, about his sexuality, when, at least in my case, nothing could be further from the truth. It is also not altogether uncommon for these sort of revelations to be backed up with all manner of technoid white funkisms, and I just wanna say that doesn't help either, as, up to now, there have been few eartlings less funky than Kevin Barnes (again, not a dig -he's always had way better things to do!) But then, after a minute or so, when you're just about ready to throw in the towel, damned if he doesn't come up with a nice funky little chorus, followed by an even nicer little section along similar lines -a couple of quality minutes! -followed by some auto-harping and mildly Lennon-esque ranting.

Our next stop illustrates my biggest problem with this phase that Barnes has been going through these past few albums, which is that they sound like they were done by one man in a small and airless room. It sounds like most of the instrumentation is keyboard generated, so hardly anything sounds like real instruments; and it's all extremely competent, unlike the Of Montreal I once treasured so, which was fallible, a little clumsy, and still seemed to feature other, less-talented musicians -yes, I'm pining for Dottie. “For Our Elegant Caste” might've made a fairly average (and satisfying) vintage Of Montreal song, but the time is always perfect, there's no false moves, and no air left in the music, and it suffers. There's still plenty of interesting ideas here, if you're intrepid enough to go in for them, but the presentation as is is pretty claustrophobic.

Then you get “Touched Something's Hollow”, a mopey, introverted little minute and a half voice and piano thing that again evokes “Mind Games”-era John Lennon, which proceeds suddenly into “An Eluardian Instance”, which ain't so bad, but it's still a bit glam-y, and ends with the singer requesting “Don't you pimp out my heart” -like, right, that's just what I was thinking about doing. No one likes obsessive compulsives more than I do, but there's a chance this guy needs a hobby.

Then it's back to techno/funk/dance land in “Gallery Piece”, though with some of the album's most compelling lyrics, all in the service of love's most contradictory impulses: “I wanna show you off, I wanna tell you lies, I wanna write you books” -kinda fun, but does it have to sound like a Chic album? Also seems to be one of those songs in search of a chorus -right now, it's all verse.

And again, a lot of this sounds pretty personal, and in Of Montreal's case I'd trade personal for hallucinatory anytime. Lyrically, there's not much in the way of characters and whimsy -it's mostly Kevin being uncomfortable. I certainly don't begrudge him needing to write about something different, because of course he has to change, and no one needs to be counted on to be fun all the time, but I'll be glad when this phase runs its course. Unfortunately for me, the band has attained its greatest success during this period, so while I'm truly and tremendously gratified to see them finally having some long overdue recognition, I know they can't go back, and only hope boredom will eventually trump commerce and we'll move on to phase 3 asap.

Meanwhile, “St. Exquisite's Confessions” is his most egregious Prince rip yet; “Triphallus, To Punctuate!” is again sorta fun, but too relentlessly techno and perfect to be entirely endearing; and then you've got one that starts up as a full-fledged 70's Stones-rip, about “turning tricks on the hood of Jasmine's car”, making me yearn once again for the days before Kevin seemed to be need street cred. Still, even during this little two-and-a-half minute sliver, there's a ton of cool ideas, but I don't know if I want to dance long enough to appreciate them. In fact, I'm pretty sure I don't want to dance at all, and that if I did it would mainly be to something else. And then the next song thinks it's really sexy, too,

and, uh, well, er...

This sounds harsh, and I don't mean it to, but the Flight of the Conchords take on the whole Prince/Bowie thing is more soulful, less pretentious, and funnier. And first -like, a year ago! Too many bands are still doing this shit nowadays -cut it out!

And so it goes, more or less, until the last cut, “Id Engager”, which was also the track the band let out ahead of time as a sneak preview, and is by far the most successful model of the current blueprint. It's just as techno/disco-y as the rest, but its one of the few where it sounds like fun is being had; you still get the Prince thing, but it doesn't take over so completely -the Of Montreal side actually wins on this one! Plus, it doesn't sound so damn autobiographical, and there's gratuitous ninja references popped in at the end just for laughs. So we leave fortified by the knowledge that the new formula can work, yet looking forward to getting out of this phase at some point in the future... please?


OF MONTREAL- “Skeletal Lamping” *** A relatively irritating manifestation of an incredibly wonderful phenomenon -I'd say download “Id Engager” first, then “Wicked Wisdom” and “Triphallus, To Punctuate!” before heading back to their earlier masterworks. If you're new to the band, this isn't where I'd start.

Deerhoof, Flying, and the Greenheads

Hi hi! Hi! Fun! Fun! Groovy times! Happy ok fun-ness! Cool man -go!!

That's my new opening for the column. I'm trying to appeal to a broader demographic, particularly reaching out for a change to the under-seventy-five-sters out there because I've been told that the youth market is “where it's at”, as they say (or at least some of them do, sometimes.) And now, on with the writing part!

Don't know if many folks hereabouts know about the San Francisco band Deerhoof, but I'd certainly like to suggest that it's a good idea, particularly for those who like surprises. Deerhoof are noisy, experimental, playful, melodic, and generally intriguing in a number of ways; for instance, though they are definitely an indie band and prone toward occasional stretches of whimsicality, they can in fact play their way out of a paper bag.

They have a pixie-voiced Asian lead singer/bassist named Satomi Matsuzaki, but also a truly scorching rhythm section with actual chops (very unusual nowadays for an indie band), including a slamming drummer, Greg Saunier, and a guitarist, John Dieterich, with an actual sound (somewhat reminiscent of XTC's Andy Partridge), both of whom use some fairly advanced and even jazzy voicings without ever sounding academic.

Luckily for those of us with no money, they've posted their latest album, “Offend Maggie”, in its entirety on their myspace page (“Basketball Get Your Groove Back” is a fun place to start; I also recommend “Jagged Fruit”, “Numina O”, and “My Purple Past” -and if you like these, there's lots more, as this is their seventh album.)

They just toured the New England area last week, and I am inconsolable for having missed them, especially as their support act was the band Flying, which includes a longtime Kelp favorite, Wellfleet's Eben Portnoy. I've talked about Flying in these pages before -their debut album, “Just One Second Ago Broken Eggshell”, is also a real eye-opener, and the more recent “Faces Of The Night” also has some fine moments (for instance, the tracks “A Cloud in Doubt” and “Firetruck”) -and now they're on a cross-country tour with Deerhoof and we should all be very proud indeed!

Last summer Eben married his band mate, Sarah Magenheimer, and they formed a new band (or at least a duo) called Fertile Crescent, who also have some interesting music up on myspace. Both of Eben's outfits share with Deerhoof a real desire to come up with something truly new and original - listed as influences on the Fertile Crescent site are “radios stuck between stations” and “sounds of trees growing”, and their music can sometimes come across as similarly twee, but it's never less than inventive, and in the context of our current musical landscape, this is a public service, a wakeup call of a sort not too many folks go to the trouble to make nowadays, and it's gratifying to see them enjoying some success.

Closer to home, cape stalwarts the Greenheads seem to be enjoying a well-deserved dollop of local buzz lately. A local staple for decades, the band has changed form many times under the stewardship of the inimitable Steve Wood, who first graced our stages as a member of the Freeze, and there's no one who rocks harder and more passionately. The current edition of the Greenheads is a stripped-down trio that also features the singing and songwriting of Sarah Swain, and it has been a lot of fun watching these two camps converge. Sarah's a sweetheart anyway, and when she's on stage with Steve she's almost always glowing like a kid in a candy store, and her enthusiasm is infectious to the point that the band is really having a whole new life.

When I saw them at Joe's Beach Bar in Orleans last week, not only did they have a whole bunch of new songs, but Sarah's learning to shout, and Steve, in an explosion of gentlemanliness and maturity, has actually turned down some. Now, to me, the idea of Steve Wood turning down is more than slightly blasphemous, and I never would've suggested it, but right now everyone in this band (including Steve's son and drummer, Sam Wood, who gets better every time I see them and is now slamming with real authority) is having so much fun that it's just working like a charm. See for yourself this Saturday at the Island Merchant in Hyannis -tell 'em Thursty sent you.

Kelp on Randy

[Originally published on my friend Sam Maclean's new webzine, In Review Online, a kinda cool new thing featuring beaucoup music and film reviews you might want to check out (you might find a couple of older Kelp things up there, too: a review of the Ruby Suns and a hilarious interview with Ms. Kami Lyle.) Meanwhile, here's the latest, a Kelp essay on Randy Newman ~]


An old friend called me tonight and mentioned that he had just bought the new Randy Newman cd, “Harps and Angels”, and hadn't heard it yet; he was about to go on a long drive with someone who was relatively unfamiliar with Newman's work, and, wanting to start his friend in the right place, wondered if I thought the new one was as good a place as any.

It was a hard question to answer. My friend -let's call him “Pelnarminous Gilahootaroonie”, though that's obviously not his “real” name -and I are both huge Randy fans, and I knew he'd love the new album and so I had to say that it is truly difficult to be objective about Randy Newman, and at this point, a new album pretty much immediately feels like a comfortable old coat.

But that's just me. It has lately come to my attention that there's a whole new generation (or two!) who mostly know, or at least firstly met, Randy Newman at his day job, shilling for Disney in a succession of wildly popular animated movies, and (I think mostly for that reason) most of them can't stand him.

I think this is a bad rap, and that's why I'd like to address the young people of today on Randy's behalf, by saying, you must be retarded; Randy is way cool.

Now, I admit that on some levels, Randy does not seem to change much. Ever! And that he does have a few songs he likes, that he seems to re-write quite a bit sometimes. That he sings like a frog -this does seem to be something people below the age of twenty are pretty much agreed on, and I understand how they feel, and even agree with them in a way. He's also a truly affected singer, and I despise affected singers -never dug Tom Waits' vocals, for instance, much as I like many of the other elements of his music and personality; and no, I can't tell you why Randy can get away with that bullshit and Tom can't, but for me, that's just how it works. Go figure.

But you little whippersnappers should have heard that voice when I first did, on “Randy Newman”, his 1968 debut, coming so out of nowhere he made the Band's whole anachronistic Matthew Brady thing seem cautious, singing these bitter. totally un-groovy and un-PC character study mini-operas, nasty little songs with unconventional structures, fully orchestrated and then some, with this Jewish kid from Beverly Hills imitating Ray Charles as a Louisiana cracker. He was immediately a critic's darling and no one else's; man, they couldn't give that album away -something Warners even tried with Randy's pal, Van Dyke Parks (ah, yes, the golden age of record promo! sigh...)

And it's still an amazing, eye-opening piece that he may have equaled ('74's “Good Old Boys” would be the contender), but never surpassed; also a record that somehow manages to sound as strange and elusive now as it did then. It's Randy before he figured out how to get cozy with us, when he was channeling Phil Spector more than Fats Domino... before he became a roots guy (Uncle Randy!) It's still exhilarating to hear him from before he actually landed, when the music was actually fully as loopy as the lyrics.

Let's just try to get the lyrics out of the way: unfailingly beautifully observed, shockingly candid, funny, heartbreaking, surprising, sweet, nasty, gorgeous miracles of concision -did I already say funny? The guy is a stone genius.

I remember a conversation in 1977, around the time of his only “hit”, “Short People”, where a few of us were trying to figure out which musician had made the fewest mistakes. See, by 1977, we felt the bloom was well off the rose for many of our heroes, almost all of whom had let us down grievously at some point or other. The Beatles, much as we loved them, regularly scheduled something lame for Ringo, and had also started the whole notion of getting back to our roots -thanks, fellas; the Stones had hired Mick Jones; Ray Charles had recorded “America the Beautiful” (beautifully) and “Elenore Rigby” (not); the Who had discovered synthesizers; Stax and Motown were in the process of giving in to disco; the list goes on and on. We felt that Randy, however, had up to that time not done anything at all that was really degrading and embarrassing -except for having the Eagles do background vocals on his latest album at the time, “Little Criminals”. (It was Randy, though, and after all, it was just background vocals -they were way in the background.) (Nobody's perfect.)

I'm probably not saying this right at all, and if you already don't like the guy, you're probably not reading this anyway, especially after I called you retarded paragraph 4. But the fact remains that this is a man who has produced zero really bad albums. The closest one to being bad is probably 1979's “Born Again”, which featured his worst backup cast yet (including the dread Waddy Wachtel, Stephen Bishop, and a couple guys from Toto. It was also made during his mercifully brief flirtation with having synthesizers stand in for strings (I'm sure the record companies begged, and what's a considerate, cost-conscious guy to do?), but it still has a solid handful of outstanding songs, as well as “It's Money That I Love” and a front cover with the artist in Kiss make-up with dollar signs over his eyes, made at the height of the musician's equivalent of the gold rush. And that's as bad as it ever got.

Meanwhile, you've got “Good Old Boys”, as sweeping and courageous as Faulkner, but funnier (and if you want gorgeous, download “Marie”); “Sail Away”, with the remarkable cuts “Political Science” and “God's Song”; “Faust”, with an assortment of bona fide rock stars assisting in the selling of Randy's soul (try “James Taylor's “Northern Boy” or Bonnie Raitt's version of “Feels Like Home To Me”); “Shame”, a beauty off his recent “Bad Love”, where he can't agree with his background singers; “Trouble in Paradise”'s epic “My Life Is Good”, where he defends his way of life at a PTA meeting; and “Love Story” and “Davy the Fat Boy” off his debut, “Randy Newman.” Download these and tell me he sucks and watch me have a fit.

Not a lick of rockstar bullshit in the bunch, either. Back when folks were jamming and getting psychedelic and grand, Randy was refining the patented Randy Newman ending, which is the shortest, most straight-forward, modest, and some might even say perfunctory ending possible- a simple period.

And let's talk about the damn movie music, too. There isn't a better string writer around, not since Elmer Bernstein died. His scores for “Avalon”, “Ragtime”, and “The Natural” are as good as conventional movie music gets, and his string charts on his own albums are a constant wonder, little miracles of concise emotion. Do you know how lucky we are that Randy got the call on the Disney stuff instead of Elton John or Andrew Lloyd Webber or any of those other clowns? Maybe “You've Got a Friend in Me” isn't the greatest thing going, but it beats the shit out of the fucking “Lion King.”

And the new album, “Harps and Angels”, is just fine. It won't change the world, but as usual, he calls a spade a spade. “A Few Words In Defense Of Our Country” comes to mind, in which he affably points out that the the ol' USA is going down the drain at this point and happy to beg for handouts:

Just a few words in defense of our country
Whose time at the top
Could be coming to an end
Now we don’t want their love
And respect at this point is pretty much out of the question
But in times like these
We sure could use a friend

Or the jaunty “Only a Girl”, where an older man weakly defends an affair with a much younger woman as it slowly dawns on him that it's his money she's after. Even his re-recording of “Feels Like Home” is way more satisfying than it should be -I thought Bonnie Raitt pretty much owned that one, but turns out ol' Froggy can still put one over with the best of them.

It's hard to explain, but it's hard for me to think of a living singer/songwriter whose work I'm more grateful for.

Kelp on Muldaur

Well, now I'm all excited about Geoff Muldaur coming to the First Encounter Coffeehouse in Eastham this Saturday (Sept. 27th – 8pm), and just wanted to spread the love. “Genius” is a word that's bandied about too carelessly these days -at this point it might even be bad luck -but I'd be comfortable calling Geoff at least “genius-y.”

Starting with his work in the sixties with the Jim Kweskin Jug Band, through a brilliant series of relatively elaborate and adventurous yet relaxed releases both solo and with his then-Mrs., Maria Muldaur, on Warner Brothers in the seventies and early eighties, and climaxing a couple of years ago with his delightful and edifying Bix Biederbecke tribute, “Private Astronomy”, Geoff has consistantly proven himself as a force for good. (And keep in mind, if you don't know that Bix was much more than a Dixieland player, you're missing one of the most surprising and mellifluous anomalies of that era; Ry Cooder also covered a few of his tunes even further back, in 1987, in his lovely “Jazz” album.)

I've always been a huge Geoff Muldaur fan, always dug the Jim Kweskin Jug Band, flipped for the Warners stuff; his solo stuff is great, too, but he has such a unique and well-informed take on our blues, country, and Tin Pan alley roots and is such a fabulous arranger.... and a truly distinctive, strange and fabulous vocal style... that, uhh, something.

I remember being into the Kweskin Jug Band in the late sixties, in prep school yet (!), loving his amazing vocal on “Never Swat a Fly”, for instance... oh lordy, if I could hear him do that one I'd just about die! And since then, along life's highway he has played with Dylan, Bonnie Raitt, the MaGarrigle Sisters, Van Dyke Parks, the legendary James Booker, and a host of others, so his creds are definitely in order.

It would be correct to say that I like the guy's work.

When I talked to him today he was full of enthusiasm for the task at hand, and honored to have been appointed. He seemed to be one of those rare people who actually love their job (not that I don't love mine -I probably just have a hard time showing my true emotions.)

He had amazing plans for the future, and they include an album of chamber music for clarinet, violin, bassoon, cello, french horn, and voice and/or guitar, to feature some tunes he has written to poems by Tennessee Williams; a horn band album, but not annoying crap modern horn band but a Ray Charles-style thing with smart charts and stuff; and an expanded two-cd re-release of “Private Astronomy”, which he expects to include many of the original recordings that he re-recorded for the album. All of which sounds like a swell list to me.

So it's ironic that I, who have never seen Geoff Muldaur play ever, yet love him so, somehow don't get to go to the show this weekend (I have a circumcision ritual that I just can't move.) In fact, I believe this to be an example of general unfairness toward me by random gods (no offense) and it is moments like this that get on my nerves. Grouchy. Irritable.

Geoff, on the other hand, had recently toured Japan, and so was in that blissful state that can only be obtained that way. He said he had played with his old colleague, the great guitarist Amos Garrett, not more than two years ago, and that he was alive and well, playing and living in Canada. He said he'd enjoyed taking seventeen years off from the music biz (save occasional soundtrack work) after his years at Warners, and I tried briefly to get him to talk about whether the Warners years, and the pressure of spending serious money on brilliant albums that made no money, had been a contributing factor; but he didn't rise to the bait, instead offering that even during his least musical employment, he had seen designing software for a steel company as “like writing a symphony.”

These days, Geoff Muldaur seems like a true accentuator of positives, at one point saying “I have a beautiful life where I get to travel all over the world and play for people.” He seems like that rare kind of guy who can actually enjoy himself in the present.

That's good -I always figured he'd sort of have a handle on it.