“I can taste the ocean on your tongue”

Can’t let it go, one more time for the hard of hearing... Province begins subtly enough as an aside then goes for the build, hits on a precious and in-the-mood chorus, it comes pouring out like molten excellence--totally untouchable and a sign of the intensity to come, all the love spun around and taken as a breath, as nourishment, standing tall and proud, courageous, “stand steadfast erect and see that love is the province of the brave,” hearts left out in the open for all the right reasons... then Playhouses comes down the tube all discordant and ominous, like spinning wheels on a dark, forgotten stretch of highway, getting the fuck outta here, chasing memories, being chased by memories, it’s all past times backfired, seen through the back of a head, eyes up and to the left towards what had transpired but punches in and drops one of the best lines of recent memory, “I can taste the ocean on your tongue,” (dammit, why didn’t I write that line?) as the frantic and determined beat kicks from one side to the next, yeah things were good, then great, then down the shitter, but this is where we stand now, all aflame and full of wonder, against a wall and around a corner, all we’ve got is the now but the then has a bit of influence on all things great and small... Wolf Like Me explodes like a well crafted bomb, all intense and in your face, pulsing and taking over insides, you can’t sit still, deep breaths and clenched fists, aimed towards the stars and spinning like you could reverse the Earth’s rotation, no one can stop as juices overflow, possessed and everything that absolutely has to happen does, no fucking about anymore, act now or forget it, then you get a breather, the beat drops out, gives you a chance to tie your shoes, fix your hair, grab someone, anyone, hold their face gently yet urgently in your hands and tell them that they are everything that means anything, that they are the fulcrum of your universe, “when the moon is round and full gonna teach you tricks that’ll blow your mongrel mind,” that said, another detonation and you orbit, make desperate and frenzied attempts to relay what you just said, what you feel and long for, into motions, eschewing all the pretentious trappings of modern dance, this isn’t dance, this is survival, and survival blasts out of the heart like a broken steam valve, all burning and desperate and completely beyond control... only the brave venture this close...

-in response to the steps,
the progression,
the greatness,
between tracks 3-5
on the new TV on the Radio.
9/25/2006

Bad Brains and Bad Bartenders

The other night I went to the Baghdad to see a live concert recording of the Bad Brains, 1982 at CBGBs. Jesus fucking Christ, it was awesome! I've never really been into them, knew someday I would (I'm like that, I hear something but I know that the time isn't right). It was a free show though and the Baghdad, an old cavernous theatre, serves beer. You really can't go wrong with that.
Anyhoo, HR took the stage and was just out of his mind. The guy had style, passion, and some dancing skills. He had a damned groove. Made me wish I wasn't 9 when it all went down. That I could have been old enough to experience it in all of the power and glory. I'll just have to be happy with my Crash Worship concert memories to drag out and flaunt if they ever become fashionable (eat shit, Jay. I know you've seen every band worth seeing on the planet, throughout time).
The place was packed and people were going nuts. Old punks were screaming along, and some cheese-dick sitting next to us was compelled to yell out, "BUP BUP!" every time they went into one of their reggae jams. I realized that I can like reggae watching them do it. They make it fun, knowing that it will inevitably blow up in your face like a cheap hand-grenade.
After I went with a friend to a bar over in Belmont. Awesome jukebox (Lou Reed's "Transformer," Slayer, Iron Maiden, Elton John, DI, Black Flag, and a whole slew of greats) and the pool was free. Plus it wasn't crowded, granted it was 11 PM on a Tuesday.
We settled in and had some beers, talked music, he was waiting for 'her' to come in. I asked who 'she' was and he said it was the girl that everyone would turn to look at. He wasn't happy that a lot of the girls in the bar were 'wookies.' I didn't see his POV on the girls. When I think wookie I think giant, hairy, heavily armed. The girls that were there were your typical SE Portland girls with their black hair, belts with metal rings in them, tattoos, patches and shit on their sweaters... not really my bag but I wasn't paying attention.
I went to buy a round with a debit card and the guy asked if I wanted to open a tab. I didn't know how long we'd be there so I said no. Went back, drank, played pool, listened to Black Sabbath. Friend bought a round, then an hour or so later I went to get another. It was about 12:30 and I hadn't planned on staying out this late (or getting quite this drunk) on a work night, but it was a good time so it kept rolling. No need to stop living in order to abide by a shitty unnatural schedule. I can pretty much sleep through work so I kept at it.
I ordered 2 more beers and the guy asked if I wanted to open a tab again. I said no, and he said, "Look if you're gonna drink some more you'd better open a tab cuz I'm not running this card again."
I was drunk and a little taken aback at his words. I looked around. The place wasn't and hadn't been busy. In fact, he had been watching some bullshit Sci-Fi crap on TV the whole time we were there. The nearest I could figure I had been cutting into his precious TV time by giving him a card that he had to spend 20-odd seconds processing.
I wasn't quick enough in the head to get wide or even ask what his problem was so I just gave him a one eyebrow up look, took my drinks and left.
It was a shame, really, cuz this was a great bar, and I know that using a card on $5 in beer is kinda lame, but Jesus, I couldn't shake the feeling that the guy was really just being a cunt.
So now I need to find another bar with a killer jukebox and free pool. The odds are on my side as this town has as many bars as it has strippers... roughly 300,000.

Unstoppable...

and it builds, higher and higher, and sometimes things shine so fucking bright that you absolutely MUST look into the center of it all, damaged retinas be damned. The glow keeps climbing, climbing, like a great song that kills you every cotton-pickin' time you hear it. It starts modestly, and just goes from there, up and up until you think you're gonna drop dead, hoping it'll peak soon for fear of spontaneously combusting, yet egging it on, holding on to the acceleration like it's a lifeline, the only thing keeping you alive, praying to God that there is no plateau, no comedown, that you can keep ascending until you're high enough to look down on this strange concept of heaven... the tunnel vision erupts and there is nothing else but what is immediately in front of you, all senses overloaded and redefining your idea of what 'maxed out' really means... all aflutter in a maze, gasping through the chaos as its beauty and overwhelming grace enter, become, and redefine you...
That's what I think of William F. Buckley, Jr.

The End is Nigh and it is Glorious

TV ON THE RADIO
Return to Cookie Mountain

This is every damned thing I need right now...the sounds, the textures, the soul and hope... this album walks upright, plowing through this world with blinding grace and attitude; hopeful attitude... it’s like one of those people you meet and by every action and with every word that falls from them, you realize what a waste of time it is to be in a bad mood, to sulk, wish for this/wish for that... every song touches a nerve, sings from somewhere deep inside where the lights shine and the wonder speaks in tongues not heard or comprehended for eons...these songs tap the DNA, they mesh, they ARE the essential bits and pieces, they fit perfectly into the eternal spiral, programmed for righteousness...stripped down street-corner exaltations give way to great washes of sonic haze (think Third Eye Foundation, SunnO)))’s sub-currents, Sigur Ros’s peripheral vision) that is gently embossed with perfect, flawless melody... like flipping a clean warm sheet out in front of you, 2 corners held, letting it grab the air and parachute gently down, resting and covering an angel on your bed with the soft touch of a familiar lover, she is there, all outlines, static and variable and all other things that describe this from that...this album grabs your lapels (or shirt, if you’re lapel-less) and screams,

“Goddammit, this is all we’ve got and it’s fucking beautiful!”

...then it slaps you in the face, spins your entire body around and aims your head, your eyes, your soul and spirit towards a sprawling horizon full of love, sorrow, translucent oranges, pinks, and yellows–towards all things right, good, decent, and desperate...it all hit me on track 4 (Playhouses), my ears perked up, everything fell into place, and when my attention was fully focused, with laser precision, track 5 (Wolf Like Me) dropped and I had to dance...this has never happened before but the spirit was in me, I turned off all the lights, closed the curtains, and gave into it, torn this way and that, giving in to the bliss, the rapture...flawless...
If this album doesn’t save the world, nothing will.

Shameless Self-Promotion

Hey folks, my newest review is out and online for all of you to regard, then disregard. Check it out here if you're feeling it. While you're there, feel free to check out reviews for Loanshark, Manson Family Films, and Cheeky! Hell, look at everything, it's all good. Especially the review of Slaughtered Vomit Dolls, the film whose preview I posted a link to a coupla weeks ago.
All good stuff. Let's hear it for Dan Taylor and his Exploitation Retrospective!

"Life is short and
it's filled with stuff."
- The Cramps

(((DREAMSCAPE #12)))

Riding in a West African bus (the dusty, sticker clad Alhums of Senegalese lore) crossing the overpass in Pleasanton CA that crosses the I-680 over into Dublin... you know the one, by Home Depot, Kinkos and all that?... anyway, I’m in the back, sweating to death, baby stepping towards dehydration in the heat... there’s a chicken under my seat that I’m trying not to crush under foot, but the bastard keeps pecking at my ankle and squawking, and my efforts to preserve its life are waning with every sharp stabbing pain that erupts too close to my Achilles tendon... we stop for some people and an unkempt Michael Keaton gets into the front seat... he looks a little bloated with age and alcohol, a crusty mangey beard that has completely given up on trying to lend him some sort of dignity...he’d never be mistaken for a college professor... he is wearing a printed t-shirt that has a stethoscope picture on it– ear pieces up and over the shoulders, diaphragm ‘dangling’ to his belly button area. It’s like one of those shirts that are painted like a tuxedo... tacky, ugly, and inexcusable... I smile, genuinely happy to see him as I was a fan... but what do you say to a famous person, if your are compelled to say anything to them?... I’ve always wondered how to say anything to a famous person without coming off like a jack ass... after years of contemplation, and not really any actual encounters to practice with (except that one time when I saw Jackie Mason in Manhattan, but who wants to talk to him?) I’ve just decided to not say anything... if I was famous, I’d want people to ignore me, so I give them the same treatment... do unto others and such... but this was a dream, so all I could say was, “Hey, Mr. Mom”... he looked wearily over his shoulder at me and did that fake smile/ smirk, head nod thing, and turned back around, unamused, and quite happy to ignore me... I found out later he was actually going to audition for Mr. Mom 2, and he didn’t end up getting the part...

Caffiene, grindcore, and cornbread... a new holy trinity.

Fuck, I’m loving the Locust right now. Plague Soundscapes. It’s really working in conjunction with the coffee I just drank. My insides are aswirl with the chaos, all jittery appendages and compressed torso, my eyes can’t seem to focus on any one thing for too long and the music blasts into my soul, a much needed distraction from the fucking mess I’m wallowing in right now. Makes me want to thrash wildly about, pogo, break-dance, have a seizure, scream like a wounded banshee. I’d have to honestly say that if I had to name my top 5 favorite bands of all time, the Locust would be on the list. Right after Tom Waits, of course. The others I’d have to think on and shift about periodically, axe some, promote others, but the Locust would stay fucking strong. Dammit, I love it, like nothing else, the sound of joyful schizophrenia.

And on a totally unrelated note, I have a real problem with Trader Joe’s Cornbread mix batter. It’s even BETTER than raw cookie dough. Every time I make it I have to stop myself from just dumping a crazy straw into the bowl and sucking it up.
I’m fat.

New Depths

It’s not late enough for me to be feeling self-indulgent, a mere 9:47 PM, but really, it may as well be 4 AM. I’m alone, of my own doing, of course, suffering from a figurative gunshot wound to the gut. As the old folks say, you make your bed, you lie in it. It makes sense, but it doesn’t seem fair when you think you’ve been making a nice, comfy bed and then realize, one day, that it’s really a fucking stale, brown couch. No, that's not accurate. It's an awesome bed, but you just don't seem to fit in the damned thing.
Life is funny like that, as we all know. One day you’re sailing along, thinking that you’re in complete control of yourself, your emotions, and then you wake up some random and unforgiving morning a totally different person. Whole new drive, longings, outlooks. It may be refreshing in some cases, for some people, but I can tell you that in this case, from this treacherous vantage point it sucks balls.
But to ignore it and shelve it away isn’t fair to anyone. Face it head on, deal with it, take your shots, mop up the blood, and hope that things eventually end up on some kind of even keel once again.
Inch’allah.

A bathroom in a bar

"...and what is left of me but skin and teeth and parts that used to breathe?"
- graffiti in the shitter of Billy Ray's, MLK, Portland, OR.

You find signs in the most ridiculous places, dick in hand, evacuating a desperate and unhappy bladder, standing in a puddle of piss, the accumulated dribblings of at least 75 anonymous cocks.
Heaven is just around the corner.

Real Quick

Yo la Tengo has a new one coming, their best title yet. I'm Not Afraid of You and I'll Beat Your Ass.
Geek Rage, fuckers.
You know, while I'm here, I have to air my one gripe with recent Yo La Tengo. They made these three glorious albums (well, not so much with Summer Sun, make it two glorious albums) and they are serene, peaceful, they touch nerves that were previously only accessible by narcotics and soft nights alone with a beautiful person, touching lightly, exploding neurons and gentle kisses that vanquish the Wall of Sleep for an eternity. Unfortunately for my tastes, both I Can Hear... and And Then Everything... had to feature some guitar freak-out piece that was like a mouthful of thumbtacks, totally killing the mood.
Luckily we can burn our own versions of albums, rewrite history if you will. Learn from China, they're not as out of line as one would suspect.

Eavesdropping on the Bus

Setting: Portland, Oregon. The #6 on MLK between Stanton and Killingsworth, 6 AM
Characters: -Old black man (Old Man) who had seen some hard times
-30-something punk-ass kid (Punk Ass) who thought he was still 17

Punk Ass: Fuck man, that eval’ is a bitch. I hope I don’t have to do that shit again. All asking me questions and shit, like I’m fuckin’ crazy. Damn.
Old Man: Youz, I done that too? Uh few times. I been up in the, they done locked my ass up, thinkin’ I was looped.
Punk Ass: No shit? Damn, it’s like, fuckin’, insult to injury an’ shit. First y’all be getting arrested n’ shit, then they try ‘n say your nuts too. Fuck, that’s fuckin’ insult to injury.
Old Man: One tahm, theys gots me. I cudn’t get no booze. Mutherfuckers wudn’t sell me nuttin’ so I gots me a bottle uh, uh, damn, whuts that shit, uh, List’rine. I gotz me a bottle uh List’rine an done drank da whole thang. I sat my ass back, shit.
Punk Ass: Ho’d up. Yuh drank Listerine fur a buzz? Da moufwash?
Old Man: Yups.
Punk Ass: Fuck man, dat’s hard core Listerine n’ shit? Worst I ever done was for, like, a week straight drank a bunch uh fuckin’, Nyquil and shit, ta get ta sleep. That’s hard core as I ever gots. Fuck, Listerine?
Old Man: Yup. And one time, har spray. Ladies har spray?
Punk Ass: Huh? Hair spray?
Old Man: Yup. Yuh gets two cans, spray ‘em all out, makin’ uh, uh, uh cake, pokes some holes, dribble a lil’ juice...
Punk Ass: (laughing) Fuck, doo. Fucking hair spray? Listerine? Maybe they wuz right to eval you. Ah’m jist bein’ honest n’ shit, yuh know? Muhfuckin’ havin’ hernias n’ shit, like yuh wuz saying, fuck, drinkin’ Listerine. No wonder yur all fucked up.

The old guy was smiling the whole time and I couldn’t tell if he was serious or just winding the kid up. Sadly, I had to get off the bus before I could learn more. Believe me when I say when I was this close to coming in a few hours late just to ride with this old guy to see what other crazy shit he had done to himself.