12.05.2003
how the mantle of rock became a paper crown
Whew. I really can't drink. Either that, or Jim Beam really truly and deeply disagrees with me. Two or three whiskey sours passed my lips, and I think at one point I downed a Negra Modelo. Regardless, I feel pooped today. Not hungover. Just ramshackle. And it's snowing outside. I suspect it's a soup day.
Last night was fun. A fairly low turnout for Barrett's comp. It looks nice--his friend Stephanie did a fantastic job. Poor Steve. He paid for those things out of pocket, you know, and all admission is supposed to go toward the manufacturing of the CD. Yeah, he was bummed, but at least he was a good sport about the whole thing. I even forked over six clams to buy one. Just to help with the cause.
The most memorable set of the show was delivered by New Planet Trampoline, who have become more of a early Pink Floyd (i guess. i dunno)/ psychedelic garage rock juggernaut. Holy cats! Then New Lou Reeds were on, sloshing our way through a drunken set. I was having fun, but was a bit disoriented. I took my glasses off. Stephe was rockin', tho'. And if he's up in front having a good time, people will have a good time, too.
I ain't pressed. On with the weekend, I say.
Last night was fun. A fairly low turnout for Barrett's comp. It looks nice--his friend Stephanie did a fantastic job. Poor Steve. He paid for those things out of pocket, you know, and all admission is supposed to go toward the manufacturing of the CD. Yeah, he was bummed, but at least he was a good sport about the whole thing. I even forked over six clams to buy one. Just to help with the cause.
The most memorable set of the show was delivered by New Planet Trampoline, who have become more of a early Pink Floyd (i guess. i dunno)/ psychedelic garage rock juggernaut. Holy cats! Then New Lou Reeds were on, sloshing our way through a drunken set. I was having fun, but was a bit disoriented. I took my glasses off. Stephe was rockin', tho'. And if he's up in front having a good time, people will have a good time, too.
I ain't pressed. On with the weekend, I say.
12.04.2003
everything up to you
Last night after Hook Boy practice I think I unconsciously went with the spirit of the crazy jam session at the end of the night and took in U.S. Maple at the Grog Shop. I could have went for the powerful pop revelry that is the Washington Social Club at the Beachland instead, but since I haven't seen Maple in years, I thought I was long overdue for the flavor of mind-blowing and ear-scrambling rock music they bring.
A friend who was at the show said, "They suck. This is awful." "I can't really defend it," said I. "It is what it is, and it ain't for everyone." Even though these guys have acquired a new drummer over the last few years, which has signalled more of a leaning toward near-zeppelinesque riffery (that's a stretch, but for them, yeah, it's some kind of bonham/page creeping into the mix), they're still a difficult listen. The only comparison--and it's one that writers have to make, in order to plead their case to their audience--is between U.S. Maple and, say, Trout Mask Replica. Mind you, I'm not even the biggest fan of that Beefheart record. It's the only thing that might work when trying to explain Maple's cubist/dada/crack the egg and put it back together ethos.
And as in the case of Trout Mask Replica, I find it hard to only sit back and listen. I've noticed this happens with many avant-garde acts I like: I need to lean forward and engage the band and the music fully. Wasco noted, "you gotta listen with your ears and your mind". With the eyes, too. Maple's a tight-wire circus act, with clowns and elephants laughing and charging and trampling all over what you thought was musically possible. There are grooves, and snatches of melody, and yes, actual songs. There's humor and menace and sex that not unlike in real life, shifts and changes and comes into focus one moment, then fades away the next. Maple's not for everyone--but I love those guys.
Speaking of love, it's going to be a local love-fest tonight: The New Lou Reeds and New Planet Trampoline cut a rug at the Beachland tonight for the release of WARNING: PLACE ARM HERE FOR AMPUTATION, a comp that local entrepeneur Steve Barrett's put together. As wacky as the idea of 2 CDs and over 50 bands is, it's nice that someone's taken the time, energy, and money to do this. Personally, I'm stoked to be playing with New Planet; they've been supporters of the New Lou Reeds for a little while now (ever since Jeffo and I joined the band). Meanwhile, Jeff and I do enjoy the heavy acid rock of NPT. We're all friends, and if a crowd comes out, I'm hoping that more listeners get into the New Lou Reeds' classic rock vibe. Slowly but surely ears have been getting hip to us. I hope that remains the case!
A friend who was at the show said, "They suck. This is awful." "I can't really defend it," said I. "It is what it is, and it ain't for everyone." Even though these guys have acquired a new drummer over the last few years, which has signalled more of a leaning toward near-zeppelinesque riffery (that's a stretch, but for them, yeah, it's some kind of bonham/page creeping into the mix), they're still a difficult listen. The only comparison--and it's one that writers have to make, in order to plead their case to their audience--is between U.S. Maple and, say, Trout Mask Replica. Mind you, I'm not even the biggest fan of that Beefheart record. It's the only thing that might work when trying to explain Maple's cubist/dada/crack the egg and put it back together ethos.
And as in the case of Trout Mask Replica, I find it hard to only sit back and listen. I've noticed this happens with many avant-garde acts I like: I need to lean forward and engage the band and the music fully. Wasco noted, "you gotta listen with your ears and your mind". With the eyes, too. Maple's a tight-wire circus act, with clowns and elephants laughing and charging and trampling all over what you thought was musically possible. There are grooves, and snatches of melody, and yes, actual songs. There's humor and menace and sex that not unlike in real life, shifts and changes and comes into focus one moment, then fades away the next. Maple's not for everyone--but I love those guys.
Speaking of love, it's going to be a local love-fest tonight: The New Lou Reeds and New Planet Trampoline cut a rug at the Beachland tonight for the release of WARNING: PLACE ARM HERE FOR AMPUTATION, a comp that local entrepeneur Steve Barrett's put together. As wacky as the idea of 2 CDs and over 50 bands is, it's nice that someone's taken the time, energy, and money to do this. Personally, I'm stoked to be playing with New Planet; they've been supporters of the New Lou Reeds for a little while now (ever since Jeffo and I joined the band). Meanwhile, Jeff and I do enjoy the heavy acid rock of NPT. We're all friends, and if a crowd comes out, I'm hoping that more listeners get into the New Lou Reeds' classic rock vibe. Slowly but surely ears have been getting hip to us. I hope that remains the case!
12.01.2003
the thanksgving wrap/rap
I'm gonna get nice with my posting. I just put up the RFTT show details, and will post this seperately. My sleepy rants on the Jones Benefit show took more space than I thought!
Let's backtrack a bit: the New Lou Reeds hit Edison's for a Thanksgiving night set in front of a tryptophanic crowd. Apparently these sleepy nodders loved it. Even the bossman of the joint dug on it; I've heard through the electronic grapevine that he'd like to have the NLRs do some regular sets on weekend nights. We'd make some bread, drink some free beer, and probably meet some women (did I say that?). I mean, we'll probably hone our chops. Isn't just about the music, dude?
Color me psyched. The band Sounder was kind enough to let us use their gear as a backline, but as is often the case with borrowed gear, none of us felt 100% comfortable with the tools before us. They've got fine equipment, but after a while of practically sleeping with the usual complement of knobs and gears and buzzes, it's hard to mix it up so suddenly. I know I had a hard time hearing Jeffo, and a tough time getting my big bass to have the usual rude bottom and bossy sustain. Stephe sounded clear as a bell in my ears, however, and I was able to at least follow his lead. We're at the Beachland on Thursday, and I'm sure it'll be better and tighter. Oh. And we might actually have some serious practicing, which is ultimately what contributed to our musical shakiness at that gig.
On Saturday, CV took two cars and rolled out to a lovely music venue, Skully's, located in not-so lovely Columbus. I've never really had that much fun playing in Columbus; this was a real change of pace. Good sound, a nice-sized stage, well-lit, the whole business. Sure, it's great to get down in some beery hellholes, but it's also nice to have the bourgeois benefits of high technology. Despite the fact that I couldn't hear myself (I'd walk back in front of the amp and make out the notes from the vibrations hitting my lower legs), I do believe we rocked thoroughly. Mark and Tim were just doling out ass-kickings from the get-go. It's nice to hear them lock in with that behind-the-beat technique that my hyperactive ears can't master. It was also nice to hang out with friends new and old: Columbus writers/musicmen Stephen Slaybaugh, Chip Midnight; Cory Hance from Chicago's triumphant power-pop trio the Cells (who I haven't seen in at least five years!); the Patsys and the Diverters; 'natti CV fans/roadies Chris Wasson and his wife; the lovely Anna whose last name eludes me, and last but not least, the fabulous black bean burger I had for dinner. Now that's some vegetarian finery!
Let's backtrack a bit: the New Lou Reeds hit Edison's for a Thanksgiving night set in front of a tryptophanic crowd. Apparently these sleepy nodders loved it. Even the bossman of the joint dug on it; I've heard through the electronic grapevine that he'd like to have the NLRs do some regular sets on weekend nights. We'd make some bread, drink some free beer, and probably meet some women (did I say that?). I mean, we'll probably hone our chops. Isn't just about the music, dude?
Color me psyched. The band Sounder was kind enough to let us use their gear as a backline, but as is often the case with borrowed gear, none of us felt 100% comfortable with the tools before us. They've got fine equipment, but after a while of practically sleeping with the usual complement of knobs and gears and buzzes, it's hard to mix it up so suddenly. I know I had a hard time hearing Jeffo, and a tough time getting my big bass to have the usual rude bottom and bossy sustain. Stephe sounded clear as a bell in my ears, however, and I was able to at least follow his lead. We're at the Beachland on Thursday, and I'm sure it'll be better and tighter. Oh. And we might actually have some serious practicing, which is ultimately what contributed to our musical shakiness at that gig.
On Saturday, CV took two cars and rolled out to a lovely music venue, Skully's, located in not-so lovely Columbus. I've never really had that much fun playing in Columbus; this was a real change of pace. Good sound, a nice-sized stage, well-lit, the whole business. Sure, it's great to get down in some beery hellholes, but it's also nice to have the bourgeois benefits of high technology. Despite the fact that I couldn't hear myself (I'd walk back in front of the amp and make out the notes from the vibrations hitting my lower legs), I do believe we rocked thoroughly. Mark and Tim were just doling out ass-kickings from the get-go. It's nice to hear them lock in with that behind-the-beat technique that my hyperactive ears can't master. It was also nice to hang out with friends new and old: Columbus writers/musicmen Stephen Slaybaugh, Chip Midnight; Cory Hance from Chicago's triumphant power-pop trio the Cells (who I haven't seen in at least five years!); the Patsys and the Diverters; 'natti CV fans/roadies Chris Wasson and his wife; the lovely Anna whose last name eludes me, and last but not least, the fabulous black bean burger I had for dinner. Now that's some vegetarian finery!
ain't it fun
Word up, journal entry! I've got a hipster haze this morning--a little bit too much this n' that in the chemical department, a little bit of the Cleveland cold creeping in my lungs. I'm not looking forward to going back to that musty trap that's the Beachland basement. Duty calls, however--there's shows to book, pencils to be pushed, panic attacks to be had and beer aplenty to be shoved into coolers. I had typed up an entire itinerary for the week, which vanished when Computer decided to be extra cranky and crap out. The document wasn't well-written--it seemed laborious and fussy at the same time--so I'm not too sad it's gone the way of all data. Here goes again, I suppose, now that I'm feeling both addled and frisky on this first day of December.
Last night Beachland hosted the Jim Jones Benefit starring Rocket from the Tombs, New Salem Witchhunters, and Speaker/Cranker. It's good to know that despite all the rivalries and dusty old tomes of bullshit that so many of us in this town have memorized, internalized, and spat out chapter and verse, that there's enough of a community who can suddenly be stirred up to say, "Hey, I'm going to help out Jim Jones. He's one of the great hometown punk rockers and a swell guy you always see at shows." I'd like to think that even Jones and his dark sense of humor would appreciate the fact that in the grand scheme of things, he really hasn't done that much...and people do, in fact, care about his well-being. He didn't cure polio. He didn't part the Red Sea. He's only Jim Jones, and like so many people I know, he's spent a good deal of his life devoted to the creative. Here's what he's done: he's made memories, aided and abetted the personal histories of so many people in either an indirect or direct fashion, which is enough for others to recognize and appreciate. "Jones" in the benefit sense is an abstraction. It's one that many people here love, and at the risk of being overly gee-whillikers about it, that's pretty damn cool. There's a song that says, "can't put your arms around a memory"; but maybe it's easier that way.
People did in fact, turn out for the RFTT bash. That odd, ragged, and drunken clique of Old School Cleveland Rockers (poets, artists, record collector geeks, and more, but you get the picture) turned out en masse, though not at record levels (word is that Jones got over $3000 for his medical expenses). The Old School CLeveland Rockers come from another Cleveland: the dirty, tacky, slumberous but monolithic town of the 70s and 80s. Hence, the demographic was on the greyer side, as opposed to the demographic that must have gone to the White Stripes show accross town. Would that not have been the case! The kids don't care about Rocket, and they sure don't care about the Witchhunters. If you polled some of the vets in attendance last night, maybe they'd prefer it that way. Vets. That's the word. What does a war memory mean to a civilian with book knowledge of basic training, who's never held a gun, who's never been nicked by a bullet or seen his friends cut to red ribbons inches from his eyes? Someday the White Stripes kids will wrap their fashionable belts around their middle-aged bellies to see Jack and Meg hit the revival circuit, and they'll scoff and grow misty-eyed from either booze or the days of yore. If they had been at the Beachland, however, I think they'd have experienced more than second-hand nostalgia: the Witchhunters haven't lost a step in their wild n' woolly quest for the ultimate garage groove, giving a demerit slip to so many similar bands as they conducted rockschool. After they were done, Rocket stepped up and gave the real lesson for the night: sure, it might take a group of gruff old men a good 30 minutes of a set to warm up (cf. Cobra Verde), but when it's kickin', it's kickin' hard and accurately, as good as an old hand with a gun. Cheetah was windmilling and pacing the stage like a mafioso henchman and Television guitarist Lloyd was the scowling thug accountant who counts his sheckels with a switchblade; they both flanked the menacing frame of David Thomas, who waved his cane like a temperamental Don ready to crack skulls at the slightest flashing of his displeasure.
Last night Beachland hosted the Jim Jones Benefit starring Rocket from the Tombs, New Salem Witchhunters, and Speaker/Cranker. It's good to know that despite all the rivalries and dusty old tomes of bullshit that so many of us in this town have memorized, internalized, and spat out chapter and verse, that there's enough of a community who can suddenly be stirred up to say, "Hey, I'm going to help out Jim Jones. He's one of the great hometown punk rockers and a swell guy you always see at shows." I'd like to think that even Jones and his dark sense of humor would appreciate the fact that in the grand scheme of things, he really hasn't done that much...and people do, in fact, care about his well-being. He didn't cure polio. He didn't part the Red Sea. He's only Jim Jones, and like so many people I know, he's spent a good deal of his life devoted to the creative. Here's what he's done: he's made memories, aided and abetted the personal histories of so many people in either an indirect or direct fashion, which is enough for others to recognize and appreciate. "Jones" in the benefit sense is an abstraction. It's one that many people here love, and at the risk of being overly gee-whillikers about it, that's pretty damn cool. There's a song that says, "can't put your arms around a memory"; but maybe it's easier that way.
People did in fact, turn out for the RFTT bash. That odd, ragged, and drunken clique of Old School Cleveland Rockers (poets, artists, record collector geeks, and more, but you get the picture) turned out en masse, though not at record levels (word is that Jones got over $3000 for his medical expenses). The Old School CLeveland Rockers come from another Cleveland: the dirty, tacky, slumberous but monolithic town of the 70s and 80s. Hence, the demographic was on the greyer side, as opposed to the demographic that must have gone to the White Stripes show accross town. Would that not have been the case! The kids don't care about Rocket, and they sure don't care about the Witchhunters. If you polled some of the vets in attendance last night, maybe they'd prefer it that way. Vets. That's the word. What does a war memory mean to a civilian with book knowledge of basic training, who's never held a gun, who's never been nicked by a bullet or seen his friends cut to red ribbons inches from his eyes? Someday the White Stripes kids will wrap their fashionable belts around their middle-aged bellies to see Jack and Meg hit the revival circuit, and they'll scoff and grow misty-eyed from either booze or the days of yore. If they had been at the Beachland, however, I think they'd have experienced more than second-hand nostalgia: the Witchhunters haven't lost a step in their wild n' woolly quest for the ultimate garage groove, giving a demerit slip to so many similar bands as they conducted rockschool. After they were done, Rocket stepped up and gave the real lesson for the night: sure, it might take a group of gruff old men a good 30 minutes of a set to warm up (cf. Cobra Verde), but when it's kickin', it's kickin' hard and accurately, as good as an old hand with a gun. Cheetah was windmilling and pacing the stage like a mafioso henchman and Television guitarist Lloyd was the scowling thug accountant who counts his sheckels with a switchblade; they both flanked the menacing frame of David Thomas, who waved his cane like a temperamental Don ready to crack skulls at the slightest flashing of his displeasure.
