Friday, June 30, 2006

Great taste echoes from the canyon...

I don't know how we manage to hit every weekend with storms forecast, but howza a dude supposed to lay out in the sun when that sun's only around from 9-5 on weekdays? Not that I particularly care about tanning my washboard abs and bulging pecs but, well...

I do.

Yeah, I want to lay in sunshine. You caught me. It's a cheap buzz and a good excuse to ascend into sensory deprivation induced bliss; eyes closed, canister headphones bashing away, some punk kid stealing my watch... if I'm feeling indulgent, maybe a choco taco...

But the odds appear to be against me here. This is the Summer of Skinbleaching I guess. Not like that Steven cat, who I hear lays in tanning booths stroking his unwashed junk.

Perhaps he 'n I will have to do a junktan comparison test tomorrow at the Bergen Rhythm & Boom Beachside Bash. And there is always a possibility of full frontal display of the outcome (er, results) on Sunday where the lucky few who attend 215 N Pinckney shall witness the crusty-eyed awakening of Cult of Hypnos in a full-toned tussle w/ Coffin Chile and a slew of other earhole assassins. Drain yr lymph in style. Miss it and yr weekend will be so much paler.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Blood oranges / Quincy's Quorner of Vice I

I think the Alvarius B album Blood Operatives of the Barium Sunset is the album I always wished Greg Dulli could put together post-Whigs. Granted, it's a bit cheekier in some regards then the beat up brick building balladry (booya!) of "true" addiction-era Afghans (Gentlemen, natch). But the differences in lyrical topicality aside, not to mention that them Bishop boys sing a tad bit more unhinged then Dulli tha Ashtray Crooner, the general tone of this thing makes me wanna walk on some train tracks in the dark and go tressle jumping the same way Gentlemen did back when I was working at a box factory for a summer in northern Wisco. This is spine lubricating sin on wax, just the way I like it. Hurt, pissed, and ready to fuck.

I ain't even heard Powder Burns by Dulli's Twilight Singers yet. I mean, I fucked with all his output in a major way for years. I remember first hearing the Whigs in a van after the black-clad chuggapunk band I was in at the time (ain't ever been to Jersey City but I guess that I'm a Saint there...) played at O'Cayz Corral but a short time before it burned down. And yes I'm just dropping names now (for posterity). It was one of those ultra-rare blammo moments where some new angled perspective on yr sonic life suddenly pans across the charred vestiges of "The Crap You Used To Listen To" and you realize that you are NOTHING and have NO TASTE blah blah blah.

Gentlemen was quickly snatched up and became my most listened-to album of that summer. I'll still stand by it as near perfect for driving around shithole one horse towns at 11:30pm on a Wednesday night, when the populous is either at home in bed or on the strip of bars that constitutes a downtown. I think you get special points if one of the major means of employment in the given hellhole town is a Harley plant. Moonlight, bikers, abandoned parking lots... hey man, Quincy rarely waxes nostalgic. Gimme this one time. Hell, I think I started smoking because I thought it might help me rasp like Fat Dulli. Black Love, Congregation, Up In It, even 1965... I went through these and wanted more, more, more.

I remember liking Twilight as Performed by the Twilight Singers well enough, though it may have been mostly a result of my fanboy-boner nature. I do get like that, sad to say. Realize, now that all of this stuff had been released prior to my having become familiar with the Whigs. I was strictly on some post-breakup appreciation. I started hoping to find something to fill the void left by knowing no Whigs material was forthcoming. Dulli's tales of self-loathing romance started to feel directed at me... "you want more? You ain't gonna get it. Now pour me a drink." Something like that. Then he started putting out new Twilight Singers material. I bought Blackberry Belle immediately upon its release at 10:00am on a Tuesday, on my way in to wait tables. It was okay. Pretty good. Some of the hooks gave me a bit of the ol' spinal twitch that Milez Iz Dead, Be Sweet, or My Enemy can still provoke. Certainly no Weezer-sized abortion. My crush continued... I finally got my chance to see the legendary Dulli live in Chicago, and yeah it was pretty fucking awesome. He really is an entertaining frontman and shit talker. But after that... things kinda started to fade. I didn't really feel that covers record much, and I know that the solo Dulli was more of an odds-'n-sods thing. But with these tossoffs coming at a higher pace then the meat-n-potatoes hate/love rock/soul that I loved so much, I started moving on. I know that real fans of bands stick with 'em through thick and thin... Dylan, Reed, blah, blah, blah all put some crap out. I've read that Powder Burns is a return to Dulli-form... that he was battling addiction. I've read that it rings hollow, which I wouldn't doubt... much of the Twilight Singers catalog does to me. I've read that I should think for myself and form opinions based on my own experiences as opposed to what some critic douche wrote on Pitchfork. Well, whatever. I'm tired. Critical influence be damned, this Alvarius B record is pretty much all I need. Alan Bishop has been around forever, too, and he certainly don't seem tired. Hell, the Sun City Girls do so much of the singing-in-tongues shtick that I don't think he could repeat himself if he wanted to, not that he would try. Now pass the needle before this fix wears off.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Reekumpile


Wedding Suggestion #135: Get a Red Stripe sponsorship. Also: tearaway tuxes.

More pictures at Flickr soonish. Their site is being slow as hesher right now.

So yeah, by all accounts I am rejuvenated thanks to quality UW ice cream (Lumberjack reppin'), sweat, the 13th Floor Elevators, and Lee "Scratch" Perry. Tho' I certainly am pissed that I didn't get to make the Intonation Fest, where Roky Erickson apparently tore it up. Amongst others, to be sure. Sad, but whatever. I press on.
I do hereby state that Pitchfork Fest's lineup totally pales in comparison to that shit, but I guess the bottom line is I ain't gonna make All Tomorrow's Parties, I missed Arthurfest, I missed Terrastock, whatever. I stay at home. It's comfy here.

In 1.5 weeks my final final fucking class starts. So brace yrself for invective 'n bile on these fronts. I plan on clenching my teeth until the stumpy molar in back gets ground down to dead nerve. Healthcare my arse. Following this 5 weeks of jackboots, jockstraps, and staring at distillation columns 40 hours a week you may expect a complete Renaissance. I'm gonna do a site redesign. Well, my girlfriend is. I mean, an actual site! Fuckin' tight, that's what. I'm gonna put in an e-commerce page where you can send me money and I'll buy nothing but Taco Johns with it. Then I send you a fart in an envelope. Very Web 2.0. Social network? Dude, I'll show you how my social nut works.

And with that I'm gonna go eat now. 'Cause you ain't feedin' me. Bastard.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Sweepytime

I have been exhausted for 4 days now. Pandit Pran Nath, James Blackshaw, and the Cocteau Twins have been blanketbombing my napsack. I much 'preciate that.

Weddings are drunk.

Just how drunk?

Too drunk for cupcakes.

That just ain't right.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

I quit.

I thought this might be a joke, but it's not. Also those "geek-hop" (eeych... so fuckin' bad a taste just typing that) dudes.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Got more butt than she got body

S'posed to storm tonight. Anticipation is high after copping a grand 3 hours of sleep last night in that still stick stank. And what the hell, it wasn't even that hot. Beats me.

Got my mayne in trouble last night for somehow asking him if he had Wednesday off after he told me he had it off, only to have him say that he *didn't* have it off. Which I guess he was supposed to. I'm confused about this one. Our webs are tangled in far too mundane a matter.

I figured I'd better help conjure the storm for my sanity and to wash away his sin. Only way I could think of was by once again telling you about my damn playlist. How it do:

I initiated negotiations with Scarface's first joint. This was done to let the weather know I mean fucking bizness and one false move I would BLAOW that shit with my .12 gauge.

Glimpsing the sun I realized that I may have scared rainclouds off with Face's sheer braggadocio. For mista mista's sake I threw on Mecca & the Soul Brother. Perhaps a bit of a jolt, but it has one of the few love raps that I personally know to be tolerable. Not that I'm in any way an expert on such things. Also T.R.O.Y. let those erstwhile clouds know that I felt remorse for my actions and my heart went out to the fallen and shit. I was willing to tip one out if the clouds would join me. The general consciousness of the jawn, I figured, may lure the stormclouds nearer, sensing weakened defenses.

Which brings us to now. The standby: In Our Lifetime, Vol 1. Eightball & MJG are like fucking sweat on this record, which I figured may strike the final chord and get this shit going. Maybe from their Space Age 4Eva basecamp they could spot the swirly clouds growing ever closer to showering us like a case of Cris...er, Moet. Nothing yet though. I guess I'm pathetic like that. I shall continue to grind with vigilance until results are obtained... keep yr eyes on the skies...

Monday, June 19, 2006

Beefsteak

Congrats to me for keeping the stirfry tender tonight. I done myself proud. And the steak wasn't dry, but nor was it raw. That's right. Only I am raw.

In honor of the realness with which my beef was cooked, I came together to Afrika Bambaataa et al assembling, yes, "like Voltron".

Now I'm supposed to go get gushy and pick outta wedding tunes whilst playing Super Monkey Ball or something. I dunno how that works, but it's late and it's a worknight so jeez let's make it quick already. Especially since Mr. Groom's empeetrois selection is, er, not always to my taste. No, I don't like Erasure... and I won't apologize.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Tha Stick

Continuing to roll with this thick, sticky and none-too-nuanced heat, well... the beerz don't sit so well. Never made it to a/c last night, only to S&M's mudpit of a front yard for a massive beercan chicken and some crazy fixins. While 'twas roasting it's thang we roasted ourselves in the afternoon with cans of Bud and whathaveyou. Started disassembling with a copy of Gore Vidal's Messiah I'd seen kicking about his house for a couple weeks.

After we were too drunk to eat any more or too full to stop drinking we posse'd on over to the High Noon just in time to catch Omega Weapon. Only 'FUCK' will rightly explain the pummel. Madison supergroup or something. Except actually really awesome, which is not a supergroup kinda klaim.

Stuck it out for the Vanishing Kids set, whom I think I've seen once or twice and I kinda dig. They seemed to somehow heat 'n chill the room at the same time with their synthtastic snarl. Then we had to stumble, menthol in my mouth (thanx Kevs!) and, yes, a pizza in our future.

Saved from certain decimation by some Glass Nickel pineapple/Can bacon action, the hott-as-fark hangovermorning is only slightly dragged-thru-the-desert a la Good, Bad, 'n Ugly. Only one thing could sooth: There's a Riot Goin' On. Oh the strung out glory is setting my vessels at ease. Fear not.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Heaterz

I guess I'll blame the heat, but it looks sunny out and I should be like sitting by water reading grand novels or something but I've been hiding inside with the fan on and lights off all morning. It's 1:30 now and I just decided to go hang out at Barnes and Noble for the afternoon. I think that place has a/c. Better.

But really what's chapping my ass about myself today is that I've spent all this time reading the blogs (er, "columnists", sorry) at XXLmag.com. I mean, what the hell? Am I in 11th grade? Who the fuck is Papoose? Whatever. It's been great and I'll no more apologize for it than for my habit of bumming 74 cigarettes a week from my Good Friends.

Tonight I believe I'll be attending the grand Mierda Verde benefit shizzow. I haven't been to the High Noon for a few months, it'll be good to stomp on East Wash again. I wish I could score free drinks there, tho'.

Friday, June 16, 2006

I'd never ban Cristal

'Cause I'm all about the Andre.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

"Blowout" said the bossman...

With any luck at all this won't turn into a venue for me to complain about the straight shite things that happen to me during meetings at work, but SHIT this week just WILD for punishment.

I must ask: In the occurence that while sitting around a table and "brainstorming" (i.e. listening to chemists talk about what simpletons biologists might be, and as a computer dude shruggingly agreeing with them for lack of evidence to the contrary -- that's the scientific method, after all) you go to move your leg and an audible tearing sound is projected from yr ass-area, do you let 'em think you just farted or do you tell 'em straight up that you believe the chasm you just tore in yr pants likely gives a straight view of your balls? I opted for the second -- toned down in bidness casual language, but of course -- and spent the rest of the day shuffling about in my office chair.

It was the walk home that terrified/tittilated me. To set the proper mood I turned Ironman (the Ghostface album, not the Sabbath tune, although that probably woulda worked too) up as loud as my headphones could carry and strutted to the best of my sag-ass-flap'd ability. I think I pulled off a convincing effect of my ass being so damn walnut-crushing tight that it just couldn't be contained in designer denim. I look forward to seeing this trend spreading, and am currently talking with some selvage denim producers for a new line of AssHole Jeans.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Threshole'd

Something about almost passing out during a meeting with collaborators that you've met once before -- an introduction during the first 72 hours of kicking smokes, no less -- due to a sudden unfathomably painful death-knell from the remnants of your poor, decayed molar really puts the rest of the day in a "lets kill the fucking throb" mood. Hence, Leinies, Lost, and a bunch of Bayer's were mixed to decent effect and thrumming mindset. If need be there's still a quarter handle of bargain whiskey takin' up space in our wine rack all lonely-like. Dab that on my gums? Probably, but not until tomorrow morning.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Damned if something's not always burnt out in our lightscape. The apartment is dim and I passed out for like 3 hours listening to Keiji Haino play electric hurdy gurdy. Now my head is rice noodle tangle but my legs have firmed up I think. No two bits, I cannot read anything in this except internet excerpts on who Pusha T or Young Jeezy or Cam is beefing with at the momento. Dumbed down and delirishious. "When the doors open up it look like Voltron."

Yizzurp.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

Back Like Unsightly Tan Lines

Yeah sorry I'm lazy, but goddamit if I haven't been sleeping awesome this past week hiding out from all manner of outburst. I know you, though, and yr hungry. So it's time to feed. Naw, I'm not gonna bore you with further discussion of how fuckin' sick I got in Seattle... needless to say, I puked in the nicest bathroom I'll likely ever puke in. And monkfish is delicious, in spite of their ugly mugs. There's a summary, send it to the presses.

Now, what I wanna say today is this: Runners highs are the new illicit drug of choice. Before you think I'm goin' all straight on you, worry not. But seriously, when you get to the stage of consumption where paranoia is par for the course it can be helpful to find ways to fuck yr ass up without all the messy guilt.

So yesterday Laura and I suited down and took off on a six mile run. Man, never have I felt so badass in my life then finishing that puppy. Granted I've got crazy loinache action today but you need to know that the purge of the run is second to none. I felt like I could tell Gandhi off without any psychic repurcussions. I was pure, motherfucker. And with the calories I burned I had no qualms downing some thick 'n rich ice cream and half a sixer while sitting on my ass watching Lost all evening.

Next item: Ethiopiques Volume 4. Check it. All but 2 tracks are by Mulatu Astatqe so type that in yr search bar and smoke it. I fuck with you not, son... this shit is not only the summer jam of choice, but I can already see it seeping deep into the fall with it's orangish hues and wailing melancholy moments. Invigorating, steamy, and cozy all at once.

And yeah... I know I mentioned the This Heat box in posts past. Well, it's out. My copy is probably somewhere over the Atlantic en route... I was gettin' worried since I put my order in 2 months ago. Well, Forced Exposure, Other Music, and Aquarius all got it and so should you. I think. I haven't heard it yet. But stay tuned for raving. Most likely. 'Cause it's supposed to be just sick.

Monday, June 05, 2006

"Everything tastes better stolen..." /OR/ Tracks on the Blood: My Seattle Adventure, Part the First

Eighty bucks ain't much for 6 days in a city you ain't been to before. Granted, my own damn fault. Yeah, you really need the John Cale NY in the 1960s reissues now? Don't judge, punk. I needs what I needs, and yr financial advice is mos def not on that list.

So, keeping up my lifestyle of choice meant I had a ready excuse to not buy into Milwaukee International Airport's $7.00 beer 'n a shot special like my good friend Mr. Chaffe. I name him this for the simple reason that he chaps my damn ass, and I knew that the tight quarters we were facing down would lead to tension. I prepared to grit my teeth and bear it. My nose went deeper into The System of the World, book 3 of the Baroque Cycle, by Neal Stephenson, available in paperback like NOW.

Following our flight I went off to find the two things I had budgeted for: cheap food and cheaper beer. The first was found when, deciding that any movement towards the piers would result in a corresponding increase in price, I walked the other way until a sex toy shop came into view. Knowing that you can't buy a low-quality dildo fabricated of porous material without downing cheap fries, I scouted the area and sure enough the Hurricane Diner was located. And sure enough, the fries were salty, the grilled cheese toasted, and the Pabst somehow even more watered down then here in Wisco. Truly, no place like home and all that crap.

After putting my food down it was time for something to fill up on. I was thinking a 40 oz of whatevs would keep it on the cheap cheap, but the gas station had none. Always up for the local quality micros, I opted for a sixer of Rainier tallboys ($5) and hoofed it back to our 4 star accomodations to let 'er rip.

Ah, Rainier... you were nothing special, but somehow your white and red can came to embody the pirate-rock lifestyle it seemed so many of Seattle's fine rocker-denizens inhabited. This, at least, was my damn impression. You were inexpensive and I could drink I bunch of you. You got me drunk. I appreciate that. However, I noticed on the second night that you tasted much better warm than cold. This perplexes me to no end; were you darker or more robust I could see this as valid. As it is, you were drool-light, generally necessitating great coldness to get past the gatekeepers. But whatever those mysterious notes that came out after warming, whatever secret ingredient hidden like pirate treasure on the beach to be uncovered by burrowing crabs or dying mammals seeking shelter from the sun... thank you. You showed me that mystery still exists on this planet.

Sunday was a user meeting relating to the conference I was in attendance for, and as such of little relatable interest. I did get a free trip to Safeco Field where I got to ponder my complicated relationship with baseball: I know it's around, and way more popular than I'll ever be, but I can't bring myself to really think about it as a valid entity. Still, baseball showed me the best baseball-themed time I'll likely ever have due to the neverending free franks and Red Hook. And getting to watch akward chemists bat at tee'd up balls or try their fastball? Well, okay, not too entertaining. But it wasn't them... it was me. And baseball. Complicated relationships are like that.

Another night of drinking took place, augmented by all booze being free and all food being free also. Conferences, apparently, rule. So I ate and drank and was blissfully ignorant of the horrid fate that awaited me in the morning, which you must now wait with bated breath for me to relay 'cause I'm gonna go eat falafel now. WAIT, BITCH.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Grth

Seattle recap coming soon (?)

For now, all I can say is this...

Sun: it is nice to be back in your acquaintance. Mud-butt: do not return.

Madison is pretty much a changed land since I left for my travels. Friends move in, friends move out. I clean the stovetop. The garbage disposal breaks. An E-40 song makes it onto the radio.

June is all about the relaxation. The porch sitting, beer sipping, chip dipping factor is to be increased exponentially during this time. Power lines may start to out-hum our fridge. I have discovered a resonance spot in our hallway. Weird.