Display by Label: Music

Sometimes I come here wanting to tell you something important. Other times, what I have to say is so small and frivolous and irrelevant that I wonder if you will think me petty, or an idiot, or both. Sometimes I want to tell you something true, but can't, so I tell a little fiction instead. Other times, I want like hell to lie my ass off, but instead I wind up vomiting entire chunks of my personal life. Sometimes, brothers and sisters, my heart is filled with so much love that I want to just throw my arms around all of you and give you sloppy wet kisses on the mouth and get all naked and dance in the mud like it's 1969. And other times I want to burn every bridge I've ever built and cut the head off of this blog and tell you all to fuck off.

And today might be a day for one of those things, I'm just not sure which one. Because today, I've just come here to declare this: I'm jealous of all the people at my gym with their white, white shoes. I mean it. I don't know how they keep their shoes so clean, but they do, and I hate them for it. It's a dark kind of hate, the kind I only reserve for chipmunks and people who prefer to pull their toilet paper from the bottom. Every day I have to walk in there with my graying shoes, so joyless and devoid of life, and it makes me feel sad and alone and embarrassed. Makes me want to click-wheel over to some Neko Case.


I've tried to keep up with them. Don't think I haven't. I'll go out and get a new pair of shoes every four or five months, and each time I'll resolve to wear my older ones for the dirty tasks, like mowing the lawn, or shoveling mulch, or playing a game of "bury the shoe in the mud" (God, I love that game). But then I find myself outside in my brand new shoes kicking a soccer ball with Honey after a fresh rain, and it's all over—those suckers are destined for a life of shame and ignominy as I trudge over to a stretch mat and lie down next to some woman who looks like she just picked her shoes up from the dry-cleaners. And I know she's sitting there judging me, wondering why the hell I don't buy a new pair of shoes already, not realizing I just bought them last week.

Oh, I feel your judgement, and let me tell you, it stings. And so this is just to say I'm not going to let it bother me anymore. You understand? This is who I am, dammit. I'm a guy who wears gray, dirty gym shoes in public. And though you might not believe it, I am human. If you prick me, I assure you, I do bleed. So get off your high horse and show me some love already.





link to this | comments (6) | File:  TheLine  Music  Gym 

When I lived in DC, I played keys for about a year in a band called The Jones. It marked a sort of musical re-awakening for me. (A musical re-awakening which has since gone back to sleep, I might add.) I had been into music all through college and had played in a band called "Fifth Beat." We mostly played jazz standards, mixed in with a few pop odds and ends, like Morphine's "Good." I also had a semi-regular gig back then where I played an antique upright at a bistro called Harb's. I loved the way that piano sounded, even though it was jarringly out of tune and some of the keys in the lower register didn't actually hammer notes at all. Harb's paid me with dinner. And the Harb's patrons sometimes put tips into my glass. I felt like the Billy Joel of the Blue Ridge.

I didn't really keep up with my playing post-graduation. Then, when C and I moved to DC in 2003, I met Mike at The Childe Harold and he invited me to play with them, and I did, and things kind of clicked. I bonded with him and the bassist Jeff over the fact that we all really loved The Black Keys. And so we'd jam in Mike's basement figuring out how to work a piano or Hammond into the songs. We got some gigs and played a few of the local DC clubs ... Staccato, DC9, Velvet Lounge. Oh, the drinking! Oh, the drugs! Oh, the women and all-night orgies. Yes, the band temporarily saved me from all these things. Then there was some band drama that went down. Drummer issues, conflicting schedules, lack of rehearsal space. A general malaise swept over the group. When VH1 calls Mike one day to do a "Behind the Music" special on The Jones, they will refer to this time as a "dark valley" in the group's history. And they will likely refer to my beard and curly mop of hair as "tragic."

I wound up sort of falling out of The Jones. I didn't really quit, nor did they ask me to leave. I just found life pressures were getting in the way (see note above: drinking, drugs, all-night orgies) and so I went on a permanent leave-of-absence. But I have fond memories of the time I spent in the band.

The Jones' sound has changed a lot in the last couple of years. Evolved. In a good way. I'm impressed. George is now the drummer. He had started right around the time I was phasing out and I could tell he would bring good things to the overall sound. There is also a new bass player, Rich. (Well, he's new to me ... I actually think he's been playing with Mike and George for a while now.) Based on the recent recordings I've heard on their MySpace page, it sounds like he's a great addition.

Anyway, let me get to the point: all of this is a very long-winded (and, yes, self-indulgent) way of me saying that if you're in DC or NYC you can (and should) catch The Jones at one of these two shows:

DC: Rock and Roll Hotel, Friday August 8th, 9:30 pm

New York: Kenny's Castaways, Saturday August 9th, 10:30pm

I'm planning on going to the New York show. Maybe I'll see you there.

Along with the several pics I've just posted of me and the band during the time I was in it, here's a demo recording we did. I kind of like this track, even though now I'm not so sure I like the droning piano riff I am playing in it. The solo with the organ sound around the 2:05 mark is kinda minimalist cool, though. In addition to Mike on vocals and Jeff on bass, Mat is playing drums in this one. The song is called "Gun Jump." It is written by Mike, as is most of The Jones' material. Enjoy!



link to this | comments (1) | File:  NY  Music  DC 

When I told Honey I had posted a video of her carrying that paper across the street, she was like, "Oh, Christ, Dad. What's next, then? Talking about how it seems only yesterday I was this big or carrying around my lost baby teeth to show the neighbors?"

I thumbed the premolar in my pocket. "Of course not!" I said.

The weird part wasn't that Honey, you know ... spoke. It was that she spoke with an English accent. It wasn't exactly a proper, "Received English" kind of English, but it wasn't quite an East End of London, Cockney type of thing, either. It reminded me of the Beatles. She had a sort of nasal thing going on. Like John.

"Is that Scouse?" I asked her.

"'Tis. What of it?"

"Where did you pick that up?"

"It's a long story ..."

Apparently, even though Honey's mom, a Pit Bull, was from North Jersey, her dad, a German Shepherd, Vizsla mix, came over from Liverpool on a cargo ship carrying boxes of Kongs. Honey had spent a few formative weeks with him before he left her and her mom alone under the wood deck of a rairoad house in Queens. Before he left, though, he had taught Honey her ABC's and implanted a bit of Merseyside in her speech.

Honey went on to tell me that she didn't like this trend of mine, posting photos of her. And now videos. She was worried this would all end in some sort of doggy blog.

"I know. I know. You're right. But the strange thing is I don't really care. I just don't get it. I've lost my perspective on this shit. I guess I'm feeling old," I explained. "I mean, listen to this: did you know that the baby on the cover of Nirvana's Nevermind album is now 17 and is close to graduating high school?"

Honey just stared at me blankly.

"Sorry. I'll play it for you sometime. It's a terrible cliché to say this, but the album changed my life. Which probably isn't entirely accurate. It's more likely that my life was changing anyway, and that album just happened to serve as a soundtrack for it. And it's just weird. That baby ... is now a freakin' teenager. Which also makes me realize that Kurt Cobain died 14 years ago. And at some point after that we wound up with Techno. And I'm not sure which of those two things is more tragic."

"Jesus, Dad. Snap out of it, mate. Stop living in the past. Look, here's what I'm saying: You can write about me. Just tell people the real shit, man. You know ... what it's like for me out there on the streets. About my friend Riley who lives across the street and who's a lot of fun to play with and all, but you know—just between you and me—the bloke is a few short of a full bag of goodies, ain't he? Or those Daschunds, Oscar and Woody. Holy crap. Those two take the piss out of me every time we pass them on the street. Their constant name-calling. All I want to do is play and they're all making fun of my ears and asking when I'm going to grow into these feet and shit like that. I think I'll probably eat one of them one day when I'm bigger. Then there's that crazy Italian Greyhound, Lucus, who never says a thing, but looks like he's got all this pent-up sexual frustration, poor thing. You should talk about this shit, Dad. This is real bloody doggy drama, right here in the North Jersey burbs."

"I'll keep it in mind," I said. "You just concentrate on not pulling on your leash, and let me worry about the blog, okay?"

"Whatever," she said, and went back to a rawhide.

Adolescents.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  Music  Ho_Hum  Honey  Age 

I recently re-established contact with a friend from college (also named David.) We were fellow English majors and creative-writing workshop goers at W&L. Also, we were both swimmers (though I stopped swimming competitively before college, so we never actually swam on a team together.) I never knew he played guitar, but it turns out he's playing in a band that could open for Coldplay on one of their stops. So I want to take a moment and plug his band and ask people to vote for him. Just go here. He's in the band "Pam Autuori" which is at the very bottom of the page. They're actually in the lead as I write this, but just barely!

So go vote for him!! NOW!!

I'm a little late with this post and I think voting ends today, so there's no time to waste. Dave's a good guy, so you'll be supporting a good cause!

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Music  Friends 

It's drizzling and humid outside, and the windows are open and the house-fan is on to draw a breeze. Honey is on the floor next to me working on a bone in which I've inserted a bit of the provolone and nuked it. Because sometimes just plain rawhide is boring for her. And I can understand that. And that damn bone is really too big for her. But she doesn't know that. Or care. So neither do I. And pretty soon she'll fall into her morning slumber, comatose on her back, her pink belly and white neck exposed, and her over-sized feet suspended above her at all angles. And all this is a backdrop to me listening to "Falling Down," my favorite track off of Scarlett Johansson's album of Tom Waits covers, and a track I've had cycling in my head since sometime last week.

First the album: Anywhere I Lay My Head has gotten some praise from critics, but unfortunately for SJ, that praise has focused more on Dave Sitek's production and musical re-workings of the Waits' songbook than the blond starlet's voice. Which is too bad, because I do think SJ's voice, while a bit flat, works well with the mood of the album, particularly on "Falling Down." I'm not saying her voice is great. But I don't think it's bad, either. And really, is Tom Waits' voice "great?" Still there are elements of passion and strength in Waits' voice that just aren't there with SJ, and I think this is what critics are pointing out.

Regardless of what you think of SJ's voice, the album is strong. It was recorded in Maurice, Louisiana, which serves as a sort of sonic backdrop to most of the songs. Swarms of insects carry the music to your ears, where it lingers, low and heavy, with a syrupy wetness. This is an album you need to listen to naked and sweating with the A/C off and a slow-spinning fan overhead.

Not that I've done that. Twice.

I've had "Falling Down" on "Repeat-One" quite a bit over the last week (a setting I've referred to before as: OCD? What OCD?). I've been alternating between the SJ cover and the Waits original, which has been an interesting exercise (Again, it's an exercise you might only appreciate if your alphabet begins with the three letters referred to in the previous sentence). Anyway, I thought I'd put both tracks up here for a little side-by-side comparison. A note to any expensive lawyers out there: I would be more than happy to remove either of these upon request.

Okay, so first the SJ track. Some things to listen for:
1) Come from St. Petersburg, Scarlett and me ... is the original lyric, something that SJ thought might be corny in doing this song, but which Sitek, according to the album notes, thought added to the "synchronicity" of the project. I agree.
2) David Bowie's voice appears on this track, as well as on one other track on the album: "Fannin Street."
3) The banjo that comes in during the second verse was inspired by Kermit's "Rainbow Connection."

Okay, so here it is:

If you're like me (and I truly hope you're not) you'll want to press play on that sucker again and again. If that's the case, than I'd urge you to go get it on iTunes or wherever you get your music.

Now, for the original. I hadn't listened to Waits' version before hearing SJ's. But I went out looking for it as soon as I did. The track below is from the album Big Time. I don't have any notes to add on this one. But I do have a suggestion on how to listen to it: imagine you're in a dimly-lit bar holding a pint and drowning over lost love. If you can't do that, then drink half a six and stand in your living room in front of your bare windows in your underwear belting out the lyrics to your neighbors.

Not that I've done this, either. Three times.


After several listens, I think I like the Sitek/Johansson version the best. But let me qualify that: I think the Waits version has a more timeless drunken-bar-song quality to it, and it stands strong on Waits' scratchy, pain-filled voice. But the cover is, in many ways, a much more interesting recording and it's immediately catching and powerful. Of course, the lyrics are the best part of any Tom Waits song. And in this respect, both tracks are on even footing.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Reviews  Music 

The memes have been flying all over the place lately. And I got hit in the crossfire. Twice. One in each leg ... I've been tagged by Lemmonex and Jeff. But here's the thing ... one of these here memes asks for six quirks and the other asks for seven random/weird things. Together this adds up to ... let's see, carry the one ... thirteen. And there's no way I'm posting thirteen things about myself. Even if I space them out over two posts, it'll still be a total of 13 in a week and, well, that's just ... unlucky. So I've got to throw one more in for good measure. And good karma.

So here we go, six plus seven, plus one. Random/Weird/Quirky. And since we're already on the subject, we might as well start with this one:


Lemmonex didn't post rules to "seven things," so as far as I can tell there is no tag requirement. So I'm going to claim ignorance and go with that. But there were clear rules for six things, as set forth by Jeff. Here they are:

1. Tell about six unspectacular quirks of yours
2. Link the person who tagged you
3. Mention the rules in your blog
4. Tag six following bloggers by linking them
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger's blogs letting them know they've been tagged

Now to tag ... I'm going to make it easy and go with bloggers whose names begin with H or J:

• Hammer
• Hannah
• Helena
• HH
• Jinius
• Joanne

Ya'll have been tagged. Enjoy.

link to this | comments (10) | File:  Things  Music  Ho_Hum  Books  Blog 

This past Christmas, during a group outing to the mall to put Christmas money to good use, C's mom wound up buying The Story So Far, a 2-CD "Best Of" compilation of Rod Stewart hits. My outward reaction to this purchase was cool, non-committal enthusiasm. Standard hipster stuff. She asked me what I thought. I said, "Yeah, good." I may have smiled. If others around me were watching, they would have gathered from my reaction that I was clearly far too cool to be listening to the likes of Rod Stewart, but at the same time they would have seen that I was considerate enough not to show my smug contempt for the CD to my Mother-in-Law, who I obviously respected and admired. Yeah, it's a lot to put into a reaction, but I think I pulled it off.

Inwardly, however, my reaction was: "Holy shit! You must buy that puppy RIGHT NOW, because if you don't, I will!" I knew I couldn't actually be caught carrying the CD to the counter myself, but I'd find a way to get that thing, even if it meant smuggling it out of the store in my pants. (And yes, I realize that there are several layers of disturbing to the act of putting a Rod Stewart CD down your pants.)

It's still not clear exactly how it happened, but somehow a few of the tracks from that compilation wound up in my iTunes library. It's almost as if, while nobody was looking, somebody feverishly opened the plastic wrapping on that purchase before any of the other CDs he (or she) had bought that day and ripped a few important gems to my computer. You know, stuff like Hot Legs, Maggie Mae, Da Ya Think I'm Sexy? and Some Guys Have All the Luck. Weird. I'm sure whoever it was had their reasons.

So now, whenever one of those songs pops up in my play-list, I tolerate it. I give it the courtesy of a listen. But it's not like I sing along or bob my head or dance a little in my chair ... or anything ridiculous like that. Sheesh. It's just music, people.

On a related note, I was listening to Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me this weekend—because nothing goes better with biscuits and eggs on a beautiful Sunday morning than a little Paula Poundstone snarkiness—and learned that '80s music is now being marketed by radio stations as "Oldies." Which means, brothers and sisters—because I feel this needs emphasis—that if you're approximately 32 years of age or over, the music of "your time," the stuff you may first remember listening to—Cyndi Lauper, Van Halen, Pat Benetar, Duran Duran, Chicago, Huey Lewis and the News—is now officially "Oldies" music.

And, of course, Rod Stewart falls into this category too ... but let's face it, he's been "Oldies" for some time now.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Age  Family  Music  Pop_Culture 

C went to California this weekend, and I went to Southpaw Prison in Brooklyn with A & K and a few others to watch Johnny Cash perform. Okay, it wasn't really Johnny Cash. It was Alex Battles. And Southpaw isn't really a prison, but if it were, it would be the best damn prison ever. Because this prison had a coat-check and free-flowing Kelso on draft.

It was the Johnny Cash 76th Birthday Bash that brought us out. The main event was Alex Battles' Whiskey Rebellion faithfully recreating the Folsom Prison concert in its entirety, right down to the "announcements" that occur between the songs. There were even visits from June Carter (played by Jessica Rose and Becky Birmingham). It was a lot of fun, and Alex Battles was very convincing as Johnny Cash.

The evening opened with the Susquehanna Industrial Tool & Die Co., who played some classic hillbilly country. Swing, swing, swing. That was followed with some rare Johnny Cash films displayed larger-than-life on the side wall. It was kind of eerie seeing Johnny Cash's giant head floating above the crowd like that, but it helped set the mood.

Here's a shot of Battles. And there are some more fuzzy photos here.

And here's a shaky video I took. Now, before you go making fun of my video skills, keep in mind that I wasn't really trying to get the band. I mean, anybody could do that. What I really wanted was a close-up of that guy's beer-hand blocking Alex Battles' face. And I got it, brother. Spot on. Not bad, eh?




link to this | comments (3) | File:  NY  Music  Brooklyn 

Casey Dienel has been in pretty heavy rotation on my iPod for close to a year now. Especially the song "Frankie and Annette," which I frequently put on "Repeat One," a setting also known as "OCD? What OCD?" Her solo album, Wind-Up Canary, left me scratching my head a bit at first listen. But something about it grabbed me and pretty soon I found my thumb spinning that click wheel to her name again and again. Her voice just floats over her songs, held up by this thin piece of yarn, which is worn and fraying a bit. And so you sit there biting your nails wondering if the damn thing will collapse right in front of you, quivering and broken on the ivories. But it never does. And I think it's the danger and recklessness of that ongoing tension that is so addictive and exciting about her music. And beautiful.

Casey Dienel is now playing with a band and they call themselves White Hinterland. I saw them last Friday at Cake Shop. They've got an interesting sound, kind of jazzy, only with a violin and some sort of eastern stringed instrument I didn't recognize. I do wish they had done more of the songs from Dienel's solo album, but it kind of sounds like maybe she has "moved on" from those a bit. They did do one, though: Doctor Monroe. Overall, it was a solid performance. And by the time it was over, I found myself wanting more.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Reviews  Music 

I've always fancied myself an aficionado of the pop culture, particularly of any variety born or raised in the 80s or 90s. And while I'm not the encyclopedia of information that my friend Mitch is, I am, perhaps, something of an abridged coffee-table reference. Or maybe a pocket dictionary. I remember once playing Trivial Pursuit, 20th Anniversary Edition with C's family several Christmases ago and being given the following question: "Who was the front-man for the 80s rock band Twisted Sister?" I remember how they had all looked at each other like maybe they hadn't read the card right, or perhaps it was written in a different language or something. And whoever had read the question began to put the card back in the box and pass the lot to the next person because, you know, what the hell was a "Twisted Sister" anyway? And, whew! sometimes this game really tossed some crazy shit out there, and well, better luck next time, Dave, and . . . "Dee Synder" I said, confident and matter-of-fact. "I'll take a wedge, please." They all looked at me with wonder and awe. And I sat back and smiled, basking in the glow of my own pop-acumen, a byproduct of my grueling after-school regimen of MTV and Fruity Pebbles. It was tremendously satisfying given the fact that I normally have to sit on the sidelines of most of C's family's discussions because they're apt to involve the finer points of business strategy or physics, subjects which often render me completely mute.

But C got me back last night. After watching our old NFC-East home team get beaten by our new NFC-East home team, C told me to fast-forward past the post-game recap and sideline interviews with Eli and Romo and get on to the next show. We always TiVo football these days so we don't have to watch the commercials. I didn't know it at the time, but C had extended the record time to be sure to catch the show that came on directly afterwards, the pilot of The Sarah Connor Chronicles.

I zipped past Eli in his shag cut telling Pam Oliver how his brother's loss earlier in the afternoon was "tough." Translation: Suck it, Payton. This time I'm the one going to the Championship. Then, I slowed things down when the next show started. At this point I still wasn't sure what the show was. But C seemed excited about it, so I watched the first minute or so. And after seeing a bit of the opening sequence, which involved lots of gun fire and a frightening, indestructible robot, it dawned on me: "Oh, this is that Terminator thing, right? I think I heard about this."

C nodded and eyed me suspiciously. It was as if I had just uttered, "Oh, shoes are things people wear on their feet, right?" — something ridiculously apparent like that. "Yeah," she said, "The Sarah Connor Chronicles."

"Was Sarah Connor one of the characters in the movie, then?" I asked.

Again, I detected some skepticism from C, if not downright distrust. She paused the show. "Yes," she said, minor annoyance brewing. "She was the mom. Remember?" She rewound, then started the action again. Clearly this was not a time for talking.

"Oh sure," I said. I immediately recognized that "the mom" probably should have sufficed as an answer, not — as it did for me — open up more questions, like: You mean there was another character in the movie besides Ahhhnold? Wanting to keep my pop-culture cred in tact, I kept this one to myself and instead decided I'd just let C watch the show in peace and maybe sneak upstairs and look up "The Terminator" on IMDb. I started to get up from the couch. C paused the show again.

"What? You're not going to watch it with me?"

I hesitated. Weighing my options. "Sure," I said, "But . . . you know . . . I . . . " It was time to come clean with her. After all, she was my wife. She'd understand. "You're going to have to bring me up to speed." C looked confused. "I've never seen the Terminators, okay?"

I can't be positive, but I think this was the most outrageous and hilarious thing C had ever heard uttered from anybody's lips, let alone mine. She erupted in laughter, betraying her complete incredulity and wonderment.

"You've never seen the Terminators?"

I shook my head.

C's hilarity gave way to stunned silence and an aw-shucks sort of bewilderment, as if this piece of information was actually making her doubt my very existence. As if she was thinking, by God, who is this man and how did he wind up seated across from me in this living room?

"What else are you going to tell me?" she stammered, clearly disturbed and perplexed over this tragic revelation. She almost seemed sorry for me. Like I had been deprived in some vital way. "I mean, did you ever see . . . Sesame Street? Or how about drink water?" Her eyebrows raised. "Is that something you ever did in your life? Did you ever breathe?"

And that was about the crux of it: For C, a life without science fiction was akin to a life without water or air.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Pop_Culture  Music  Movies  Football  Cowboys  Cath