Whoa! Hey! How you? Damn! Kolumn time already? Phew!
We've been so busy, flitting around to Broadway openings, hanging around w. rock stars, and changing our stove fan (see below) that we've hardly had time to catch our breath! My god, it's wretched being in such demand! My wife, the fetching (and when I say fetching, what I really mean is warm, funny, wise, fascinating, and, sometimes, even fetching) Mrs. K and I are pretty much overwhelmed at this time of year with invitations to rich people's houses for holiday revelry, and oooooo! hey! It's such a bore!
Still, we attend -and attend! -because these people seem to have better food than we do here at stately Kelp Manor, and I am (surprise, surprise) an eating type of guy. Why, only yesterday we went somewhere that had mutton, which is still one of my favorite delicacies, despite the many mutts in attendance here in The Great Hall.
But enough about me! My friend, the legendary Steve "Woo Woo" Wood, has embarked upon a series of appearances on Sundays at Happy Hour at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis, along with special guest stars such as Sue from the Ticks and Jay from the Maplewoods, and sometimes even longtime son/drummer Sam Wood, who appears when his grades are up to snuff, and no discussion, young man (Steve has always been nothing if not strict and authoritative.)
The door charge is $2.00 (which, I'm sure, leaves most of you out), as are the beers, and the whole she-bang takes place between the hours of 4 and 8 each Sunday. It's a veritable explosion of evenly numbered mayhem, and I like to think that the more intelligent amongst you might consider attending, as Steve is a close personal friend and acquaintance. Whoa!
But wait! That's not all We went out again! Me 'n wifey, all over the place! First, we went to NYC (and if that's not over the bridge, I don't know what is!), with our artist friend Dan Joy (his beret is still in our back seat!) to see an old friend and admirer of the startlingly coifed Mrs. K, namely one Steve Bakunas, now doing a stint on the Great White Way as "Cop #2" in Carol Burnett's autobiographical "Hollywood Arms": for some reason, we ended up eating dinner with the cast, much to their surprise and (artfully concealed) delight.
Steve used to do some acting locally (at the Orleans Academy, for instance), but this took place in an entirely different location that wasn't here at all. Also in the cast (and at the dinner) was Linda Lavin, who, if I'm not mistaken, is a well-known actress -as well she should be: man, I've never seen anyone get more juice out of bad writing in my life! These people were, by and large, famous and talented, yet they still ended up eating with us. How would you feel if you were rich and famous but still had to eat with me? It was all very ironic.
We were glad to get away, after all the trouble we had had with the stove fan (or, more accurately, with the stove fan filter cover) on Thanksgiving. A day or two before, with guests on the way, the light bulb on the light over the stove had blown, and in trying to change it, I became aware for the first time of our stove fan filter, and of our stove fan filter cover, both of which were sadly suffering from years of neglect.. I didn't know we had either one, until I failed to change the light bulb, and then, there they were, covered with stove fan gook.
At first I panicked completely, but the very, very, very, very smart Mrs. K slapped me hard, and I became suddenly tranquil, despite reading in my stove manual that it was recommended that I clean the stove fan filter approximately every two months.. Every two months? And here I'd lived at the Manor for more than two decades without noticing I even had a stove fan cover, let alone a stove fan cover filter! It was a revelation, and one that we're still coming to terms with, actually. All I can say is, you guys with stove fans are living on borrowed time, so get to work.
I heard from excellent sources that when Bob Dylan played recently in Rhode Island, he played a lot of piano, and covered songs like "Brown Sugar" and Neil Young's "Old Man", so I guess we can infer he's still totally nutty. Go get 'em, Jimmy! And that's the news...
Friday, December 13, 2002
Friday, December 6, 2002
Louder Than Lightning
OK, so last week I told you guys I went somewhere and saw something and had a good time, but then before I could tell you what it was I got distracted, talking about all the different things I can do while I'm driving, like file my nails, read National Geographic, etc. This week, I am determined to report on actual music events, starting with the Beck/Flaming Lips show at the Orpheum in Boston a few weeks ago.
The Flaming Lips started off with a dizzy, low-rent, psychedelic everything-but-the-kitchen-sink spectacular, which featured movies, confetti-filled balloons, and occasional band- and audience-members in furry alien and animal costumes. The mood was definitely celebratory (despite the lonely, displaced feeling of many of the melodies), with singer Wayne Coyne as our guide and amiable, outgoing ringmaster and cheerleader.
Then, after a short break (during which the Flaming Lips made an unusual point of packing up their own gear, right down to sweeping the confetti off the stage), Beck came on solo, dressed in a muted brown suit if I recall correctly, and sang three or four real shoe gazers off his depressing new album on a bare stage with only his acoustic for accompaniment (this fairly closely following the wild funk and choreographed dance moves of his recent "Odelay" shows!) You've got to give him credit -whatever it was, it wasn't pandering.
In fact, it was fairly challenging, and I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about it. Both the show and his new album, "Sea Change" (DGC), are surprisingly restrained, even dignified pieces of work, both often quite lovely and both often inhabiting that same lonely, yearning
terrain that the Flaming Lips are on lately; as different as their presentations were, their recent music is similar: often pretty and touching, rarely faster than mid-tempo, spacious, grand.
The Lips came on to back up Beck for the bulk of his show, and I was interested to see that the drummer had a completely different sound for the headliner, much drier and less affected. I had never been a fan of his playing, but the show pointed out that his playing is actually fine, it's just the histrionic, mushy-boomy faux-John Bonham drum sound that stinks -he sounded much better without it.
Anyway, I think Beck might be a genius of some sort; at the very least, he's a fine and unpredictable provocateur, and thus welcome anytime. The new album is moody and lovely, both way different and way better than his last.
That said, I'd be more comfortable with his latest guise if the register he sings in all the time lately didn't make him sound so much like Gordon Lightfoot, or that guy from the evil, post-Denny Laine Moody Blues -is it Justin Heyward? I'll bet it is.
Damn, I hate when I know things like that by mistake. If only I could remove the part of my brain that knows the names of obscure character actors from terrible TV shows I've never even seen -that part that not only reads TV Guide but, most tragically, retains things -if only I could fill that part with more useful knowledge, with something I wasn't embarrassed about knowing. Or not even that, perhaps just use it as a storage space for leftover paper clips and rubber bands or something -even that would be an upgrade. It's terrible knowing these things. I mean, Justin Heyward! Please!
I also went to Lupo's in Providence a couple of weeks ago to see Sonic Youth and Lightning Bolt, both of whom were fun, but a little less noisy than I expected. Both bands are interested in noise and dissonance, and I hadn't been to one of those shows for awhile, and I was wondering if noisy music had gotten any noisier than it had been in my hay day (back in the thirties or so.) I was even a little worried, and wondered if perhaps I should've brought some earplugs (something I've never done before in my life.)
I am surprised to report that it wasn't all that loud -you could always talk easily to the person next to you, and it wasn't ever painful or excruciating -afterwards, my ears weren't even ringing. Frankly, I was a little disappointed -I was sort of hoping to have my brains blasted out (more room for paper clips and rubber bands.) The music was fine, though, especially Lightning Bolt, a bizarro bass and drum duo who set up in the middle of the audience and started blasting away right after the other band got off (as is their won't); they were intense, hilarious, and riveting, and they got the crowd (which had been mostly stationary for Sonic Youth) moving in crazy waves.
Still, I got a little concerned that today's kids might not be getting their quota of deafening, thunderous, roaring, volcanic volume, and I strongly urge all loud rock bands to turn up a little. The point is, you shouldn't be able to talk to someone at a show like this -certainly not without yelling into their ear. The fact that it sounded fine has nothing to do with it -people just need to be blasted every once in a while; otherwise, their ears will get out of shape and flappy.
This week, for instance, we have Bim Skala Bim at the Beach Break in Eastham on Friday (the 6th), and Bruce Maclean and the Maplewoods appearing at the Claddagh in Harwichport on Saturday (the 7th), and I challenge both of these stalwarts to play way louder than usual, for only in great volume can true honor be granted. I know they won't let me down.
The Flaming Lips started off with a dizzy, low-rent, psychedelic everything-but-the-kitchen-sink spectacular, which featured movies, confetti-filled balloons, and occasional band- and audience-members in furry alien and animal costumes. The mood was definitely celebratory (despite the lonely, displaced feeling of many of the melodies), with singer Wayne Coyne as our guide and amiable, outgoing ringmaster and cheerleader.
Then, after a short break (during which the Flaming Lips made an unusual point of packing up their own gear, right down to sweeping the confetti off the stage), Beck came on solo, dressed in a muted brown suit if I recall correctly, and sang three or four real shoe gazers off his depressing new album on a bare stage with only his acoustic for accompaniment (this fairly closely following the wild funk and choreographed dance moves of his recent "Odelay" shows!) You've got to give him credit -whatever it was, it wasn't pandering.
In fact, it was fairly challenging, and I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about it. Both the show and his new album, "Sea Change" (DGC), are surprisingly restrained, even dignified pieces of work, both often quite lovely and both often inhabiting that same lonely, yearning
terrain that the Flaming Lips are on lately; as different as their presentations were, their recent music is similar: often pretty and touching, rarely faster than mid-tempo, spacious, grand.
The Lips came on to back up Beck for the bulk of his show, and I was interested to see that the drummer had a completely different sound for the headliner, much drier and less affected. I had never been a fan of his playing, but the show pointed out that his playing is actually fine, it's just the histrionic, mushy-boomy faux-John Bonham drum sound that stinks -he sounded much better without it.
Anyway, I think Beck might be a genius of some sort; at the very least, he's a fine and unpredictable provocateur, and thus welcome anytime. The new album is moody and lovely, both way different and way better than his last.
That said, I'd be more comfortable with his latest guise if the register he sings in all the time lately didn't make him sound so much like Gordon Lightfoot, or that guy from the evil, post-Denny Laine Moody Blues -is it Justin Heyward? I'll bet it is.
Damn, I hate when I know things like that by mistake. If only I could remove the part of my brain that knows the names of obscure character actors from terrible TV shows I've never even seen -that part that not only reads TV Guide but, most tragically, retains things -if only I could fill that part with more useful knowledge, with something I wasn't embarrassed about knowing. Or not even that, perhaps just use it as a storage space for leftover paper clips and rubber bands or something -even that would be an upgrade. It's terrible knowing these things. I mean, Justin Heyward! Please!
I also went to Lupo's in Providence a couple of weeks ago to see Sonic Youth and Lightning Bolt, both of whom were fun, but a little less noisy than I expected. Both bands are interested in noise and dissonance, and I hadn't been to one of those shows for awhile, and I was wondering if noisy music had gotten any noisier than it had been in my hay day (back in the thirties or so.) I was even a little worried, and wondered if perhaps I should've brought some earplugs (something I've never done before in my life.)
I am surprised to report that it wasn't all that loud -you could always talk easily to the person next to you, and it wasn't ever painful or excruciating -afterwards, my ears weren't even ringing. Frankly, I was a little disappointed -I was sort of hoping to have my brains blasted out (more room for paper clips and rubber bands.) The music was fine, though, especially Lightning Bolt, a bizarro bass and drum duo who set up in the middle of the audience and started blasting away right after the other band got off (as is their won't); they were intense, hilarious, and riveting, and they got the crowd (which had been mostly stationary for Sonic Youth) moving in crazy waves.
Still, I got a little concerned that today's kids might not be getting their quota of deafening, thunderous, roaring, volcanic volume, and I strongly urge all loud rock bands to turn up a little. The point is, you shouldn't be able to talk to someone at a show like this -certainly not without yelling into their ear. The fact that it sounded fine has nothing to do with it -people just need to be blasted every once in a while; otherwise, their ears will get out of shape and flappy.
This week, for instance, we have Bim Skala Bim at the Beach Break in Eastham on Friday (the 6th), and Bruce Maclean and the Maplewoods appearing at the Claddagh in Harwichport on Saturday (the 7th), and I challenge both of these stalwarts to play way louder than usual, for only in great volume can true honor be granted. I know they won't let me down.
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