Running low on summer songs to party, road-trip or just hang out to? Sick of the same six songs in rotation on your favorite radio station? Well here’s some instant relief for you. The band’s name is Ease Up and they just released the EP ‘On The Fly.’

From the heart of the Southern California scene Ease Up has been playing shows and touring up and down the state for a couple of years now. Gaining notoriety playing with local reggae greats Stranger (who’s extremely talented horn player Don Carter plays on the release) plus bands like Seedless (who are currently gearing up to tour the nation with Tribal Seeds), they are well established in the musician’s community. With their big sound and awesome vocal harmonies, Ease Up blends an enticing amount of reggae, rock and pop music that hit like a sunny California beach party.

The CD starts with a cymbal roll and blasts straight into the reggae-rock powerhouse “With You”. Lead singer Rico Estrada’s smooth as butter voice weaves perfectly through the band’s tight rhythm section while lead guitar player Will “Eye Bee” rips a quick solo to help peak the song out. Nate “Legendary” (bass) and “D-Rail” (drummer) hold down the heartbeat of the album with their rock-solid presence and perfectly timed runs. Cruising seamlessly into the fast-paced ska  song “Feelin’ Irie,” you are taken back to your favorite high school house party busts that no one wants to put on their resumes. Featuring Matt Liufau of  Seedless’ thundering vocals,  his soulful breakdown  is enough to get anyone moving.

The song on the CD  that will stick in your head for two weeks is “Blowin’ Up My Phone”.

“Why you blowin’ up my phone? It’s 3 a.m. and I ain’t home no-oh …”

Sounds simple enough, but with its super-catchy and addicting catch-phrase you will quickly find it reverberating through your head for days to come. After this, proving that there is a sensitive side to the group, the EP features two more laid back love songs titled “Another Time” and “Til The End”,  with the perfect road-trip anthem “Cali X in between.” “Til The End” (appropriately titled for the last song) winds the album down, starting with a beautiful vocal harmony and proceeding to hit with some of the catchiest riffs and choruses to be found on the CD.

To celebrate, Ease Up recently threw a rocking CD release party at 710 Beach Club in Pacific Beach, supported by acts Boom Culture and Rightjahs Blend to help make the night a huge success. And to make sure it’s convenient for their fans, they made the music extremely accessible. Here’s what to do:

-Click the link to their website on the bottom of the page where you can listen to each song in its entirety for free (this way YOU decide whether the music is worthy of your IPOD before you purchase it)

-If you love it and want to see them live, check them out at the House of Blues San Diego on July 15th, opening for Stranger’s CD release party

-Get ready to experience some phenomenal new music that may not have been on your artist radar but will quickly find its way into your summer playlists!

Ease Up Is:

Rico Estrada-Rhythm Guitar/lead vocals

Nate “Legendary”-Bass Guitar/Backup Vocals

Will “Eye Bee”-Lead Guitar/Backup Vocals

“D-Rail”-Drums

iTunes

Facebook

Website

Dave Harken (Kevin Spacey) is an office tyrant. He is selfish, domineering, and unyielding with his employees, especially Nick (Jason Bateman).  Spacey is remarkably on par in his truly evil performance—doling out a lifetime of office enslavement to his underlings.  Dr. Julia Harris (Jennifer Aniston) takes sexual harassment to the next level with her dental assistant Dale (Charlie Day).  She breaks from her good-girl character to reveal her potential as a comedic actress uninhibited by a very raunchy and sexually explicit role.  It is surprising and refreshing to see Aniston no holds barred.  Bobby Pellit (Colin Farrell) is easily one of the most off-the-wall characters; Farrell absolving his actor identity as a love interest and adopting the gross vulgarity necessary to play Bobby Pellit.  His character is so absolutely hilarious and miserable with a comb over to top it off, you want to witness the farce for much longer than the film allows.

But this isn’t your run of the mill dark comedy. The humor remains remarkably light-hearted throughout the film.  Jamie Foxx’s ex-con character MF Jones fits unexpectedly well into the cast as the Nick, Kurt and Dale trio plot their bosses’ all too deserving demise.  Despite his smaller role, Foxx clearly commits to the role, from his bad negotiating skills to the awkward way he sips a cocktail.

Jason Bateman, Jason Sudeikis and Charlie Day exhibit remarkable chemistry for a film that does not delve into the dark humor promised by the premise—to commit murder.   The pacing and the flow are often sacrificed to get in the jokes. But just when it seems it will slip into the traps of a cliché comedy film, it still surprises the audiences with delightful new twists and jabs.

What’s more, the film does an excellent job remaining unpredictable throughout.

Watch the trailer below:

Click here to view the embedded video.

You can check out the Horrible Bosses website for more information about the film.

Two hours, 30 songs and one unbelievable performance later, he had left two things behind: little doubt of his status as one of the greatest vocal and musical legends of his generation, and the fact that the ukulele may never seem as cool again.

His first right move was having Glen Hansard of The Swell Season, who set the acoustic tone of the night perfectly with an excellent performance of his own, open the show.  Vedder then strolled out with ukulele in hand, was greeted by a roaring crowd and broke right into it with a version of Pearl Jam’s “Can’t Keep,” pausing only momentarily afterward to address the audience.

“Sorry, I’ll talk to you guys in a minute, but the uke and I have a bit more work we need to do right now,” he said before hammering out three more tunes from the new record.

After divulging a few stories from the past weekend spent in his former hometown, or what he referred to as “the best f—ing geographical location in the world,” the ukulele was replaced by an acoustic guitar and any sort of promotional vibe the show might have had was quickly lost as a slew of Pearl Jam classics ensued.

While the sound was amazing and the show’s atmosphere was intimate and mellow, perhaps it was the long holiday weekend that caused it to feel just a little bit tired early on.  Vedder himself even admitted half way through the first set that he was a little “worn out” from a long day of surfing in North County.

“Provide me with one last wave of energy and I’ll ride it to the end,” he told the audience before breaking into a beautiful ukulele rendition of Pearl Jam’s hit song “Betterman.”

Copley Hall went berserk.

Throughout the evening, Vedder would continue to switch up instruments as well as albums much to the crowd’s delight, with songs ranging anywhere from his new album, to some Pearl Jam rarities, to those off of his first solo album, “Into The Wild Soundtrack,” to a Bruce Springsteen cover thrown in for good measure.

Hansard joined in on the act for more than a few of the tracks, and at two different points Vedder even had a four-piece orchestra complete with violins and cellos on stage for accompaniment.

By the middle of a second set that began with an acoustic cover of the Beatles’ “Hide Your Love Away” and Pearl Jam’s “Elderly Woman” and “Unknown Thought,” the energy waves were barreling.

During the ensuing, particularly chilling ukulele duet of Vedder’s own “Sleepless Nights” that featured him and Hansard standing at the front edge of the stage singing without microphones with a single spotlight on each of them, you could feel the collective breath being held, the audience was so silently engrossed in what was taking place.

The moment the song ended, the crowd erupted in a wild ovation.

By the final song of the night, a six minute rendition of “Hard Sun” for which Vedder pulled out the electric guitar, the lights of the auditorium had turned on and he had violently kicked over his microphone to give himself plenty of space to rock out and look the audience in the face. There wasn’t a single person still in their seat.

And that’s the brilliance of Vedder.

He engages and elevates the crowd to that perfect level that he needs to build up to an amazing show.

He mumbles when he talks, he screams when he rocks out with his band, but he tunes his voice to a perfectly soft harmony to match the beautiful pitch of the ukulele strings.

His lyrics are captivating.

Before playing the second to last song of the night, he again addressed the audience for the final time: “Every time I come back to this place, San Diego, I realize how much I miss it . . .  you guys are f—ing lucky.”

You’re not doing too bad yourself either, Eddie.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The Casbah is located off on Kettner Boulevard and despite its hole-in-the-wall appearance, draws a very loyal following.

On the outside you just see an old building with the sign, having dark red paint with flames at the bottom. But then once you step past the gate, it is very eye opening.

There is a room that is located towards the back that has pool tables, a TV, and some video games. Perfect for a place where you can kick back and chill while listening to some great music. In the other room there is the stage with a dance floor for the crowd to stand in front of the band and dance to the music. The bar was welcoming and the drinks were affordable. The crowd line wasn’t that bad to get in either. Accessibility around the place was easy and wheelchair friendly.

Doors opened promptly at 8:30 PM and the line was quickly ushered in. Entrance fee was reasonably priced at only fifteen dollars. The venue overall was very comfortable. The crowd that came in to watch the performance was huge.

During the beginning of the event, only a small trickling of the crowd was coming, but then it turned into a steady pour, as the time got closer for the headlining band, The Meat Puppets, to play. The two started performers were Flamingo and Perro Bravo. They were enthusiastic and really pumped up the crowd.

The Meat Puppets were the main crowd pleaser, and the reason everyone came to the club. They are a well known American rock band that was really popular in the 1980’s. The group consists of band members Curt and Cris Kirkwood and Shandon Sahm.

Their Casbah performance and corresponding tour is to promote their new album, Lollipop. Every third person I saw there had a Meat Puppets t-shirt on or were buying a souvenir of them. It was a great turnout for The Meat Puppets, especially since it was a Tuesday night.

Photo from Jacqui Yawn and Neff Conner via Flickr

Bathgate gives Fleet Foxes a run for their...

Zoe Muth and the Lost High Rollers: Starlight Hotel (Signature Sounds)
Chris Bathgate: Salt Year (Quite Scientific Records)
Dan Hubbard and the Humadors: The Love Show (Self-released)

If there’s anything that rings with subjectivity, it’s any given person’s notion of “the way it used to be.” Regarding the late ‘50s, Republicans who were middle-aged might remember a suburbia that felt charming and controlled (“How Much is that Doggie in the Window?”). Democrats who were in their early twenties might have fond recollections of wandering into a talented troubadour’s turn at some West Village coffeehouse; the stirrings of open minds. Someone with a troubled childhood might remember how good it felt to get on the school bus and out of the house, especially when riding with the driver who kept the radio tuned to an A.M. station.

For me, sound has a lot to do with feelings about “how it used to be” at any given moment. And life’s full of surprise and irony: at my grandmother’s, one of my favorite childhood places, the cuckoo clock and the birds she welcomed provided the only things musical, along with her round, cheerful voice. I have no particular trauma related to her love of The Lawrence Welk Show, since she tended to talk over anything on TV – and my revered uncles were always joking around.

Here and now, “Dang, that’s some sweet twangin’!” seems the inevitable response to Zoe Muth and the Lost High Rollers’ sophomore emission and first release with Signature Sounds. Seems inevitable to me, anyway. But don’t take my word for it – other than the rather pop-orientated (per composition and, to some degree, approach) sounds of Patsy Cline and Hank Williams, and the bounce of western swing, I don’t really know from country. Or I haven’t been compelled to know much from country.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Really, the sounds on Starlight Hotel amalgamate country-western with folk and pop sensibilities that could only have been recorded as producers have tended to do since the ‘70s. The album’s a great example of nursing every nuance and lilt in every line of every song. The sound’s good enough to eat. And Muth has a delectably bright, full alto without a shred of excess or vibrato. She bears down on notes for emphasis but doesn’t whine. Remember that scene in Sweet Dreams, when a frustrated, at-the-ironing-board Jessica Lange (as Patsy Cline) snarls, in response to some country claptrap on the radio, “Lord, bitch! You don’t sing, you whine, whine.”

That part of that film wasn’t such a sweet dream, but there’s a lot to covet at Starlight Hotel. Muth often writes about bar life – and, sure as shootin’, that’s country. Her lyrics boast the literacy more typical of folk song scribes. What a woman named Zoe, who lives in Seattle, is doing making grits ‘n’ gravy soundtracks, is a question for the ascended masters – at least the ones chewing their cud above Nashville.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Chris Bathgate combines a good helping of Contemporary with several cups of “how it used to be,” if used to be was circa The Band, Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush, and maybe “When the Spell is Broken” by Richard and Linda Thompson. He may be into Iron and Wine and Fleet Foxes. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he casts a spell before opening his door every morning. Like Bathgate’s debut, A Cork Tale Wake, Salt Year creeps into one’s consciousness almost imperceptibly. In other words, first time through, the response is likely to be, “Pretty good.” By the second spin, it’s starting to hum like a classic – and a classic of full-album artistry, not just a few impressive songs with respectable filler.

The first track that perked my ears was probably “Borders.” It’s a song on which the entire epic turns: Something tragic is going down. I don’t know what that is, although it feels like lost love, a suicide (spiritual and/or corporeal), or both. When a musician opens himself this fully, I tend to respond from the soul.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Bathgate’s lyrics sing of joy, sunny interludes, lonely evenings, and regret. He addresses questions that lack easy answers. In other words, he’s managed an album about Life: not the easiest task, by any means. Salt Year may get less attention than the Fleet Foxes’ excellent, latest release. But it’s at least as important.

Stock artistry?

I wish I had one of the vinyl copies. The rich artwork conjures all sorts of “used to be,” including what devolved into “stock” illustrations and art (the kind you might find at a boardwalk show, in a mass-market children’s literature collection, or, framed, at the dentist’s office) from the late ‘50s and early ‘60s. Art majors, feel free to correct or be more specific in the comment section.

Meanwhile, a group of young-ish Midwesterners are having a fine time, starting with “Zoe’s Intro” to The Love Show. The follower, “Don’t Take Me Now,” exemplifies the working class/Petty/Mellencamp/Browne flavor of Dan Hubbard and the Humadors: If you can just keep driving forward, on the right side of the road, you may keep from getting torn down by unemployment, failing crops, and the myriad stresses of financial insecurity.

Hubbard doesn’t take these ideas, or this sound, anywhere particularly new. Still, musicians who inject this much passion and talent into their hoedowns create a good argument for such a comforting, familiar form. You can hear Hubbard’s Beatle-love in the harmonies of songs like “We’ll Be Fine,” which is maple-syrup-on-hot-oatmeal nice. If you’re planning a trip to the heartland, keep an eye out for one of his shows – they look to be awfully rejuvenating.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Anyone know what rentals are going for in Normal, Illinois? Anyone know how many jokes have been derived from its alliterative name (when combined with the state)?

Not to mention Indiana. It’s so easy to imagine how things used to be in the Midwest when I’ve never been there other than through the eyes of Carl Sandburg, Booth Tarkington, and several musical writers. But before we get to that, here’s a link to a free Dan Hubbard download:

http://insomniaradio.net/2011/06/02/dan-hubbard-and-the-humadors-the-last-time-you-see-me/

(Not that I need a radio station to be awake at three a.m. Thank you.) To Indiana (and, believe me, it could get much worse than this):

Click here to view the embedded video.

I mean, a toe-warmer that ends a line with “…and my body had turned to carrion” snuck into the middle. And the bridge!

I take back everything I’ve said about the above contemporary artistes. It ain’t like it used to be. They don’t write ‘em like that anymore.

Maybe we should take into account my suspicion that Meredith Willson was a god.

www.zoemuth.com
http://quitescientific.com
www.danhubbard.net
www.greatstreets.org/MusicMan/MeredithWillson.html

Hard Rock’s Intervention on Sunday took “day drinking” to a whole new level.  Bouncers kept strict surveillance on the entrance as party-hungry, bikini-clad attendees crowded the red-roped lines.  Wristbands were necessary to enter and the wait in line was well worth it.

Intervention was graced with a live performance of the uber-talented and exceptionally handsome UK natives, the EC Twins, on May 15th.  Marc and Allister Blackham began their careers at 16 as DJs at Edinburgh’s house music mecca, Eye Candy.

More than appropriately named, the twin brothers brought their enormous talent to LA in 2005 and have been surpassing the competition ever since.  They have performed for well-known festivals including the Electric Daisy Carnival, Ultra Music Fest and the Winter Music Conference, and hold residencies at Las Vegas’ Marquee, New York’s Lavo and Miami’s Liv.

With an unrivaled ability to mix heart pumping house music for the masses, the EC Twins have no one to outshine but themselves.

EC Twins Exclusive Interview with the San Diego Entertainer

SD Entertainer: You are considered to be very influential in the electro music industry. How do you think you’ve changed the electro sound?

EC Twins: When we came to LA, the radio didn’t represent house music.  The house sound stopped evolving in the US while it continued morphing and changing all over Europe.  There was never enough of an image in America.

SD Entertainer: What do you think stopped its transformation in the US?

EC Twins: People were afraid of change.  Electro is constantly morphing and evoking change. Everyone was trying to define the electro genre but it couldn’t be pigeonholed.  It was time for the US to embrace a brand new turn.  We try to stay ahead of the evolution.

SD Entertainer: You were both incredible on stage. In a club setting it’s all about performance. How do you guys interact on stage together?

EC Twins: We have been immersed in music together all our lives.  We grew up with our father and punk rocker cousin who instilled in us Manchester influences.  It was as if a rave exploded in our backyard.  We draw on those influences and have worked on music together ever since.

SD Entertainer: Do you have specific duties or roles while performing?

EC Twins (Marc): You know the man with the monkey on the street? I (Marc) am the grinder, and Allister is the monkey with symbols and a hat.

SD Entertainer: What new remixes or projects are you working on?

EC Twins: Our new single, “Say Yes”, is coming out on May 24 through Uno Records.  You can get it on beatport.com

SD Entertainer: Good luck with your new single. You’ve officially converted me to house music love.

You can watch a video of their San Diego performance at Intervention below:

Their new single, “Say Yes,” is available today at beatport.com.  Their other remixes such as “Scream,”" I Wanted,”"Doing It Well” and “Little White Doves” are available for download as well.

Mogwai

IT OCCURS TO ME that there may be readers who don’t… drink… coffee; who are on a purer physical path than I at this time, who consume only raw foods or macrobiotics. Who do yoga for several hours each day. And so forth. To help those readers get a quick energy jolt, we’ll start with my favorite track from the new album by Mogwai, a  Glasgow-based, noisy-rock outfit. This tune’s called “San Pedro,” and man, it kicks (apparently the band’s pretty lethal live). It goes VERY well with coffee, and with this column, as these guys can play for hours without uttering a syllable:

Click here to view the embedded video.

The rest of this column is about sounds that also go well with coffee, or Night Train, or just plain air (breatharians, alert!). The latter’s nothing to joke about, is it? Air quality, or the lack thereof, has been known to make me very cranky. However, I find the sounds that are being produced by Chris Otepka with The Heligoats so essential (as in: Once discovered, don’t want to live without), they can make me forget about eating, or air quality, or that I’d better pay the November electric bill.

Ever since The Heligoats’ music grabbed hold, I’ve been mulling over what to say – or, more to the point, which things to say. I find the work of songwriter/frontperson Chris Otepka so incredible that it’s been more about prioritizing my reactions and assessments. Maybe it’s this way whenever one poet hears another poet who seems to be on the same page: In this case, Otepka does what I’ve done with spoken word, but he manages to convey the same thoughts and emotions with music as he does with words (which, by themselves, would be extraordinary) and that’s not something I’ve always been able to do. In his case, it presents as a seamless whole, as intuitive and spontaneous and inspired as any transmission can be.

At this moment, I have other words to produce about other things; some of which involve pressing commitments. But whatever I have to say about Chris Otepka and the Heligoats is blocking the way.

It started when someone sent a new split recording shared by the band with Sam Humans. I wasn’t crazy about the name “Heligoats,” and there was no note or promotional literature in the mailing. So for a while it just sat with other things-to-be-reviewed. I ended up giving it a spin about a week ago and haven’t been quite the same since.

Sam Humans

I don’t like Sam Humans as much as I like The Heligoats, but, as in a well-curated concert, he makes for a good opener. Sam’s pretty intense, but on his first song, “Hate Is the New Love,” his intensity’s leavened by tasty acoustic guitar burbles that escalate, with his vocal, into near-dissonance that brings Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 to mind. And how often can I say the latter? Almost never! Thus I’m awakened for the next track, which crackles into relief with a ferocity that brings to mind another reference that’s pretty rare, and that’s Captain Beefheart. Were I djing instead of reviewing, I’d play this Beefheart track (from Clear Spot) before or after Humans’s “Firedrill”:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Of course, courtesy of modern science, I can now be a reviewer and dj at the same time. And it feels good to share “Low Yo Yo Stuff” – other than throwing down a couple of videos on Facebook, I’ve done nothing in the way of honoring the extraordinary work of the late, great Don Van Vliet.

Humans’s “Firedrill” is chased by guitars that sound like water on the quieter “Can’t Stop the Sun,” which sounds good before “Chemical Fire,” on which Humans sounds a lot like John Doe. Humans does one of his most admirable jobs of accompanying himself here, with two or three guitar tracks, drums, and bass. These last two are nice, but not in a way that different than a lot of other good Nuevo-hippie expression. “Cold, Cold Whisky” veers back into weirder territory, with electronic coughs and scratches through which single-note electric guitar veins. It makes me sit up straighter, at least mentally. So it doesn’t seem that odd when Humans goes more full-on fanatic with “As a People,” which hauls the guns and cannons out for a more Crazy World of Arthur Brown tone and dynamic. I don’t feel like running Brown’s “Fire,” and at present there are no great Humans videos available.

But wait: I’ve mentioned TFUL 282, and it dawns on me that I could die any time (not being morbid, just saying), and it would suck if that happened without my sharing some thing(s) by one of my all-time-favorite artistic clans:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Wasn’t that something (from Strangers from the Universe)? I caught TFUL 282 at the Casbah in 1995. The live effect of that track took me some place pretty amazing, although the truth is, especially when the mania starts rising to the surface, the recording can do the same thing. Just thinking about it gets close. Thinking about it makes me smile. So I think later I’ll share one of the only good live videos I’ve been able to find for the defunct, ‘Frisco-based clan.

Humans’s “As a People” segues well with the first Heligoats track, “A Word from Our Sponsor”,” which sounds even more like a descendant of San Francisco folk-rock with a splash of zaniness than does Humans. Chris Otepka’s consistently surprising lyrics are made beautifully flesh by his strums, with Stephen Mitchell’s responsive electric guitar. The rhythm section (David James/bass, Mike Mergenthaler/drums) is an emoter’s dream: creatively supportive; never in the way.

One of the first things that elicits an out-loud, “Did he just DO that?” is Otepka trailing the lines, “The moon rises and sets/And the sun comes up/Just to say goodbye… ” with, a few seconds later, a higher-pitched (playing the moon’s part): “Bye-bye!”

It makes me wish Tuli Kupferberg hadn’t died last July (well, I wish he weren’t dead for many reasons – the man was a god). I first saw one of Tuli’s drawings, in The Whole Earth Catalog, I think, when I was 14. The way he had the sky and moon and stars talking said as much about “all-one” as entire books of poetry or spiritual dialectic; his work (as a poet, artist, and with The Fugs) unlocked worlds of possibility. When one of his drawings was featured in The National Poetry Magazine of the Lower East Side, produced by a collective that siphoned a lot of vital juice  into my life — a mere 20 pages or so away from one of my poems – well, it was a splendid moment.

I think Tuli would have loved “A Word from Our Sponsors.” “Turn Down the Offer,” the next Heligoats cut, somewhat overshadows Otepka’s words with explosive effects; what I can hear of the former, along with the sense of a fertile dynamic unit, holds my interest.

And just bear this in mind: odd as it may seem (for a scribbler), when it comes to music; lyrics, unless exemplary, are often the last thing I consider. Which is weird, ‘cause I’ve always related to Shakespeare and such bards, re: seeing no solid line between the two, especially around my own more art-focused output. Still, it’s unusual for me to be this taken with any song writing, and that has a lot to do with the way Otepka’s words fit his music. It’s like someone with alliteration and assonance to burn can do that with the music, if you know what I mean…

And how could you, if you haven’t heard The Heligoats? (Otepka’s previous project, Troubled Hubble, seems to have had considerable merit, but from what I can tell, he’s hitting his sweet spot with The Heligoats.) (Oh, and btw, the band’s now in Bellingham,  one of my favorite places on earth, which just adds to the poignance of all this, for me, anyway – before, they were in Illinois). Here’s one from the ‘goats’ first album, Goodness Gracious, which I ordered a few days ago, again taking money from the electric bill, which is a show-stopper by itself (writing about music is supposed to, if not earn money for me, at least not be about spending it):

Click here to view the embedded video.

Think of it this way: Walt Whitman has a band. Dylan Thomas has a band. Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Allen Ginsberg have bands.  (Okay, the last two did have musical accompaniment at times, but…) and let’s forget, other than “People Who Died,” that Jim Carroll had a band. Even Patti Smith, at her best, has rarely come close to Otepka’s apparently organic merging of sounds with words. Although none of its members wandered about with “poet” tattooed on his forehead, The Band is one of the only other outfits that springs to mind. Nick Drake lurks in the shadows, and then, of course, there’s Tom Waits with Kathleen Brennan.

The last two tracks are currently dueling for favor: “Moon See, Day See” has the joyful gallop of The Blasters‘ “I Love You So,” and CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” (first time I heard that, I was 13 or 14, babysitting some kids who’d gone to bed when it blew out of the radio. I started twirling and stomping around the living room). I can’t find a good “Moon See” video, but Otepka sent me the lyrics (thanks, again, to modern science, aka Facebook). Here are some of my favorite lines/stanzas:

“we’re different people now, our dog’s a different dog.
the worrying thing became a full time job.
we tried and failed but nothing was really lost.
night came sooner than we thought,
but we had the light of the moon.”

… “where what i put in was exactly what i saw come out.
where the balance was such it left nothing to be wondered about.
where if you are thinking of being evil, you’ll be beaten to the punch
and if you’re not looking for any trouble, you’ll be found with some.”

“look around and ask when will this stop. i look outside to mother nature, at the government and the cops. they’re all hiding, waiting, glowing in the dark. is that the silhouette of a shark i see swimming across the moon?

yee hew.”

The guitars propelling “Moon See” ring like those of the Fogerty brothers. The song escalates into something shimmering and beautiful: a force of nature. When Chris cries, “Yee hew,” it’s one of several times joy, or another fervent emotion, emits spontaneously. I’ve listened to The Moondoggies, Red Wanting Blue, Backwords,  and a slew of other fine contemporary Americana-spouting minstrels, and this is the first  time I can report that any new group, other than for moments, has found its way to  the well-grounded air and fire; the corporeal, log-cabin body of The Band.

On their own, “Moon See” and the two songs before it would be enough to have my fingers feverishly endeavoring to transmit this dervish twirl. But then there’s the last one, “Boil Over,” which continues through territory wherein Otepka notices everything: What’s in his world, what’s further out, what’s good, what’s awful, what’s funny, and what’s sad — without making the too-frequent, typical mistake of thinking he has to settle on any one of those feelings, or categories, or subjects. While stringing it all together with a staggering degree of success; per the nuanced synapsing of a Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg, or Rick Danko. Well, having an ear for melody and a band so perfectly in sync with him doesn’t hurt.

Click here to view the embedded video.

So either ya love it or ya don’t – except: the more I listen, the more I love (I’m just saying).

Liking anything as much as I do the Heligoats is scary… and wonderful – now, how do we back out of this space?

I’ve just had a little pause-to-refresh, in which I caught a YT comment to the effect that TFUL 282 is again operational (there is a god! there is a god!) – so I’ll make good on my promise. This is from Mother of All Saints:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Mogwai: www.mogwai.co.uk
Sam Humans: www.samhumansblogspot.com
Tuli Kupferberg/The Fugs: www.thefugs.com
Lester Bangs on Captain Beefheart: www.beefheart.com/datharp/reviews/bangsdecals.htm
The National Poetry Magazine of the Lower East Side after several blood transfusions: www.unbearables.com/blog/
The Heligoats: www.theheligoats.com
TFUL 282: www.tful282.com

Aurelio Martinez

David Lowery: The Palace Guards (429 Records)
Emily Arin: Patch of Land (CDBY)
Aurelio: Laru Beya (Next Ambiance)
Daniel Martin Moore: In The Cool of the Day (Sub Pop)
Birdsong at Morning: Annals of my Glass House (Blue Gentian Records)

I haven’t done much listening to David Lowery since Camper Van Beethoven’s breakout, Telephone Free Landslide Victory (and its follow-up, Key Lime Pie), although I’ve almost made up for all that not-listening by huddling up to the speakers with “Take The Skinheads Bowling,” “Wasted,” “The Day That Lassie Went to the Moon,” “Joe Stalin’s Cadillac,” and “Where The Hell Is Bill?” I reviewed New Roman Times but associate a fair amount of tedium with the experience. Amiable as the band seems, I’ve never gotten that excited by Cracker (although I haven’t seen ‘em live).

I’m by no means a post-seminal-CVB Lowery expert. Still, to me The Palace Guards is a gift; teeming with  spontaneity and vigor.

Click here to view the embedded video.

That’s one slap-happy hoedown! ‘Course, Lowery isn’t just exalting the pleasures of honey, hemp and twine. Between bright banjo burps, he addresses the need to “Home-school the children/give ‘em weapons trainin’/Just in case the DEA comes snoopin’ ‘round agin…” Boy, can I relate to loving the country, the simple life, and the (sometimes) misguided souls also drawn to such. I can relate to being too worldly to avoid poking cautionary fun.

It’s great to see how Lowery’s evolved: “Joe Stalin’s Cadillac” was a pretty childlike drawing of the places where Socialism and Capitalism aren’t that, well… different (or, more to the point, how any political system can end up hierarchical, with the best spoils, or cars, in the hands of those at or near the top). “Raise ‘Em Up” does such a great job of promoting log-cabin life, we’re not sure how serious Lowery is.

The Palace Guards

The Palace Guards is consistently charming and engaging. After not being in love with the second and third tracks (the title song, which is okay, and “Deep Oblivion”), I fall back in love when Lowery catalogs the misery of being dumped with a lovely cover of Mint’s “Ah, You Left Me.” A clue to the ex-partner’s motivations comes with a dynamic howler, “Baby, All Those Girls Meant Nothing to Me.”

Lowery’s back in the comfort zone of oddly poetic, socio-political musings with another pretty one, “I Sold the Arabs the Moon.” “Marigold” could be Tom Petty’s new single if he wrote lyrics this out-of-the-box and expansive. “Big Life” reaches some acceptance with break-ups and other pains: It’s nearly stunning in its poignance. Closer “Submarine” combines another melody fresh from the farmer’s market with that get-up-and-kick one anticipates from Lowery. The Palace Guards is one of those cases when grabbing the whole kaboodle’s recommended: it’s well-ordered, and there are too many winners for it to make sense to favorite some for download.

It would be unfair not to mention the contributions of frequent collaborator David Immergluck on guitar and bass: his strings add insightful embellishment and color. Ferd Moyse weaves perfect stand up bass and fiddle lines into the fabric. The late Mark Linkous (Sparklehorse) added keyboards to “Big Life.”

Maybe newly-single Lowery should ask Emily Arin for a spot on her dance card. As Ed Sullivan might have intoned, “This young woman seems very sincere – let’s give her a hand (pause)… EMILY ARIN!” (Okay, maybe that’s a fantasy version of Sullivan.) But, sure as shootin’, Arin could pass for a slightly less stylized vocal twin of Zooey Deschanel. Arin’s voice combines clarity with just-had-half-a-peanut-butter-sandwich-texture: it’s pretty irresistible. While I think her songs would be better realized by the retro pop embellishments favored by She & Him, Arin seems committed to bare-bones folk arrangements.

A number of thoughtful compositions, including one called “Waltz for Spalding Gray,”  make up Arin’s first studio recording, Patch of Land, which features covetable artwork by Mikey Schultz.

Patch of Land cover

Good thing he’s not singing about love – Daniel Martin Moore of Cold Spring, Kentucky could make any woman or girl feel tingly – his is one of the silkiest-with-just-a-grain-or-two-of-sand tenors I’ve heard in many a moon. But Moore’s not on about corporeal romance: In the Cool of the Day is a set of spiritual odes, and an ode to old-fashioned gospel. His approach brings to mind Elvis’s most scaled-down, face-to-heaven moments: it’s wood-pew simple, with nary an extraneous note or instrument. The album opens modestly. Acapella delivery of Moore’s original, “All Ye Tenderhearted” is met midway through its 61 seconds with sparse banjo notes falling delectably as blackberries in August.

It’s nice to see a traditional form treated with tact, respect, and profundity – a lovely contrast to the “anything retro, we can do better” vibe coloring everything from garage rock to, well, rock encompassing gospel, that was so often the rule from the mid-90s until quite recently. Standards like “Softly and Tenderly” gain freshness and immediacy from pared-down arrangements (distant acoustic guitar; a female harmonist at a respectful few paces away, and, later, perfectly placed strings). Moore’s take on “It Is Well with My Soul” is breathtaking. And there’s some serious get-up-and-go: “Dark Road” could inspire a jig, and “Up Above My Head” stirs a warm, late ‘50s/early ‘60s folk-gospel ambience made even sweeter by some Hot Club (Reinhardt/Grappelli-styled) violin and guitar. “Closer Walk with Thee” shares its shuffle beat with Elvis’s “Blue Heaven,” giving Moore’s voice plenty of room for emoting.

In The Cool of the Day is likely to appeal to anyone craving an arcane and timeless sense of peace, regardless of belief system (or lack thereof). The ultimate gift, and surprise, is the nuances Moore harvests from music that would seem to have been used beyond fertility. Even a non-denominational person like me finds herself stopping and listening; then singing along.

Speaking of stopping and listening, that was my reaction when the first track on Aurelio’s Laru Beya, “Lubara Wanwa” jumped out of my speakers. Honestly, without any intention to promote (honestly, the label doesn’t need it), Sub Pop is on a roll with this second release from its newish imprint, Next Ambiance. Whoever discovered Aurelio Martinez must have been whistling a tune the rest of the live-long day, and if that tune was “Lubara Wanwa,” I’m right with them. The naked, joyful/painful soul in the voices of Aurelio and collaborator Youssou N’dour is the sort that stops one in one’s tracks: rather like my initial experience of Talking Timbuktu (Ali Farke Toure with Ry Cooder), popular Ethiopian music, and Toots Hibbert of the Maytals. It’s the reaction I had to Jose Reyes with Manitas de Plata.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Laru Beya feels like the beach, and Africa, and a trip. Per Martinez’ bio, it feels like Garifuna ( “Born in the tiny coastal hamlet of Plaplaya on Honduras” Caribbean coast, Aurelio Martinez, 39, may be one of the last generations to grow up steeped in Garifuna tradition. These traditions encompass the African and Caribbean Indian roots of his ancestors, a group of shipwrecked slaves who intermarried with local natives on the island of St. Vincent, only to be deported to the Central American coast in the late eighteenth century… However, beyond the beauties of Garifuna tradition and Aurelio’s interpretations lie the guiding force behind the album: the loss of his friend and mentor, Garifuna musical icon, Andy Palacio. Palacio won regional popularity as the powerhouse behind punta rock, a Garifuna-rock synthesis that broke onto the Central American scene in the 1990s. International acclaim followed with an award-winning album in 2007 that truly put Garifuna music on the map.”

“A mere month after Andy’s death, Aurelio and producer Ivan Duran headed for a small fishing village, where they set up a studio in a beachfront house. Recording and living by the sea for several weeks, they were still in grief and shock, yet they knew they had to do something amazing to honor Palacio’s life and work. Aurelio was able to explore the Garifuna connection to Africa when Senegalese Afropop legend Youssou N’Dour selected him as his protege in 2008.”

While the intensity of “Lubara Wanwa” is a Laru Beya standout, the entire thing’s a splash of soulful sun and waves.

Birdsong at Morning cover

Daniel Gewertz of The Boston Herald called Birdsong at Morning “Art music both unpretentious and ravishing.” Which tells me you don’t have to be young to lay all kinds of labels and layers over your musical jammies (a quick scan of Myspace brings up an astonishing array of wacky descriptions for sounds, although that’s partly about the site’s available categories). BAM is comprised of three “semi-retired musicians (who) coalesced into the ensemble now known as Birdsong At Morning, whose core is a trio of friendly relations that stretch back decades.” It seems a nice, thoughtfully artistic union. I don’t hear “art music” as much as tones and vibrations that went perfectly with country drives in the ‘70s (lead singer/songwriter Alan Williams sounds like Gordon Lightfoot, who I’ve never enjoyed, but I’ve publicly admitted my liking for Jackson Browne, The Eagels, and The Doobie Brothers – well, at least in the last few years I have). BAM makes mellow, sometimes sublime music with a sense of serenity and pastorality. And where’s the harm in that?

Annals of My Glass House emerges in February. The boxed set includes remasters of the the albums Heavens, Bound, Vigil, and Lumens. Graced by Julia Margaret Cameron’s idealized, gently fantastical black-and-white images, it’s an unusually compelling Indie presentation, including a booklet with lyrics, band photos, and more artwork by Julia M.C.

These four CDs are full of gems, with just the occasional misstep (I could have done without the band covering Blondie’s “Dreaming”). Darleen Wilson’s electric guitar playing is just one of several elevating elements: she’s a master of shimmering sounds. Embellished by strings; “Broken Silences” approaches the sublime. The music leading up to and out of the crescendo on “Clean” evokes the otherworldly yet earthy splendor of Danny Kirwan circa Fleetwood Mac’s Future Games and Bare Trees.

This stuff breathes with easy, well-spaced lyricism; in its folds are the wisdom and experience more likely to attend older musicians.

While it may be hard to wrap your head around laying down $24.99 for Annals, the individual albums comprising the set are available for relatively mere bags o’ shells, and tracks can be downloaded from the BAM site.

It’s not about nature in particular, but here’s the first poem I wrote this year:

Still

It’s a new year
but we can be pretty sure
there will be an easter and a fourth
of july, that smart-ass comments will fly thick
and fast on April 1st and there will be everything
and nothing; a birthday and another birthday and another
billion f***ing birthdays and the Fourth of July
and some three-day weekend when you’re worried about having no plans.

And then there’s Halloween, which is rarely as much fun as when
you ran into the crisp cool mystery
of burnt or burning leaves and a faraway moon
and stars really white against a cobalt night,
flying through crunchy leaves
to the rich people’s house where they gave out Reese’s
and the house that smelled funny
and the who knows what will be behind that door house,
but somehow
I am always back in wonder around Christmas, even if at
first I perceive it as a nuisance: All these bright colored lights
bloom from trees, through windows, over bridges; and suddenly
there are reindeer arcing over someone’s roof, and lovely things
to eat, and the fun of what will I give this one and that one;

and really, with all the natural disasters and nuclear power
and environmental change and rampant hybrid viruses
maybe I can’t take it for granted
that there will be an Easter or a smart-ass day
or a groundhog,
really, when you pound the dirt around the plant
in that way you realize
what a wonder it all is, still. Still:

I’d rather be knee-deep in sky
and trees and water, with a home to go to, and
a fireplace
for whatever the hell holidays still stream by
and through – living
in this city can grow old, although
I know if I poke around the garbage long enough,
just sit still long enough in a valley
of miraculous stillness
I will be filled with joy
or polluted air –
and when I’m happy, well, honestly,
it can be hard to tell
the difference

* * *

www.davidlowerymusic.com
www.emilyarin.com
www.danielmartinmoore.com
www.subpop.com/artists/aurelio
www.birdsongatmorning.com

50 WAYS TO KILL ME: Gnarly Death Wish (Scene Destroyer)
VARIOUS ARTISTS: The Ultimate Rockin’ Halloween Party – American Horror Songs 1930s-1950s (Viper Records)
VARIOUS ARTISTS: EarGoggles (Bull Terrior Productions)
MARY LEARY: Pretty Scary Jack O’Lanterns (Bread & Lightning)

It’s here again...October is one of my favorite times of year: tons of fun, and truly spooky, as it heralds the dawning of the holiday season. But I’m going to ignore the boxes of turkey candles and Christmas decorations stacked above the Halloween stuff in my local Walgreens and take a

The title says it all

note from Ram Dass, opting to “be here now.” I’d like to enjoy the crisp autumn air (such as it may be in San Diego)and some rock ‘n’ roll fun, along with reviewing an item or two that may be questionably “fun.” Just becuz, just for scuzz…

I was recently stoked to discover that we now have at least audio of Edith Massey as part of her booze-soaked strut to, as she liked to say, “Hollywood” stardom. I once shared a bottle with Edith outside The Atlantis Club in Washington, D.C. Itwas very classy: as I remember, we were sort of crouched against the building in a cloud of grit and fog. “The Egg Lady” was as good a drinking companion as any. As far as punks getting off the grass, I don’t know if her command got the desired respect.

Long Islander and multi-instrumentalist Jay Decay is one (kinda speed metal) punk who may knowa tidbit or two about grass. As 50 Ways to Kill Me, he persists in churning out the loudest sounds he can by himself (more or less, there are a couple of guest vocalists and lead guitarists) on — you might want to find a seat for this — 50 songs detailing methods for self-offification.

Gnarly Death Wish

Highlights of Gnarly Death Wish include the hip-hoppy “Hit My Head with a Hammer,” “Dynamite for Birthday Candles,” “Headbang Till Head Snaps,” and “Detonation Device Up My Butt.” People who know more about Jay, and these references, say he reminds them of Adrenalin OD and early Guttermouth. You can listen for yourself on Jay’s Myspace (link at the end of this masterpiece) or, if you can tell me what rocker died of an overdose after threatening suicide for years, I’ll just send you my copy (trick!).

If the thought of Gnarly Death Wish hasn’t sent you away in search of a noose, I’m glad you’re around for some good news: Those Liverpudlian Elves at Viper Records have crafted a 20-track compilation, The Ultimate Rockin’ Halloween Party: American Horror Songs 1930s-1950s, which has beaucoup treats (about 1/3 of which are also on Monster Rock ‘n’ Roll). Even the most rabid downloader and mixer is unlikely to amass a collage that unearths “Igor’s Party” by Tony’s Monstrosities (who would even think to look for that?) and rarities like Buster Doss and His Arkansas Playboys loping through the Western swing of “Graveyard Boogie ” (1948), The Five Jones Boys‘ “Mr. Ghost Goes To Town” (1937), The Deep River Boys‘ “Swingin’ at the Seance” (1940), and a doo-woppy rocker from 1957, “Screamin’ Ball (at Dracula Hall)” by The Duponts (1958). I don’t have time for the research that could pinpoint the rarity of that last one, but it cooks – with a couple of candy-corn-flavored shivers.

Plenty of these make me laugh, shake my hips, and/or cry, “Yowsa,” like the track that turned into one of my Cramps favorites, “Rock N Bones” (by a passel of hillbillies named Elroy Dietzel and the Rhythm Bandits, 1957 – Ronnie Dawson’s version also kicks). Kip Tyler reveals where contemporary scarecrows like Dax Riggs and Dan Sartain copped some of their mojo with the hot-blooded “She’s My Witch.” Here’s a crackin’ version from the resurrected Dazzlers (the footage was clearly tacked-on but it’s grreat…)

Down-n-dirty R&B is the backdrop for Archie King‘s “He’s a Vampire,” which has to be one of the funniest — “This guy’s on a rampage now” and something that sounds like, “And, oh, he got my mother-in-law,” are interspersed with “scary” laughter – sounds like King’s making some of it up as he goes along….

I’m still not over the passing of Lux Interior in ’09 – I’m still not over the deaths of Nick Cave and Bryan Gregory! In any case, before we end with two last treats, I’m carrying on the tradition of Cramps Halloween appearances with one of my favorites (as usual, I had a great time checking out a bunch of live footage and, once again, reached the usual conclusion – some are just too x-rated for this venue; the other goods ones are too lo-fi/vi). Deciding factors: This one features the amazing Bryan Gregory, & Ivy’s as cool as ever in it…

Footage of an early Cramps (circa Gregory) drop into Napa State Mental Hospital is so hair-raising, it must be seen to be believed. I’ve had it on VHS for lo these many moons. A few years ago it resurfaced on DVD. I’ll just say it’s not for anyone with a need for strict boundaries… at all. And it’s a testament to the Cramps’ love of performing, as well as its acceptance of mayhem.

My review of EarGoggles should be live soon on Daggerzine (address at the bottom of this novel). It’s one heckuva treat: Clayton Holmes, a former film student in Vancouver, periodically compiles DVDs packed with performances from soon-to-be-defunct-but-apparently-morphing-into-The-Hellhole-dive The Cobalt, which is a little slice of heaven for fans of punk, post-punk, garage, and speed/death metal. It does a rocker’s heart good to see that pit-diving and other shenanigans are customary in Vancouver – it’s enough to make you think all red-blooded rawkers should just move there. Basically Holmes has done what we fanziners from b.i.t.d. could only dream about: He makes a ‘zine of live footage, digitalized graphic jokes and comments, film shorts, creative ads for cool businesses, and more. And EarGoggles is FREE. Happy Halloween!

A couple of years ago I revised a poetry chapbook, Pretty Scary Jack O’Lanterns. I’ve been too preoccupied with things like this column to do much shilling around it. If you go to the Bread and Lightning site and click on “The Breadbox” (link’s below) you can procure one – sorry I can’t afford to give ‘em away, but if your costume’s really cool I’ll find something fun – a music promo or other piece of printed media; some cool postcards — to throw in your bottomless treat bag. Here’s a sample:

Drama Queen

Pretty Scary Jack O'Lanterns

By the eighth day

of the Santa Ana
this desert
is burning itself out faster
than River Phoenix.

My oldest lover
wears a new
face, plays hide
and seek behind gray clouds
as I stumble
from fluorescence into
cool blackness,
a crow’s wing

******
I feel thunder, am
startled; scramble out of
the bathtub. The cats fly

in without any coaxing.
Air crackles; a giant leaf
as a red tin skeleton
clangs against
the door laughing.

***********
Jay Decay: www.myspace.com/50wtkm
Viper Records: www.theviperlabel.co.uk
Cramps at Napa State: www.mvdb2b.com
Eargoggles: www.eargogglesdvd.com
Pretty Scary Jack O’ Lanterns: www.breadandlightning.net (click on “Breadbox”)
Daggerzine: www.daggerzine.com

Walking into the band’s one-story house built beautifully into the side of Mt. Soledad,  glass was smashed in the kitchen and a kid skateboarded through the hallway on his stomach. Having met San Diego band Jet West at our bands’ mutual rehearsal studio about a year ago, it has been an awesome trip watching their musical journey unfold. From house-parties and two-man acoustic gigs to a brand new full-length album, this band has big things in store for them.

On Saturday September 11th, 2010 at Mission Beach’s own Sound Wave venue, Jet West hosted a CD release party for their debut album “Dropping In”. The show featured awesome live music, beautiful girls, DJ Debonair (Keith Urban’s DJ), and a high-end laser show… but first a little info. on the band.

Jet West formed in the summer of 2009 when Chris Warner and Scott Floquet (lead guitar and vocals) teamed up to start writing and build on Scott’s previously developed songs. Playing house parties and small fundraisers in the beginning, their music was met with positive reviews. It was time to find a band. Finding perfect fits Derek Potter (drums) and Deren Schneider (bass) right in their own circle of friends, the ball started rolling.

With influences ranging from Slightly Stoopid to Linkin Park they quickly developed their own sound, riding radically on the lines of surf reggae and hard rock. Early on, the band scored solid gigs with Canes (now Sound Wave), 710 Beach Club and Winston’s, which are still band favorites. Since their inception they have racked up radio play, live interviews on 91X Loudspeaker with Rowley, sets on the morning news with KUSI, a full-length album, a music video and played Nascar VIP event all the way in Bristol, TN. They are even being featured on a surf-cruise-cup this coming Halloween! So believe it, the CD release party was a nice look at what could be in store for this extremely driven band.

The pre-party was hosted at guitarist Chris Warner’s house, and friends of the band rolled to the show in style on three packed party buses. In true rock star fashion the buses were stocked with everything from champagne to pole-dancing. Upon arrival at the venue, the line at the entrance was growing by the minute, and we were later informed it was one of the most packed events Sound Wave has hosted.

Reggae locals Full Blown Stone rocked the opening set and played a skankin’ rendition of Sublime’s “Saw Red”, featuring the beautiful Talee Lauren Rooney on vocals and Uproot’s Peter Eichar rocking guitar. The dance floor began crowding as the wildly awesome stage presence of Nick Hein and Ben Palmer (bassist and singer) left the crowd psyched for more, while all around sponsors like the Surfrider Foundation and Photon Light Boards could be seen. The night would be finished out by Dirty Modelo’s always excellent hip hop and rock beats, and right in between sets played the headliner, Jet West.

Lasers pierced the air as the stage darkened. Fans screamed. A sea of people flooded the venue from front to back, and as the opening chords of the guitar rang out a symphony of support washed over the stage. Scott’s vocals held the crowd completely captivated while Chris harmonized with echoing lead guitar. Derek and Deren (the “Double D’s) held it down tight on the rhythm section, locking the groove in place while they played hits like “Sunday” and “Irie Eyes”… even some horns made a guest appearance! When the beautiful women strutted onto stage wearing sexy reggae “flight attendant” uniforms during one song, the crowd let out a roar one might hear as a tsunami comes crashing down.

It was an awe-inspiring moment; that is, seeing a band progress from early shows with ten or so people to a sold out CD release event at one of San Diego’s most prestigious venues. As the band threw beach balls out into the crowd and energy levels peaked, all of Sound Wave was feeling something special (and it wasn’t the brownies). The feeling was being a part of something from the ground up, seeing a band catch one of its first big breaks and the possibility to go anywhere from here.

Since the release party the band has been pushing its way further north, playing bigger venues like Saint Rocke in Hermosa Beach and Tiki Bar in Costa Mesa. The music business certainly isn’t easy or forgiving for independent artists. But for a band that puts in the hard work, persistence and high energy shows they do, good things are bound to happen. Do yourself a favor and catch the wave with Jet West and their debut album “Dropping In”, now on Itunes!

Links:
http://www.jetwestband.com/
http://www.myspace.com/fullblownstone
http://www.myspace.com/dirtymodelo
http://www.wavehousesandiego.com/soundwave
http://www.winstonsob.com/index.php
http://www.710bc.com/

The Magnificent Brotherhood:  Dope Idiots (World In Sound/Trip In Time)
Dead Gumbies:  Three-song EP (Dead Gumbies)
Peter Stabile (1947-2010)

I don’t just feel like a dummy, I feel like a dummy-squared.

“Well, you seem pretty intelligent to me, Mary,” I hear you answering.

Hiding a slight wince at the modifier “pretty,” I slant my head and say, “Until last week, I didn’t know who Kelley Stoltz was. I saw him in June with Sonny and the Sunsets and didn’t even know that guy behind the drums was this incredible pop songwriter/performer. And I felt rather cranky when Fred Mills, my editor at Blurt, felt compelled to insert Stoltz’s name into my Sonny and the Sunsets album review ( http://beta.blurt-online.com/reviews/view/2417/) – like, I mentioned the only other member who stands out on the CD. And now I’m speaking in awkward sentences, which are too often ending with the word ‘was’!”

After glancing at your watch, you venture, “Well…the name ‘Kelley Stoltz’ doesn’t have any sort of ring to it, and Kelley is a pretty common name…”

With my family situation, and Peter Stabile killing himself two weeks ago, for a few weeks I was back in one of those slumps where I just ignore the pile of media I’m supposed to be considering. Occasionally I muster some energy and throw one CD on after another, trying to figure out how to say anything interesting or constructive about a bunch of derivative drek driven by no apparent original verve or compositional aptitude. Or the music’s okay; I’m just not finding it inspiring or stimulating.

I’d forgotten about the Kelley Stoltz one. But before the first track, “Rock & Roll with Me,” is half over, I’m goin’, “Yeah!” and, again, “Yeah!!” And then I’m amazed, ‘cause not only is the next song really good, but it’s good in a different way. As is the next, and almost all of the songs after. A few hours later, I want to hear To Dreamers again. After playing it a few more times I realize Stoltz has crafted something cohesive; a complete work of art. He has also managed to integrate The Kinks, glam/glitter rock, The Hollies and even early Roxy Music so well that he intuits exactly which style to pull out of his kit bag; nailing the right nuance for every inch of every song.

Stoltz could draw a road map for something accomplished by very few ‘60s/’70s –inspired artists –and that’s not only playing this stuff as if he were born in the late ‘40s, but making it sound completely now. He does this with joy and élan, as if his songs, and the ways to best present them, appear to him during daily naps.

While there are no videos at the moment of Kelley performing To Dreamers songs, here’s a good one from Circular Sounds (2008).

By the way, “Rock & Roll with Me” might lead you to believe the album’s a full-on hip-shaker. Umm… not so much. The song is just an invitation, the kind that reminds me of kids’ birthday party invites with lots of round shapes and bright, happy colors, and a little button you press for music that sounds like Gary Glitter if Gary Glitter sounded more like The Human League. Stoltz is yet another San Francisco talent – his more rockin’ stuff has some of that John Dwyer/Oh Sees fervor. You can see how he and Sonny Smith must support and influence one another.

Basically, if you have a yen, and are in a position to relocate, I’d draw an arrow with its point ending somewhere between San Francisco and Seattle. If pressed, I’d tilt the arrow toward ‘Frisco: Amazing scene happening there.

While Stoltz inserts tasteful bits of Farfisa where indicated, Berlin-based The Magnificent Brotherhood wants to have sex with a row of these organs. Some of its tunes, like the one performed below, nail a sweetly-moody, Human-Beinz or Outsiders vibe. Some of them make me want to yank the CD off and throw on The Blues Magoos. If your compass points toward Germany, you know where to go for some serious fruggin’.

I’m also warmed that TMB is releasing Dope Idiots via both CD and “gatefold vinyl.” And gotta heart the band featuring a Sky Saxon pic and quote (“The Magnificent Brotherhood, one of my favorite bands down here on earth”) on the promo flyer. It doesn’t make any sense – shades of Spinal Tap!

Before we tackle the last couple items, Stoltz and TMB have brought The Syndicate of Sound to mind. Here the band lips syncs “Little Girl.” I love how the guitar sounds like it’s fluttering, which throws a compelling bit of conflict into this garage classic.

Dead Gumbies fan with a DG keychain

One afternoon in these two depressing weeks I was alternating some other work with clicking through to whatever artists promoters were pushing via email. Nothing resonated. Then Dead Gumbies popped up with a Myspace friend request (note to musicians: get to journalists when they’re weary and defenseless). I slid over to the band page to be rather moved by the slammin’ power chords of “Politicians Reign.” Since I don’t think gumbies can move very fast, I’ll go ahead and say the rest of their stuff is pretty ridiculous. Actually, “Politicians” is based on a Beavis and Butthead sorta syllogism (is that ever a bad thing?). And was Gumby ever alive? Is this a question for philosophers? I know, I know: What the guys in the band are saying is that when, at the age of four, they kept switching channels and finding nothing but Clutch Cargo and Gumby cartoons (either of which would make any bright toddler sneer), they wanted to shoot a hole through the screen… or was that just me?

Anyways, sometimes a blast of dumber-than-carrots, moderately-revved speed metal is just what the doctor on the Tex/Mex border… ordered. Re: the links at the page bottom I got the bright idea of directing you to my Myspace rather than the Gumbies page (just kidding, Gumbies, you’re there too). I was in such a fast ‘n’ loose space, day I heard the song, I added “Politicians” to my profile playlist. In case you’re wondering, you can find Gumbies merch on Ebay. (I don’t have to bother: the duo included a black-and-green t-shirt with the EP. Jeez, you have to include at least two Ts to buy this writer, guys…)

Peter Stabile (far L) with Todd Gloria and Michael Dudley

I’m dedicating this installment to Peter Stabile. About two weeks ago, I was shocked when my friend Michael sent a simple message: “Peter is dead.” I just screamed, “No!” before heading over to a gathering of shocked friends and family.

Suddenly there was a hole in one of the most wonderful places in San Diego (Auntie Helen’s) , and in a community. It’s such a big loss, I haven’t been able to do any creative writing for a few weeks although a good, monthly spoken word gathering, Stanza, has manifested (every first Sunday at Thumbprint Gallery, 6:30 p.m.). Last Sunday I forced myself out the door  ‘cause I knew I’d be sorry if I missed it. Before I could perform anything else I improvised something about Peter. That helped me get closer to any sort of acceptance.

One of the many points of resonance between Peter, Michael and I has been our experience of retro rock and pop. Without it’s ever coming up, I know Peter loved the Syndicate of Sound, and probably had memories connected with “Little Girl.” And I think he would have loved Kelley Stoltz. The Dead Gumbies? All I can say is, he’s the kind of guy with whom I could share a smoke, trying to explain a band like that, and know he’d never raise an eyebrow or look at me like I was crazy. Friends don’t care if you’re nutty – at least mine don’t.

During the late ‘90s I sometimes performed a piece called “Between Life and Death.” The part of the poem where T’s guitar and my verses stopped and I deadpanned, “Did he think, ‘I am dead already’?” comes to mind around a lot of the stuff to which I’ve lately borne witness, including Peter’s suicide. The way I presented that poem was influenced by experiencing Patti Smith in NYC in ’74, when she still incorporated a lot of poetry. She dropped my jaw with “Piss Factory” that night. Along with a few tracks from Horses, it’s among the few Smith compositions that have held my interest. It’s a furious poem. I’m tired of how hard life is for so many good people. I was so furious about losing another great soul, I couldn’t even get to any tears until I let some of the anger out at Stanza.

I hope you enjoy at least some of these sounds. I hope I’ve provided some sort of enrichment, and helpful fiber, with this installment.

www.kelleystoltz.com/

www.myspace.com/themagnificentbrotherhood

www.myspace.com/deadgumbies

www.myspace.com/acertainblue

http://www.gay-sd.com/communities/news/obituary-peter-gabriel-stabile-1947-2010/

Approaching the venue, the party bus had filled with a haze so thick you could barely see the person sitting across from you. Friends had gathered, the pre-game was ending, and the night was set to begin. Spotting the majestic looking entrance to Sound Wave ahead, spectators were drenched in a mixture of moonlight and spilled drinks. The song lyrics reverberated through the air…

“I CAME FROM AROUND THE WAY TO MAKE SURE THAT THE MUSIC GONNA SHOCK YOUR BRAIN IF YOU FEEL IT IN YOUR BACK JUST START TO SWAY GET DOWN WITH THE ROOTS-ROCK-REGGAE!”

The lyrics come from the band Passafire, which was the first of  two headlining acts for the night. Welcomed with open arms by bands and fans alike to the famed Southern ‘Fornia reggae-rock scene, these boys from Savannah, GA know how to blow the top off a place and then some. The reggae-rock band Pepper signed them to their own independent LAW Records, and famously praised Passafire stating “They’re you’re favorite band’s favorite band.” Followed directly by Tomorrows Bad Seeds (TBS), together they hit San Diego with a musical that won’t soon be forgetten (even with the immense partying that ensued).

It doesn’t get any better than rolling down to the beach and blasting Passafire out your car windows for the world to hear… until receiving the opportunity to see them in concert. Playing the infamous Sound Wave venue, directly on the boardwalk in Mission Beach, their soulful tunes put the whole place in frenzy. I jumped around like a kid on caffeine throughout their whole set, most likely getting more of my drink on the floor and the girl in  front of me than in my mouth.

The thing about Passafire is that they really stand out in the reggae-rock genre. Thousands of bands have had their take at this particular genre and blended new styles, but rarely does a band come along that distinguishes themselves this well.  Passafire has seamlessly blended rock, metal, blues, funk, soul, electronica and even some acoustic bluegrass with a dub reggae backing. Will Kubley’s infectiously heavy bass lines stand out in nearly every song like a musical heartbeat, while his brother Nick’s tight drumming holds down the rhythm section. Completing the band are lead guitar player and singer Ted Bowne and keyboardist Adam Willis. Listening to the band’s unique arrangements lets you know that they’re extremely talented musicians.  To demonstrate their diverse range of influences, one  song named “Casting of the Cares” stands out. It’s got everything from ska to metal in there! One part in the guitar solo even reminded of something that Trey Anastasio of the band Phish might play. Low and behold, when meeting the band after the show, Passafire’s Ted Bowne looked right down at my Phish shirt as I shook his hand and said “Nice shirt man!”

After the awesomely energetic stage show and phenomenal musicianship the band displayed, they capped it by partying with their fans after. Chilling out by their merchant booth and handing away freebies, Passafire showed true dedication to their cause, as well as appreciation for the fans that make the musical living a possibility for them.

Shortly after Passafire left the stage, Tomorrows Bad Seeds amped up to go on. Hailing from the South Bay area of Los Angeles, they were the perfect finish for the night. Moi and Andre (singer and bassist) were hanging off to the side of the stage before the show. Having caught them before at The Belly Up Tavern in Solana Beach and Winston’s Bar and Grill in Ocean Beach, they have perfected the formula to energize any crowd and truly rock the stage like stars.

Like Passafire, TBS really takes the reggae-rock genre and makes it their own. Adding an extremely energetic punk element to many of their tunes, they are masters of taking the crowd on a roller-coaster ride of ups and downs while keeping the party going the whole time. Always truly noteworthy of stage presence is previously mentioned Andre. He jumped and danced his way around every piece of open stage he could find, all the while keeping his bass lines spot on with their wild drummer Pat (who rocks some awesome heavy metal looking hair). Coupled with the excellent tonal range of Moi’s vocals and Sean and Mat’s dueling lead guitars, they didn’t leave a single person standing still in the venue.

Since the Sound Wave show Passafire and TBS have been touring up the state, gaining friends and fans in every town they play. Check these bands out and get a fresh taste of music! Concerts have always been one of the most fun things to do and as San Diegans we are extremely lucky to find ourselves exposed to a seemingly unlimited array of music and art.  So jump in, discover something new and share it with your friends… the scene is waiting out there for you!

Links: Passafire
Tomorrows Bad Seeds
Sound Wave

Dead Confederate – Sugar (Old Flame) ( & at The Belly Up on September 1)
Savoy Brown – Shake Down (Deram & Decca/vinyl; Polygram & Dorset/CD)
This Is The Blues – Volumes 1, 2, 3, 4 (Eagle Rock)

Dead Confederates' Hardy Morris Holds Forth

Far as I’m concerned, Dead Confederate might as well be a bevy of magicians. Like any artists who’ve ever emerged as from a puff of smoke, prompting a “Wow;” a dropped jaw; they’ve plunged a needle into an essential pulse. But their biggest trick is re-engaging my interest in topics seemingly so self-absorbed and irrelevant; so drained of life, nothing fresh or new could be gleaned from their remains. In other words, this sophomore effort frequently finds DC with its shorts in a wad over l’amour.

Maybe it’s fair to add that I’m not sure how many other rockers fill recreational reading with articles about how in the world Obama is going to yield any results, or the Democrats are going to maintain any grip on power, given the byzantine network of corruption, polarization, and general ennui in which the president landed. Other people may not be as interested as I in literature on metaphysical/scientific junctures. And other people may not as bored with 200,000,000,000 minstrels offering their spin around ad infinitum experiences d’amour.

It can be argued that popular music is often geared toward entertainment — escape and/or fantasy. God knows, I’m not immune to vehicles offering release, comfort, and/or laughs (although I can be a bit tough to please: Captain Beefheart, and John Cage tend to make me crow with amusement). But there’s something amazing about less sophisticated work that manages to merge telling insights or feelings with coral dredged from the changing currents of spontaneous creation. Blasting the Pixies’ Trompe Le Monde and Weezer’s Pinkerton in my car helped dig the path away from a troubled relationship. I was relating to the emotions as much as to any messages, but the essential element was this: Whatever I was hearing wasn’t afraid to parade naked in the street. And that goes to why I’m jazzed about Sugar. Most of the songs seem to be about the “war” of falling in love, getting dumped, and the even more interesting (Freud might prick up his ears) war that Hardy Morris relates via “In The Dark”: “Way down/In the darkness/I’m the one who has been clawing/In the life of a monster in the dark/Buried deep and scared of you/ Burdened by his mighty tooth and jagged claw”.

Not the stuff of most love/sex/eros songs, is it? But I could relate. And then there’s “Quiet Kid:” “I was the quiet kid/Never could get enough/Of oxygen/Choking on boredom’s gun/Had daydreams/Dark as a swollen cut/Would’ve killed you/But the time ran up.”

I wouldn’t be prattling on like a music geek (well, maybe) if the sounds on this sophomore effort didn’t arrive like (mostly very loud) guests for whom dinner’s always warm in the oven. To wit: “In The Dark:” Restlessly circling B-52s—er, guitars, and a chunky rhythmic gumbo flow into a vocal refrain channeling Kurt Cobain’s irresistible angst and Kim Gordon’s strut ‘n’ cheek. Phew. Like I’m already Googling the tour schedule before the track’s halfway spent… before the second song reveals itself as the one Exile fans have been awaiting, lo these many years, in “Run from the Gun.” Yeah, the bridge bears some resemblance to less remarkable alt-country-whatever, but whenever the raggedy Jagger/Richards harmonies kick in, the jury’s also in with the f—kin’ verdict, and it’s “Do you need a ride to those moonlit assignations with shape-shifting muses?”

This is less mesmerizing than the recording, but at this point I imagine you want something – I would.

The shape-shifting muses come into play when I can’t tell if the narrator of “Run” is a soldier, a kid who’s been dumped, a songwriter with a great imagination, or some of all of the above.

The air’s already so electric that when “Father Figure” meanders some, momentarily sounding as vague and orchestral as a bunch of inferior contemporary c…p before hitting its sweet spot, there’s no worrying. Then “Quiet Kid” slams into the kind of thrash ‘n’ grunge pile-up occupying the wet dreams of Dinosaur, Jr., Gumball, and Sonic Youth fans (interestingly, all these band have involved Georgia-born musician/producer Don Fleming). In fact, the track finds DC diving straight into the kind of gorgeous chaos with which SY blazed a trail.

So damned good… that it doesn’t matter if the refrain on “In The Dark” sounds a lot like “Smells Like Teen Spirit” – hey, we all have our reference/starting points. Sugar is still a couple of light years beyond earlier, more Nirvana/SY-imitative sqwacks, which still rawked like crazee:

Click here to view the embedded video.

DC throws in a couple of breath-catching interludes before jumping back into the volcano, which re-erupts on “Mob Scene” and creates a new paint-by-percussion template via “Semi-Thought.” The title track doesn’t just charge into the deepest of SY-bloodied frays; it manages to conjure some of John Lennon’s piercing anguish. Man, will Southerners never get over that war? Well, I’ve lived there… it’s complicated.

As a very young person, I got the blues. By the time I was nine, my parents had accepted my obsession with Rock and other “youth-oriented” music. When I was 11, my Navy officer dad arrived home from a tour including a British Isles leave with some curious booty: a Blues Magoos record and Savoy Brown’s Shake Down. I was ignorant of any controversy or guilt shadowing white Blues interpreters. I didn’t realize it might be unusual for a preadolescent girl to be blasting Kim Simmond’s piercing electric tones. But I was familiar enough with being new in school, and being torn from friends just as the ice cream truck was arriving, to recognize loneliness and despair. I was struck by SB’s sinewy grind through “I Ain’t Superstitious,” the deeply atmospheric “Black Night,” and the urgency of “Shake ‘Em on Down.”

Since SB’s first line-up featured a black vocalist (Bryce Portius) and drummer (Leo Manning), planted in front of the other members on the Shake Down cover, it seemed like just about the coolest thing in the world. Although we were back in Virginia, my family had for about eight years lived in Charleston, South Carolina, where integration was even less… integrated. I’d witnessed a lot of poverty and degradation and been surprised by white friends who hated African Americans. I didn’t tell them I’d learned to dance (maybe a cliché; but true) with African American kids down the street and befriended the lone black girl in my fifth grade classroom. I didn’t know Savoy Brown was among the first integrated ensembles to grace London clubs. But I was moved by what I heard and saw.

There’s no story around getting the original Fleetwood Mac; I can’t exactly remember. I know I heard Santana’s version of “Black Magic Woman” before the original gave me chills. I floated in the ether with Mystery to Me (by Mac’s third or fourth grouping), and can’t imagine experiencing “Hypnotized” or “Emerald Eyes” any other way. By my late 20s I had at least five Mac records. As much as through anything you can swallow or smoke, I swear my vision was enlarged via Then Play On and various tracks, including “The Green Manalishi with the Two Prong Crown” (released as a single; later included on many collections), “Albatross,” and several by Danny Kirwan, including “Dragonfly.” The only John Mayall disc, A Hard Road, in my collection is there for Green’s pre-Mac originals, “The Supernatural” and “The Same Way.” And FM brought a rare combination of warmth and immediacy to the standards (this one’s by Alberta Perkins, Dave Clark, and Otis Rush) that helped it finds its way:

I’m aware of no musician (usually Brits, who embraced seminal Blues earlier, and more, than any other group) purported to feel more guilt and conflict over using the work of the original blues artists than Peter Green, a dilemma that seems an obvious motivator behind his quests for transcendence and purification. Still, slavish devotion to the form, along with a need to somehow prove themselves, colored many British players, eventually sparking rifts between the latter and those who started using their own material, taking liberties with originals, and generally, as bands were told to do at the Star Club in Hamburg, “mak(ing) show.” Green, and Free’s Paul Kossoff, were uncommonly troubled by making it big with, and/or twisting, the form. Kossoff’s addictive tendencies were fueled, destroying him by the age of 25. Green quit Mac and kinda lost it; that’s a whole ‘nother story, but it’s generally agreed he shambled away from a once-in-an-eon symbiosis with the Mick Fleetwood/John McVie rhythm monster and the incandescent sensibilities of co-guitarist/vocalist/writer Danny Kirwan. And, yes, he did eventually return to music, although very little has approached his work with FM.

I’ve chatted about FM before, and probably will again: this is basically in the way of explaining that “Can’t touch that” is my reflex reaction to the idea of anyone going near the band’s incendiary work. Yet recreation of Green’s music is a frequent focal point for the sprawling, four-album comp., This Is The Blues (some of which was previously offered on Rattlesnake Guitar: The Music of Peter Green). John Lee Hooker also provides fodder, with tracks recorded for From Clarksdale to To Heaven: Remembering John Lee Hooker. This Is The Blues is jammed with big, primarily British blues sparklers, including a lot of ‘60s-era Mac colleagues and contemporaries. Only the cream of the sparklers, with a few offerings that are simply interesting, will be noted here. (Note to reader: please take into account my tendency to nod out to slow blues unless it’s done with a certain intensity and/or verve.)

Volume One’s mostly devoted to careful Chicago-style shuffles, and ballads. Jeff Beck throws some six-string railroad percussion behind Earl Green’s earthy vocals on “Hobo Blues.” Guitarists Vince Converse and Innes Sibun harness some of Mac’s original “Rattlesnake Shake” menace, although the arrangement’s much more casual than Mac’s sizzling original; and I’m not crazy ‘bout the vocal. Savoy Brown’s Kim Simmonds plays some juicy bottleneck gee-tr on his own “Going Down to Mobile.” Gary Moore and Jack Bruce take a tingling stroll through John Lee Hooker’s “I’m in the Mood.” Groundhogs alum. Tony McPhee does some movin’ and shakin’ with the acoustic country blues of Sleepy John Estes’s “Drop Down Mama.” Mick Jagger’s harp helps draw a “Sweet Virginia”-ish glow around “Racketeer Blues.”

Volume Two can’t help but get my antennae wiggling by starting with the late Rory Gallagher, whose vocals, mandolin, and electric guitar on Green’s “Leaving Town Blues” are so arresting (as always) – why, it’s an entirely different animal – in a very good way.

Jack Bruce maintains the buzz with the jump blues of “Send For Me.” Volume Two also includes John Lee Hooker breaking into his own “Red House.” Bob Tench combines an alluring vocal and sweet guitar for the melodic “Watcha Gonna Do.” Kim Simmonds is typically on-the-nose for a cool-toned roll through Green’s “Stop Messin’ Round.” Green’s relaxing “Albatross” isn’t harmed by Tench’s able single-note stretching and Paul Jones’s harp.

Sonny Boy Williamson’s “Nine below Zero” gets a bracing dollop of harder stuff from two of Gallagher’s running mates. Tony McPhee adds vim to the late Dick Heckstall-Smith’s sax vigor on Hooker’s “I’m Leaving.”

Peter Green and Nigel Watson open Volume Three with a measured take on Hooker’s “Crawlin’ King Snake.” (Lonesome) Dave Peverett’s vocals steer an energetic, rather overwrought reading of Green’s “If You Be My Baby.” I’d rather imagine the Clint Eastwood Western that would be well served by Vince Converse’s intense narration of Hooker’s “Bad like Jesse James.” A lengthy “Little Red Rooster” (Willie Dixon) gives Kim Simmonds lots of room to stretch. Along with Humble Pie alum. Clem Clempson’s strident chording on “I’ve Got News for You, it brings back the howls that would greet such dramatics at Dan Lynch, a NYC blues dive I used to frequent. Rory Gallagher’s roars and restless slide pyrotechnics more than justify this remake of Green’s “Showbiz Blues.” Mick Abraham’s sprightly read of Green’s “The Same Way” also earns an honest paycheck. Guitarist Clas Yngstrom’s beautiful reach and resonance lay effective homage at the feet of Green’s “The Supernatural.”

There’s plenty to dig on Volume Four, starting with Mick Taylor and Max Middleton’s perfect balance of vim and restraint on Hooker’s sunny “This Is Hip.” The Pretty Things have a romp with “Judgment Day.” Snowy White’s guitar/vocal tones help Green’s “Looking for Somebody” reach a sublime peak. Vocals and axe-mastery from Troy Turner and Ray Gomez lend sexy swagger to Green’s “Lazy Poker Blues.” Original Yardbirds guitarist Top Topham joins ‘birds drummer/vocalist Jim McCarty for a nice reading of Green’s “Drifting.” I want to pour some gravy over Mark Doyle’s crystalline guitar work on Green’s “A Fool No More,” which is already seasoned by Kim Lembo’s vocals. Georgie Fame recreates the jazzy coloring that appeared in some of the most elegant ’60 Brit. blues with Mose Allison’s “If You Live.” Miller Anderson’s solo guitar and vocal bring coffeehouse intensity to “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood.”

Although we’ve been focusing on standouts, anyone who’s into this stuff is likely to wonder how Green’s “Manalishi” and “Oh Well” fare here. (Crazy) Arthur Brown imbues “Manalishi” with the vocal excesses I usually associate with substandard metal bands, and the arrangement is miles from the original’s breathtaking dynamics. “Oh Well” fares rather better. Although it doesn’t quite echo the stunning percussion (by Mick Fleetwood) that helped propel Mac’s version into halcyon status, Billy Sheehan, Roy Z., Greg Bissonette and Tommy Mandel (on the organ, which you can barely hear, thank God) do the piece some justice when they can contain their excitement at being in such august territory.

Anyone who knows Green-with-Mac’s “Man of the World” may be startled by Ian Anderson’s father flowery arrangement, which comes across like a memorial offering by an aging banker. At first I was appalled by Anderson’s detached delivery of “I just wish I’d never been born,” a line Green yanked up from the depths of despair. The way that moves to the seemingly effortless, inevitable embrace of the bridge – well, it’s something to hear, and as fitting as any testament to Green’s near-psychic grasp of a sort of ethereal grail. The appropriately youthful tagline – “And how I wish I was in love” – seals its humble affect. Partly due to Green’s songwriting (no, I don’t want to hear Nick Winters doing it, thanks), Anderson’s ballsy treatment—which, after all, may have seemed the only choice; he didn’t want to come off like Nick Winters) ends up being one of my TITB favorites.

Till we meet again, my little ducks ‘n’ dish-scrubbers.

www.deadconfederate.com
www.fleetwoodmac.net
www.eaglerockent.com

Since its inception in 1986, SummerFest has welcomed more than 650 renowned artists and ensembles, four talented artistic directors and nearly a 250 million audience members at venues in San Diego and over the airwaves nationwide.

This season’s event should be nothing less than extraordinary with a wide range of performances including many Classical music favorites such as an Evening with Emanuel Ax on Aug. 11 at 7:30p.m. at the MCASD Sherwood Auditorium, as well as the Chopin Celebration: From the Salon to the Opera House, on Aug. 14 at 7:30 p.m. at the MCASD Sherwood Auditorium.

There’s something for everyone and every taste at the SummerFest where events change daily and prices vary. The best bet is to head to the website where you can pick and choose for yourself.

Whether you enjoy Chopin or Schumann or anyone in between, you’re sure to have a grand time at this highly popular event. If you’re in the party mood, you can also attend the SummerFest Gala on Aug. 13 at 6:00 p.m. at the Scripps Seaside Forum.

Visit http://www.ljms.org/SummerFest-2010/Performances/ for full schedule, pricing, and list of free events, too.

“You Lost Me” features the singer in a more familiar light, reminding viewers of the simple girl audiences fell in love with back when “Genie in Bottle” was released. The song showcases her extraordinary vocal talent without all of the electronic nonsense that has overwhelmed recent Top 40 songs. Auguilera’s voice is accompanied by a soft beat and piano in the background.

Forget the futuresque outfits and costume make-up that have had fans do a double take. Aguilera portrays a gentle and vulnerable woman in her latest video. With lyrics such as “we’ve lost it all, the love is gone,” the scenes revolve around her pain over being deceived by someone she loved.

“It’s not taken off yet. Big ballads like that that are very slow have a harder time at radio, simply because radio right now is very rhythmic and midtempo and dance, and it’s hard for very sparse ballads to catch on,” said Keith Caulfield, senior chart manager/analyst at Billboard, of “You Lost me.”

Aguilera’s previous music video, “Not Myself Tonight” from her fourth album “Bionic,” depicted her as a sex-charged vixen. The video received overall positive reviews but many were disappointed in her lack of originality compared to this summers top artists Lady Gaga, Ke$ha and Katy Perry.

Aguilera’s Summer tour was canceled after lack of album sales and response from audiences. The release of Aguilera’s fourth album, “Bionic,” was released four years after her previous album “Back to Basics” in 2006. “Bionic” had high expectations as is came out on June 4 this year, but only sold 111,000 in its first week out, her lowest selling album. The album quickly went from top 5 on the Billboard charts to the No. 32 spot.

Maybe this new single and music video will be just the thing to place her back on top.  Like it better than her most recent works? Let us know.

Photo courtesy of sunnyd_57 via Flickr

Flyer featuring DAN SARTAIN

Lyle Lovett – July 25, Humphrey’s Concerts by the Bay
Dan Sartain – August 18, The Casbah
Mice Parade
Hobo

Gloomy summer so far in San Diego – haven’t seen one like this in 16-some years here. My first 10, it was pretty gorgeous; the kind of sunny, warm, dry weather accounting for the area’s endless sprawl. Last few, we’ve gotten the typical “June gloom” (clouds that burn off by noon, followed by nice weather). This year it stayed gloomy a lot. July, especially by the end, is when it starts to get really hot and humid. And that’s the last thing most people want. Even if the time’s not quite right for dancing in the street, a stream of traveling minstrels is still rolling through town.

If I sound unusually laconic, you can blame Lyle Lovett. Listening to Lyle can bring out the summers and Christmases I spent with my grandmother and other relatives in the Maryland countryside. You know,  sitting on the front porch over a sea of crickets, looking at the birds until it gets too dark; emitting sporadic syllables that through their minimalism turn into a sort of Zen.

As far as I’m concerned, Lovett is America’s real poet laureate. Sure, Tom Waits and Canadian Joni Mitchell have written some incredible lyrics, as did the late Laura Nyro. But few nail American life, places, and mythology as often and well as Lyle. He can convey Jackson Browne’s restless Saturday night, then personify the pain and joy of the wanderer unfolding his or her napkin for the blue plate special that was there all along. Lyle’s American obsession is like an ongoing love affair that can never be satisfied, leaving room for lots of dramatic conflict.

In Lovett’s hands, the conflict only screams when gospel voices help deliver the message. Because, yeah, this guy’s a poet; often conveying more with one line or vocal inflection than many artists manage in their whole oeuvre. With his intuitive grasp of American roots music, he chooses or combines from country, rock, blues, Dixieland jazz and gospel as they best serve. The musical part of the songwriting’s damned good, as well.

If you’re wondering why you haven’t heard of this guy before, all I can say is, he’s created his own genre, one that’s too wide for some to fathom. He still has a large following (like his band, “it’s not big, it’s large”). Damn, I wish he were bringing that band to San Diego. But I’ll take Lyle on any terms.

Lux Interior is dead and the Cramps, as such, are dead. Rocket from the Crypt, at least as a band, is in the crypt. But loopy Alabaman Dan Sartain is coming to town – I wish I could be at the county line to see if he rolls in a souped-up Mustang. Or maybe he’ll hop off a caboose at the train station; grip in hand. Formerly on Swami; encouraged by RFTC’s John Weiss, the man who could have been separated at birth from John Waters (well, a younger, better looking one – no offense, John) has a new album (Live, released by Little Indian July 20). Back on the road behind it, Dan’s likely to attract a bevy of grease monkeys and Bettie Pages (or folks who just want to look like them), along with anyone hungry for Sartain’s lunatic-fringe menudo of rockabilly, ‘60s rave-ups, and classic punk; all ringing with perfectly-executed vintage reverb. I predict he’ll rock the house –if we’re lucky, taking “Walk Among the Cobras IV” to incendiary heights. Yeah, Dan has a thing about snakes… and a thing about atheism, and Satanism, and miracles. All in one hypnotic package. I’m not throwing around a phrase like “lunatic fringe” loosely. From a 2008 ArtRocker interview, here’s Dan on hanging (oneself):

“It’s about Alice Cooper, man. And I saw some pictures of James Dean and he did that. He looked really cool. I took these pictures, and I actually did have to hang myself for five – ten seconds while my friend went click click click, then I put my toes back on the stairs. But they cut my fucking feet off the album cover, so you couldn’t see that I was actually hanging! So I did all that shit for nothing! I guess my neck got real stretched out. When my mother saw ‘em (those photos) she was horrified.”

One more separated-at-birth thing re: Sartain – his voice, and a lot of his topics and structures, remind me a lot of Nathan Payne, who I profiled here a few months ago. If one wasn’t an atheist and the other a Christian, I’d suggest some sort of match-up.

Mice Parade isn’t coming to San Diego – it’s just doing a few NE (and at the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hotel, for my D.C.-area pals) appearances before heading to Europe or something (yeah, it’s making me cranky). Anyway, I’ll be writing about the new record somewhere soon. The title made me lol: What It Means To Be Left-Handed. Okay, maybe you have to know MP’s work to find that amusing. So here, from Obrigado Saudade, is one of my favorites. The way MP leader Adam Pierce knits lyrics with sound is often brilliantlyvisceral. O/w, would you catch me publicly lauding anything that could invite the shoe-gaze moniker? Eh, who cares? Labels, schmabels.

This has barely tickled the surface of this summer’s notable touring artists. If you comment, maybe give a heads-up re: whatever you’re excited to see. Meanwhile, I’m lovin’ the excuse to ice this cake with a nifty little number by Hard Stuff (nee Bullet), a relatively short-lived, early metal conjunct including master bassist John Gustafson and a couple of ex-Atomic Roosters. I used to throw this on at WGTB. For those who remember; here, from Bulletproof, is that song you didn’t like – or maybe one you dug. Toodle-oo, cowgirls ‘n’ boys.

CocoRosie:  Grey Oceans/Foals: Total Life Forever/Wolf Parade: EXPO 86/Blitzen Trapper: Destroyer of the Void (SubPop)

Sonny Smith/Sonny & the Sunsets (Fat Possom; Soft Abuse)

There isn’t a ton of live performance footage. There are a few too many less-than-amazing talking heads bookending the thing. And, in a way, it’s an aperitif for the upcoming Ladies and Gentleman live footage re-release.

But if you’re at all intrigued by the Stones’s mystique, gotta kick it with Stones in Exile. For me

Keith & Anita at Nellcote

(somewhere between sporadic hip-shaker and mega-fan) it reveals surprising vulnerabilities. It totally seals Anita Pallenberg’s position in the Incredibly Cool Rock Muse pantheon. It helps explain the “freaks” I knew in Spain in the ‘70s; at least one of whom probably joined the flood of hipsters and hangers-on partying and crashing with the Stones at Nellcote. As engineer Andy Johns reveals, “It was my initiation into how you can actually live rock ‘n’ roll.”

There is tons of black-and-white images and footage of the terminally boho and beautiful. There are tastes and recurring motifs from the Stones’ most fertile post-Brian Jones period (“All Down the Line,” “Happy,” for which there’s also onstage footage, and “Ventilator Blues”). There are kaleidoscopic views of the Exile creation process, with a more linear one of the events leading up to it. We get refreshing documents of the Stones learning from and jamming with American C&W and blues players, along with some hilariously raw memories from Texan sax man and integral Exile element Bobby Keys. And we learn the source of “Tumbling Dice.”

Hey, it’s the Stones at their most worn-out, stoic, hopeful, and raggedy-gorgeous –need anything more be said? Well, maybe one thing more: When the heck is the Keys documentary going to be made? Talk about a story…

This one isn’t featured in the film; its just one of my faves:

Exile joined a stream of dark early-’70s portents (as Don Was comments, Apocalypse Now was being shot in a similar time frame) nailing the hippie coffin. Nearly 30 years later, the Stones are still newsworthy, we’re still walking the earth, and plenty of minstrels are competing for a spot on the ultimate soundtrack–it’s a record-breaking year for summer releases.

Continuing a stream of atmospheric (also known as “dream pop” and, uh… I tend to blur the other labels) releases, SubPop’s about to let Foal’s latest out of the gate. (I’m just waiting for a band of bearded guys with a mandolin and a synthesizer who call themselves Skunks – wait, some crazy mates helped me stir an absurdist mash with my spoken word piece of that name in the early ‘90s. But we called ourselves, variously, the Potato People, L.I.A.R., and several other things). And now I’m aggressively digressing…

Here’s a standout from Foals’s  Total Life Forever – kind of like a nice marriage of the Cure and Tears for Fears. Gotta pump up the volume:

Another group that was apparently spooned ‘80s synth-pop from an early age is Wolf Parade. From the new EXPO 86:

Blitzen Trapper also utilizes some of that big/electronic sound. As far as Destroyer of the Void goes, I prefer the songs that make me yearn for a campfire in Yosemite, or wherever people toast marshmallows in Oregon:

More igniting than any of these boy (okay, young man) bands are the sometimes almost unbearably intense sounds of CocoRosie. When they’re good, they’re really, really good… and, especially on their latest (Grey Oceans), don’t sound like much else – that’s saying something.

Also rather strange (well, altogether less strange than CocoRosie, but if CR were at a carnival they would make the strong man slam his Weird bell beyond 10) was last week’s San Diego appearance by Sonny & the Sunsets. Perhaps because they opened for Ty Segall (who delivered a red-hot show; highly recommended), they leaned into garage rock. Sonny Smith, who’s been projecting around the S.F. scene for some time, has too many arms to fit existing categories. Among the harmony-friendly, quirky guy’s projects: “100 Records” (http://www.myspace.com/sonnythesunsets).You can send him some flowers: he’s just signed with Fat Possom.

Here’s a charmer from Tomorrow Is Alright:

If some of this installment seems unusually low-key, we can blame it on the Stones for heading it off. Now, that’s power.

The La’s:  Breakloose 1984-1986 – The Lost La’s (The Viper Label)
The Ultimate 50’s Rockin’ Sci-Fi Disc (The Viper Label)
Marcelo Radulovich:  Vertigo at Lunchtime (dPulse Recordings)

When you’re in a very dark funk ‘cause a huge oil monster’s sucking up everything in the Gulf of Mexico; let alone some varieties of Po’ Boys, & the budget for both your work sources has been cut, & although you paid a couple of stupid parking tickets (one wheel 18” from the curb, my ass) you didn’t know you got the tickets because your car was parked in another neighborhood, so the fees mushroomed, & once you sent a check, the DMV took forever to cash it, & then it bounced, which never happens, but now, when it’s affecting registration, it has; so even though you’ve also sent the registration payment, you’re waiting for that to clear before you can go to the DMV to take care of the parking tickets again, but your registration check still hasn’t cleared, so you can’t, & besides, as a helpful clerk informs you on the phone: For the last few months, the Calif. DMV is closed nearly every Friday (more budget cuts), so now your car’s just sitting on the street with its unregistered ass hanging out for all to see; waiting to get more tickets.

Today, after calling the DMV to find out the replacement parking ticket payment still hadn’t cleared, I (dropping the “you” thing) felt pretty frustrated. But once the light dawned — I wouldn’t have to spend the afternoon at the DMV — I dove into some at-home productivity, along with Homer Simpson/Stan Laurel mode. Before legging it over to the weekly farmer’s market, I’d already started laughing. Like: I have no money, so I’m going out to spend a few dollars and tell a few jokes.

But what about those times when one can’t shift into a better mood of one’s own devices? Those times when (back to) you’re in such a funk, you don’t even realize the sun’s warming your face. Or you walk right by The Ultimate 50’s Rockin’ Sci-Fi Disc 50 times without realizing it’s just the ticket.

Viper Records is a Liverpool-based label that releases so many amazing things, my enthusiasm could swerve toward the manic. So, a few examples:

1.  A CD devoted entirely to songs about chickens.
2.  A CD packed with rockabilly about cats.
3.  All You Need Is Money, a digital compilation of American songs from the ‘20s-‘50s.
4.  Live Captain Beefheart recordings.

The Viper guys are both from the defunct La’s, which did that lovely “There She Goes” pop trifle before the Cranberries covered it. And no, the two label-starters weren’t the front men, or writers of this song, but who cares? The whole band was cute in that pale, questionable-teeth, ugly-pretty, Brit way. Frankly, I’m considering hiring a detective to find out if they’re in relationships, if the relationships are complicated; if they like women, or goats, or… whatever it is, I’m prepared to supply it … I want access to ALL THE VIPER RICHES.

Since we’re now in La’s-land, I might as well say something(s) about Breakloose – 1984-1986 – The Lost La’s, a passel of demos and four-track ditties reissued with six bonus tracks by Viper last year. Dropping expectations for the subsequent “There She Goes” era, much of this is nifty in a raw, classic punk/new-wave way – for ref. points, there’s a bit of a Fun Boy Three/Delta 5 feeling. While lead vox/scribe Lee Mavers’s tasty harmonies and hooks are mostly here as foreshadows, the more laid-back approach is also appealing — “Get Down Over” is still spliced with Beatlesque harmonies. Tasty single guitar notes feel pure as the late ‘50s-early ‘60s on “Sweet 35;” soft, spoken word adds a new wave veneer. “Open Your Heart,” which starts out with something like, “If the sun was shining light within,” feels like the air after a really hard rain, when, yes, the sun reappears. Per Mavers, it’s “a plea to the cold-hearted in the Thatcher era.”

The one that made me go, “Oh, yeah – sweet boyos,” is the poetic, catchy “My Girl Sits Like a Reindeer.” “What Do You Do?” is lovely power pop. I also like the Kinks/Jam-ish “Space Rocketry,” and the choir-boy (if Richard Hell and a Spanish-influenced guitarist invaded a boy choir) beauty of “Moonlight.” The additional tracks are generally low-fi. There’s no single round hole when songwriters are this creative. Describing “Midnight Shift” might build expectations for more stuff that sounds like Lux Interior on a bathroom floor with a towel over his mouth. Outlining “You Don’t Say” could make readers pine for a uniformly Richard Hell-ish La’s. And damn, the minimally-tracked bonus rendition (which further underscores the lyrics) of “My Girl Sits Like…” makes me miss my old Tascam 424.

So many directions, even I’m getting dizzy – and grateful I didn’t set up any numerical-rating mandate for OTBT. Jeez, if the above doesn’t tell ya enough, just make some grape Kool-aid & watch the “There She Goes” video until you get a salt craving.

The Ultimate 50’s Rockin’ Sci-Fi Disc breaks through the clouds with Eddie Cletro counting, “Four…three… two… one!” into “Flyin’ Saucer Boogie,” which would just be kickin’ boogie rockabilly except there’s a sporadic scream, kind of like Jayne Mansfield on “Rock the Rockpile” (A Girl Can’t Help It,) and the guitar’s making swirly “spaceship” sounds. Have I died and gone to heaven? And what do I mean, “just kickin’ rockabilly”? Who wouldn’t sympathize with a guy singin’, “Oh, there they go – it’s those doggoned saucers again”?!

Since the Viper jedi are apparently completely bonkers (in the good way), there are 20 tracks here. Each one can’t be worthy of the entire world’s stopping what it’s doing to make flapjacks to “Flyin’ Saucer Boogie.” But since they’re arranged artfully, no problem. A decent Jimmy Lloyd rendition of “Rocket in My Pocket” is trailed by the meatier “Satellite Rock” by Joe Tate and The Hi Fives.

More than a few moons ago, I boogied my behind off to Link Wray and Robert Gordon spitting out “Flyin’ Saucers Rock ‘n’ Roll” at the Bayou (Washington, D.C). Of course Billy Lee Riley and His Little Green Men’s original is here; as slam/bang/zippity-assed  as ever. BTW, if you’re prone to multiple martinis, saying “Billy Lee Riley AHLGR” over and over might be a way to sober up prior to crossing a police line… just remember to stop before you get to the authorities.

Wesley Reynolds

It’s astounding (in the good way) how many hillbillies felt compelled to dip their toes into the atomic age/spaceship genre. Sounding like they’d be most at home singing this between feedin’ the pigs are Ray Anderson and the Home Folks with “Sputniks and Mutniks.” “Trip to the Moon” (Wesley Reynolds) and “The Little Space Girl” (Jesse Lee Turner) are pocked by those effect-driven, ear-splitting, high-pitched vocals that sporadically haunted AM radio for the next 20-some years. By contrast, The Rebelaires’s “Satellite Rock” has such a hepcat slouch, it’s hard to believe anything unusual is goin’ down.

Since it’s remotely possible there are readers who don’t share the kick I’m getting, here are just a few more notables: A touch of possibly misplaced class occurs with Ella Fitzgerald’s jaunty “Two Little Men in a Flying Saucer.” Joe Montgomery’s “Planetary Run” would be cookie-cutter hick rawk if it didn’t add new wrinkles to desperate single-dom. Buck Trail’s “Knocked Out Joint on Mars” has that raw slink I crave from down-home guitar pluckers. Nelson Young’s “Rock Old Sputnik” brims with roadhouse vigor.

Billy Lee R. and Nelson Y. might have been truly spooked had their imagined extraterrestrial encounters included Marcelo Radulovich. I’ve known him for about 13 years – before migrating to Japan last year, our mutual friend Marcos Fernandes helmed the Accretions experimental music posse/label from San Diego. In a pool of Mensa-level sonic talent, Radulovich has often been the lightning bolt cutting a  swath through shows and compilations.

Critics and outré devotees throw roses at his feet. When he tunnels down from his North County digs, he’s lucky if 15 people show up. Maybe that’s ‘cause seeing Radulovich is like learning to swim again: a certain loss of psychic control accompanies the choice to dive in.

It also says something about San Diego’s hunger for truly unusual performance that isn’t hooked into a trendy (i.e., youthful) and/or university scene – there ain’t much. And nearly all of the Accretionists have departed for greener pastures. Meanwhile, Radulovich also puppet-masters or participates in Me Me The Moth, Titicacaman, Gunther’s Grass, and the Assholes. Like a shifty-eyed eccentric who’s tapped into some odd, unnaturally green energetic source, he pops up now and again to unfurl a cornucopia of field samples, industrial/pop/hip-hop/Spanish and South American beats along with visuals, with the whole so well alchemized, the only nutshell into which it can squeeze is World Class Performance Art.

Yes, he feels like a distant receiver of Harry Smith’s hieroglyphics. Yes, the Chilean-born and Communism-experiencing artist points up the absurdity of just about any political or social system. Yes, it’s Dada poetry. Vertigo at Lunchtime — probably about the ninth release for  Radulovich as such — continues an expansive journey yielding paranormal delights.

My dear readers (or snorers) – hey, what do I care, as long as you’re facing the screen (diabolical laugh),

http://www.the-viper-label.co.uk/

http://www.marceloradulovich.com/

Joey Harris and the Mentals – The Ruby Room, April 10, 2010 * Brawley – Bar Pink, April 16, 2010 * The Uptown Rhythm Makers – Clair de Lune, April 2, 2010 * Janet Klein and Her Parlor Boys – Paradise Wobble, Ready For You (Coeur de Jeanette) * The Sweet Hollywaiians – Ticklin’ The Strings (Sweet Strings)

If I’m not quite down with the idea that current = better it’s ‘cause I’ve gotten into so many things after the fact. When it comes to classical, jazz, or folk music this makes a certain amount of sense. But it’s also about my tendency to have curious ears, and about needing the right stimulus (at the time) for creative expression. This has meant an increasingly keen intuition re: what’s going to feed me next, and can mean some frustration for friends determined to turn me onto whatever music they’re fired-up about.

And then there’s the gypsy thing. I was on-hand and/or involved, in the Maryland/Washington, D.C. area, for the New Wave, the resurgence of rockabilly, and some great progressive rock. In my late 20s, after moving to NYC, I went through a period of listening almost exclusively (on WNYC and a child’s record player) to new composers, the Ink Spots, Hank Ballard, and Bing Crosby with The Paul Whiteman Orchestra. Then I went through a phase of blasting Captain Beefheart, XTC, and a Verve jazz vocalist collection. In between or with all of the above I’ve been succored by vintage C&W, the McGarrigle Sisters, Laura Nyro, the Beatles, the Mothers of Invention, early Pink Floyd, the Blasters, and NRBQ.

Sometimes I’ve moved to cities where I didn’t know the rock ‘n’ roll status quo, meaning I never saw The Beat Farmers even though I was in San Diego for nearly five years before Dick Montana’s heart attack killed the band. Within those five I was delighting in KSDS, one of the country’s best jazz (along with a stellar jump and jazz/pop roots show) stations and getting into Sonic Youth, the Pixies, and Thinking Fellers Union Local 282. When my ex and I tied a couple on we fixated on Howlin’ Wolf, Jimmy Reed, Television, Willie Dixon and the Cramps or tried to recreate the sparkle of V.U. circa Loaded. At least half my ‘90s focus was around writing and practicing music and spoken word and combining them for performance.

I had fun at Joey Harris’s Ruby Room show. Although I’ve heard The Beat Farmers were better, hey, that was the ‘80s/’90s, when everyone but babies looked better with the lights on and bottled/smoked/snorted mayhem made everything rowdier, and, sometimes, better. Okay, I get it that the BFs were amazing… um, we’re here now.

Running low on female groups, lesbian event “That Time of the Month” is allowing performers with divergent physical equipment. If Harris sees the irony, he excludes it from his ribald patter: “I’m comfortable here: I can get drunk and run around naked” … “My wife Vicki has our CDs – maybe she’ll give ya one if ya pull on her titties!” Harris probably foresees mopping the floor with the other bands, a vision that’s made flesh by his scorching opening gambit, four-four barnburner, “Little Boy.” He makes a vague reference to surviving tragedy (probably including Beat Farmers Dick Montana’s onstage death) before singing about a woman who decapitates her porno-fixated partner and puts his head on a stick.

The Mentals exhibit an advantage to well-honed chops: The ability to get wild/a little messy, then pull back into rock ‘n’ roll precision. With the twang of roots-colored trouble boys like Dave Edmunds and The Blasters, Harris’s solid originals aren’t uniformly combustible. Young barflies still pogo with older fans, a combination not entirely uncommon at the Ruby – while line-ups may be wildly disparate or uneven, its mix of openness (where else would you see mature sexist mavericks and young lesbians, if not getting along, at least mutually tolerant?) and hipness add up to the kind of joint where even a sober drunk can imagine inhaling shots and prancing around naked… not that the thought ever occurs to me.

The appearance I caught was tighter than this but I don’t know if we had a better time:

Nena Anderson

I wish I could say as much for the combination of human factors at Bar Pink for Brawley, a band I knew included Nena Anderson but which I didn’t know focused on vintage C&W.

Once upon a time it was a So. Cal. tradition to catch folks in vintage get-ups emerging from tricked-out four-doors. Remnants of that aging scene showed up to mix oddly with partiers including a crew of screeching Lady Gaga lookalikes and a drunk who bellowed through the chaos toward affable vocalist/guitar whiz Adrian Demain, “Love the Hello Kitty guitar!”

“Welcome to Brawley,” Demain exclaims after second set opener, “Buck’s Polka,” subtly underscoring the county fair ambiance sought by fans in carefully cuffed jeans who doggedly find ways to two-step through kids looking for love and answering I-phones. Cultural and sound issues (Demain’s vocals distorting; instrumentation sometimes overriding vocals) aside, Jim Austin’s lively stand-up chops help bring the r-o-c-k to “Don’t Cry To Me” and Loretta Lynn’s “Honky Tonk Girl.” David Berzansky knits his pedal steel with Demain’s crafty leads.

The magician appears onstage and starts producing rabbits from hats whenever Nena Anderson’s jazz-informed phrasing is answered by Demain’s perceptive colorings. Moving between jazz standards, original and vintage country material and ensembles, Anderson’s been turning into a world-class vocalist. It’s the kind of growth that’s exciting to watch, especially now that engaging chanteuse Romy Kaye’s become a local memory (she’s now in N’awlins).

Later I tell Anderson that I look forward to her moody, compelling originals (an unusual situation when musicians favor covers) and she confides, “That’s what everyone says.” As she cries the refrain to “Changing My Ways (to be there for you)” the TV behind the bar is screening Pygmalion, the film in which guttersnipe Eliza turns herself inside out for Professor Higgins. It’s the scene where Leslie Howard (as Higgins) shows some dismay as he realizes Eliza’s gone. I know where she is, and that the gods are smiling on Anderson and, by extension, Brawley.

Bringing the broadest smile to this populist is the spectrum of types that converges for The Uptown Rhythm Makers at Clair de Lune. The Makers make the joyful noise called Dixieland Jazz, a style that has grown on me rather slowly -  for years my only contact  was via Woody Allen movies. I now feel it’s the bee’s knees. It also feels like the result of ears that hear more, and in different ways than was the case at one time. When a band really loves this stuff, and throws that love at the music, I hear emotion in every note, and that’s exactly how it is with this group. It’s an odd combination: the offhand, whoever-wants-to-do-them-approach to vocals (also found in a lot of jug and seminal Western Swing) smacks of a casual “We’re men, we’ll just get the job done attitude.” The instrumentation tells us these guys would be the first in line for whoever’s sellin’ the kind of candy they’re lookin’ for.

Near the end of the first set the band’s easing into “Everybody Loves My Baby.” Leader and announcer Kenny Powell cracks, “That’s one of our newer tunes, written in 1924.” During the break I stand in the cool breeze with clarinetist/melody-carrier Dr. Bruce Vermazen. “It gives me hope,” he exclaims about the races, ages, and sexual preferences united to imbibe the poignant, joyful wheeze of Dixieland jazz.

Tonight that includes a posse of older teens clustered near the stage. Respectful and attentive, they seem to realize they’re getting a cultural history lesson. Two of the kids are making out. A girl convinces a boy to get up and give dancing a shot, which they do: Whirling, stumbling,laughing. Swing competitors and students from the Firehouse School are doing the short, quick steps of “the Balboa,” reminding me of penguins. Sitting on the other side of the stage are two women who’re 75 if they’re a day; one’s knitting. Porkpie-wearing hipsters are keeping the beat and joining the whoops greeting the crescendos to which most Dixieland builds.

It’s good to know the Makers are here sharing this largesse every month–the whole scene’s sweetly inspiring. From the song “Chicago,” I’ve always been touched by, “I saw a man, he danced with his wife.” Tonight, as a lesbian couple has a ball, I can say, “I saw a butch, she danced with her wife… or date, or girlfriend.”

About six years ago I got crazy  for Robert Crumb’s Cheap Suit Serenaders, a band with which the cartoonist and sound nostalgist produced superlative string-driven reenactments. Joining the things I don’t know was the band’s apparent dissolution. And I didn’t know about Janet Klein and Her Parlor Boys or The Sweet Hollywaiians until last autumn, when it seemed to me both groups had suddenly jumped in to fill the void.

If it’s a void, it’s been vividly populated and colored by Janet Klein since 1998. Joining her at the party have been two integral Serenaders, Robert Armstrong (steel guitar, accordion and musical saw – plus my favorite male vocalist for such matter) and Tom Marion (guitar, mandolin, and banjo). Also in the gang is “musicologist, author, radio personality and former British Invasion teen idol Ian Whitcomb (ukulele and accordion).”

If I were you I’d be so consumed with curiosity about this Ian Whitcomb (unless you already know about him) I’d have a hard time focusing on what I’m writing. So in an attempt to keep you from shuffling off to Wikipedia, I’ll do it… okay. I’m back. And while this guy was the furthest thing from what I’d ever call rock (which could explain why he never attracted my antennae), he seems to have had a Zelig-like knack for being in all the right places, along the way possibly influencing Terry Adams and Mick Jagger –while basically playing Vaudeville and/or ‘20s music. Touche, Janet!

Now that I’m out of subterfuges we’ve arrived at a particularly mortifying issue, although this time it’s not one of ignorance: Ms. Klein answered my request for recorded matter with such a generous package of beautifully designed postcards and CDs, wrapped in vintage-style gift paper, that I was verklempt. I didn’t know how to respond beyond Oy – whatta goil! I mean, as far as I can tell, she doesn’t want to get involved with me, and, after all, I had asked for review copies. Unable to discern which CD was most recent, I tentatively pulled the shrink-wrap off Paradise Wobble. Janet’s and her accompanists emote as if born to the standards, oddities and rare cuts she’s unearthed from nearly a century ago – on this album alone, 23 of ‘em. For a fewhappy hours I cooked, cleaned, cut the rug (often with Bubac, the cat most likely to dance for food), vociferated, and made arcane hand gestures: Hotcha!

Dances for Food

I was going to share Janet as a sort of Christmas/Hannukah gift (I’m half Jewish, if that explains anything) but ended up going with a different column. In January I looked at the pile of riches and compared it with the two or three contemporary CDs or relatively simple column ideas I’d conjured… and I was really sick for a couple of months, as well… anyone with chronic physical challenges knows how the simpler, easier commitments, and the ones that help pay for the plots of earth we occupy – get answered first.

Anyway, after all those syllables you deserve one of the treats Ms. Klein produces, basically playing out the fantasy I’ve had since Harry Smith turned me onto Fanny Brice and Sophie Tucker with Stars of the Silver Screen:

Since I seem to be in this installment as more than a documentarian, I’ll include a pic of my departed friend Teresa (she liked to be called T.K.) and I, about 10 years ago, as The Sandies, or The Secret Life of Mary Leary – with her, and other collaborators,  some of my “Sing a little song, do a little dance, tell a little joke” dreams were fulfilled as I inserted as many vaudevillian hi jinx as the market (or tech) would bear.

T & I Before a Show

From the first note to the last credit, Ms. Klein’s CDs are beautifully crafted, often including booklets and sporting the ‘10s/’20s/’30s graphics she also creates for postcards. The images on the literature for the slightly more European/Grappelli-violin-sporting Ready for You are so dazzling, I thought I’d taken acid and opened a Pink Martini insert that had been designed by someone who’d worked for Bourjois or Christian Dior in the ‘50s and who was also on acid.

To examine Klein’s work, many avenues beckon. There are the subtextual stories being told about what it was to be a woman when there were much bigger taboos around being “a bad girl” — but that choice could mean more fun, at least for the moment. “Good girls” tossed and turned with worry over tarnishing their reputations. Then there’s the subject of options, or the lack thereof, for girls in the New World. Let alone the earthy Yiddish current in Vaudeville and related sounds, which Klein mines quite a bit–her amalgam of Fanny Brice and Sophie Tucker–with dashes of Gracie Allen and Betty Boop–may be her strongest suit. I can relate to the dilemma in “I Don’t Know Whether To Do It Or Not” (Ready for You):

“Ohhh… oh-oh… I don’t know why it is that I am cvying/I should ve happy like a girl should be/For today ain’t I going to be married?/ I got da veil, da roses und everyting…Still I can’t keep the tears from falling/for way down in my heart/I think that I am jumping/ into something/that everybody says I shouldn’t start. Und I don’t know…”

Then she compares the freedom of single life (“a crime”) and the prison she fears will come with marriage.

Now that I’ve ruined our good time (hey, Janet started it), another of her skills is tackling uber-tongue-twisting wordage. While a bit of pitch or phrasing may be the casualty of such outings, that just makes me enjoy her more: Perfection is so hard to hug. From “Physician” (Wobble):

“My epiglottis filled him with glee,” “I know he thought a lotta my abdulla oblongata,” and my favorite: “He did a double hurdle when I shook my pelvic girdle.”

Naughty! But I’m not about to reveal everything: If you want to find out why this romance went south, you’ll just have to get the CD.

Finally (we have to stop somewhere), I want to mention the trippy imagery in many of these lyrics, which makes all sorts of odd sense in tandem with the burgeoning animation of the day. From Wobble’s “I Wish That I Were Twins”:

“I wish that I were twins/you great big Babykins/so I could love you twice as much as I do.” (So far so good, right? Then it gets a little odd) “I’d have four loving arms to embrace you…” (Okay, still with ya. Then): “Four eyes to idolize you each day… I face you.”

Hmmm…

All the albums are recommended and can be found on Janet’s (four?)-eye-popping site: http://www.janetklein.com/web/main.htm

Is there any important (or even insignificant) Western cultural genre that hasn’t been embraced by the Japanese? If you think about this sort of thing, and have noticed, I hope you’ll tell me. We can add vintage Swing/Old Timey to the list, and not just back in that day… The Sweet Hollywaiians are busily producing albums full of it, and they do a damned good job while conjuring visions of Tiki torches and poi. They also feature Tom Marion – and, I believe, at times, Robert Armstrong – gee, those guys are runarounds, kind of like “hot jazz” missionaries. Anyone know if they’re available?

This is what Terry Zwigoff (Crumb, Ghost World) has to say: “The Sweet Hollywaiians have probably the best feel for this ’20s music of any string band working today. They manage the rare feat of sounding relaxed even when their playing is hot and are top notch musicians with tasteful arrangements and a full, rich, warm sound.”

In this case the website’s not much help (to me, anyway) since I don’t speak Japanese. But it’s beautiful: http://www.sweet-strings.com/ If you crave a more direct route to “My Girl of the South Sea Isles” (Ticklin’ The Strings) or any of the Hollywaiians’ other swingin’ albums, get thyself to CD Universe, Amazon, etc. Despite the admonitions of Carry Nation and other vintage fundamentalists, I don’t think getting thee to a nunnery will bring the desired results.

Whether the hippie movement picked up on gonzo elements that had sprung and flourished during the ‘20s, been touched on by The Beats, and were buried in our grandparents’ basements, or whether it seems that way ‘cause Robert Crumb’s comic books and album illustrations were so pervasive in the ‘60s and early ‘70s is a question I’ll leave for another time. But the giddy, cartoonish feel he got with the Cheap Suit Serenaders is recreated to some extent with Klein and with the Hollywaiians. And so, in whatever humble and far-flung way it must, that which is essential, at least to some of us, plays on.

There's more on The Bare Wires below (pic by Daniel Hilsinger)

Free – Free Forever (Eagle Rock) * Thee Oh Sees – Help (In The Red)  Golden Triangle – Double Jointer (Hardly Art) * Thee Oh Sees, So Cow, The Bare Wires & The Baths – Bar Pink Elephant, March 12, 2010

As readers may have noticed, I prioritize creativity and talent over genres, trends, artists’ ages, and other people’s assessments of hipness (even the April issue of the generally level-headed Vanity Fair includes a knee-jerk equation; i.e.: youthful musicians = cool; older = ov-er). Considering the latter example, there may be some irony that in achieving my goal of focusing on off-the-chart output I often spotlight work that’s at least one generation back. Then I’ll bring in the most interesting and/or effective contemporary artist from my to-review list.

Thanks to Brian Kelly, an Irish barn-burner who calls his output So Cow, this time I won’t be straining for ways to jump up and down about a current outfit that’s managed to squeeze a few drops of  life from usually well-worn genres – in fact, I’m so excited about some new music, it’s hard to sit still. Also exciting is the as-of March 23 domestic availability of footage from an oft-undervalued, influential hard rockin’ blues unit from the early ‘70s: Free.

While diehards may have already experienced some of Free Forever via import or VHS, it’s a beautiful package, with a poster-sized/styled insert and a colorful day glo sleeve. The two-disc set amasses all available live and promo film, along with recent interviews, a sweet video tribute to guitarist Paul Kossoff (who died a few years after Free’s dissolution, at 25), and a couple of odd videos from bassist Andy Fraser. Particularly riveting are two previously unavailable Isle of Wight performances (“Mr. Big” and “Be My Friend” – “All Right Now” is included in the film of that ’69 concert). First time I saw Message To Love: The Isle of Wight Festival, with a roster including The Who and Hendrix, Free’s was one of the segments for which I sat up straight.

I might capsulize Free by saying it emerged from Britain’s blues-purist school — and was born to rock. For instance, one of my favorites, “Songs of Yesterday” is driven by hairpin-turn, to-the-point performing from all four (and as an intuitively connective unit). This highly economical playing  erupts into passionate explosions, then contracts without losing any technical and expressive ability. By most of the the Free Forever performances, the band  had gotten tired of relentless, under-applauded tour stops, had endeavored to write a hit – “All Right Now” – which was, and was reveling in bigger audiences, more attention and money.

For me, Free + “live” = hypnotic.  Despite the strangely lifeless audience (Reason #1: They were Luded out? #2: They’d been told to keep still? #3: Free’s overt lasciviousness seemed embarassingly un-British?) at hand for the Granada TV segment, Free was on fire with “Ride My Pony,” “Mr. Big,” “All Right Now,” “I’ll Be Creepin,” and “Songs of Yesterday.” Andy Fraser’s walking/talking bass lines are creative jaw-droppers, as is Kossoff’s spectrum of guitar tones, pristine, single-note solos, and lyrical, rockin’ explosions (after the band opened for Blind Faith, Clapton asked him for a vibrato lesson). And I think it’s safe to say that no one could rock a pair of desert boots and skinnies like Free-era Paul Rodgers, whose singing is so powerfully nuanced he’s been called “The Voice” – no argument here!

Free Forever also affords audio-only space to Free’s other Isle of Wight songs, including “The Hunter,” “Fire and Water,” and “Crossroads.” The promo videos include a rather uncharacteristic, ingratiating soulful Pop composition that could have come from Todd Rundgren or Al Kooper, “My Brother Jake.”

A couple of weeks ago I got wind that some things amazing were blazing into my neighborhood. My last-minute request to see So Cow at Bar Pink was promptly answered by Brian Kelly’s “Will do,no bother!, which took me to one of the best shows I’ve experienced in years, by So Cow and three ‘Frisco-based bands sharpening their axes on the way to SXSW.

The somewhat nervous openers were the six long legs comprising The Bare Wires. Matthew Melton’s newish rhythmists helped him whip his catchy melodies into what I’ll join the Label-The-Band Game by calling a furiously Power Punk state (other labels have included “Smooth Punk” and “Soft Punk”). Wires brings streamlined oomph to the Garage/Power Punk blend, at best coming off like the neglected grand-offspring of an unlikely Who/Jam coupling. (A different drummer than the one in this video was at Bar Pink.)

After a very un-diva-ish pause, So Cow mounted the stage. If I wanted to Mr.- Spock this review it could devolve into a three-piece comparison. That would miss the apples-and-oranges divergences between Bare Wires’s Power Punk and So Cow’s melody-waltzes-with-dissonance explosions. This stuff eludes categories – and from this long-time music reviewer and deejay that’s saying a lot (almost everything I hear reminds me of something, or I can pinpoint influences).

The performance was like seeing a bunch of flares being sent up as much as hearing a series of tunes. Kelly digs into each like a teen with his first lay; full of joy that I suspect comes from having been So Cow sans band mates for several years. Now that he can bring the s-h-i-t to this Rock (especially with a crack rhythm team sporting brilliant drummer Aaron Thomas Skufca), the chaotic joy he sweats out is contagious. When I told him that some of his songs remind me of Teenage Fanclub (and the Replacements, which I didn’t say at the time) he was genuinely surprised and pleased. I might have added that it’s also a bit like Teenage Fanclub with Jad Fair, but that would be somehow redundant, although a Replacements/Fair mating wouldn’t.

From So Cow’s recent SXSW junket, here’s a favorite from the first, Pastel Music release:

There’s a longer pause to set up The Baths’ four pieces. The bar’s crowded up, partly with dive-hoppers trying to catch both Thee Oh Sees and No Bunny, which is a mile or so away at The Tower. Not having heard much of the band before or since, I can only hazard a guess that this wasn’t one of The Baths’ stronger nights – there were early problems with pitch and/or tuning, and it didn’t feel like things were gelling. But about three songs in, the band clarified its connection with frequent bill sharers Thee Oh Sees by grooving into a sinuous, incantatory medium tempo at times recalling T.Rex and brought to a froth by Jeremy Cox’s buzzing guitar wheezings (Electric Prunes; Status Quo circa “Technicolor Dreams”).

Let’s just say that really fierce rock ‘n’ roll is a substance. In that case, we’d already gotten a good helping from Bare Wires and So Cow, with the Baths providing a nice palate refresher. All of which only slightly prepared me for the mania with which Thee Oh Sees attacked, ravished and fed, then created a line of living love dummies from some of Rock’s most essential elements: The bass/drum rumble of the Yardbirds (“Go Meet the Seed”), the ecstatic energy of the Who, The Small Faces, and a slew of messier Garage rockers (“Meat Step Lively”), and the portentous dynamics of Wire ( the anthemic “Enemy Destructs,” possibly the best Rock song of 2009; and “Peanut Butter Oven”). (All of these are on the last album, Help). To this embarrassment of riches they add intermittent, Mersey-era guitar jangle (“A Flag in the Court,” which includes the unusual refrain, “Oh, trainer – lay your lash down on me”.) These and others that kept the crowd screaming and moshing were thrown down with the on-the-edge, near-chaos of Pere Ubu circa “Non-alignment Pact” and the Bryan Gregory-era Cramps.

I’m… not… exaggerating. Someone who doesn’t get all fired-up about this sort of thing might just say, “This was the most rocking show I’ve seen since I last caught Throw Rag, and, before that, Link Wray’s late-‘90s Casbah appearance.”

If you’ve been underwhelmed by previous projects from John Dwyer (the manic wizard who sings, squeaks, flips knobs and slams guitar chords), know that these were building focus and momentum for one of the best contemporary Rock bands in the world. Petey Dammit’s guitar vacillates between driving the melody, being a metronome and a baritone rumble: The guy’s a phenomenon. Also essential is co-vox/tambourine-smacker Brigid Dawson, who anchors the whole along with Mike Shoun’s dead-on drumming. The next album’s Warm Slime – does it get any better?

While the Brooklyn-based Golden Triangle is in the unenviable position of following Thee Oh Sees, they’re probably one of the few bands that could stand the pressure. Pics and footage from Triangle shows come across as, in no particular order: The beginning of an orgy, a Wiccan gathering, an out-of-control, audience-participation performance art installation, and, well… a Punk Rock show. Does Double Jointer come anywhere near all that wild energy? Uh… yeah. In fact, it has me at opener “Cinco de Mayo,” a paint-splatter of seminal Garage mayhem. I’m still with it through “Blood and Arrow,” with its repetitive Grade-B horror refrain, and “Neon Noose,” which are both driven by the slight dissonance of John Doe/Exene-style harmonies, with the Slits occasionally in phantom evidence. Unlike hordes of ‘60s and/or vintage Punk-riffing groups around, GT just IS the energy. “I Want to Know” feels like Question Mark & the Mysterians, the Cramps and Yardbirds were tossed into a blender. The distant, slightly tinny mix aids the sensation of writhing in a cavernous basement after downing more than a few brews, especially to closer “Arson Wells,” a workout that functions on DJ as “Tobacco Road” did for the Blues Magoos.

Honestly, the resurfacing of great Rock ‘n’ Roll (the last thing any of this tends to be labeled by my fellow fans and pundits) is wonderful. While it can be a stretch to feel sorry for kids (Geez, don’t they already have the world on a string?), I can, especially when it comes to those who were born to rock ‘n’ roll. I don’t even want to imagine how it would feel to come of age in a world where sex = a lot of forethought and/or AIDS, there are tons of other degenerative diseases, and the environment and economy are in their challenged states. It’s also depressing that a bunch of New Wave groundbreakers have already, often prematurely, passed, and can no longer be experienced. Post- and post-post-punks have gotten older, fatter and/or are just busy doing the right thing by their children.

When I consider how rockers under 25 or 30 have often found it hard to escape into contemporary backbeats, I’m surprised more haven’t committed suicide. Now it turns out the smart ones have been forming bands -  okay, I’m biased. And actually it’s not as sudden as it sounds, it’s just that I was away from  a lot of new music, in the Wa. State  boonies for nearly four years, last decade; I’ve never seen the Backstreet Girls, and this movement, so to speak, has been forming for a while. Now we’re seeing some serious fruition.

Let’s raise a few mosh-pit hosannas for the mysterious regeneration that can manifest, often when least expected. And clap our hands if we believe in fairies. With Thee Oh Sees about to invade Europe, we can only imagine what will grow in their wake.

Before I leave us with Free‘s “My Brother Jake” (surely there are others who can never hear enough great sounds), here are some breadcrumbs:

Free – Just about everything
The Bare Wires:  Artificial Clouds (Tic Tac Totally); www.myspace.com/thebarewires
So Cow:  Meaningless Friendly (Tic Tac Totally); www.myspace.com/socow
The Baths – www.myspace.com/baths
Thee Oh Sees: www.myspace.com/ohsees
Golden Triangle: www.myspace.com/goldentriangle

Nathan Payne

Achhhhh! I’m not entirely sure what to write about Nathan Payne. At 35, per ageist prejudice, he’s past his marketable prime. Nathan likes Mexican food and was born on Patuxent River Naval Air Station in Maryland. He drives a cab, performs in coffeehouses and other venues, and attempts to sell his outpourings for a living, which tempts me to spout, “Call it performance art. Blast your songs from a loudspeaker on the roof! Pile cartons of CDs in the backseat, threatening to avalanche the unwary passenger…”

The problem is, I said I’d write this profile. Also: Some things about Nathan beg not only attention but consideration. That consideration doesn’t lead to an easy summation. The man’s a shape-shifter; one of a sub-species that a musicologist might liken to Harmonica (outcast, wanderer, possible charlatan) Frank.

Until 2005-’06, Payne’s Nourish movements (living in his car and roach-ridden L.A. flophouses, then roaming the red, white and blue landscape) would have made it easier to paint this picture: A disturbed, highly intelligent personality, who without a creative outlet might have been a serial killer. That image was underscored by the languorous, murky Black Dahlia video starring Nathan and his song of that name.

But the shape has kept shifting. Shrieks and barks emanating from the bathetic mayhem of active addiction have shifted into transmissions with more humor, maturity and even finesse, regularly veined with socio-political carping. A few years ago, Payne shed a few more drops of sweat into the L.A. smog before driving to Austin and parking his trailer on the outskirts. He then went on tour, slammed out two albums in Arkansas in 11 days, and repaired to Texas, after which he recorded the two-disc Slow-Burning Fun.

The shape’s still an uneasy cross of realism with abstract expressionism. Following mood and/or subject, Payne sound and production utilize various American roots styles. And then there’s Payne-as-rocker. In Los Angeles, with a band (Nathan Payne Memorial Service), he accelerated from threatening to acidic, at best a not-for-the-weak-of-psyche mix of Jim Morrison, Nick Cave and Sonic Youth (California Death Trip’s “I Don’t Want,” “A Man Called Horse”). At times Payne even enters Lux Interiorville. Yet more confounding is his assortment of voices. To the psychotic howler you can add the straightforward folkie, a descendent of Country Joe MacDonald, Phil Ochs, and Tom Paxton that also recalls satirist Tom Lehrer. This voice is sometimes punctuated by country rasps and yelps. Then there’s the noir monotone delivering line after line of venom. There’s a demonic sneer that pops up, sometimes mixed with one of the other voices (“Princess of No Return,” SBF).

His work, to date, is uneven. Unless we want to unconditionally applaud his maverick freedom, Payne could use some self-editing. But just when I get sick of mining for gold, splendor raises its head. Right now, with “Sleeping Sea #3” (SBF) on, it’s hard to concentrate as he vehemently mouths, “What will become/of the sparkling spoon?/How long will we scrape our knuckles/across the surface of a chuckling moon?” At such moments I feel Payne’s work is an epic prose-poem or autobiography set to music, and that the spoken word arena awaits his arrival.

I’m not sure his time was well spent on the breakneck recording of Vampire Cats (one of the Arkansas recordings), which has lots of rockabilly and fast country songs crying for a well-honed band. But there’s also some shimmering cabaret (“One Last Kiss”), a mood then disrupted by country yodeling, a few dull tracks, and an abrasive knee-slapper, “Telephone.” After that, “Ghost inside a Girl” unveils a sound I hadn’t heard or noticed – a light, ingenious melody glimmering through a hodge-podge of acoustic influences. Annoying! Now I can’t just dismiss Cats by suggesting it would echo better in a rundown roadhouse.

Three albums are more cohesive: the offensively titled Blinded by Faggots (at one point he explained the name on one of his Myspaces), American Infidel, and All The Diamonds You Can Eat (which was caught by a broken four-track on dollar-store cassettes). Payne opens ATD with the beer bottle clink-punctuated, “A Beautiful Place.”

Next is a folk song, “California Hills,” which Fred Kiko of KXLU called his “favorite song about California ever” and which secured guest spots on Kiko’s “Demolisten.” To me this is Payne at his least interesting – the song reeks with (albeit sometimes appropriate) clichés about Southern California. While “California Hills” is a fairly innocuous example, some of his socio-religio-political hammering makes me want to throw eggs at the soapbox – not only have I heard a lot of the same cultural expression through at least three grassroots movements, I tend to resonate with less heavy-handed strategies.

Diamonds really hits its stride with “Dark Side of the Dog,” which combines Payne’s off-the-cuff poetic observations with a compelling riff and good phrasing. Then there’s a sleeper junkie classic, “Happiness is Mine.” It’s not just the anthemic chorus: “We’re on drugs because/the flies go/buzz buzz buzz/an’ love covers over everything,” or great throwaways: “Wake up shakin’ /in a lake of naked girls. With the vampiric cachet of Weill/Brecht’s “Alabama Song,” “Happiness” would go well with Nick Cave’s take on “Mack the Knife” (September Songs: The Music of Kurt Weill).

The next three tracks are good, and the muted beauty of “Peace & Contentment Blues” is better.

Payne’s a bitch to profile. But once the door was kicked open by a song on his Myspace I haven’t been able to close it. “Sin on Wheels,” with its bare-boned cowboy lope, has often been on my playlist there, holding its own next to Link Wray and Television. And there’s a tale being told, one that raises questions: Is the singer the narrator or the protagonist? Did he murder a woman, or is he on the lam with her… or another one…?

“…and now her tongue is turnin’ purple
her face is turnin’ white
somebody give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation
don’t be so impolite!”

“The cops are right behind us
so try to stay awake
keep your foot up on that trigger
keep yer finger on the brake
take me off to the asylum
while I’m still good enough to go
I’m outta my mind
but don’t let anybody know”

While Payne’s music and production have been uneven, his abundant thoughts are fashioned into consistently fresh lyrics that often ring as blood-and-dirt true as Edward Hopper’s diner paintings (not the doctored ones, like Santa perched at the counter with a bunch of elves)—well, maybe: Payne can break into absurdity, or just silliness, after a stream of darkness. On “Someone to Taste” (SBF,) he mouths, straight-faced: “So pass me the tissues if your love is true/I got chased by a police officer with abandonment issues” (which is surrounded by a mix of funhouse laughter and dry-heave wheezing).

Edward Hopper's Nighthawks at the Diner

A few more elements make his work compelling. One is Payne’s hate-hate (he wants to love it, but there are PROBLEMS, detailed in many songs) relationship with contemporary America. Another is his consideration of the road, along with the twilight tales he’s  experienced, albeit at times through a hind-sighted bird’s eye. Re: seeing a purpose in the underbelly (I could cite Jung but would probably drown), I’ll let this poem speak – I wrote it after the remodeling of Times Square and Las Vegas:

Disney Satanist

It was time to come out of the closet.
He kept wearing his Mickey Mouse watch
with the rodent upside down,
had started pulling a Goofy T-shirt
over his head
so the dog could only be seen
from behind.

Worst of all
was the way he played an old 45 of
“It’s a Small World” backwards
until it said he should kill the producers
of Beauty and the Beast
and the Herbie remake
along with bombing the revamped Times Square
and infecting Las Vegas
with the original neon, greasy burgers, and hustlers.

People didn’t realize how much he threatened
the upstanding, family-friendly everything:
Who notices an upside-down Mickey Mouse watch?
Who has the time?

The All The Diamonds cover

Then there are the psychodramas weaving through his stories. In “Dirty Magazine” (SBF) a man has locked his woman in the bathroom, she’s locked him in, or they’re taking turns. Payne repeatedly gets under the skin of couples who grow so enmeshed, they forget how much they hate capitalism or Republicans and start tearing each other apart. I’m generally riveted by well-drawn interpersonal dynamics.

From SBF’s “Tragic Neurons”:

“My baby she’s the bitchinest
most delicious exhibitionist
to put her tragic neurons on display
leanin’ on the fender
in all her psychotic splendor
if you ain’t nice to her she’ll never go away”

Payne’s wife Alyssa has started adding vocals to his songs. The grit of their “Dirty Magazine” duet approaches Exene with John Doe circa The Knitters.

I wouldn’t listen to his words if the music weren’t generally good-to-very good, with flashes of brilliance. Happily, with SBF Payne is getting better at mixing the more listenable with the more challenging. Sure, I shot the stereo a few dirty looks as Payne ranted for nine-plus minutes on “Licking the Fist that Feeds.” With the more exhausting or below-par material shortened or deleted, SBF could have been an independent singer-songwriter best-of-’09 contender.

Among Payne’s prolific output (8-9 CDs and an EP), there are at least 25 exemplary tracks (I haven’t heard one album, Angels on Fire). Here are some suggestions (keeping in mind that album progression can yield a different experience):

All The Diamonds You Can Eat: A Beautiful Place, Happiness Is Mine, Peace & Contentment Blues

Slow- Burning Fun: Cheshire Moon, Don’t Say Please, Someone to Taste, Bleeding Heart, If Hell is a Party (I’m the hors d’oeuvres), Dirty Magazine, Drive You into the Sea, A Crime in Progress, Love Will Save Me, The Princess of No Return, Sleeping Sea #3

California Death Trip: Don’t Wake Me Up, I Don’t Want, A Man Called Horse, All I Want

Blinded by Faggots: Mulholland Love Song, Damaged Goods, My Ass Is Hooked on Dynamite, Telepathic Proposal, Too Much, Too Soon, Baby Don’t Cry

American Infidel: My Girlfriend Hates My Guts, Taco Truck Waltz, Neon Signs, Sunny Day, Love in a Room

No Destination (3-song EP): $6 Tux – hell, just buy the EP – the spoken word/sound track is interesting

Sideburns in the Sun: (upcoming, for Sin on Wheels and to see what else he throws on)

ALCOHOLIC CLOWN RECORDS

Graphic by Jim Terry

My enquiry about an Alcoholic Clown named The Slow Poisoner was promptly answered by a large mailer, the front of which was covered by a cartoonlike drawing of a swamp. Out of the swamp rises a torso wearing a Little Lord Fauntleroy-type jacket and string tie and, in place of a head, a large hand with an eyeball in the middle. On the back of the mailer are rubber stampings of skulls and bones. This reminds me of the mail art I used to exchange and of all the cool stuff passing through postal workers’ hands back when underground actually meant underground (record labels, Wiccans, artists, insurgents). I remember, on some dreary days, giggling all the way back from the mailbox. These are very, very good things.

The Slow Poisoner does other good things. There’s lots of roots-of… riffing, recalling Buddy Holly and seminal rockabilly. There’s lots of guitar reverb and a pretty varied assortment of songs about things that matter, and that don’t get enough coverage, like how people really originated at the bottom of a muddy river, and that the “Wood Full O’ Witches” can mean all kinds of odd occurrences, and lusting after a “Swamp Gal.” “The Shriek!” features at least three blood-curdling screams. The SP evens warns us, to galloping gospel, about the “Thundering Fists of the Lord.” This strikes me as rather open-minded of Payne, who helms the label with fellow A.C., Brad Hahn. Payne seems serious about Christianity, and if he supports free expression, that’s what I think of as real Christianity – or, for that matter, any spiritual tradition. It’s a thought.

I even like the feel of TSP’s Magic Casket CD cover – a smooth, shiny digipak with his irresistible, Halloweeny graphix. The only problem is his location, San Francisco – he seems so So. Cal. – and there’s already enough wonder and creativity by the Bay. Also, I might not like his CD so much if he hadn’t had the sense to keep it at 11 three-minutes-or-less tracks. His website is like his CD art squared – link’s at the bottom of this installment.

This is Payne’s label statement: “Alcoholic Clown Records was founded in Austin, Texas in 2007 to serve as a means of financial, recording, & tour support for artists who we like. Unless they suck.” Besides Payne, there are five A.C.s, most of whom seem to embody different Payne facets.

Making TSP seem like a televangelist’s guest star is a duo called Juggernut, whose CD has been “on the way” for some time. I’ve just checked out some of their videos and tracks – but that was enough – so much, in fact, that, well – sometimes a video’s worth many words:

Another thing that sold me on these Dada chuckleheads (Why, oh why did I leave NYC and the gonzo stuff that only seems to happen there, or San Francisco, or Budapest? Why didn’t I join the Neoists?) — another thing is that they have a track called “A Woman’s Ass,” which includes these pronouncements: “A woman’s ass… will make you buy a beer… and forget your beer… and leave your beer at the bar next to your friend… that’s your fucking beer!” “A woman’s ass… is a dump truck of love… a mosh pit of flowers..” “A woman’s ass… is a crack house on fire…your grandma’s face on fucking fire!” … and on, into anarchistic epiphanies.

It seems to me that there are far too few odes to women’s asses by non-Africans. The sound? Seems to be mostly samples and other prerecorded instrumentation, with live rhythm box and vocals. Some of the less aggressive tracks sound like Suicide, or Soft Cell if it had not been gay, and had gone mad. When Juggernut rocks, it’s acidic and hits the spot. The CD’s called Down But Nut Out.

After an abrupt hairpin turn we’re at Matt Pless, who’s firmly entrenched in the populist neighborhood re-annexed in the ‘50s-‘60s to “singer-songwriter/folk” by Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan, among others. While I lean toward more exciting (to me) or intricate tones (British Isles/Celtic, French, Rom gypsy, Hungarian), with Pless’s latest, Alarm Clock Time Bomb, I did less fast-forwarding than expected to see if the songs would diverge from predictable progressions. Several do, as well as benefiting from fairly sophisticated arrangements and collaborative energy (cello, bass, dobro, drums, and lead guitar). The repetitive form supporting social commentary on “White Picket Fences” is surrounded with enough spice to earn Pless a tenuous perch in the new generation of musical protesters.

At best, Pless is retracing the trajectory of folk-rockers like the Byrds (“Boomerang,” “When the Helmets Hit the Ground”) or, in a reverse trajectory, Jorma Kaukonen with Hot Tuna (opener “The Flowers in the Furnace”). Despite a tendency to lean toward Weezer/Pavement on his more straightforward pop, Pless abandons any hope of coolness by holding forth on subjects rarely mentioned by below-‘30s, like prevalent cyber activity. You’d think the Dylan-rippin’ “Talkin’ Information Blues” was by a senior citizen.

We’ve arrived at the last two Clowns, Andrew Scandal and Brad Hahn. My assessments are based on online tracks and an A.C. sampler. Andrew Scandal has high, precious vocals, sometimes adopts a chunky, acoustic Jason Mraz/Bushwalla form, and I guess also has a Coldplay sound –whatever it is, it makes me want to slap him. I could see “Heart Attacks” or “License Plate Eyes” on the Gossip Girl soundtrack. Other than being friends with Payne, and his Myspace statement, re: liking “Jim Beam, arguments, and chocolate,” I don’t get how Scandal rolls with the other A.C.’s.

Straddled atop the Clown car is Brad Hahn, whose folk or folk-rock resists easy branding. When he leans toward Gordon Lightfoot/Neil Diamond (“Partly Cloudy”), I wonder if he should have studied accounting. When I hear some Marshall Crenshaw in the Lightfoot (“Imaginary Strings”), I want to encourage him to keep working on his songwriting. When his “Gold Rush” brings to mind the manic freedom of the Holy Modal Rounders, I want to know if he’s available. And when he unexpectedly amalgamates John Doe with Jesse Colin Young and the unlikely lyrics to “I Wish We Were All Punk Rockers,” I want to see what Hahn would do with Young’s “Sunlight,” as well as hoping he’s seeking psychiatric attention. I’ve come up with songs like that and  they didn’t make it beyond my practice room — a Franken-song occasionally works, but some elements can’t be palatably meshed. Since he has thrown caution to the wind, or is insane, I will call him a genius, suggest back-up singers, and leave a wide berth.

Payne once asked me if Alcoholic Clown was in fact an “independent,” or a label at all. I assured him that what’s he’s doing – putting out and promoting CDs by a few artists he wants to support (and, based on the bundle I received, hastily making copies when needed; the titles often hand-scribbled on the discs), along with letting label-mates follow their production muses – well, that this is the essence of “Indie.” Given Payne’s gravity re: issues of Capitalism, human rights, and so forth, he may have been testing me with the question. Which gives me some assurance that the term “merch” will never be associated with A.C. Wheeeee! Or, from the main A.C. page, “Click on the album covers below to order the discs directly from the artists! (unfortunately, Juggernut’s cover was deleted by Myspace because it’s a drawing of a giant testicle with arms & legs and they think it’s offensive.We disagreeeeeeeee!”

“Disney Satanist,” by Mary Leary, was previously published in Gypsy 3
All the A.C.s can be found on the label’s Myspace.

Nathan Payne: www.myspace.com/nathanpayne
Alcoholic Clown: www.myspace.com/alcoholicclownrecords
The Slow Poisoner: www.theslowpoisoner.com
Juggernut: www.thndrbox.com/juggernut.html, www.myspace.com/juggernutnyc

Sky Saxon, Richie Hayward, Ringo Starr, Mick Fleetwood
The 2010 Grammy Awards
Talbot Tagora: Lessons in the Woods or a City (Hardly Art)
Joan Armatrading: Steppin’ Out – Greatest Hits Live (Eagle Rock)

So I’m watching the Grammys and noticing that Ringo, while presenting, apparently hasn’t been asked to perform. Even with all the well-produced segments and talent, this strikes me as “off.” I mean, a Beatle is in the house and no one invites him to do “It Don’t Come Easy, ” perhaps with Lifetime Achievement honoree Honeyboy Edwards adding some country blues grit? Hmmm…

Since I’ve been trying to conjure new stuff for a poetry competition, I end up with this take on proceedings:

Exhausted by dripping, spinning-wet white girls;

Mr. Starr

Beyonce’s operatic war prance, Honeyboy snarls

and drops, clutching his award.

Incensed at being left out

of the spot, an unlit Ringo calls

his sponsor, gets brought

back to brown earth to stand

for 12 hard days, a Granny

Smith in each hand. Not long until

he grins, hallucinates side-shuffling with

three others in black bowlers now

bobbing through seaweed

with the caprices of a moon

searching for

a sweet beat.

So I’m still trying to come up with some decent poetry. But when Jeff Beck saluted Les Paul with an impressive swing through “How High the Moon,” I wondered why Ringo wasn’t onstage for that, or if Jeff Beck would have thought he should be – and then, almost immediately, felt oddly disloyal. Ringo’s one of my favorite rock drummers. While he may lack the technical wizardry of Mitch Mitchell or Ginger Baker, I respect players, especially drummers, who have the right-sized egos and sensitivity to hear what will best serve the material. To me this is at least as valuable as advanced technique, and I believe I’d get nods from thousands of musicians who’ve found creative fruition through involvement with good drummers (and bassists, the other too-often elusive element). I’m also in the “Ringo’s-drumming’s-often-underrated” club. Along with rocking like crazy, and meeting the challenge of odd time signatures (“Happiness Is a Warm Gun,” “Here Comes The Sun”) he’s often exhibited a beautiful restraint, some of which may have stemmed from the creativity and thoughtfulness involved in having to strive for ambidextrousity (he was born left-handed).

Nothing better illustrates Ringo’s fortitude than the Beatles’ first American tour stop (February, 1964). The following footage is nearly as funny as it is exciting, reminding me of the Lilliputian physical reality of the “Stonehenge” designed by Spinal Tap. Years after the Washington Coliseum show, it’s hard to imagine how the promoters thought a few nightclub-sized amps would hold up to thousands of screaming, stomping fans. On the other hand, everyone was taken aback by the tidal waves of enthusiasm that enveloped the Beatles’ U.S. debut.

Perched with his kit atop a shaking, flimsy platform, often straining to hear the others, Ringo gave the beating of a lifetime to drums that kept inching away from him.

I don’t know about you, but I could keep laughing and clapping along with Beatles videos indefinitely. However, there’s other business to be seen to. So back to the Grammys: As the list of deceased-in-2009 talent rolled, I waited and waited…  in vain, for mention of Sky Saxon.

It was bad enough when his sudden passing was completely overshadowed by those of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett on June 25). As far as I’m concerned, Saxon and The Seeds are gods, and there should now be a national holiday in honor of them and all Garage Rock. The Grammy omission is seriously annoying. Since it’s impossible to combat decades of popular indoctrination and a ratings-driven news media, here’s some comfort: A lot of cool things kept happening for/around Sky, like working with the Flaming Lips, Billy Corgan, and many more. Week he died, I just kept running Seeds footage on social networks and being glad the band’s biggest hit, “Pushin’ Too Hard,” is widely credited, along with other smokin’  Garage tracks, with influencing the New Wave/Punk movements. The R&R Hall of Fame deems it “One of the 500 Songs That Shaped Rock ‘n’ Roll.”

When the Seeds made an appearance on ‘60s sitcom The Mothers-in-Law, Sky threw down an impassioned performance in a ridiculous setting. While he wasn’t known for drumming, he also threw down some percussion.

As my pal Jack Skelley commented when I posted this elsewhere, “Sky Saxon tortures the maraca with the tambourine.” Which brings me to the other element missing from the Grammys: Humor – most of the performers were so intent on being fierce that camp didn’t know it was Camp (or missed the extra steps that could have taken it there). The fun factor was too often lost in action.

I know my editors get nervous about long installments, and this one’s gonna get seriously out of control. Well, that’s Rock ‘n’ Roll. Or, in this case, an exciting new (in the late ‘60s/early ‘70s) rockin’ Blues hybrid, which was perfectly complemented by the kind of  percussionist most of us can only dream of working with – always knowing what to do, when to drop out, and how to drive a song beyond the limit. In this case, Mick Fleetwood’s relatively low-key (I’m still waiting for the smoking 1970 Boston Tea Party footage of “Oh, Well” to surface).

In the face of all this older-school splendor, it can be hard for many contemporary Indie/Alternative/Rock/Whatever units to hold my attention. One exception has joined Micachu in at least partly meeting my craving for the sadly defunct TFUL 282. That’s the happily chaotic “math” or “art” rock of Talbot Tagora, a Seattle trio that some liken to Polvo. I just said “Yes, yes, yes!” when I heard the band tear into “Mixed Signals through Miles of Pilgrimage” (from their July, ’09 release, Lessons in the Woods or a City). The group’s more Lord of the Flies-manic than either TFUL 282 or Micachu, and less harmonic and cathartic than either. Beat Happening and Velvet Monkeys/Sonic Youth ghosts occasionally make visitations.

While I giggle at paragraphs of fragments telegraphing Talbot’s intent (like scribbles from a grad. thesis written under the influence, or from a performance art proposal: “The living. Orgasm. The dead. Limit. Excess. Direction. Lady. Mind. Genitals. Man. Puzzle. Sugar. Drug. Bottle. Seed. Bling. Pet. Bondage. Decoration. Tunnel. Bridge. Land. Program. Window. Metaphor. Projector. Flag. Planet…” etc.), I’ll be up for hearing any new release (and if they ever land in San Diego – unfortunately, they’re among the artists who usually take a sharp left after the Frisco tour stop). A higher fidelity version of “Replacing the Northwest” can be found on Lessons.”

It’s impossible to imagine Talbot without drummer Ani Ricci, who sometimes wails so furiously, the other two have to haul-ass to catch her. I like her innovative approach to the project, the song structures, and her own strengths and limitations.

Richie Hayward came up in a recent OTBT installment that included Little Feat. Along with his LF role, Hayward has been one busy drummer – in this case, because he’s adaptable, creative, and technically amazing. Yup, he’s the type who can take his pick: His choices have included shows and/or recordings with John Cale, Eric Clapton, Ry Cooder, Buddy Guy, Nils Lofgren, Robert Plant, and Tom Waits. Hayward also lent his chops to Joan Armatrading, around when she was adding some Rock/New Wave punch and delivering some of her most exciting shows.

Armatrading Impersonating a Traditional Folkie

If a performer can quietly explode onto the scene, that’s what Armatrading did from 1975-1980. The woman was a phenomenon (still is, but that’s another document) by anyone’s standards. With an easy Caribbean grace (she moved from Saint Kitts to London when she was seven), she embodied women’s liberation, freedom and expression for women of African descent, obvious, unapologetic bisexuality (without a public statement or fanfare), and a unique hybrid of Folk/island/Blues/Rock sensibilities. She was a confident guitar stylist, sometimes playing her own leads. And she bore witness to the heady freedom women briefly enjoyed in the pre-AIDS ‘70s.

Many of her lyrics could stand alone as poetry: “Oh the feeling/When you’re reeling//You step lightly, thinking you’re number one //Down to zero with a word/Leaving… for another one”… “Brand new dandy/First class scene-stealer//Walks through the crowd and takes your man” (“Down To Zero”.)

With vocal swoops rivaling a yodeler’s, Armatrading occasionally lost pitch, and the high end of her vocals was sometimes weaker than the low. Her off-the-chart creativity – unique vocal/compositional/guitar rhythms, painting a parallel world, and unique style meldings—tended to eclipse any imperfections. Another remarkable trait was her ability to write song after song around “The I” and/or romance and to sustain interest in these themes by making them feel universal.

Before reviewing Steppin’ Out (available February 23) I thought of Armatrading as the dynamic, rather subdued coffeehouse player she appeared to be on her self-named album cover. Her 1980 Rockpalast concert gives the lie to that perception. She’s clearly in her element with a dream team of some of the era’s most collaboratively gifted players. Along with Hayward, there were bassist/songwriter/L.A. mover and shaker Bill Bodine, guitarist Richard Belke (also known for his work with The Tractors), Wet Willie alumni and Randy Newman/Gregg Allman/Bonnie Raitt supporter Rick Hirsch, and Eric Clapton band member Dick Sims on keyboards.

It’s hard to believe these guys had only two weeks to learn her idiosyncratic rhythms and (sometimes) odd tunings. What transpired was a show often dipping into the sublime, with many of the arrangements surpassing those on the original recordings. The audience was given every nuance of the poignant “Down To Zero,” the jaunty, New-Wave-influenced “Me Myself I,” the contagious “Love and Affection,” the offhand, poetic exuberance of “Kissin’ and a Huggin’,” and the intensity of “Tall in the Saddle” and “You Rope You Tie Me.” Topping these highlights is a  beautiful realization of “Cool Blue Stole My Heart” (one of the handiest evocations of falling in love I’ve ever heard) to which Rick Hirsch contributes an elegant solo exemplifying everything wonderful about the ‘70s “mellow rock” upon which some reactionary punkers liked to spit. Adding a nice addendum is the after-show interview: trendy T-shirts and kerchiefs, and the spirited-while-respectful milieu provide a 1980 snapshot as well as the jubilant crowd that claps along with “Cool Blue.”

I was going to share the Ray Barretto CD that’s a current obsession. But I know even the most rabid music lovers need to go buy coffee beans or rake the cat box. So I’ll just close by sharing something I wish weren’t the case: This past August, Richie Hayward was diagnosed with liver cancer. As of the latest report, it’s still quite a battle. Partly because Hayward is in Canada, and has no health insurance, a web page has been made for friends, fans, and donations: http://www.littlefeat.net/index.php?page=news&n_id=615

Frank Zappa Will Not Be Featured In This Column

First, to help ward off disappointed Frank Zappa fans, a spoiler: This installment may end up being a bit of a letdown. Although his name appears here several times, there’s nothing specifically about the art of this influential, prolific prodigy. He did play a part in the formation of one of the bands I’ll be considering. And he’s cited by The OGeeZ, a San Jose-based duo that promises, with some objective charm, “A new sound from some old guys.” Per the band’s promotional proclamations, “Our sound has been compared to Frank Zappa.” They go on to say, “We’re more like Frank Zappa meets Tower of Power, with some blues mixed in for seasoning.”

I want to be able to answer The OGeeZ’s good-humored hopes with big, fat kudos. However, at least where they’re concerned, kudo production is at a standstill at Off The Beaten Track. Can they play? Yes, certainly. Their debut, The Seven Deadly Sins, opens with the straight-ahead funk-rock of “Green With Envy.” But my interest is quickly withered by didactic lyrics that go on… and on… “You can feel her presence/’cause she lives in you and me./She’s a goddess so cunning she can dominate your life/ She lives on through the ages, often dressing in disguise/Pretending to be innocent while there’s evil in her eyes.”

Meanwhile, the music, while tight, riffs away redundantly, with nary a bridge to re-spark my attention. And there are still six sins to go. While The OGeeZ say the tracks are meant to have “unique moods and tones” and “musical diversity,” I just hear repetitive, funky rock burdened by heavy-handed wordage. The overall effect is like being stuck in a practice space with some hard rockers who’ve smoked enough ganga to be sure they’re ingenious. Other than some guitar tones and an occasional timbral accent, the proselytizing lyrics are the sole reminders of what for me was Zappa at his occasional worst (post-Apostrophe or so — my favorite era being from the original Mothers of Invention through Hot Rats). www.myspace.com/theogeezz

To my ears, a Starve Theater (the poetry/performance series I put on with James Watts at El Campo Ruse and other locations) cohort, Abel Ashes, copped more innovative mileage from riffing on his idol (and Captain Beefheart). Having swapped music for activism in 2001, he’s apparently back to music. From his older work, here’s “The CEO.”

Although Ashes ( http://www.reverbnation.com/abelashes) helped me refocus after the OGeeZ experience, I’m still feeling hazy from being in that practice room. Let’s brush off some of the second-hand bong ash and move on to the next party. Since I hear Little Feat will be there, it’s probably gonna be a blow-out.

Some Old (& Dead) Geezers Who’ll Boogie Your Sneakers Away

Lowell George

The way Little Feat started: restless, gifted pianist/keyboardist Bill Payne heard the Mothers of Invention, which, toward the end of its first incarnation, included charismatic singer/songwriter/slide guitar master Lowell George — and felt he’d found his new direction. Meanwhile, George was on his way out of the Mothers. This Wikipedia passage is priceless:

“There are three legends about the genesis of Little Feat. One has it that George showed Zappa his song “Willin’,” and that Zappa fired him from The MOV because he felt that George was too talented to merely be a member of his band, and told him he ought to go away and form his own band. The second version has Zappa firing him for playing a 15-minute guitar solo—with his amplifier off. The third version says that Zappa fired him because “Willin’” contains drug references.”

To me, two of those explanations sound pretty romantic. The likeliest motive: Zappa’s well-known disapprobation for druggies (especially when their habits interfered with his work). George had quite the cocaine relationship, among others – which may have helped hasten his early demise (at the age of 34, in 1979). In any case, Payne and George, along with drummer Richie Hayward and former Mothers’ bassist Roy Estrada, formed the powerful organism that Bonnie Raitt and Jimmy Page came to count among their favorites. And Zappa helped the band net its first recording contract.

The most successful music from this seminal LF period (the band reformed eight years after George’s death, and continues to this day) was a hot stew of country, rock, funk, and N’awlins sounds, as epitomized on albums like Dixie Chicken and Sailin’ Shoes. Along with its casually fierce intensity, LF distinguished itself from a slew of heartland-celebrating/originating long-hairs with the persistent presence of a playful Dada element (especially in the band’s graphics, which were done by Neon Park, who also created the Mothers’s Weasels Ripped My Flesh cover.

Even without Park’s wacky graphics, Eagle Rock’s newly reissued, remastered

Feat DVD is noteworthy. Skin It Back reveals a 1977 Rockpalast (Essen, Germany) concert that showcased the group at its George-era peak. Highlighting the set list : “Willin’,” “Oh, Atlanta,” “Dixie Chicken,” “Tripe Face Boogie,” “Fat Man in the Bathtub,” “Day at the Dog Races,” “Feats Don’t Fail Me Now,” and “Rocket in my Pocket.”

Excepting the older (2,000 release), SIB is the only available George-inclusive Feat video. Among the extras are 30 minutes of rehearsal footage, including an exuberant delivery of “Rock ‘n’ Roll Doctor” (which didn’t end up in the show). Remastering helps live dynamics shine through more than they could on the previous edition. The liner notes feature show producer Peter Ruechel’s impressions and a collection of previously unreleased photos.

All of that aside, the rubber burnt on a joyful tear through  “Tripe Face Boogie” is by itself worth the price of admission.

Some Young Geezers Who’ll Make You Finger-Pop

Now: a party for the kids in all of us – and it’s being thrown by a soulful Dutch garage band, The Responders, who started performing in early 2009. So far, OTBT has mostly kudos for this quintet. First, instead of grudgingly sending a CD (‘cause I tend to eschew reviews-via-download), they airmail a 7” vinyl EP (from a limited pressing of 250).  To boot, the outer sleeve of the EP has a three-dimensional relief of lead vox Lola’s face, the lips of which someone has painstakingly smeared with Chanel Red-level paint. I’ll admit the lipstick’s a little sloppy (looks like this girl’s been sucking on a lot of beers, or sodas…) – that’s just in keeping with this group’s cheerfully messy M.O., which includes posting a video of the members grooving along with a recording of  mid-late ‘60s, finger-poppin’ soul (without identifying the artist – and I can’t either, although there seems to be a Stax/Volt presence).

The 7″ froths over with energy, including the catchy “Boom Chacka” and an apparent Robert Johnson tribute,“King of the Delta.” “King” is a frugable, genre-mushing headshaker, which is just the sort of thing done by wild, sincere artists. “Sonic Waves” and “No Shadow” are more post-punk maniacal, with Lola screaming like she was separated at birth from the GOP (R.I.P.)/Dum Dum Girls’  Kristin Gundred. Want a copy? The Responders maintain their retro leanings by requesting an email through their website, which is one of the most bargain-basement-creative I’ve seen from a (non-label) band in some time: http://www.theresponders.nl/responders.asp (hint: turn the UHF knob). If that’s too confusing, you’re probably in the wrong music column, but you can find them on Myspace – although you may run into a wall there, too, as they request promo orders from their profile page via letter.

In case you’re staring at your screen, still wondering what the hell “frugable” means, here’s Runfang Cheng doing a great demo (with some extras), based on a number from Bob Fosse’s musical, Sweet Charity. Hey, if a 16-year-old could do it in 2007, so can I–I mean, you.

For those who crave but lack the bucks for hallucinogenics, or who are now jones-ing for some Zappa, I share (surprise!) one of my all-time faves,  “Peaches en Regalia” (from Hot Rats). The  uber-eccentrics in the house can stop saying OTBT has gone all conventional lately. One of my favorite phrases is, “Ya never know.”

City of Dirt

The mixing is not done perfectly (at times it’s even difficult to hear what Emcee Mike Talls is actually saying).

The imagery he uses is dark and grimy. City of Dirt and the BULLY BLINDERS (Talls and producer/bassist Chad Tuthill) create such a memorable music experience. Unpolished and gritty, Talls weaves lively stories together, each with their own feeling and message.

Usually when listening through an LP, most of the tracks just meld together leaving nothing that truly stands out. City of Dirt is different; it has something that remains with the listener.

Although Talls tackles topics that are usual “food for thought” for any underground emcee (life on the road, the education system, striving to get by), he does so in a way that is both unique to his style and very lyrically exciting.

Talls also does something during his tracks, and does it quite well. As many great emcees do, he takes a topic like cereal or TV (“Continental Breakfast” or “The Charlie Sheen Theme” respectively) and uses characteristics of these subjects to tell a story.

Listening to him rap and actually make sense about the early 90’s TV show “Small Wonder” and Soleil Moon Frye of Punkie Brewster is nothing short of a “small wonder” (get it?..lame).

Continental Breakfast’s are both delicious and usually consist of a wide range of products.  In easily my favorite song on the CD (and quite possibly one of my favorite songs about food period), Talls and lyrical companion emcee Parker Edison do exactly that. They offer a delicious song while vividly tackling an assortment of breakfast topics.

They rip through hooks about Rice Krispies, Back to the Future toys, and how much of an ass hole Captain Crunch really is. When they perform this song live they make it even more exciting by throwing small boxes of breakfast cereal at the crowd (ingenious!).  So when sitting down with both emcees it was no surprise that our discussions ultimately led to why 2% milk doesn’t hold a fight to whole milk.

“The milk thing is what people get all fired up about,” Talls says. “It’s not for me. I grew up on whole milk – can’t go backwards – if it’s too creamy for them they can go eat fruit.  Skim milk creeps me out.”

After Talls settled down on the milk issue he talked about how Bully Blinders came together. Talls is originally from the four person hip hop collective The Kneehighs. He decided that he had some material which was a little bit darker and more expressive that needed to be let out.

So in the Kneehigh’s downtime (they’re currently discussing how to go about their next LP), he has been able to really build The Bully Blinders project into something that represents what Mike Talls is all about.

He discussed how the name The Bully Blinders has its origins from the movie The Goonies. I speak up a bit and mention that I’ve actually never seen that film.  Talls looks at me concerned and jokes, “How are you not a Fan of that film, it is one of my favorites!”

He mentions that he developed much of his inspiration for his album from the late 80′s/early 90′s vibe, hence the song “Charlie Sheen Theme.”  He also draws inspiration lyrically from artists like Talib Kweli and Del the Funky Homosapien (he does a mean version of “If You Must”).

Parker Edison (the other emcee featured on “Continental Breakfast”) echoes Talls on his disdain for skim milk.  “Has to be whole milk…no, you don’t get it, it has to be whole milk.”

He’s one half of the San Diego duo, Parker&theNumberman and has been tackling the hip hop scene for quite some time. His first recorded rap is from 11 years ago.  He is inspired by artists like Rakim, Queen Latifah, Ice Cube, Nas, and DJ Clue.

“Rap and food go together so well. I’d die without both. Hands down, I’d die without both.”  Besides being featured on this track, he’s made it a mission to release a full length solo album, The Tony Parker Project, as well as a new Parker&theNumberman album by the Spring.

Their philosophy on life is something that can be shared by the every man, which is quite possibly why they are so dang likeable and easy to enjoy on stage. It can be best summed up in the first line spit within “Continental Breakfast.”

“Been working my butt off, just for these fruit loops, with only two scoops to show for it, like ooo, oooo.”

Ok, I’ll bite. I’ll say it out loud too – “ooo, ooo.”

Don’t we all deserve more than just two scoops of fruit loops in our life?

You can find more information about BULLY BLINDERS at www.myspace.com/bullyblinders

You can find more information about Parker Edison at www.myspace.com/parkerthenumberman

All I Want for Christmas Is a Bunch of New Media

Several years ago, when I was 16, I was handed my first paycheck. As soon as I’d changed out of my Navy Exchange smock, I made a beeline for the bank, then the record shop. I was like a drunk inhaling that first cocktail: Crisp greenbacks smoking in my pocket; rows of shiny new record covers stretching for aisles and aisles. I think I bought albums by Stevie Wonder, Todd Rundgren, and T. Rex. In any case, it was ON.

Although this may not be the best example for anyone trying to follow a strict budget, music, books, and films have helped me: (1) learn about all kinds of things; (2) find my creative voice, and (3) stay sane/happier. To me it seems a bit different than spending money on other items. But what does this have to do with the holidays, or you?

Buying presents is one of the best excuses I know for getting a shopping high. If the elements of anonymity or surprise are included, it can even be thrown in the “random acts of kindness” category. Four years ago I made fiber-optic angels appear between Christmas Eve and the next morning for various people, including a very giving soul who was recovering from Hurricane Katrina. Bringing unexpected joy to others is the kind of magic that makes me feel downright merry. As Scrooge cried after his night of harrowing visitations, “I don’t deserve to be this happy!”

Friends and family like to think we know them, or are at least paying enough attention to know what they like. Media gifts are one of the most affordable ways to convey this. The following suggestions don’t even begin to cover all the bases, especially if your cousin likes to play video golf or your niece is really into Barbie. I can’t (and don’t want to) know everything.

First on the list is the Scrooge just mentioned, which can be a great choice for Christmas Eve. A British early-’50s release, it features Alastair Sim and a crew of wonderful character actors, including Hermione Baddeley. Accept no substitutes (or the colorized version – part of the draw is the phenomenal black and white photography). This is the one for which I always need at least two tissues. Or you might light a few candles and dive into A Christmas Carol, the book from which the film was adapted. This is one of those cases when it makes sense to seek out a hardcover printing – no kindle-ing. I’m very fond of the edition I was given when I was a little girl. Published by John C. Winston in 1938, it features an introduction by Lionel Barrymore, a photograph of page 62 from Dickens’s original manuscript (love the squiggly cross-outs), and evocative illustrations by Everett Shinn.

Or you can get all historical and buy a printing modeled after the first (1843) edition, with John Leech’s warm pictures. Either way, you’ll be returning to the tenets of cheer, love and generosity: Dickens’s story helped change December 25 from a neglected holiday (a status into which it had fallen in England and the United States) to one of sharing and celebration (that needn’t be tied exclusively to Christianity). I can’t think of anything more spiritual.

Next, if you can afford the remastered Beatles boxed set (mono version) that came out this fall, please get in touch and I’ll give you my address. After that you can figure out who else deserves a copy.

I’ve sometimes wondered if the sixties’ counter-cultural movement impacted the British as much as it did Americans. Monty Python: Almost the Truth answers that question, along with many, many more. The three-disc set includes profuse discussions with Python’s living members. If you’re already thinking, “Bor-ing,” or simply don’t like documentaries, you may not care whether there’s lots of performance footage – anyway, there is.

I don’t know how well some of the Python sketches will translate to anyone who’s more than a generation or two away from the source, or who hasn’t seen the show – it would be wise to supplement this set with complete episodes or films, like And Now For Something Completely Different. Python is recommended for just about anyone who craves the wackily irreverent.

Almost the Truth does a good job at exploring the fresh thought and freedom coming into fruition in the ‘60s. I was struck by the synchronicities attending the coming-together of Python’s unique talents, including Terry Gilliam, who grew up in the States, and who had a lot to do with the group’s consistently out-of-the-box creativity. There’s fascinating coverage of shows that influenced and/or led to Python, including Beyond the Fringe, The Goon Show, the David Frost Show, and Do Not Adjust Your Set (featuring the Bonzo Dog Band), all of which highlight the evolution toward the absurd set-ups that were Python at its best.

Python played a significant role in cracking the grey mood and rigid authoritarianism that permeated Britain following WWII.

As happens with many of my favorite documentaries, I feel privileged to be spending time with a group of very bright, articulate, influential people. Footage of the late Graham Chapman’s memorial is one of the most touching and inspiring things I’ve ever seen. Another highlight is clips and segments from the final concert at the Hollywood Bowl, which turned into a riotous party blurring the lines between Python and its hip audience, which included John Lennon and Yoko Ono.

The next suggestion is for those friends that just about everyone likes to parody, and that’s the Renaissance Fair lovers who may lurk somewhere on your list. A new recording of Rick Wakeman’s The Six Wives of Henry VIII has been released. Whether it’s really for them, or you (if it is you, know that I type “parody” with love and a lighte heart) I shall laye out for you the tools for an unforgettable soiree.
They/you could mix up a vat of heady mead, along with whatever it is that goes with heavy mead. Partiers wearing lots of velveteen will be impressed by the Wakeman CD.

The hosts can then throw on The Lion in Winter. The film’s based-on-a-play, based-partly-on-history verbal sparring, delivered by four powerhouses (Peter O’Toole, Katharine Hepburn, and a young, hungry Timothy Dalton and Anthony Hopkins), is basically a prolonged, intellectual cat fight–in other words, incredible.

After The Lion there could be a little palate-cleanser, perhaps Mary Timony, who, especially on The Golden Dove, stirs a unique brew of original songwriting with Medieval tones. Also good here would be Carols & Capers by Steeleye Span’s progressive folk goddess, Maddy Prior. Book-end the party with the new DVD of Wakeman performing The Six Wives last May at Hampton Court Palace. A staggeringly large group of supporting classical and rock musicians, and women dressed as the six queens, add to the pageantry.  By the time this is over, guests should be draped all about, drowsing and/or drooling, as dogs wander about licking their faces and gobbling leftover turkey legs. People will never stop talking about your party – in fact, I’m starting to be depressed at not being invited.

To date, there have been a lot of question-marks about one of Britain’s most influential bands (several previous products have included bits and pieces of history).  More Than This: The Story of Roxy Music is the first to examine the nuts and bolts of RM from its conception. It’s interesting to learn how Bryan Ferry, Brian Eno, and Andy MacKay brainstormed this phenomenon into being.

I wasn’t aware of RM when it exploded out of Northern England in the early ‘70s. Even after I got into the band I was ignorant of its huge impact on British subculture and its influence on the new wave, electronic and glam-rock movements. But I did happen to catch Roxy’s June, 1977 show at Lisner Auditorium in Washington, D.C. The friend who swore I couldn’t miss it was fired-up partly because we were King Crimson fans, and Crimson’s John Wetton was on bass for that particular stop. We’d also heard intriguing reports about a techno-wizard named Brian Eno, as well as the flashy electric guitar of Phil Manzanera.

By the time Jerry Hall strutted across the stage waving her tiger tail during Roxy’s rousing cover of Wilbert Harrison’s “Let’s Work Together” (as “Let’s Stick Together”), we were on our feet. We knew we were at one of the best concerts we’d ever experienced. We certainly knew we’d never seen anything like it.

Especially through ’76-’77, RM put the lie to the idea that high camp was an exclusively gay province (as did the New York Dolls, but in a much more rough-and-tumble way). Roxy was about a glamorous construct as much as it was about music. In the beginning it was very much about art (founder Bryan Ferry, who’d studied under pop artist Richard Hamilton, thought of it as a collage).

While I would prefer more live concert footage and less talking (commentators include Siouxsie Sioux and Duran Duran’s John Taylor), the DVD is still likely to intrigue art-rock mavens. Along with much of Ferry’s work with the band or solo, the More Than This could be seen as a document of sex/love addiction. It also exposes a fixated determination to escape the tedium of working or middle class existence into opulence and (stylized, controlled) hedonism. I feel these themes are best-tempered by the explosive energy and irony permeating the first several albums. A good example is the shocking, aching vulnerability of “In Every Dream Home a Heartache.” A vintage performance of the latter is included, along with “Do the Strand,” “Editions of You,” and “Both Ends Burning,” from a 2006 reunion show.

Throw a copy of the performance-rich Thrill of It All: A Visual History into the gift bag with More Than This, and the recipient will be aghast at your cultural and gifting savvy. Recommended albums: Roxy Music, For Your Pleasure, Stranded, Country Life.

Most of the following can be explored via past Off the Beaten Track(s): For quirky pop-experimental stimulation:  Micachu’s Jewellery (CD); for hard rock fun and inspiration: Status Quo’s Pictures: Live at Montreux (DVD); for the listener who likes stuff so bad it’s funny, Incredibly Strange Music, Vol. One (CD); for the folkie who wants his or her acoustics considerably out of the box: Fraser & Debolt with Ian Guenther (recently released on CD); and for your younger and/or more open-eared explorers:  Backwords, Beautiful Supermachines, and Bogs Visionary Orchestra. For great new pop: The Wandas (New Wave Blues/CD).

For anyone who can’t get enough of John Denver’s pure and simple vibe, there’s a new live performance DVD, with suitably excellent acoustics – Rocky Mountain High: Live in Japan.

We haven’t arrived at my column on very vintage (as in Sophie Tucker or Fanny Brice)  songstress Janet Klein, but if you know someone who loves the amazing Cheap Suit Serenaders, Klein has very effectively picked up the torch. You can count on her, or on Madame Pamita’s Wax Works CD. For a local finger-picking master’s take on holiday songs, go  with Jim Earp’s Bright Star. Three of the most interesting  songwriters  gracing San Diego coffeehouses are Michael Tiernan, Gayle Skidmore and Aaron Bowen – all have CDs.

If the economy’s tying your hands, a dash of creativity (applied to yard sales and thrift-shopping), or making cards, gifts, or music mixes, tends to go a long way. One year I had a lot of fun with some rubber stamps and a new poem. Right now I’m putting off  the hours of work involved in improving and printing a card for about 60 people (thanks to Facebook, and my desire to resurrect artsy card sharing). I’ll make that more exciting by spinning lots of weird and wonderful holiday music, to be shared with you next week.