Meanwhile...

It's really hard to type with that thing sitting up there.

Played

Velvet Underground- Who Loves the Sun?
I didn't know it at the time, but when I was drinking, I was little more than a shambling zombie, an undead creature fettered by chains of my own devising. I've been walking among the living- in broad daylight- for twenty months and I haven't turned to ashes yet, so I guess the answer to this song's question would be : "Me. I do."

Savoy Brown- It'll Make You Happy
Kim Simmonds was correct. It will.

Can-Spoon
I could do an entire program on Can and not get bored. Hmm...this song reminds me of something...

Spoon- Everything Hits at Once
Oh, yeah! That's it...I promised to play some Spoon. I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it. For E.

Ray Manzarek- Wake Up Screaming
From Ray's 1974 solo LP, the former Doors keyboardist busts out with a very young Patti Smith reading Jim Morrison's poetry during the break and a guitar solo by Joe Walsh- an awesome rock moment. The photo on the back cover is worthy of it's own post. Stayed tuned for an update on this.
Well, whatta ya know? My Soul Kitchenmate the Gear Slut has done a killer post on this very photo. Imagine that.

X- The Unheard Music
I owe Ray Manzarek a huge favor for helping discover and later producing X, one of my favorite short-lived bands of all time ( X after Billy Zoom quit doesn't count). Ray plays organ on this track. It's as if you can hear the torch passing- or was that a spleef?

Patti Smith- Free Money
Hey, this here's the same Patti Smith who read Jim Morrison's poem a couple of songs ago. She has songs of her own, you know. Of course you did. Horses changed everything, dude.

Jethro Tull- Hunting Girl
Ian Anderson is one of rock's great storytellers and the band is tighter than Ann Coulter's shoulder muscles. A lot of kids wound up cribbing from Martin Barre riffs, but there's some sounds that can't be copied and Barre has one. I sure wish I'd been at this concert.

Captain Beefheart- This is the Day
The Captain was asked by Mercury Records: " Why don't you make something that we can sell?" He produced a a couple albums that he allegedly hated- which is funny, because the Captain's "fuck my label" albums are better rock n' roll than most band's 'real' records. This song'll break yer heart. The records didn't sell very well. Captain eventually wound up on some label called Virgin that no one had ever heard of. Then he quit music altogether so he could pursue his passion for crappy painting. Our loss.

Big Brother and the Holding Company- Heartache People
Big Brother soldiered on after Janis Joplin died and this album is surprisingly good.
That drunken 4:15 am phone call of distress? It's in this song.

Soft Boys- The Asking Tree
If you have to ask you won't understand so there's no point in sitting around waiting for answers. Nothing to be done.

The Wipers- So Young
For years my friends used to tell me that listening to the Wipers was probably not good for my somewhat erratic and depressive mental health. Today I can listen to Greg Sage's pain and not be consumed by it. He's one of those rare guitarists that has both a sound and style that are uniquely his- probably because he builds his own gear.
I love him for that alone. Like a hero, you know?
He looked at me funnily when I told him that in person, but he signed my copy of "Youth of America" anyway. This song is from 'Over the Edge', which hadn't come out yet, or I woulda got it signed too.

Talking Heads- Mind
Fear of Music was my first Talking Heads LP. I bought it because it had Brian Eno's name on it. I had never heard anything like it before and I was smitten at first listen. I liked the Heads so much, I spent my dope money on their albums when I was a kid.

The Clash - I'm Not Down
I hate it when people tell me I'm depressed and I'm not. I may be sad that Joe Strummer is dead, but I still jump up and down when I hear The Clash.

The Pretty Things- Grass
Oh, this sounds so good. Analog, sweet analog and that languid, loving beat would make Nick Mason pink with envy. This album, Parachute, was Rolling Stone's Album of the Year in 1970- back when it meant something.

King Crimson- Ladies of the Road
Naughty , nasty and very well-arranged. It's so steamy even Robert Fripp sounds passionate.

The Kinks- Yes Sir, No Sir
Is your child considering enlisting in the military? They should listen to this Ray Davies masterpiece first- from: Arthur ( Decline and Fall of the British Empire). I enjoy pointing out the perils of colonialism and wars of occupation almost as much as Davies does, but he's a lot better at it.

Atomic Rooster- A Little Bit of Inner Air
It's about getting high and the drums are processed with a flanger. Heavy.

Loreena McKennitt- Hearts in Space
I'd follow this voice anywhere. There's something in her music that touches me, makes me feel like I belong where I am.

Steve Hillage - Hurdy Gurdy Man
I am a Gong freak and have been a Hillage fan for just as long. Todd Rundgren produced this LP and it does sound good- for a production masterpiece, listen To Todd's work on XTC's Skylarking. That's one of the best-sounding albums I have ever heard.


Cat Stevens- Bitter Blue
Fuck, I don't care if he went wacko or went sane or whatever- I just like this old song. Brings back some memories, ya know?

Bob Marley- Johnny Was
Why? Shot down in the street and died. All because of the system.

Alan Parsons Project- Cask of Amontillado
I am named after Edgar Allan Poe , who, like myself, spent considerable time drunk in the gutters of both Baltimore and Richmond. Poe and I share roughly similar luck with women, although he's dead and I'm not, so who knows?
Anyway, I'm proud to have that extra 'L' in my name and I'm glad Alan (sic) Parsons did a whole LP based on Poe's works. Great album cover if you can find the original.

Supertramp- Even in the Quietest Moments
Dude called and requested Queen. I didn't have any Queen with me , but Supertramp are kinda gay, so that's what I went with. My fave part is the cricket solo.

Frank Black- I Burn Today
I love this guy. I've seen him live several times and he delivers- bigtime. Great songwriter, clever, clever.

Warren Zevon- Disorder in the House
One of the greats. Why are so many of my heroes dead?

Bob Dylan & Band - This Wheel's on Fire
The Basement Tapes. Ahhhh, that was cool.

Promises

I found this greeting card in a box of old letters. There is no writing, just the printed message :

"Try me on for sighs"

I do know where it came from. It came from 1984.

Better late than never, I suppose.

FU-WHAM!

Q:If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it still make a sound?

A:Yes. Sometimes a very loud one.

It's a dumb question but there are dumber ones.

This is the dumb question that made me completely lose track of what I was thinking:

" How do I work myspace?"

That is an actual question voiced over the telephone about an hour ago. It was directed at me by someone exactly half my age during a discussion about something else.

I was unable to respond. My first urge was to hang up. My second was to hurl a string of curses and insults into the phone and then hang up.

Instead,I played it back in my head. Perhaps I misheard.

"What did you ask me? "

"How do you work myspace? I can't find it."

At this point I'm about ready to take my phone to the river and drown it like a burlap sack full of deformed kittens.

"You don't. You type the name I gave you into Google and hit search. Then click the link at the very top. You will be directed to that person's Myspace."

"Oh. Does it cost anything?"

"Only if you let it."

"What does that mean?"

"Dude, I don't know squat about myspace. You can listen to that person's music though- free."

"How much does it cost to buy one?"

"Buy one what?"

"Buy a Myspace."

"Dude, my oven just exploded- there's pieces of frozen pizza lodged like shrapnel in the walls of my kitchen. I gotta go."

"But, but... I have more questions."

Reunion at Vampire Beach

So I'm sitting on a bale of hay near the summit of a tall grassy hill. It's warm and bright and the day will be good because what else can it be? I've been here before- once every six months or so, according to a recently unearthed mental note- and this is a good place, despite it's somewhat eccentric population.

In front of me, the hillside descends steeply, abruptly cliff-like for fifty yards or more, before gradually becoming a wide, sandy beach covered with a shifting mass of blurry people . At the bottom there's an large open stage, (although it's tiny from this vantage) backed what I used to think was the Pacific Ocean. This visit, I somehow know it's really just a hundred miles of unbroken water and then lots of nothing. Maybe a waterfall, but who cares?

It's a Flat Earth, I know that much, but I'm not overly concerned about falling off of it.

There's going to be a good show today; I've seen it before- on this very same day but in a different dream- but I can never remember who's playing.

Overhead floats a block-long dirigible in the shape of a cartoon pig. I wonder if this is a Pink Floyd concert from the Animals tour. I hope so. That was a damn good show, or so I was told.

Whoever is playing, I must be Hot Shit to get seats this good.

"You must be Hot Shit", says a familiar blond vampire using a fake British accent, "to get seats this good."

Damn. It's Spike from the old Buffy the Vampire Slayer series. He's reclining on a chaise lounge and drinking out of a brown bag. What's he doing here? I think I remember what happens next, but I'm distracted as a group of happy but featureless people walk by. One of them is calling my name but I don't know the voice and in a moment it is gone.
Maybe next time, I think.
I will be coming back, after all. I know that.

There's lot of people down there, but there's plenty of room up here.
I hear a cough beside me. Right.

"Well," I finally reply, turning to Spike,"It is my subconscious. I don't remember inviting you 'round".

Oh shit. I'm speaking in a cheesy Brit accent too. I hope I stop.

He doesn't seem to notice or care.

"Fancy a snort, mate?", asks Spike.

"No, thanks. Trying t' quit."

"Suit yerself", he says, swilling away, "y'wanna know something? Just between us?"

"What's that?"

He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his trench coat, muffling his reply.

"Beg pardon?"

"It's all bullshit", he repeats, clearly this time.

"Bullshit?"

"Yeah. This bloody vampire crap and all the muddleheaded idiots who get all gooey reading Anne Rice and sleeping in coffins and the like. You won't see me sleeping in a coffin, nooo...not enough wiggle room ,ya know", he finishes by nudging me and winking.

"Spike", I ask, pointing upward at the blazing sun, "shouldn't you be on fire or something? You know, the sun, you being a vampire and all that."

"I told you it was all crap. Here hold this a sec' if y' would," he says, removing his coat and handing it to me.

"I'll show you."

With one hand, he grabs his forehead, his other hand clamps on his chin. He removes his face. It's just a mask.
Underneath, he's the guy who played Jesus in Mel Gibson's S&M torture movie.
He's wearing what looks like a diaper. It's not especially clean.

The bottle is gone.

Too bad for that, I think, suddenly ready to start drinking again.

"Excuse me", asks the imitation Christ,"but which way to the stage? I seem to be having a spot of trouble seeing."

He's got blood in his eyes from the crown of thorns he's wearing. Given the sunny weather, a ball cap would be more practical and a lot less painful.

I notice that the trench coat I'm holding for Jesus/Spike has changed into a clump of tissue paper.
There's a sticky wet spot on it. I don't think it's snot.
Gross.
I get ready to throw away the sticky mess when I remember the bloody-faced Jesus.
I'm not a believer, but I'm not a monster.
I'm not gonna let this poor dude wander around a dangerous cliffside half-blind ; son of God or not, he might fall and get seriously hurt.

I find a dry section of the kleenex ball and wipe his eyes clear.

"Thanks, man", says Jesus as he heads downhill toward the crowd and the stage.

"No prob."

I'm left holding a nasty kleenex that's soggy with the blood and jizz of Christ.

I am going to make a fucking fortune on eBay, I think to myself.

A few minutes go by and Jesus returns, this time heading uphill.
"Forgot something", he mutters.

A moment later he passes again, downhill, only this time he's got a wooden cross on his back. It looks as if he's fake-staggering under it's weight, like it's a Styrofoam prop.

At least no one's whipping him, although he's gathering a crowd as he heads downhill. Someone presses something to his mouth, but from here I can't tell what it is.
It might be a sponge, or maybe a pretzel. The soft kind that's good with mustard.

A woman's voice calls my name. I turn.
It's Willow, also from the Buffy show.



"Hey. I've been saving a seat for you" she tells me , patting the empty side of her hay bale.

"That's hay alright", I quip stupidly, sitting down.

"Every one's here", Willow informs me, gesturing with her arm. Sure enough, the whole Buffy cast is scattered throughout the crowd, along with every character on every TV show I've ever watched, including Ultraman-the real Ultraman- and Joe, the fugitive German Shepherd from the short-lived Run, Joe, Run Saturday morning TV show.

Willow passes me a perfect joint. Oh, yeah-that's the Pacific down there alright, I think as I briefly vanish into a sweetly skunky haze. As my headrush subsides, I wonder who's playing on the stage below us.

I ask Willow.

"I dunno. I was hoping you were."

"Really? I was hoping you were- that musical episode was funny as hell."

"Ooo...look!" She grabs my arm. I feel an intense tingle of pleasure from this contact. I like Willow and I'm glad she likes me.

Down by the stage, a group of people are dancing around a large bonfire. As we watch them dance, a wall of fog begins rolling in. The dancer's shadows get larger and more distinct against the mist as the fogbank thickens; in moments we are encircled by swaying, weightless giants.

I have never felt more safe in my life.

We are protected by beauty and power.

Willow says, "wow".

I agree.

Patterns

To the right is an illustration of a microphone's
pickup pattern. This particular microphone has what is known as a directional cardioid pattern -
(the term 'cardioid', aptly enough, derives from the heart-shaped response curve illustrated by the blue bands)
-in the simplest of terms, what it means is that the mic "hears" sounds that are directly in front of it
much better , i.e., louder and with more accuracy,
than it does sounds from peripheral sources...and it almost entirely rejects whatever noise is behind it.

But I'm not here to teach you about microphones. Not today, anyway.

Today, we are students and the microphone is the teacher- not the actual mic, really, but a visual representation of it's function- the graph to the right speaks to us:

Imagine, if you will, that the Front (0 degrees), is the 'Now'- that always happening moment where past, present and future meet- the Now is as close to the future as one can ever get.

Now is where the music is.
That is where you point your microphone.
That is where you aim your heart.

To the side and to the rear ( 'off-axis' in geekspeek) are sounds that you may or may not want- these might be noise or they might be musical- but what they really are, in the Now- is distraction and clutter.
Think of them as the Past and the Future. They are both friend and foe, so be careful when dealing with them.

If too many of these off-axis distractions leak into your Now, the Now becomes lost in a brownsound mudpool and you can't really hear what you are trying to listen to.
Important information vanishes into a discordant roar- think of the Beatle's Live at the Hollywood Bowl album:

What is the loudest sound on that record? Screaming.
You can barely decipher what song the Moptops are playing, but you sure as hell can hear the screaming.

That is the sound of the Past. Like any life ( life, not live- no typo) recording , it is going to include some screaming. It's part of the package. But that particular recording is all screaming and if you listen to the screaming Past too long you will be driven into madness. Ignoring it entirely presents the same risks.
We need those screams to remind us that the Past is still there, but care must be taken that it does not drown out the Now.

That's the simple part and it took me forty years to learn it.

Here's where it gets complicated and just a bit anti-intuitive:

The Future is the sound that is behind the microphone- a good directional mic will barely hear the Future- most of the sounds of the future are just the echoes of the Past and the Now reverberating off the walls of perception - and yes, Mr. Huxley, if perception has Doors, it most certainly has walls- it can be interesting to listen to, but it's never very clear what exactly it is that we are hearing.

That is because we cannot be entirely certain what the Future sounds like. We can look behind us, around us and even look forward, but the best we can do is make a guess based on what we know about the Now and the Past.

For example, let us say that we have learned from the Past that if a freight train is passing through our backyard, the sound of that train is going to bleed into and probably ruin everything we try to record while the locomotive is roaring by.

Pause. Turn off the tape deck and take a break until the train passes. It may take longer than we'd like, but it will pass. It always does.

So now we know not to attempt to record during times of heavy local railways traffic; even if the sound of a passing train does fit nicely with certain Blues, we are not looking for the Blues.
We are not looking for anything definable, really- that's part of the mysterious Future- we just don't want any more Blues Trains ruining our otherwise sparkling recording. That is one reason why we must remember the past- it helps us avoid inbound trains and their potential sonic wrecks.

That doesn't mean that we need to ignore the tracks, or worse, sit immobilized on the rails, paralyzed with fright from merely thinking about all the trains that have rolled through here. That would be surrendering to the Past and that is not a good idea, because it means we forfeit the Future.

Do you ever have thoughts like this?:

"Oh my God, I can't sing right now- what if a train comes by? My song will be ruined!"

I have. These sort of thoughts are the enemy of Art. Godzilla only knows how many masterpieces have never been recorded because of this fearful thinking- but that's the Past.

There is no train Now.

But if one does come rolling through the middle of a song in the Future, we should sing louder and in harmony with its steel-wheeled thunder, because that train might just sound really good in the mix, even if we are not singing the Blues.

It's not somethingthat can be planned- you just have to do it, take a listen and see what you have.
Either it is good or it is not, but you gotta sing first and ask questions later, because we can't know where that train is heading, but we do know it is not going to be here forever.

Thanking Viacom

I would like to thank the industrious surveillance staff at Viacom for responding so quickly to my frustrated appeal to John Hodgman for the return of my overdue fifteen minutes of fame.


Note: If you want Viacom to read your blog, create labels like the ones I have below. Depending on your traffic, it's a good bet that within 24 hours, you'll get a few hits from Viacom's IP.


To Viacom: There are no videos on this blog. There never have been. But I have great ideas for content- send my people an email. We'll do lunch.

Dear John

John Hodgman has hurt my feelings. Deeply.

He didn't bother to notify me that he has a "blog". Mr. Hodgman is an expert in organic and electronic message-sending , so I can only take this oversight on his part as the emotionally devastating personal attack that it so clearly is.

I have feelings, you know. Or you would if you were really the expert you claim to be. John.



Back at the end of 2005, I recorded a radio interview with Mr. Hodgman and his book-tour partners , David Rees and Jonathon Coulton.

We were upstairs at the bookshop where the traveling trio was giving a performance and I (who, like most people at that time, had no idea who this "Hodgman" character was) started leafing through his book. Hodgman and Rees were embroiled in an incoherent imbroglio with the store owner about the number of backstage lavatories and something about a contract rider... jesus, these dudes are worse than a thousand guitarists, I thought, thumbing Hodgman's tome as the argument gradually lurched into an interview.

Hmmm... HMM! I reached over and clicked the voice recorder off.

"Cut."

"Wha... huh?" Hodgman looked puzzled. Rees and Coulton looked for a bar.

"You stole my idea."

"I did what?", asked the Man Who Would Be PC.

"You stole my idea. I invented the idea of being an expert on everything. I even have a blog about it. I make stuff up and people believe it. I am the expert expert. You are stealing my fame."

Hodgman tried using facts , copyright notices and expert opinions to prove that I was wrong, which only served to make my case because, as we both knew, an expert is someone who makes stuff up.
And he, said I, was making stuff up . The internet just wasn't big enough for two experts. What could be done?

Secrecy ensued. Whispers were shouted.

We reached an agreement. A magical ritual was devised.
I would give Hodgman 15 minutes of my Fame, and in return , he would deface a copy of his book, crossing out his name and replacing it with my own. After a suitable period of time ( six to eight weeks was our verbal agreement) had elapsed, the Fame I had loaned to Hodgman would return to me seven-fold, giving me nearly two hours return for my 15 minute investment.

That was in 2005.

I see Hodgman everywhere.
He lies to John Stewart on TV.
He's a celebrity punching-bag for some trendy kid named Mac.
He's even showing up on the Internet.

OK. He's had his fifteen minutes. Where is my two hours?

We had a deal.

So I dug out the book that we had used to seal our negotiations.

To my shock and horror, his name had mysteriously appeared where mine used to be. It was a Dorian Grey moment of clarity.



I should have known better than to make deals with a gentleman who is an expert on "common short and long cons" (pg. 148)

I'm not famous and my book is ruined. Some deal.

What Got Played

Steve Hillage- Motivation
Steve believes in Flying Saucers- I mean he really believes- but I like him for his trippy guitarineering.

Funkadelic- Who Says a Funk Band Can't Play Rock Music?
Nobody better say that. Mike Hampton and Gary Shider will kick their ass.

Talking Heads- Electric Guitar
Pentangle- Mirage
This is a beautiful song. It reminds me of Whim.

Loreena McKinnett- Sacred Shabbat

So much for the pretty stuff...

Judas Priest - Breakin' the Law
For E. She loves this stuff.

Nina Hagen- African Reggae
For me. I love this stuff.

Bob Dylan & The Band- Million Dollar Bash
Damien Dempsey- Celtic Tiger
Gentle Giant- Free Hand
This is also for E.


Iron Butterfly - Real Fright
Panic attack at a 1969 skating rink.

Genesis- I Know What I Like ( In Your Wardrobe)
Nouvelle Vogue- In A Manner Of Speaking
BeBop Deluxe- Jean Cocteau
Nods to homoscapeons.

Cocteau Twins- Violane

Alan Parsons- I Robot
P.J. Harvey - 50 ft. Queenie
This pairing of songs is of particular significance to a certain someone...


Ten Years After- Hard Monkeys
Soft Boys- Rock and Roll Toilet
This is the rock song. Hi Barb! (From me, a R&R Toilet is a good thing)

Neil Young- Revolution Blues
Captain Beefheart- A Blue Million Miles
Led Zeppelin- The Crunge
Robert Anbian & UFQ- Haikus for the White House
The Clash- Lost in the Supermarket
The Pretty Things - She's a Lover

Being Awesome is Hard Work

Remember Rube Goldberg? Rube would like my style. This is my desk at home - this morning, I waited until the last possible second to convert music from a vinyl record to a computer file .
On the right, there is a turntable- music leaves the turntable, goes into the 1970's console below it- (which actually has 'PHONO' I/O), is routed through the smaller mixer into my computer, which displays it as a wave form and converts and saves it as digital- then it goes from PC into the smaller mixer (center) and finally into my cheap-ass desk stereo and $20 speakers.

There are easier and better ways to to do this, but my way is more fun.

Anyway, I got the album recorded just in time to rush down to the station for a quick lunch. It's our Spring Fund Raiser :


Sushi!

Then I headed out to the West End for a Focus Group. That will be getting a post of it's own.

Then back to the station, where I sat in on our Local Show with DJ Jeff and MC Wendy:

I am Co-Director of Local Music and this is my section. Being Co-Director means that my colleague Mike Rutz does all the work and I get half the credit. He's pretty amazing- keeping up with all the local stuff is hard.

Anyway, I gotta get ready for tomorrow morning's show.
Tune in at 7am EST on the web.


My program is called The New Breakfast Snob- vote for it !

Full story after the dust settles....

Flat Stanley's Day of Horror

Last night Blooger wouldn't properly upload pictures. In the morning, I was delighted to see Horror on my computer. I had to wait for the plumber to get the hot water fixed, so I had me a little extra time to think this morning- and that's usually how I get myself in trouble- by thinking.
Well, maybe it's not the thinking that's the problem, it's the ideas and thoughts that come with thinking that mess things up. I started thinking that trying to make sense out of why people do what they do is about as easy and useful as trying to make a canoe out of mud. Just thinking about all that crazy uselessness made me want to do something crazy of my own. So I took Horror out on a Flat Stanley Day.

First, we had coffee and blogs."Look," squealed a giggly Horror, "I'm on TV!"

So what else is new? Fuck, I'm running late waiting for work because I had to wait for a shower- I'd better drive in and eat the parking costs...damn.

--

You know, by the time I pay for tolls and parking, I'll lose money by rushing to work. It costs almost twice as much to park for a day as I make in a hour- I'll save money by arriving at work later. I love this logic!
I opt for the noon bus. Honestly, I wasn't too keen on driving around with Horror, so the bus was kinda my excuse to keep Horror off the road, if you understand.


--
I'll give Horror credit for this : It can sell the motherfuckin' hell out of some newspapers. The last time I saw this box empty was after the Harvey family murders.

--

"No one likes me," pouted a petulant Horror as it sat alone on a cold metal bench.

If only that were true, I thought.

--



Usually, I relax and read on the bus, but today it was hard to concentrate with Horror looking at me like that.

--


Downtown Horror. It's not so bad really, except the clock in the tower Horror is leaning on has some chimes that are seriously out of tune.

It's horrible on the hour.

--


Well, here we are. There's nothing between me and the office except traffic and Horror.
That's pretty much the case every day.

--


I do not like elevators. They don't exactly fill me with Horror, but they do make me nervous. Going up?
Crowd me in with Horror and it's more like throwing up.

--


Horror likes a good cup of coffee but we don't have that kind here. I give it some decaf and hope it settles down. I have work to do and don't have time to busy myself with Horror.

--



Horror awaits me at my desk.

--


I guess all those newspapers Horror sold had to go somewhere.

--

I've seen a few training flicks about what to do in case of a mailroom Terror incident, but I'm really not sure what to do with Horror. My first impulse is to mail it somewhere very, very far away- like to the Sun. The hot part of the Sun.

--

I looked at our building's All-You -Can- Eat buffet with Horror and sorta lost my appetite.

--

A real Horror NEVER gives it away.

--
A little indoor garden of Horror brightens up the lobby.


---

And finally, home with Horror. It instinctively leapt from my hand and into my mailbox, which is where Horror customarily waits for me in the evening, nestled amongst the bills and pre-approved credit card offers.

----------

The really weird thing is I spent all day taking pictures of public Horror and no one- not my boss, no one- nobody at all even gave me a second glance or asked what was up with the Horror pics.

That's horrible.

A Picture

This plastic "horror" sign is a relic from the video room of the old comic shop. The adhesive strip on the back had long since dried and crumbled , so I propped it up on bottles of the prescription medicines I take in order to deal with daily life, thumbed the remote and took a snapshot.

Tech-Speak

Most folks are in the dark when it comes to sound engineering. That's because you have to be a genius to understand it. I've been doing it for twenty years, and like most things that I do, I've been making it up as I go along and so far, so good...but I have learned a few technical-type terms that might be of interest; perhaps even of use.

DARK: I'm sure you have heard bands referred to as being dark, i.e., gloomy or depressing. Bauhaus and Joy Division were dark bands. Lou Reed's Berlin (tips to EotR) and Neil Young's Tonight's the Night are dark albums. Nick Cave is dark, but he's so ridiculous about it that I have a hard time remembering how cool "Release the Bats" was...anyway, there's an actual technique that recording engineers use to get that "dark" sound.
It involves keeping the microphone out of direct sunlight. For certain Death Metal (Carcass, for instance) the preferred method is to record inside an actual coffin, which is why so many of those guys sound like they are singing with a mouthful of mud; it's not mud, it's actually gravefill. Keepin' it Real!
For the typically angst-ridden musician , a drawn curtain will suffice. The darkness is in your heart- but nobody understands that, man. That's why you are such a tortured artist.




BRIGHT: This is often mistaken for 'shrill'. In fact, the only solo album released by Shrill Spice was titled 'Bright '(whatever happened to the Spice Girls anyway?)
Some guitar amplifiers have a "bright" switch, as do some boombox radios. Ideally, on the guitar amp, it's a slight boost in the more audible sound frequencies of the guitar (usually slightly hi midrange), making it 'stand out' during leads and stuff. In reality, it's often another word for "piercing , squealing feedback". On the radios, the 'brightness' button is used to counteract the 'loudness' button and vice versa.
In a commercial recording 'bright' is the technical term for the recording of cheerful instruments- steel drums, xylophones, kazoos, those wind-up noisemakers you see at New Years...and it's hard to record a kazoo in the dark -why, I can't explain- so a light of an electrical nature is employed to augment the sun's muted rays. A steel drum recorded in shadows has the funereal sound of a distant tympani- turn on a light and dance around a little. No one is watching.

FORESIGHT: This is the hardest part about sound. For my purposes,it involves making sure that all of my microphones and other gear are actually working and that there is enough space in the room for the musicians to set up.
This is something that they don't seem to teach many nightclub soundmen. While I was setting up the mics for a radio show, our guests were being held hostage by the short-sighted ineptitude of the guy doing their soundcheck at the club- so all my foresight was for naught. I felt like setting up microphones- I was in that sort of mood- so it wasn't a total loss.

April Wine (A Love Story)

My doctor recently gave me a prescription for a pill called Ambien. It's intended to help with my insomnia and it really does work.
However, there are side effects.
One of them is dreams.

Ambien gives me kick-ass weird dreams...not your typical nightmares or Freudian fantasies, but really bizarre, fun and even educational visions.

Of course, this may just be the onset of schizophrenia, but for now I'm rolling with the dream theory.

Last night as I readied for bed, I took one of those magic little pills and didn't even realize I was asleep when the dreams started.

The phone rang.
I answered.

It was my Dream Girl. She was concerned about me- you may have heard in the news about some bad things that happened in my home state of Virginia. I'm not ready to get into it here, but I did need someone to talk to more than I realized.

So we talked.

One of the things I love about my Dream Girl is that she always makes me laugh, even when I really feel like crying...I think I may have cried a bit, but she didn't get scared or hang up; she stuck with me until it was time to laugh again- which didn't take long.

"These pills kick ass", I thought to myself between giggles. "I'm having a great dream and I don't even feel like I'm asleep."

We discussed the childhood traumas inflicted on us by various album covers- their artwork and the packaging...which led me to bring up King Crimson, which of course led to a discussion about the most awesome Canadian band ever- April Wine. (Hey, I already said it was a dream)

Dream asked me about a particular April Wine song. She was very persistent about it - I didn't remember the song and at that point I didn't even know April Wine were Canadian- Dream actually talked me into firing up my computer and Googling April Wine song lyrics, which is not something I would do in a non-somnambulatory, undrugged state.

"Do it!" , insisted my Dream Girl.

"Do I have to?"

"Yes! I don't have a computer and I need to know...NOW! You have to. "

"I don't really want to...", my objections were even weaker than my willpower.
Honestly, I'd do almost anything she asked me to, so Googling crap-ass power ballads from the 1980's was not so bad, all things considered. Women have asked me to do far worse things than that- and I have complied, so...

...against whatever was left of my better judgement I typed the words " I rock myself to sleep" into the search window.

Bam! There it was. Sheer bloody brilliant poetry it was- I couldn't help myself -I began reading the magical verses to my Dream, who started laughing.

"Laugh all you want, woman", I thought, " but you started this. I'm not stopping until I have read every single goddamned lyric of this wretched Poodle-Metal masterpiece to you."

So I did.

Here are the words (even when I'm dreaming, I keep my promises)- with a bit of commentary.

I Rock Myself To Sleep- April Wine

Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Thinkin' about you
Thinkin' about you

Now I wanna say
It's not the same since you went away
And it's not right
You're not here with me tonite

(If you have heard this song, you will understand that it's even sung mis-spelled. "Tonite"...pft. ...tonite is a suffix, not a word-as in "kryptonite"-duh. )

And it's a crime
Just a lying here wasting my precious time
I'm so lonely and I'm so blue
Thinkin' 'bout the things I could do to you
Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Everynight I rock myself to sleep

(Thinkin' 'bout the things I could do to you?
...I rock myself to...what? Huh? What does this mean?)


Thinkin' about you
Thinkin' about you
And I wanna know
Don't you see how you hurt me so
Goin' outa my head
Yeh I'm feelin' it since you left

And it's a crime
Just a lying here wasting my precious time
I'm so lonely and I'm so blue
Thinkin' 'bout the things I could do to you
Everynight I rock
Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Thinkin' about you thinkin' about you

* * * * * * *

"Uh, er, ah..." , I sputtered into the phone , feeling a bit awkward.

"Yes? Yes?," queried my Dream, who was breathing just a little heavier than before- must be from all that laughing, I thought.

"This song...I think it's about a guy, uh, er... jerking-off while he's fantasizing about some chick who's ditzy enough to think that this is a sexy tune."

"Yeah, it's fuckin' horrible isn't it?"

"Um, yeah. So...what are you wearing?"

Weekend Report

Saturday morning I was listening to the radio and I heard my DJ pals play a couple cuts from this album-Harper and Jugula- a 1985 collaboration between Roy Harper and Jimmy Page.

It made my bulb glow.

Seriously, as soon as I heard that, I had this brilliant flash- bright, but not blinding, if you know what I mean. I must have that album.

I called the station and spoke with my DJ pal Gene.

"Gene", I asked, " do you have that album?"

He said it came in with a batch of old records he was sorting through at work.

Gene has the second-worst job on the planet. The poor guy runs a business that sells records on-line. I think he has six million albums. Anyway, about the only thing worse than selling records is playing them; and Gene, on top of all that , is also a DJ- which is the worst job on the planet. The poor man just can't seem to catch a break.

It about broke my heart listening to all the great music he was forced to handle, so I thought maybe I'd see if I couldn't ease his burden a bit.

"Why don't you give me that record?", I offered. "That way you wouldn't have to own it anymore."

"Well...uh, er..." Oh. I see. Gene is one of those businessmen who thinks his company should actually make money. Capitalist!

"OK. How much are you asking for it?"

"...I bought it for myself. I'm not selling it. I've never seen it before either."

"Gene, stop toying with me. How much?"

"Not for sale."

Begging isn't pretty but it works.

I have the LP for one week. I played it this morning, in fact.

Here's the rest of what I played this morning:

Joe Jackson- Sunday Papers
I used to listen to this on a shoebox-sized cassette Walkman while I delivered the Sunday papers in Columbia , Md. Now I'm playing it on-air. Yeah!

P.J. Harvey- Send His Love to Me
The sound of a woman yearning turns me on. This is some seriously yearning music.

Steve Hillage- Palm Trees (Love Guitar)
He's a dippy hippie but he's no fool when it come to guitar FX- that's analog delay, not digital. Analog sounds better and Steve knows it.

Roy Harper & Jimmy Page- Elizabeth
When this winter is over Elizabeth
I will come for you
Bearing songs on the wings
Of great happiness
-Roy Harper


Loreena McKennitt- Mystic's Dream
The first time I heard McKennitt sing I was done for. This is beautiful, eyes-closed listening music.

Golden Palominos- Pure
This would be a great song to make out to. At least I think it would.

The Beatles- Don't Let Me Down
Beatles.OK? OK?

Claanad- The Hunter
I play this band a lot. It's because I like them.

Quiet Sun- Mummy was an Asteroid, Daddy was a small non-stick kitchen utensil
I've already blogged about this record, but ya gotta love the title to this instrumental.

Led Zeppelin- Down by the Seaside
I could do a whole show just playing all four sides of Physical Graffiti and talking about how great it sounds. I'm not kidding.



Be-Bop Deluxe- Ships in the Night
Would someone please give Bill Nelson some props? The dude helped invent New Wave. It didn't suck when he played it either.

The Stranglers- Ships That Pass in the Night
Gutter-punk with naked mohawk chicks or elegant New Wave ballads with classical finesse? Depends on which album you're listening to.

Pretty Things- Come See Me
"Baby, I'm your man...I'm your man-n-n-n-"

Nina Hagen- Wir Leben Immer Noch (Lucky Number)
I really like Nina Hagen. You either do or you don't and I do.

Pere Ubu- Worlds In Collision
One of my favorite bands. I met Dave Thomas when he visited the station. I said "hello". He said "what's up?"

Brice Woodall- Control Freak
Richmonder who moved to Chicago. I love the way this disc sounds. Dude has a voice and an ear and both are awesome.

Damien Dempsey- Celtic Tiger
Another random internet love-at-first-listen; now a regular on the show. Great songwriter, fookin' brilliant, really.

Mike Watt- Against The 70's
Ex-Minutemen bassist sings a song warning kids not to buy into baby-boomer sentimentality for the 1970'S

Jethro Tull- We Used To Know
Jefferson Starship - Devil's Den
Lou Reed- Vicious
Three baby-boomer songs from the 1970's, played for sentimental reasons.

Paw- Seasoned Glove
This song is sung from the POV of a little boy whose drunken father never comes home at night. I know, kiddo, I know...

Crack The Sky- Lighten Up McGraw
If this guitar riff doesn't kick your ass you don't deserve ears.

The Kinks- Top of the Pops
The music industry has always been full of shit but the Kinks were the first band to do entire albums about it . I love the Kinks.

Robert Anbian and the UFQ- Haikus for the White House
Example:
Haiku Condi
No one so smart
She can't be stupid
Black or white

This disc is brand-new on Edgetone Records. Go buy it.



.....


In this photo (by DJ Charles Williams) the text reads: "Independent Radio Just Got Stronger", but it sort of looks like it says "stranger", not "stronger".

I'm cool with that.

********

Here's the station blog from my turn at the weekly1980's show:

Back in the early 1980's one of my high school teachers brought up the idea that an infinite number of chimpanzees equipped with an infinite number of typewriters would eventually re-create an existing literary classic, such as Shakespeare's Hamlet.

I didn't know what sort of point he was trying to make- it seemed obvious to me that the result would be an infinite number of broken typewriters and the decimation of the rainforests from the production of all those infinite reams of typing paper.

Perhaps, I added without being asked, the Reagan Administration feels that if it provides an infinite number of weapons to an infinite number of chimps, then eventually one of them would write the Peace part of Tolstoy's War and Peace.

Well, I got kicked outta class and spent the afternoon in the woods listening to The Clash's Sandinista! on my boom-box and wondering what the future would be like.
I had no idea how much it would resemble the past.
I'm even listening to the same music.

Oingo Boingo -Wake Up !(It's 1984)
XTC- Wake Up!
Stranglers- Let Me Introduce You to the Family
Listen to that guitar...that's insane...truly whacked.

Keith Levene- Cops Too
The Proclaimers- 500 miles ?
Bernie Krause- Jungle Shoes
The Clash- Police on my Back
This song takes me back...some good, some bad.

Dave Stewart/Barbara Gaskin- Henry and James
Troublefunk- All Over the World
Snakefinger- The Golden King
Snakefinger is one of my all-time guitar heroes. After his only Richmond show, I got high and hung out with him and his band for hours...they were genuinely nice people who couldn't believe that this skinny little kid knew all their songs- I got them to autograph my albums and gave Snake a giant bud for the road. A month later Snakefinger died. I haven't gotten over it yet.

Ozzy- Mister Crowley
Kate Bush-Running up that Hill ( A Deal With God)
Devo- Jerkin' Back and Forth

The only thing that's more fun than playing Ozzy back-to-back with Kate Bush is using Devo to illustrate the irony. Honestly, life really doesn't get much better than this.


Neil Young- No More
It's Neil Young. It's about addiction and the guitar sounds amazing. Mmmmm...

Husker Du- Never Talking to You Again
Dream Syndicate- Until Lately
Grace Jones- Everybody Hold Still
The Damned- Grimly Fiendish
Dukes of Stratosphere- Have You Seen Jackie?
Lou Reed- The Blue Mask
This song is twisted, like totally fucking bent. But it doesn't have any cuss words, so I can play it. Twin feedback guitars, panned hard left and right. It's why Godzilla gave stereo two channels.

Peter Tosh- Bumbo Klaat
You can't even say "Bumbo Klaat" in Jamaica without getting murdered and/or arrested. Seriously. Peter Tosh was a bad-ass motherfucking guitarist, but he wasn't bullet-proof.

The English Beat- Spar Wid Me
King Sunny Ade- Synchro Reprise
Magazine- About the Weather
Played from a 12" 45 rpm record. What an artifact! Nothing sounds better than 12" 45's. Seriously. (78's don't count)

Elvis Costello- Less Than Zero
X- White Girl
Tupelo Chain Sex- The Revolution Will Be Televised
Yello- Desire
My Bloody Valentine- Take My Breath Away
And how.

Cheerful despite it all

I fully intended to spend the day in a goddamn bad mood, I truly did, but sometimes things just don't work out quite the way a feller wants them to. Sometimes stuff goes wrong, even simple things like waking up in a mean-tempered cussin' kind of mood.

I don't reckon this'll make any sense to most of y'all, but on some days- and it ain't often, so don't think I'm askin' for much- some days I just want to be pissed-off. I want to wake up angry and I don't particularly go lookin' to get cheered up, if you see what I'm sayin'.

You might think: "well shit, how hard is that to do? This world ain't nothing but a winking stinkhole and if it wasn't for the rainbows and unicorns in my medicine cabinet I'd be exercising my 2nd Amendment rights until someone stopped me or I ran out of ammo. What's so damned special 'bout bein' mad as hell?"

Well, what makes it special for me is I failed at it and I'm the kind of guy who just don't sit too comfortable with failure. I wish I could say that the reason I don't sit so well with failin' is on account of being accustomed to success, but I can't rightly say that. I just ain't fond of failing , is all I can say.

So anyway, I'm waiting for the bus this morning, just enjoying the sun and reading a book like I always do, and a nice old lady carrying a umbrella starts asking me questions about the bus service.

Now, me and the old lady both know that there ain't a goddamn bit of sense in talking about the bus since there ain't nothin' you can do but wait no matter how much talking gets done, but she just wants to talk because she didn't think to bring a book. It's a sunny day and she's carrying an umbrella , so I speculate to myself that this lady isn't so hot in the thinking department. I'm too much a gentleman to tell her that ,though.

"It'll be here soon," is what I say, which is true, even if I don't exactly know what minute it'll arrive.

She starts describing the weather conditions to me, like we are talking on the phone and I'm somewhere else, somewhere that's always dark and wet and I don't have a fucking clue in my clammy heart what a blue sky looks like. Which is kinda true, but she doesn't know that.

It is beautiful.
I agree with her and keep reading.

In the book, Marvin Molar has snapped. He's tied a rope to the boat's wheel and grabbed a hatchet.

"Oh, what a nice cat", says my wrinkly new pal, pointing across the street. "Here kitty! Here kitty!"

What I feel like saying is :" Lady, that's my fucking cat and it's the second dumbest animal on this planet and if it even thinks you are calling it, it'll probably run over here and get flattened by the goddamn bus we were just talking about. The shock of seeing it will probably kill you and if it doesn't , I might."

"He's a sweetie," is what I say, but I send a look at my cat that says: "Get near the kerb and I'm gonna spank you with a broom." He gets the message and slinks off.

Meanwhile, Marvin has walked in on Hester while she's fucking the Greek. I feel Marvin's anger rising from the pages- its much hotter than mine- and I'm almost envious of the purity of Marvin's rage. Almost.

"Is this the downtown bus?"

"Yes. Right on time."

I don't know if it's on time or not, but I'm trying to be reassuring. All hell is about to break loose in my book and I don't want the old lady to be spooked any more than she has to be, which is sayin' not spooked at all.

The lady boards the bus and hands the driver a twenty. I don't have to be a mind-reader to figure out what he's thinking. He's thinking: "This isn't a fucking taxi."

I'm on the steps below her and I'm thinking that I've got my nose about eighteen inches from a pair of adult diapers. I'm so convinced of this thought that I feel safe in calling it knowledge, which isn't always as great a thing as it's cracked up to be.

But I don't say that. Instead I swipe my bus pass through the meter a second time and smile at both her and the driver.
Such a nice young man.
Everyone smiles back at me. The whole bus is smiling.

In the book, Hester is smiling too. Marvin hits her in the mouth with the hatchet.


It cheers me up and makes me fail at being pissed-off, which would make me angry if I wasn't in such a good mood.

Marvin spins on a fingertip and waits for the Coast Guard.

I go to work and wait for five o'clock.

Goodbye

1922-2007

A Bad Way to Start the Day

Yesterday was a really enjoyable day. After work I ran into an old friend at the market and it was a genuinely good moment- like a mutual :" wow! not only can I not believe that you are still alive, but you actually look healthy!"

It was reassuring to see someone else who lived through the 'party years 'and came out more or less intact- it really was. I went home feeling good about the present and hopeful about the future, which is a fairly new and unfamiliar mindset for me, but one that I enjoy a lot and could really get used to.

I wrote to friend about how happy I was - and I wasn't even high.

I must be pretty well-adjusted, I congratulated myself.

That was a jinx.

This morning I couldn't find my wallet or my work IDs. They are always in the same place, so I never look for them until it's time for the bus.

They were not there.
I missed the bus.
I looked everywhere- nowhere to be found.
I missed the next bus.

Owww...my stomach starts hurting. No fair!
My guts are on fire. I feel sick.

I know it's just stress, but knowing that doesn't untie the knots in my bowels, it just makes me angry at myself for letting the stress bother me so much, which makes the knots constrict, which makes me angrier at myself...so I distract myself with nightmare scenarios about what is happening with my wallet and ID , which I was certain had fallen into the wrong hands.

Called my bank. No activity on my account. Good.

But one of my passkeys is for the Federal Reserve Building. What if some psycho uses it to get inside and does some crazy shit that I get blamed for? I know it's pretty damned unlikely that such a thing would occur , just like I knew that my heart probably wasn't going to stop beating in the next ten seconds- but it didn't stop me from feeling these fears.

I was going into panic mode without knowing it- and I really should know better.

Then the phone rang.

I should have known better to answer it, but I thought it was work and I needed to call in anyway.

It was a collection agency. From a medical visit in November that should have been workman's comp. It was all straightened out by my former employer- they asked me for the bills and told me they'd cover it, since it was on-the-job. I had all the paperwork saved- I had mailed it months ago, but kept copies just in case.
I told the agency that I'd fax that stuff directly to them and they said fine, no problem.

Well, damn. I can't find that paperwork anywhere. It must be with my wallet, which I can't find either.
I'm shaking and sweating. The panic is here.
I've let it get to me.
All the crap I've been through and a little thing like a lost wallet is going to break me?
That sucks.

I take a pill and walk around the block. I feel the chemical comfort , just as warm as the sunshine on my face. I smile at a jogger and he smiles back.

I pet someone else's cat.

I look at a bucket of spilled paint on an otherwise pristine and newly renovated porch. There are sneaker prints, yellow on gray, in a sort of tip-toe circle around the spill. What a mess.
Bummer for them, but it cheers me up for some reason.

When I return home, I feel almost human. I call my old employer- they say :"don't worry, just have them send us the bills, we'll get it fixed- it's only $65, we'll cover, no sweat".

Hey! That's pretty cool! I still can't find my wallet though.

And it's too late for me to go to work. I'm out a day's wages and I'm too tranquilized to be very productive.

The phone rings again. I answer without thinking, that's how mellow I am.

It's a Focus Group company that I have done a number of Focus Groups for. At a FG, a group of demographically correct persons are presented with products and asked to evaluate them.

One time I tasted unmarked sodas and told them I disliked them all, which was true. I got $50 and a box lunch for those opinions.

Another group was comprised entirely of male whiskey drinkers.

( note: if a FG company calls you, tell them that you use whatever product/service they are asking about, even if you don't. If you are not a potential customer , they won't select you)

We were presented with a great number of experimental bottle and label designs and asked to rate them on a scale of 1 to ten and give a short explanation as to why we did or did not like them.
Our group were all expecting to be sampling the products , not looking at labels, but we set about doing as we were asked. They were paying $100, after all.

One of the bottles - I forget the brand, Old Overcoat, I think it was- was a 'novelty' design, shaped just like an American football with a spout at one tip and a small square base at the other. It was full of brown liquid and really did look like a football standing upright on a kicking tee.
About five seconds after the instructor left the room, one of my groupmates started making little feint passes with the football bottle- we knew we were being observed, but I am sure we'd have started tossing that thing around if we weren't under adult supervision...anyway, when the instructor came back and asked for our ratings, we all started laughing.

One gentleman raised his hand.

"Y'all need to make that football bottle outta plastic. That glass is gonna bust upside somebody's head."

"Upside some...?", asked the instructor.

"Yeah. Like when you're playin' catch.", I chimed in.

A younger kid bipped himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand to illustrate what we meant.

"So...you feel safety may be an issue."

"Liability too, " said the man who wanted the plastic bottle.


Anyway, I just found out that next week I will get paid $75 to spend an additional $75 on stuff I get to keep at a well-known Big Box store with a local HQ. This company recently laid off most of it's best salespeople and replaced them with scrubs. It was in the news.

As a result, service sucks and sales are down. Who could have guessed?

My mission is to "mystery shop" and report back on my experience for a total of $150 in cash and prizes- so I'll make up the money I missed at work today- and I never would have gotten the call if I'd gone to work. So at least that worked out. Whew!

Fuck. I might as well get my birth certificate and SS papers and head down to DMV and get a new driver's license- then I can go to the bank and cancel my debit card and withdraw a few bucks until I get a new card.

So I walk out to my car- which I see I have left unlocked- and there they are.

My wallet and IDs, on the passenger seat where I left them last night.