GimmeDanger

Oh, that magic feeling.

2011-03-03T18:37:00.000-08:00

Many of time’s most celebrated musical acts produced their celebrated music by writing songs as a group, together. Indeed, two heads are often better than one and collaboration often results in a more well-rounded product. These collaborations sometimes manifested themselves as partnerships – Jagger/Richards, Page/Plant or John/Taupin for example – that allowed each player a role in the creative process.

The relationships, like any, were at turns tumultuous and harmonious. One could convincingly argue that the state of the relationship had an influence on the resulting music and that the emotions of the people involved were partly, but not solely, responsible for the output of quality work (certainly the musicality and creativity of the individuals played a big part too).

One of the most successful songwriting partnerships was Lennon/McCartney. DUH. A friend recently argued that the work of Lennon/McCartney as Beatles was superior to the work of Lennon and McCartney as solo artists – that their partnership conjured something magical in the two of them that they could never replicate or hope to top on their own. I completely disagreed.

See, having listened to a lot of the Beatles, and having listened to a shitload of solo John Lennon lately, I’m realizing that the dissolution of the Beatles freed Lennon to pursue his own, unique brand of music – music that never would have materialized had Lennon not been free to realize his own, unique vision.

Paul McCartney was way-awesome, and his role in the musical partnership cannot be understated. But clearly, Lennon’s post-Beatles stuff wouldn’t sound anything like it does had the two collaborated on it. Just listen to the spare “God” off Plastic Ono Band and imagine how much less effective it’d be with a jaunty McCartney bass line. Or the airy “You Are Here” off Mind Games; how would that sound with a Paul-to-the-wall horn section or a busier melody? I don’t necessarily surmise that McCartney would have actually done these things if given a seat at Lennon’s songwriting table. My point is that he could have. Without Paul in the room, John could write and perform the songs just as he saw fit. It goes the other way too: McCartney’s Band on The Run wouldn’t sound like it does – hell, it wouldn’t be as awesome as it is – if Lennon had a hand in its creation.

It’s a fact that removing an element from an equation (L + Mc = magic) produces a different outcome (L – Mc = different magic or Mc – L = different magic). That point is unassailable. It’s mathematical. The understanding that those outcomes, while magical, are still incomparable apples and oranges is the takeaway here. It all boils down to personal taste, which outcome sounds better to you or which brand of magic you prefer. Because really, it’s all magic in the case of L and Mc… and oh, that magic feeling. Nowhere to go.

Top Five Albums of 2010, Honorable Mentions

2011-01-10T10:32:00.000-08:00

Dr. Dog, Shame, Shame
The fifth full-length from the Philadelphia outfit finds the group treading familiar waters. The album is another exercise in Beatles-style pop rock – fun, bouncy and well-written.

Glasser, Ring
Armed with an able voice, Cameron Mesirow made the year’s most refined electronic album. Her laptop beats form compelling textures of sound, providing a warm haven for her Enya-esque vocals.

Local Natives, Gorilla Manor
An ultra-hip L.A. indie band (with the gear, beards and haircuts to prove it), Local Natives managed to fly under the mainstream radar all year. Hard to believe considering their album is stacked with big, moving, harmony-laden songs.

Tokyo Police Club, Champ
The Canadian foursome switched labels (again) and recorded a set of lively songs (again) for their third album. (Again) the music is electro-tinged, energetic and ebullient.

Kanye West, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy
Kanye’s long-awaited album came out at the end of the year but still managed to top many of the year-end, best-of lists. Though it’s certainly dark and twisted, the album isn’t all that beautiful. Either way, it’s groundbreaking hip-hop that cements Kanye’s reputation as one of his generation’s greatest talents.

Yeasayer, Odd Blood
This hyped Brooklyn group simultaneously turned me on and turned me off. Their emo-dance album has some great moments, recalling Depeche Mode and Tears for Fears at their finest, but the cheese of some of the lyrics and the discord of some of the music are cringe-inducing.

David Bowie, Station to Station (Reissue)
Bowie’s far-out 1976 album, which he famously does not recall making, got the deluxe treatment this year. Even when coked-out and paranoid, Bowie again proved himself to be inimitable. The album also comes packaged with an unheard ‘76 show at Nassau Coliseum.

John Lennon, Mind Games (Reissue)
Timed with the 30th anniversary of his tragic death, all of Lennon’s solo material was remastered and reissued. This 1973 album, which he apparently just tossed off without much thought, is my favorite of the lot. Lush, introspective songs sidle up to sneering rock songs and make for a well-rounded pop album.

Top Five Albums of 2010, no. 1

2011-01-07T11:35:00.001-08:00

Arcade Fire, The Suburbs

A focused, ambitious album about suburban sprawl and the kids that call it home, no other release of 2010 came close to matching The Suburbs in vision, timeliness and gravitas. To say nothing of the music itself, the album identified a uniquely American sentiment, took it, and ran with it. All this from a gang of Canadians. To be specific, bandleader Win Butler and guitarist brother Will spent a solid part of their formative years on the outer edges of Houston; their experience informs much of The Suburbs.

From the defeated “Modern Man” (sample line: “I feel I’m losing the feeling”) to the triumphant “Wasted Hours” (sample line: “wasted hours that you make new, and turn into a life that we can live”), a common thread runs through all sixteen songs. The album’s central theme is clear: the cookie-cutter suburban American lifestyle is crushing individuality. It is at once impressive and depressing to hear a fantastic band describe so perfectly the gloom of the burbs and the desolation of the people living there.

The album is perfectly paced, ebbing and flowing as passionate anthems (“We Used To Wait”) seek to convert non-believers and paranoid, solemn dirges (“Sprawl I (Flatland)”) speak to those in the know. Pointed without being cynical, the album is nonetheless an attack on what has become the American Way.

But even though a pervasive mood of frustration and despair colors the set, there still exist glimmers of hope. Whether it’s the building and stacking of hooks and layers on the hipster-profiling “Rococo” or the speed-string glee of “Empty Room,” galvanizing moments of profound musical beauty can be found and felt despite the album’s overall bleak tone.

And while the tunes don’t necessarily grab at first blush, they reward repeat listens. Songs like “Half Light I” and “Month of May” can feel plain initially. However, when taken in the context of the entire 60-minute set, they become more powerful, more moving, more inclusive even.

Indeed, Arcade Fire has a reputation for making audiences feel like they’re part of something bigger than rock and roll. With this collection of arena-ready songs, emphasizing feelings to which many can relate, Arcade Fire are fast approaching U2 and Springsteen levels – levels of fame and prominence that compel millions of rapt fans to hang on every word.

The Suburbs is the band’s third album; it debuted at number one back in August. It improves on their second, which improbably improved on their first. If they continue down this path, they will undoubtedly be legends in their time. Part of this is due to the uniting power of their music. Just try to ignore the grandeur of “Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains)” or the intensity and force of “Suburban War”. So while Arcade Fire tell us that the suburbs destroy our sense of self, their fine album (so appropriate for 2010) reminds us that we’re not alone.

**UPDATE: Arcade Fire and The Suburbs were awarded the Grammy for Album of the Year.

Top Five Albums of 2010, no. 2

2011-01-06T10:38:00.000-08:00

Beach House, Teen Dream

Baltimore isn’t a city known for its friendliness. Or its beaches. But Baltimore-bred Beach House’s alluring Teen Dream feels warm and inviting. Perhaps the boy-girl duo harnessed a strange, foreign energy to craft this album, a hazy and hooky set of layered and luscious songs.

On the opening “Zebra,” organist Victoria Legrand’s subtle, androgynous vocal simultaneously demands attention and lulls into submission as guitarist Alex Scally weaves atmospheric lines into a tuneful tapestry. “Used To Be” builds and builds only to suddenly topple, leaving alone a subdued Legrand to breathily chant “any day now” over metronome ticks and keyboard swells.

Though suffused with a notable sense of calm, the album is anything but a sleeper. The music is transporting, almost mystical (particularly on “Lover Of Mine,” which finds Legrand channeling Stevie Nicks at her witchiest).

Of all the albums I bought this year, this may be the one I listened to the most. Its airy feel fits a number of different settings and lasts from start to finish. The set ends softly, almost unnoticeably, as the closing “Take Care” takes nearly three minutes to completely fade out. It’s a fitting finale to a cloudy, drifting album that holds your attention while unobtrusively fading in and out of your consciousness.

Top Five Albums of 2010, no. 3

2011-01-05T09:02:00.001-08:00

Best Coast, Crazy For You

Somehow, Beth Cosentino and co. wrote some of the most beautifully haunting, achingly lonely and touchingly poignant (but utterly simple) music of the year. All with just a handful of chords, no bass and a four-track. Seriously.

The production is muddy; the band is ON but each song still sounds like a demo. Even so, Cosentino’s voice communicates a sense of bracing honesty – that she means what she says. What she does say involves puppy-love, kitty-cats and pot-smoking. A simple girl with simple concerns making simple music, Cosentino definitely seems more interested in bongs and backyards than 401(k)s and nine-to-fives. Still, in that simplicity lies beauty. When soaked in reverb and splashed with sunshine, songs like “When I’m With You,” “Goodbye” and “Each And Every Day” shimmer like a summer day viewed through the tinted lens of a satisfying high.

The So-Cal vibe of the 13 tracks hits like waves crashing on the beach. And for one desperate moment, each song creeps back in your memory. By capably blending girl-group hooks with grunge sounds and pop stylings, the music feels familiar and comforting – like some kind of Ronette/Hole/Beach-Boy taco. It speaks to any young person, boy or girl, who’s been in a relationship, who’s felt happy or sad or jealous or apathetic, who’s maybe felt all those ways at once. Here’s hoping that the band’s superb full-length debut, which followed a series of EPs, won’t be its last release.

Top Five Albums of 2010, no. 4

2011-01-04T21:33:00.000-08:00

The Soft Pack, The Soft Pack

The front of this San Diego foursome’s album shows the group on a beach, passing a joint. They look like typical stoner rock guys: messy hair, wrinkled shirts, Ray-Ban shades. And if you were to judge this book by its cover, you might assume it was typical garage rock music. However, when you assume, you make an ASS of U and ME. The Soft Pack actually make an atypical up-tempo racket, complete with deliberately-dumb vocals and shit-shaking riffs (“Mexico” even has a bit of slide guitar).

The band’s sound owes as much to nineties noise-rockers Pavement as it does to eighties punk-rockers the Ramones. Throw in a dash of present-day indie rock to firmly plant the band in the here-and-now and you’ve got a well-rounded recipe for unabashed fun.

Take the surf-y lead guitar on “Down On Loving.” It hangs loose over the rhythm section, adding a retro jolt to an otherwise contemporary song. And the Farfisa on “Move Along”? It’s so frantic, jammed between a manic one-chord guitar attack and frenzied drums, that it tells me these boys were born to boogie. And boys they are. Really, I still don’t know whether “Pull Out” is about driving or doing it.

The band’s sense of immaturity is apparent throughout (with “Flammable,” a brash threat to burn down the house, being another example), making me think the guys are more concerned with having fun than having fans. In fact, I saw them play to a nearly empty room last spring. But with an album this catchy (and assuming they follow it up with an equally accessible release), it won’t be long before they become a hot ticket.

The Soft Pack is a glib, flippant album – perfect for an escape from reality and a journey to la-la-land – something I desperately needed in 2010.

Top Five Albums of 2010, no. 5

2011-01-03T09:50:00.000-08:00

What a year, eh? 2010 produced a glut of good music that both moved and mellowed me. To be sure, I felt more compelled to listen to new music this year than I have in recent years. Relying on word of mouth, internet buzz and magazine mojo, I was intrigued enough to buy new releases from indie crews as well as products of the major-label marketing machine. For the most part, I wasn’t disappointed…but the cream always rises to the top.

Starting today and continuing through the week, I’ll be posting reviews of my top five albums of 2010, revealing my number-one pick on Friday, January 7. Stay tuned.

The Secret Sisters, The Secret Sisters

Sisters Laura and Lydia Rogers, two gals who sing harmonies tighter than an oversized-bosom-containing bodice, came out of nowhere (well… Alabama) with this tasteful tribute to classic country music. Indeed, only two originals make the cut on the 29-minute album. The rest of the set is rounded out by choice covers from the likes of Bill Monroe, Buck Owens and Hank Williams, along with a few public-domain traditionals.

Pure and charming, the sisters’ sound harkens back to a simpler time, when the tinny sound from an old radio united friends and families around the soft glow of the dial. But just because the album has a vintage, worn-in feel doesn’t mean it lacks punch.

Executive-produced by old-timey maestro T-Bone Burnett, it features an ace band of Nashville studio veterans, all versed in the art of subtle, expressive instrumentation. For proof, check the reserved pedal steel on “The One I Love Is Gone” and the refined lead guitar on “I’ve Got A Feeling.” These two songs are also good examples of the sisters’ vocal versatility; the eerie “One I Love” calls to mind the backwoods Americana of woe-is-me country while the bouncy “Got A Feeling” recalls girl-group pop.

Certainly, their ability to cross genres is part of their appeal. That, along with their innate singing talent and the fact that they’re able to sound fresh while remaining rooted in tradition, is why the Secret Sisters are so great – and why their album is one of the best releases of 2010.

MULCH no. 3

2010-05-21T14:01:00.000-07:00

Hot off the press, here 'tis. The third issue of MULCH features a whole mess of music recommendations as well as a collection of essays. Topics include food, fashion, music and culture. Gary Blaster shows up again, answering a reader's question about genetic mutation and revealing his true identity. You can find MULCH in Portland at Powell's on Burnside (while supplies last) or you can get in touch with me and I'll mail you one.

Sooo Bro

2010-05-18T16:47:00.000-07:00

Who likes hot dogs? I know I do. Despite the common knowledge that they’re composed of lips and assholes, something just feels right the moment you bite into one, like hitting a homer. Though it’s a German food, we Americans have made it as connected to our culture as apple pie. It’s no surprise then that hot dogs are sold at almost every American sporting event, fair and festival. In fact, more hot dogs are consumed at baseball games than the storied peanuts and cracker jacks.

My appreciation of the hot dog is a deep one. Fed them as a child, I’ve always enjoyed their unique texture and familiar but hard-to-characterize flavor. It was that appreciation, and a hearty craving, that brought me to a Portland hot dog vendor last week. Bro-Dog sits among several other food carts in the pod at Southwest Fifth and Stark. It boasts as diverse a menu as you’d expect from a hot dog stand – that is to say, it’s not all that varied. While the hot dog turned out to be fine, the real treat was interacting with the guy who runs the joint.

A 30-ish man in flip-flops, cargo shorts and a T-shirt that read “Ask Me About My 10” Wiener,” he greeted me as I approached. “Hey dude! What-cha thinkin bout?” he hollered as I glanced at the set of choices. “Thinkin bout a dog, eh bro?”

“Yeah, man,” I responded. It was true: I was thinking about a hot dog.

“Dude, we got that chicken-apple dog – sooo bomb,” he emphatically stated, nodding with wide-eyed sincerity. “Or the jalapeno-cheddar dog, we got that one too, bro. It’s like ‘BOOM,’ for real!”

Clearly, this guy was serious about his frankfurters. I weighed my options as he went on about the Polish dog (“hella tight, bro; you bite into that one and it’s just like ‘aah yeeeah.’”) and busied himself behind the counter.

After he affably helped me make a choice according to my level of hunger and threw my dog (a 10-inch all-beef) on the grill, he asked if I wanted grilled sauerkraut or onions. ‘Grilled sauerkraut?’ I thought. “Yeah, man. That’d be great.”

“You got it, dude! It’s all you, baby!”

Really, the guy was pleasant enough, the hot dog was tasty, and I left satisfied. I just found it all funny; it was as if the local chapter of a fraternity had set up a hot dog stand as a fundraiser. This bro was just so bro. I guess the old adage is true: you can take the wiener out of the frat, but you can’t take the frat out of the wiener.

Rodriguez: Cold Fact

2010-03-19T09:13:00.001-07:00

My friend at Saint Cleveland turned me on to this re-released gem from 1970. Sixto Diaz Rodriguez was a full-time factory worker and a part-time freak-folkie from Detroit. His music, a blend of the fading idealism of the 1960s and his own stark vision of the future, reflects the sense of dismay coming over many rust belt residents. While the social unrest and urban decay of Rodriguez’s home city weigh heavily on his songwriting, he ably combines elements of beat poetry, psychedelic rock and funky pop to great effect. The loping strut of “Hate Street Dialogue” calls to mind another Motor City fixture, only this street-walking cheetah has a heart full of worry, not napalm. The heavy-handed “Only Good For Conversation” is part “Smoke on the Water,” part “Big Bottom” – so much so that I can almost see Spinal Tap’s Derek Smalls on the double bass when I close my eyes.

Actually, the most glaring influence on Cold Fact is Donovan: “Sugar Man” and “Crucify Your Mind” are both so Donovan-esque, with mystic hippie statements like “silver magic ships, you carry…sweet Mary Jane” over languid guitar strumming, that it’d be safe to call Rodriguez the Detroit Donovan. Conversely, “I Wonder” is straight-up doo-wop-pop with an infectious bass line and a counterculture bent.

The entire album is colored by a serious feeling of disillusion, made clearer with a pointed frustration not unlike Dylan’s. The second to last track on side two, “Gomorrah (A Nursery Rhyme),” is a haunting blues with a choir of ghosts singing “America the Beautiful” on the fadeout. The song details the seamy underbelly of not only his city (“the ladies on my street aren’t there for their health”) but “your city.” Observing Detroit as a place of poverty, squalor and depravity, Rodriguez applies his thinking to the rest of the country, commenting on the sad state of the union. Though I’m sure he wasn’t alone in his disenchantment, his record didn’t sell for shit. Here’s hoping that the recent reissue can reach a new generation of the pissed-off and bummed-out, if only so the music can be heard.

Don't hate.

2010-03-17T14:57:00.000-07:00

Robert Leo Heilman, an Oregonian, contributed a critical piece to the University of Oregon’s magazine, Oregon Quarterly, about irrational people (specifically the far right-wingers). I thought it was a tad smug, a little presumptuous, but overall, pretty thoughtful. An excerpt that I think rings especially true:

I have known a great many people over the years—nice people, decent people—who cling to harmful and repugnant beliefs that are racist, homophobic, xenophobic, misogynistic, or politically intolerant. What they all have had in common is their high levels of frustration and fear. Each has felt insecure and cheated somehow, denied their fair share of power, ignored and disrespected. Many (though not all) have been economic losers, bitter about their failure to succeed. Some have been emotional cripples, unable to sustain loving relationships and unable to tolerate ambiguity. Many have had their lives fall apart due to compulsive boozing or drug abuse or gambling. Others have simply been crushed repeatedly by an indifferent and impersonal system of things that exploits them because it is profitable to do so. Some are people who blame themselves for having suffered terrible blows that came for no good reason at all. All became, in one way or another, shell-shocked veterans of life itself.
What is there to cling to when, by your own doing or by others or by cold fate, you have lost everything? Stripped of dignity, mired in failure, caged in by tough circumstances and uncontrollable forces, what is left to people but to embrace comforting nonsense and to rage against perceived injustice?

Click here for the full piece.

Watch where you point that thing.

2010-03-03T09:31:00.000-08:00

Last Friday night Roy Messenger crashed his car into a utility pole, knocking it down and ending up in a ditch. Miraculously, the 50-year-old Elma, Washington man was uninjured. He climbed out of his car and called a relative to help him get it out of the ditch. But when his family finally made it to the scene, Messenger was dead.

So what happened? A deputy with the Grays Harbor County Sheriff's office says that Messenger must have relieved himself in the ditch while waiting for his family. He likely died after urinating on the live power line he’d downed. Though an official autopsy will confirm the cause of death, it’s apparently clear that the burn marks show where and how the electricity entered Messenger's body.

Pretty shitty way to go, if you ask me.

The T.A.M.I. Show

2010-03-02T09:41:00.000-08:00

David Fricke is a Senior Writer with Rolling Stone magazine. He’s apparently valuable enough to the famed publication that he’s allowed to choose his own assignments, writing features on the old dudes, interviewing legends and reviewing only the tastiest new albums. My favorite contribution of his to the mag is “Fricke’s Picks,” a column that gives him space to write about under-the-radar bands, reissues of forgotten records and other music minutiae.

In the latest issue, Fricke talks about “The Greatest Rock Concert Movie Ever.” I couldn’t agree more with his choice. He writes:

All that is dull and predictable in modern rock-show films – caffeinated-jitter edits, hagiographic close-ups, the cheesy melodrama backstage – can be traced to this fact: The best example of how to do it right, The T.A.M.I. Show – a 12-act revue topped by James Brown and the Rolling Stones, shot live in Los Angeles with a delirious audience on October 29th, 1964 – has been officially unavailable, in its entirety, for more than four decades. The T.A.M.I. Show: Collector’s Edition (Shout! Factory) is the movie’s first release on DVD. Class starts now.

The first lesson: Get to the music, immediately. After breezy opening scenes of the artists heading to the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium – Smokey Robinson and the Miracles in a limo, hosts Jan and Dean on skateboards – director Steve Binder (who later directed Elvis Presley’s 1968 TV special) jumps to a sly, bracing zigzag of Fifties roots and Liverpool cheek, Chuck Berry alternating hits with Gerry and the Pacemakers. Everything follows at the same velocity – Marvin Gaye’s manly lust into Lesley Gore’s vengeful-schoolgirl sugar; the proto-garage rock of the Barbarians.

There are also long, magnetic highs, when a single camera finds a thrill and stays there. When the Beach Boys (with a smiling Brian Wilson on bass) leap into “Dance, Dance, Dance” like the Ramones with tans, you see Dennis Wilson racing at the drums like Keith Moon during all of Carl Wilson’s guitar solo. In “Prisoner of Love,” Brown’s face slowly fills the lens as he staggers offstage, in his cape, before spinning back to the mike for more spectacular agony.

The Stones follow Brown’s set (the first time many white teens saw such black fire) with a prophetic mettle. The extended leaping-devil shots of Mick Jagger capture him sharpening the sex and danger in his own R&B choreography. Note the glimpses of a cocky, grinning Brian Jones and, too, the way Keith Richards plays guitar while facing drummer Charlie Watts. Some things, even in rock-concert films, never change.I’m glad the movie is finally hitting shelves. I remember reading about the legendary show a few years ago (T.A.M.I. stands for Teenage Awards Music International) and, as a serious Stones fan, being seriously intrigued. The film being officially unavailable, I ended up finding a bootleg on eBay and having it shipped from Brazil. It did not disappoint. In addition to publishing and distribution disputes way back when, I think that some of the artists held up its official release for whatever reason. Though my version has performances by the Ronettes and Ray Charles, they don’t appear on the version now available. Either way, the movie is a must-see, must-hear if only for JB and the Stones. You buy!

the games

2010-03-01T09:12:00.000-08:00

The 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver officially ended last night with the closing ceremony. It was an eventful affair to say the least, with the tragic death of a young luger, a high-stakes skiing competition, and a nail-biting men's hockey final all making for over two weeks of exciting thrills and spills. When it was all said and done, the United States had been awarded 37 medals, the highest total count. Germany was second with 30 and Canada was third, finishing with 26. Canada did however earn 14 gold medals, the most any host-country has ever received and a record that any other nation would be proud to set.

I'm reminded of something I wrote about national pride during the summer games of 2008: http://gimdang.blogspot.com/2008/08/pride.html.

Tacos, man.

2010-02-26T09:23:00.000-08:00

What’s so great about a taco? Some might say, “big whoop, it’s just a few things in a tortilla.” I say, Really? That’s like saying a Rothko painting is just a few colors on a canvas. To the uninitiated, I suppose that could be true but, to others in the know (those with an appreciation for the finer things), that couldn’t be further from the truth. The singular joy of the taco has as much to do with what’s in it as what isn’t in it. Less can be more, there is beauty in simplicity.

Take the carnitas taco. Simply stated, it’s a pork taco. This pork however, at once tender and caramelized to a crisp, is magical. Slow-cooked with salt, oregano and cumin (along with the chef’s choice of other herbs and spices) and typically garnished with a bit of cilantro, onion and queso fresco, it is often served on a hand-sized, hand-made corn tortilla. A good one is rapture, a bad one can still be pretty good. More importantly, the taco is not weighed down with excess ingredients that might otherwise overwhelm or distract the eater.

The pork is the centerpiece – taking the focus from it would be a disservice to the chef and his/her creation. The same can be said for the carne asada taco, the tinga taco and the pollo asado taco. All feature a lovingly prepared meat as the focal point, no more than three complementary extras, and sometimes a salsa. Distinguished more by the main part than the sum of many other parts, the taco is a lot like the Cleveland Cavaliers – a great team of guys that play well together with one main guy that leads and carries the team. LeBron James is the meat – consistently good and essential to the taco’s success.

Though the tortilla on which it’s all presented is basically just a vessel, its importance cannot be understated. Warm and flexible, its subtle taste and texture hold everything together, literally and figuratively. The tortilla might even be more important than the meat – if it were to tear, the taco would cease to be a taco. If it broke down, the taco would fall apart. Think about it this way: if the taco is like the Cavs, then 2009 NBA Coach Of The Year Mike Brown might be the tortilla.

I’m not saying the taco is the perfect food. I’m just saying it's fundamentally the best. Just because the taco doesn’t always wow or hit every time doesn’t mean it’s not king. Even LeBron misses sometimes. The star of the team, the star of the taco – either way you look at it – the meat is still the main attraction, the star of the show. It can stand alone, but it tends to do a little better with some accompaniment.

just a thought

2010-02-25T08:56:00.000-08:00

We use tools for any number of things. A screwdriver screws, a drill drills, a saw saws. Necessity being the mother of invention, all tools were thus born of a direct need to serve a specific purpose. So what was the first tool?

In all likelihood, it was probably the hammer. Or something like a hammer – an object for striking, pounding and crushing. The hammer is, to this day, the most rudimentary tool. Its action is basic, its use simple, its result predictable. Still, I’m thinking that it might not have been the first tool.

Consider the backscratcher. Or something like a backscratcher – an object that reaches where a hand cannot to satisfy that most primal of urges.

We’ve all experienced the torture of an itch that just can’t be scratched. We’ve seen pets flip out, twisting their bodies to feverishly gnaw at a patch of skin. We’ve seen videos of bears rubbing against trees, the satisfaction on their faces almost perceptible. It’s such an animal instinct that I have a hard time believing that a primitive human wouldn’t do anything in his power to get relief from a nagging itch.It makes sense that a scratching tool (doubtless just an unaltered stick) was the first tool, the first object utilized for a particular function. It was also perhaps the spark that ignited the fire of discovery, opening the developing mind to hunting-and-gathering tools. Some might stake this claim against a spear, a blade, a digger and a hammer. How might an enterprising human know that a spear could pierce, or a blade could cut and scrape, or a digger move earth, if not for a scratcher’s effect on his skin? Just a thought.

sing to me

2010-02-24T14:34:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I hear things. I hear things in the white noise of a ceiling fan, in the dull tumbling of the drier, and in the forced air of the furnace. What I hear sounds like a band. Or a voice. Like a distant radio, it’s faint but nonetheless present.

Though I can almost make out a tune, I’m quite sure the dishwasher isn’t really playing music. My refrigerator didn’t come equipped with the AM/FM option and the microwave isn’t tuned to my frequency. So what am I hearing? And why?

I don't know. Perhaps it’s a subconscious thing. Is my brain conditioned to create rhythm or cadence from an otherwise bland sound? Maybe it’s an inner attempt to spice things up a bit. Of course, I could just be going crazy.

The faucet speaks to me, too.

Best of 2009

2010-01-19T21:31:00.000-08:00

I don’t listen to a lot of new music. Regardless, two of my favorite releases of 2009 are described below. In trying to decide which was best, which deserved to be GimmeDanger’s album of the year, I had a fairly difficult time. Both are great front to back, both were well-received, and both will likely stand the test of time. But one album was about coming together -- one album was about breaking apart. And that, not the artistic merit or songwriting prowess of the creators, made all the difference.

GIMDANG album of the year:
Monsters of Folk, Monsters of FolkA band’s music is the sum of its parts. When those parts are Jim James of My Morning Jacket, Conor Oberst and Mike Mogis of Bright Eyes, and M. Ward of uh, M. Ward fame, it’s not presuming to expect the Voltron effect. That I haven’t listened to much of these guys individually doesn’t preclude me from saying that they’re great together.

Though the band has been endlessly compared to the super-groups of yesteryear, Monsters of Folk are no Traveling Wilburys. True, there is a very real sense of mutual respect, of fun and community – the sound of four fine musicians creating a joyful noise. But unlike the Wilburys, the Monsters don’t share the same influences. They don’t really even play the same kind of music with their respective bands. I liken it to a jigsaw puzzle with each member as a piece. The Wilburys fit together seamlessly, resulting in a fine (albeit simply constructed) product. The Monsters however, don’t fit together as easily; their edges don’t quite line up and a little more effort is required to complete that fine finished product. Therein lies the beauty of this album: those pieces, and the very different ingredients they bring to the table, combine to great effect the same way a perfect recipe does.

The first single, “Say Please,” is a testament to the power of a band in its simplest, most pure form (check out the video). Everyone sings a verse, everyone plays an instrument and every individual unites to make music. The fact that they’re all exceptionally talented doesn’t hurt either.

Instead of sticking to down-home folk rock (as the moniker implies), the band members flesh out their own sounds with the help of the others. Though the main songwriter for each song is clear, their different styles mesh well together. The freewheeling bounce of the MMJ-sounding “Losin Yo Head” is anchored by Mogis’ deft bass work. The poetic and pointed lyrics of Oberst get the M. Ward treatment on “Ahead of The Curve” as urgency is abandoned and the pace is slowed to the speed of the song’s subject, a restless drifter. The moments when the band really falls in line are awe-inspiring. The campfire strumming and gentle pulse on “Temazcal,” the toe-tapping Everly-Bro time of “Baby Boomer,” the remarkably close harmonies on the ultra-soft “Sandman, The Brakeman and Me” – all are transcendent.

The unheralded champion of the album is multi-instrumentalist Mike Mogis. The dobro on “Goodway,” the mandolin on “The Right Place,” and the Wurlitzer effects and pedal-steel accents he peppers throughout are simply sublime. Though he takes a vocal back seat, his recording and mixing contributions are innumerable.

Anything but a vanity project, the entire album is an impeccably-concocted mixture of rock, folk and Americana with a dash of electronic texture: the result of four guys bursting with creativity, connecting, being free to do what feels natural, and supporting each other in the creation of good music. It’s almost as if this new crew of Monsters heard the advice of one Wilbury (the former Beatle) to carry on the super-grouping tradition: “Come together. Right now. Over me.” Lucky for us, they heeded it.

Highlight: The final song, “His Master’s Voice,” with Jim James’ piercing tenor telling a tale of faith and allegiance, is the perfect curtain.

Runner-Up:
Girls, Album
Girls, a duo from San Francisco (who are actually guys), reportedly crafted their debut on a speed binge. You wouldn’t know it by listening. Album is a sweet slice of Fifties-pop pie layered with a healthy serving of shoegaze and surf rock. While “Laura” could be the soundtrack to a stoned jaunt through Breakup Park, “Big Bad Mean Motherfucker” is a beach jam with a sand-storming guitar sound and a Johnny-Thundering solo. “Hellhole Ratrace” is built upon a teetering wall of sound that seems to have been hastily erected as an emotional shield while “Darling” comments on the redemptive qualities of a good song. The general tone of the lyrics is achingly sad; singer Christopher Owens lets most of the words seep out with a dynamic warble to rival Elvis Costello’s. Treading water in a sea of foamy distortion, he moans with all the despair of a lone cetacean, separated from its pod and its mate. Indeed, this is lonesome music. It’s a beautifully detached album – an album that might be best absorbed alone.

Highlight: The atmospheric “Headache.” It was so deeply imprinted on my consciousness that it haunted a series of my dreams one night.

Honorable Mention:
Neko Case, Middle Cyclone
The pipes on this gal are otherworldly, like the calm before the storm, the hurricane and the aftermath. Her album boasts a collection of songs that are at once arresting in their simplicity and awesome in their grandeur.

Help Haiti

2010-01-15T11:15:00.000-08:00

HOLY CRAP. I’m starting to get overwhelmed with all this Haiti business. It is unbelievably devastating. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know that the poorest country in the Western hemisphere was rocked by a 7.0-magnitude earthquake on Tuesday. Haiti’s infrastructure and government were already ill-equipped to handle a significant challenge; now the nation is trying to cope with a disaster of epic proportions.

International response was quick. The US and its allies all pledged their support along with many other countries around the world. Aid groups were mobilized and ready to handle the dead, treat the wounded and provide shelter, food and water. The people of America have also been generous, raising money through social networking websites and donating to charitable organizations. Still, the process of helping the victims has proven to be a logistical nightmare.

With nearly all of the poorly constructed buildings in the capital of Port-au-Prince collapsed, rubble is everywhere – hiding bodies and rendering hundreds of thousands homeless. With the shipping and receiving ports in ruin, with the airports clogged with cargo planes and with nearly all the roads impassable, the distribution of aid has been painfully slow.

Dead bodies are piling up (the toll is conservatively estimated to be around 50,000). Many are still trapped in the wreckage. Human waste is everywhere. Injuries are going untreated, infection spreading. People who haven’t slept in days are thirsty and hungry. How long will it be before aid can reach the people who need it? How long will it be before animal instinct takes over and chaos reigns?

The fact that President Bill Clinton, the U.N. special envoy to Haiti, has taken a lead role in the relief effort is heartening. It’s like Jules Winnfield’s line in Pulp Fiction when Marsellus Wallace tells him The Wolf is on the way: “Shit, negro – that’s all you had to say!”Still, the cleanup and rebuilding will be protracted and laborious. It will take years for things to return to normal, which admittedly weren’t that great to begin with. The whole thing is just so unfortunate and dismaying.

The most immediate thing we can do to help is to give. In addition to the major aid agencies, local organizations that can help are in need. Many employers will match your donation or sponsor a fundraiser. A little goes a long way.

http://www.mercycorps.org/
http://www.redcross.org/
http://doctorswithoutborders.org/

Art Scoop

2010-01-12T10:27:00.000-08:00

OKAY MOUNTAIN is an art gallery/studio/collective in Austin, Texas run in part by Michael Sieben. ARTHOUSE, a larger gallery/studio/collective in Austin, commissioned OKAY MOUNTAIN to create a piece for the PULSE Contemporary Art Fair in Miami, Florida. The resulting mixed-media piece is a detailed convenience store stocked with ridiculous tienda items. Apparently, it “serves as a tongue-in-cheek critique of the art fair environment.” Corner Store earned OKAY MOUNTAIN both the PULSE Prize and the People’s Choice Award. More info. Click on the PDF of the circular for a closer look at the store’s wares.

Gettin' Greenpeaced

2009-12-30T11:08:00.000-08:00

Noted Portland advertising agency Weiden + Kennedy is getting a lot of attention for creating and distributing a handout for canvassers.

The card-sized handout, which targets activists soliciting everything from donations to signatures, reads:

I know you’re just doing your job,

but the methods you’ve been asked to use are manipulative and make me less trustful of friendliness in general

and that, not indifference towards your cause,
is why I’m not going to talk to you.

Though all Portlanders seem to agree that getting ‘Greenpeaced’ is annoying and unnecessarily intrusive, many are finding the handout rude and belittling.Personally, I think it’s harsh to hand out a card instead of dignifying someone with a polite verbal response. That being said, I don’t think the words on the card are all that mean or derisive.

The handout makes clear that it’s nothing personal, nothing against the canvasser or his cause. It just says that one doesn’t agree with how the canvasser chooses to conduct his business.

I’m reminded of peaceful protesters: those grannies against the war who sit quietly with their signs and hand out fliers; those kids in the 1960s who quietly put flowers in the barrels of soldiers’ guns; those other folks in the 1960s who simply marched and handed out fliers for civil rights. All those people acted the way they did because they didn’t like how the government was conducting its business. Why can’t someone quietly disagree with how Greenpeace conducts its business?

Any reasonably intelligent person, which all these canvassers are, should be able to understand that and the words on the card, and should not take offense. After all, they’ve got to have pretty tough hides to stand on a corner while bustling people try to avoid them and ignore their advances.

Christmas

2009-12-23T14:06:00.000-08:00

Christmastime is here. Time for joy and time for cheer. But until yesterday, something was amiss.

Normally I’m in Christmas-mode as soon as we hit December; I’m ready to decorate, to sing carols and to give and receive gifts. Perhaps it’s a sign of my age, the fact that I’m leaving my youth behind and growing up, but something felt different this time around.

Even while trimming the tree, listening to the Vince Guaraldi Trio’s warm and comforting renditions of “O Tannenbaum” and “Greensleeves,” I didn’t feel like it was quite Christmastime. ‘Strange,’ I thought. His jazzy 1965 album, A Charlie Brown Christmas, could put me in the mood in June. The playful, tinkly tone of Guaraldi’s piano, sauntering along with the walking bass lines and ambling percussion, was the soundtrack to every single one of my twenty-eight Christmas’. I can still remember my dad telling me to settle down, lest my bouncing around make the record skip. Those songs have always been able to take me back. Instead I thought, ‘what am I doing with this tree? What Child Is This? This doesn’t feel right.’

Even while hanging multi-colored lights on my porch, even while wading through holiday crowds at the mall, even while being deluged with Santa-themed ads in the media -- I still wasn’t feeling that familiar Christmas spirit.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ I thought as the big day approached. ‘I love Christmas.’ The smell of the tree, the general air of peace and goodwill, the bell ringers, the friends, the family, the feast. None of it was on my mind.Maybe I haven’t had time to fully immerse myself in the joy of the season, maybe I haven’t let myself. One thing’s for sure: I put a lot of pressure on myself this year to get the perfect gifts for everyone on my list.

Gift-giving is one of my unique pleasures. A great gift is a reflection of my appreciation of the recipient. I get more excited when someone opens (and hopefully prizes) my gift than when I open theirs. I think about it all year, listening for clues and storing them away in the recesses of my mind. Once winter rolls around, I take stock of all the mental notes and set about tracking everything down -- that perfect toy, that elusive collectible, that item you’d never buy for yourself.

I ended up having a bit of trouble. I didn’t have a ton of loot to spend and I couldn’t make up my mind. The sweater or the mixing bowls? The Scotch or the weather station? The decisions were stressing me out as the deadline loomed.

Yesterday though, I made my final purchase and Hark, the herald angels sang. I was done shopping, I was done with the anguish. Christmastime was here! That joy-to-the-world feeling came over me. My stress gone, I'm now free to enjoy the holiday for what it is: an excuse to give gifts to the people I care about, to share good times with them, and give thanks for another year of life and love.

Merry Christmas to all.

Underage Drinking

2009-12-22T13:02:00.000-08:00

Do you remember your first taste? That first sip of an alcoholic beverage? Whether you snuck a glass of champagne at a wedding or you stole one of your dad’s beers from the garage, whether you happened to sit down at a table setting with a wine glass or an older friend offered you a pull from his flask -- you had a curious thirst that had to be quenched. What possessed you to do it? Did you want to be like the grown-ups? Did you think it would make you cooler? Did you like it?

I asked a few people about their first experiences with alcohol. Most said their first taste was given them from a parent or trusted relative. Sheila was about nine years old and recalls thinking her dad’s beer was “so foul, I couldn’t believe anyone would want to drink it.” Matt was twelve. He told me: “My grandpa’s whiskey burned my throat and made me gag. He said it would put hair on my chest.” At ten, Bill tried some red wine after his “lush” aunt handed him a glass. “I thought it was okay, like weird juice.” Another guy, a country-boy I know, said his parents gave him blackberry brandy as a child when he was stuffed-up or had a sore throat.

It seemed to me that that first taste was no more than an innocent offering, a harmless introduction to something capable of ruining lives. Ask someone about their first time getting seriously intoxicated however, and you’re almost guaranteed a different response.

Most were about seventeen or eighteen years old. Most also said their first drunk was an unpleasant, forgettable one – one not permitted (or supervised) by their parents. You could blame it on the reckless gusto of teenagers, their ignorance of the ‘look-before-you-leap’ adage, or their eagerness to fit in with their peers. I think that most kids, having little to no experience drinking alcohol, simply don’t know their limits.While everybody I asked remembers exactly what they were drinking, their memories of what followed are often blurry. One common thread runs through everyone’s account: sickness. Emily spiked a Slurpee with rum and stained her shirt and pants with blue-colored vomit. James drank Southern Comfort with Dr. Pepper and barfed on a campfire. Andrew drank 40 ounces of Olde English and puked in a friend’s car. Sarah drank Lemon-flavored MD 20/20; she was hungover for two days. Alex broke his parents’ glass coffee table, threw up and peed his pants after drinking too many Coors Lights. Jessica drank a succession of vodka shots, didn’t get sick, but got disoriented. She ended up alone in the woods, missing a shoe, after the cops broke up the party she ditched her dad’s birthday to attend.

It seems that everyone has had a bad experience with alcohol, either in high school or college, while pursuing inebriation. Though all the people with whom I spoke told their stories with a fond smile and a chuckle, there are many who can’t look back and laugh, whose bad experiences didn’t just end with a hangover. Many people end up with court dates. Worse, some end up as parents, some end up hurt. Indeed, alcohol use can be fun – but alcohol abuse is no laughing matter.

I think the lessons learned from underage drinking, often hard ones, are necessary ones. They teach us about ourselves. They reinforce the fact that all of our actions have consequences, good and bad. They inform us of our limits and help us realize when enough is enough. That’s not to say that every young person should get wasted as part of their continuing education, no. But every young person, should they get wasted, ought to come away from it having gained some kind of knowledge about, and awareness of, themselves. And knowledge (wait for it...) is power.

Sailing Away on The Good Ship Zeppelin

2009-12-17T11:04:00.000-08:00

That rock-and-roll music is a powerful intoxicant is no joke. I’ve been hooked. Immersed. I’ve been strung out and hungover. Most notably, I’ve drunk myself silly on the blooze of the Rolling Stones, nearly drowned in Beatle-mania, and taken some stimulating trips with Dylan. I’ve spent too much time with the Who, gotten lost with the Kinks, and followed Bowie down the rabbit-hole while breaking for quickies with everyone from ABBA to Zappa. As phases go, these were not harmful or destructive binges, though some relationships were affected. Still, I kept coming back for more. I keep coming back for more.

There was one bender that was different. I was eighteen. Getting schooled in several different rock-and-roll institutions couldn’t prepare me for the ultimate power of Led Zeppelin. The band’s sound crashed down on me with the force of a thousand tidal waves, simultaneously crushing and comforting me. Within months, I was washed away – in deep.

Led Zeppelin’s first album came out in 1969. The next seven years saw them release seven more major-selling albums and grow into a touring juggernaut and record-business powerhouse. Despite being despised by the press, hotel staffs worldwide, and the establishment at large, Led Zeppelin was the biggest band in the world.

The group’s balance of brilliance and brawn, mirth and malice, was something to behold. Here was a band that capably nodded to American blues and British folk while ushering in a new kind of hard rock. Inundating my consciousness with monster riffs and howls from on high bolstered by a thick bottom end and colossal thud, Led Zeppelin made music that appealed to burnouts, jocks and nerds alike. Guys wanted to be them – girls wanted to do them. I just wanted my fix.

Was it the dark magic of Jimmy Page’s guitar-playing? The banshee-wail of Robert Plant’s voice? Was it the steady dependability of John Paul Jones’ bass- and keyboard-playing or the bestial might of John Bonham’s drumming? Whatever it was, it was clear that the sum of those parts equaled something massive. Mammoth. Zeppelin-like.

Whether working out Zippo-raising anthems or complex rhythms with intricate melodies, the band layered much of its music with a crunch and punch that was all its own. The lighter moments were steeped in bucolic beauty, most having been written at either Page or Plant’s pastoral country estate. Indeed, the songwriting was topnotch and the group’s chemistry was unquestionable. I simply could not get enough.

Sailing on the good ship Zeppelin, lost at sea, was a great experience. But like any other oceangoing vessel, it had to make port at some point. I listened almost exclusively to that band for a solid three years. At home, in the car, through headphones, under the influence. I lost track of time, was away for too long, forgot that there were other bands out there. And I got burned out. Too many waves, too much rocking. I needed a break, shore leave or something. So I put away the records.

At first I thought I could go cold turkey. The withdrawals weren’t too bad but it still ended up being a gradual abandonment. The music had been such a monumental part of my life. I filled the void with punk, glam and indie rock, and eventually let the Zeppelin go by the wayside. I moved on; I was over the band.

The more time that passed, the more I forgot about Led Zeppelin. I went through more phases of musical infatuation. Some turned out to be passing fancies, some turned into full-on obsessions. Zeppelin was the last thing on my mind – I had kicked that habit. Every now and then, I’d hear the band on the radio or blasting out of some longhair’s van. The music didn’t affect me the way it used to, but that old feeling would still creep up on me. It was more a feeling of nostalgia than an itch that begged to be scratched. I had little desire to give in. Things were fine without Led Zeppelin, I didn’t need to revisit the past, to unmoor that ship for another lengthy voyage. Nearly ten years passed.

It wasn’t until I found a book, Hammer of The Gods, in a second-hand shop that the itch really started to nag. The book tells the story of the band, from the early days to the heydays to the end of days. It covers everything with a true fan’s respect and awe, going into depth and divulging the tales behind the music. It reminded me, loudly and blatantly, of Led Zeppelin’s undeniable appeal. My own respect and awe were reaffirmed. The itch became unbearable. Reading, I realized that I wasn’t doing myself any favors by putting the band on the back burner. So what if my addiction had clouded my judgment? So what if I got burned out? Led Zeppelin was just too good to ignore.

My passion reignited, I relapsed. I dug out the records, blew off the dust and lowered the needle. The music washed over me like a breath of fresh hair, sounding better than I remembered. Absence had certainly made this heart grow fonder and I consumed the material with the gusto of a starving man. Thanks to the book, the virtues of the band were all the more explicit. For weeks, I gorged on the music of Led Zeppelin.

This story though, doesn’t end here. I didn’t go back to my old, all-Zeppelin-all-the-time ways. For however rabid my frenzy was, I entered into it aware of what had happened to me before. And so I exercised restraint. I didn’t want to lose myself, to go AWOL, either to join Kurtz in the jungle or to sail away on another extended journey. I didn’t want to neglect my other musical vices. I didn’t want to be that guy, fixated on one band, chasing the same thrills from side one of Led Zeppelin I to side two of Led Zeppelin IV, from “The Rain Song” on Houses of The Holy to “The Rover” on Physical Graffiti. No, not me.

I now have a healthy relationship with the music of Led Zeppelin. Even if it keeps on raining, levee’s not going to break. I know when to say no, when enough is enough. I can control my intake; I can regulate my dosage. Sometimes I grow so tired, but I know I’ve got one thing I got to do: RAMBLE ON!

**FUN FACT: Bonham is a zoology term. It means piglet.

The Jukebox: That's My Song

2009-12-15T09:26:00.000-08:00

Every self-respecting bar, tavern and pub should have a jukebox. If it doesn’t, then it doesn’t deserve your business. A person should be able to walk into a watering hole and have some sort of control, not necessarily over how much he drinks, but over what he listens to while he drinks.

Picture this: guy has a rough day at the office. Or mill or plant or jobsite or whatever. Guy pops into a place, bellies up to the bar and orders a stiff one. The last thing Guy deserves to hear is whatever shit the bartender is playing. It could be anything – it’s still shit so long as Guy didn’t pick it.

The issue here is choice. Without the freedom to choose, what are we left with? Without choice, you’re lost, flying blind. You don’t let the bartender serve you whatever he feels like – you choose what he serves you. Guy chooses what he wants to drink, he should be able to choose what he wants to listen to as well.

Maybe he lost an account – he chooses Tom Petty. Maybe he didn’t meet his quota – he chooses Bruce Springsteen. Maybe he got laid off – he chooses Johnny Cash. Whatever Guy chooses, he’ll tipple to his heart’s content, accompanied by the music that comforts him or otherwise adds to his drinking experience.

A good jukebox will have something for everybody. A good jukebox is not exclusionary, it’s not cooler-than-thou. It will contain songs that will satisfy everyone in the joint, not at once (that’s impossible), but at one point. It will have songs that function both as background music and as the drunkard-mobilizing fare of slurring sing-alongs. A good jukebox will feature artists old and new (mostly old) and songs that impart a range of emotions: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bon Jovi, Neil Diamond; Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places,” Bob Seger’s “Turn The Page,” CCR’s version of “Proud Mary.”

Some jukeboxes will appeal more to a certain establishment’s typical patron. Example: a working-class bar near my house has a jukebox stocked with working-class tunes – blue-collar anthems, classic rock and country, and shit-kickin’ blues. Another place, frequented by hip kids, has a jukebox filled with punk standbys, old soul, new wave, and a rotating selection of current indie rock.

Every jukebox will contain Tammy Wynette’s “Stand By Your Man,” Billy Joel’s “Piano Man,” Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again,” and invariably, some Journey. This is a fact.

The jukebox plays an important role in every drinking establishment – almost as important a role as the alcohol. The jukebox is your friend if you’re drinking alone. The jukebox is the life of the party if you’re drinking with friends. The jukebox puts the nail in the coffin of a bad day and shines ever-loving light on a good day. Every self-respecting bar, tavern and pub should have one. If it doesn’t, then it doesn’t deserve your business.

Full Leather Jacket

2009-12-14T12:29:00.001-08:00

Few people can actually pull it off. I know I can’t. Regardless, the leather jacket, along with blue jeans and a white tee, is a piece of Americana – part of our national dress.

Ever since Brando put one on for his role as “The Wild One” in 1953, the leather jacket has come to symbolize genuine hardiness. True grit. It’s an indicator that the guy wearing it is as tough as the hide from which it’s made. Military pilots wore them, bomber jackets. The greasers wore them, the Hells Angels did too. The rockers wore them, then the punks did. Elvis wore one. Iggy Pop sang “Raw Power” and “Gimme Danger” in a leather jacket featuring a snarling cheetah on the back. The Fonz wore one. The Ramones wore them. Indeed, the leather jacket’s staying power has been assured by its place in pop culture. The image it projects however, has been grossly perverted.

What started as a functional piece of garb, known as much for its resilience as its broken-in comfort, the leather jacket has become little more than a costume. We can thank the Village People, in part, for that. While it remains a practical component of any legitimate biker’s wardrobe, it now covers the shoulders of sissy pretty-boys, cooler-than-thou scenesters, and faux tough-guys. It’s been appropriated by style-minded people who value fashion over function. Consequently, the leather jacket no longer stands for what it used to. Gone are the days when a leather-jacketed dude commanded attention and even aroused a little fear and unease.

As an observer, I have to ask myself: Should I even be concerned with what other people wear? The long-short is NO. People will wear what they want to wear for their own reasons. Just ask Lady GaGa. YES, only cool cats used to wear leather jackets. NO, you don’t necessarily have to be a cool cat to wear a leather jacket. MAYBE, I should just accept that it’s simply the nature of fashion: times change, trends change with them, looks are appropriated. Case in point: lots of people wear cowboy gear (another purposeful style of American dress) without ever having visited the range or ridden a horse. And who am I to judge? I’m no authority. YES, I used to wear motorcycle gloves to keep my hands warm. NO, I’ve never manned a motorcycle. So YEAH, wear what you want. Even if you aren’t a tough-guy or a bicycle racer or a homeless man or a pro ball player or a rock-and-roll star – you’ll at least be you, and that ought to be good enough.

NO on Measure 67

2009-12-08T14:36:00.000-08:00

I’m submitting this statement as a registered Democrat.

The Oregon state legislature passed a permanent increase to the business tax in June. The increase, both unfair and unsound, has exposed some of our elected officials’ lack of forethought. Instead of adopting a reasonable tax policy that satisfies the state’s financial needs, the democrat-led legislature has effectively said ‘git-er-dun’ by rashly approving an increase with grim long-term implications.

Citizens upset with the short-sightedness of the legislature’s decision gathered enough signatures to refer it to voters. Ballots should arrive in your mailbox in January – please join me in voting NO on Measure 67.

Again, I’m a registered Democrat. I concede that Oregon’s corporate minimum tax (which is comparatively lower than many other states and hasn’t been raised since 1931) should be raised. Businesses and individuals should pay their fair share; I abide that. What I can’t abide is the amount of the increase and the effects that this sudden and substantial change would have on the businesses that employ Oregonians.

The increase would make Oregon’s corporate minimum 20 times higher than New York’s – the nation’s highest. While the resulting money would help to fill a budget gap and pay for some human services, it would unduly hobble many of the businesses, large and small, that operate in our state.

Up to $100,000 a year, the tax would be based on the gross receipts of businesses, regardless of their profits or lack thereof. This means that a business, whether or not it makes enough money to cover its expenses (operating costs, wages and benefits for employees, etc.) would be required to pay the increased minimum tax. If the business doesn’t turn enough of a profit to cover its costs, cuts (read: jobs or health care benefits) would have to be made.

What’s worse, the higher taxes would be retroactive to January 1, 2009. No money to cover the increase has been withheld from Oregonians’ paychecks in all of 2009; businesses didn’t include the unexpected expense in last year’s budget. If anything, they invested any extra money in growth (read: job creation). Should the Measure pass, businesses would be forced to pay out of pocket. The result? Cuts (read: jobs or health care benefits) would have to be made.

The state of Oregon has been profoundly affected by the recession. Unemployment is at 12% here and 9% nationwide. People are hurting, many are struggling. Everyone agrees that the state could really use the $733 million gained from the tax increases in Measure 67. But when it stands to cost many Oregonians their jobs (while state employees stand to get $258 million in salary increases), economic growth is inhibited. Even President Obama said “the last thing we want to do is raise taxes during the middle of a recession.”

For the sake of our state and the citizens that work to keep its economy afloat, please vote NO on Measure 67. Let’s send our elected lawmakers back to the table, to get it right, so the corporate minimum can be raised fairly and sensibly.

More info: http://www.stopjobkillingtaxes.com/

Birthdays Were The Worst Days

2009-12-07T16:41:00.000-08:00

We’re all aging. Every passing day, nay, minute, is put behind us as we move forward. We’re all getting older with the passage of time. But are we growing old, too?

A guy I know, we’ll call him Jerry, just had a birthday. He’s now twenty-eight years old. I talked to him about it. He doesn’t feel older, but he knows that he is. He says the occasion is becoming bittersweet. He appreciates all the well-wishing; it’s nice to know that friends and family care. Still, his birthday seems to serve more as a reminder that he’s aging. It reminds him that his youth is ephemeral. It reminds him that, yes, he’s getting older but, no, he’s not really growing old.

Growth is a process of natural development. To grow is to become, not just old but wise. Advanced, experienced. More adult. More assured of your place as a person, your role as a gear in the machine of society.

Jerry’s in an interesting phase of that growth: a second coming-of-age period. Whereas the adolescent years forced him into young-adulthood, the late-twenties are now pushing him toward actual adulthood, toward the inescapable period in which he’ll be expected to ‘act his age.’

The adage ‘age is just a number’ is reassuring, he says, because after all, age really is nothing more than a number. Though society seems to thrust age-specific expectations on all of us, it doesn’t mean we’re necessarily required to meet them. If anything, they’re only suggested mileposts – points along the way of everybody’s path of life. At sixteen, you get a driver’s license. At eighteen, you graduate high school and reach voting age. At twenty-two-ish, you get a college degree. After that, you’re turned loose to stake your claim in the world. One’s success in life (which many link with work) is then often measured commensurate with their age. At thirty, you’re set in your career, in position to climb the ladder. At forty, you make partner or VP or whatever. At fifty, you’re running the joint.

Of course, this isn’t always the case, and of course, it doesn’t have to be. While Jerry’s fine with the hand he’s been dealt, he sometimes wonders if he’s failed at meeting society’s expectations for a fellow his age. He says he sees other 28-year-olds leading different lives than his. They’ve grown up, grown into their age and found or made their place in society. Some are more successful, some are happier, some are the person they wanted to be. Others are not.

Jerry pauses to think about what he’s said. I think about it, too – often, in fact. And when I really (REALLY) think about it, a man shouldn’t be measured, by himself or anyone else, by what he’s achieved in a specified amount of his years. He shouldn’t be considered a failure, by himself or anyone else, if he doesn’t have what others have, if he chooses a different path than the one society prescribes. A man should just do his best and be content with that, societal expectations be damned. When you boil it down, as Jerry and I did, we’re all getting older, growing old, and walking down the same obligatory path of life. Personally, I'll heed the words of Neil Young and “walk on, walk on.”

Stepehn Marche asks, "Why Are You Working So Hard?"

2009-12-04T09:52:00.000-08:00

Stephen Marche is an essayist, columnist and novelist. Dude writes. He wrote the following piece on the nature of work in America. I like how he thinks.

Why Are You Working So Hard?

No, really: Why? Nobody works as hard as the average American man. When most of us hear about a country like Sweden, with its eighteen months' maternity leave and its five weeks' paid vacation guaranteed by law, we don't think, How do I get that? We think, What a bunch of pussies. Russians say, "Works like an American" when here we would say, "Works like a dog." The richest man in the world (Bill Gates) has claimed that he will leave each of his children $10 million and no more; otherwise they might become lazy and not work. The United States is, above all, a nation of workers, and though the economic downturn has caused unemployment to spike to its highest rates in a generation, it's also offering us a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to reevaluate our culture's insane relationship to work.

And "insane" is the operative word here. In American pop culture, as in American life, work has become the ultimate cipher, simultaneously giving meaning to our daily lives and stripping it away, filling our time and emptying it, making us who we are and crushing our souls in the same sweeping and terrible gesture. Our alienation from work has been hovering at the margins of culture (Dilbert) for a few decades (Office Space), and the theme resonates today in genres as diverse as the Broadway musical (9 to 5: The Musical), the Hollywood film (Extract), and, most of all, network television. The great character-driven shows that once celebrated the nobility of the workplace and the worker — a grand tradition stretching back to the dawn of the medium with the likes of Marcus Welby and Perry Mason — died this past spring with the final episode of ER, and their ranks have been slowly replaced by a factory-line spew of procedural work dramas (Law & Order). These stories work themselves out with the frictionless efficiency of an iPhone connecting to a wireless network, and the characters are nothing more than user-friendly interfaces through which audiences navigate plot points. And those are just the dramas. These seeds of discontent have also sprouted into a unique species of mass-consumption alienation comedy. "I would say that I lost my optimism about government in about two months," says Mark in the pilot of Parks and Recreation. The heroine of that show struggles to keep her illusions about the power and purpose of public service alive, and it's no better in the privately run wasteland of Dunder Mifflin. For all his enthusiasm, Michael Scott earns nothing but contempt from his limp employees. The rest of us, like Jim and Pam, alleviate the monstrous deadness of office life with the occasional wounded, brief look into the camera that says, "Absurdity is now so normal, I no longer find it absurd."

We are now reaching the point where some of us long for a return to manual labor. Newer shows (Deadliest Catch, Dirty Jobs) on basic cable have small but devoted followings for their blue-collar stars, and, trust me, the viewers aren't mechanics or fishermen or janitors. They are the same people who have been tuning in to The Office for the past five years, the worker-drones who live the comfortable nightmare that Das Kapital predicted, a profound alienation from jobs with no clear purpose. They were also the readers who recently picked up Matthew B. Crawford's magnificent short book, an apologia pro vita sua of a man who abandoned his job as the director of a think tank to open a motorcycle-repair shop. For the pleasure of feeling useful and seeing the tangible results of his efforts, he chose a life of American Chopper over one of The Office, and he's happy. But the educated masses, the clean and the bored, would rather explore their working-class fantasies through books and cable TV than change their lives. It's so much simpler — so much more normal — to work at a place you hate, don't you think?

America's love-hate relationship with work goes back to the double origins of the country: the pioneers who hacked paradise out of the wilderness by their own efforts and the slaves who actually built the country. Work in America has always been both the most vital expression of a person's humanity and a persistent state of inhuman blankness, a contradiction that survives in the peculiar idiom "human resource." You can either be a human or a resource; you can't be both. The tension appears even in one of the most famous pieces of folk culture.

The song (“John Henry”), in which the hero beats a steam drill at hammering stakes, has been heard, at one point or another, by nearly every twentieth-century American, rich or poor, black or white, young or old. The contest ends in what is supposedly a victory for humanity over the machine, with Henry proving that "a man ain't nothing but a man." But the story's tragic undertones obscure its optimism. Henry knows at the age of three days that "the hammer's gonna be the death of me." Instead of joy at the invention of a machine that saves him from a lifetime of brutal labor, he experiences technology as a kind of death. Either the machine will kill him or his work will, and he chooses work.

Americans are still making John Henry's fatal choice, yet once the work started to disappear, we were left with free time and uncomfortable questions. What is the point of all this work if the end result is more work for the purpose of yet more work? Are we all, like Michael Scott, humiliating ourselves for the glory of a flat-screen TV? And could it be that for a huge number of people, despite all their genuine suffering, the economic catastrophe has been a relief — a relief not to have to work so much and a relief not to have to spend so much? We needed a pause and we got one, and we've started to ask ourselves what the hell we're working for. Jennifer, Rory, and Phoebe Gates, what do you have to look forward to? Ten million bucks and a lifetime as a human resource. Thank your dad. Then ask him why.

Civil Warfare

2009-12-03T11:40:00.000-08:00

Today is the day. The Oregon State Beavers will meet the Oregon Ducks at Autzen Stadium in Eugene for the biggest Civil War in 112 years.
The stakes are high, higher than that second-year stoner who sold mushrooms to students at 15th and Ferry Alley back in aught-two. The winner goes to the Rose Bowl, the loser goes to Loserville. In Oregon’s case, that would be the Holiday Bowl. For Oregon State, it would likely be the Las Vegas Bowl.

The week and a half leading up to this game has been tiring. Commentators and fans alike have been sparring over details large and small. I’ve heard enough of the analysis, taunts and trash talk -- I’m ready to sit back and let the two teams settle it.

Of course, I’m rooting for my Ducks. But it’s anybody’s game -- winner take all. To the victor go the spoils: the Pac-10 championship, the glory, and the opportunity to drop the hammer on the Big Ten’s Ohio State Buckeyes.

Both teams are well-rested and have undoubtedly been going through exhaustive preparations. The game will be an offensive battle; Oregon’s defense will have to contain sure-footed Beavers back Jacquizz Rodgers while Oregon State’s defense will have to deal with versatile Ducks QB Jeremiah Masoli.

I hope this Civil War lives up to its hype. I hope it shows the rest of the country (and the BCS) that the Pac-10 is a reputable conference with teams that can compete with SEC, Big East and Big 12 powerhouses. Most of all, I hope the fans maintain a level of civility consistent with the relaxed attitude of many Oregonians. But with so much on the line, that actually might be asking too much.

Let’s grip it and rip it.

**UPDATE: Ducks win 37-33**

winter

2009-12-01T15:42:00.000-08:00

Today is the first day of December. Winter is upon us and I, for one, am glad. Say what you will about the shorter days, the grayer skies and the cooler temperatures -- I welcome them and everything else the season brings each year.

There is something about the quiet crispness and still beauty of cold weather. A landscape buried in snow is a peaceful sight. The crushing white is almost inviting; all sound is muffled and the tranquility lends to the sense that nature is at rest. The outdoors seem calmer, as if everyone (and everything) has either left or holed up to wait it out.

I love the feeling of being bundled in warm layers, protected against the harsh and bitter but somehow comforting elements. That’s why I dig snowboarding so much.

The act of riding a board down a snowy slope is certainly part of the appeal. Being outside though, and enjoying what nature provides, is what I treasure most.

Some dudes listen to music through headphones while riding. I prefer the sound of the snow. The shush shush of the compliant snow being carved by my board. The dull clatter of chunky clumps falling back to earth after being sprayed into the air. The whump of my board’s flat base landing on a downy pillow of snow. Even the silence of fine powder, disturbed from its serene state and billowing around me before settling again, is music to my ears.

Unforgiving weather in general also makes me appreciate the indoors and the homey lifestyle that suits me. Sitting fireside with a drink while a storm rages outside; getting cozy with the lady as the mercury drops; stirring a pot of stew while Jack Frost ravages the remnants of my garden. These simple pleasures satisfy my soul.

Winter is also the holiday season. Thanksgiving and Christmas are times to gather, give thanks and celebrate with the ones you hold dear. Pardon the Hallmark cheese, but no amount of material gifts can give me more joy than getting the gang together for food, drink and merriment.

While I can find more pros than cons for all four seasons, I still find winter to be especially charming. Whether it’s a day of play in the snow, a night of gaiety with the family or the prospects of a new year, count on me to relish it all.

Bangers & Mash, A Love Story

2009-11-20T11:39:00.000-08:00

I don’t really like to eat. The act of feeding myself can be tiresome. Shovel, chew, swallow, repeat. Eventually I’ll feel full, a few hours later I’ll be hungry again. It’s enough to drive one insane, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. But here’s the rub: I love food.

A perfectly grilled New York strip steak is heaven; patiently braised carnitas is rapture; a Grandma-baked apple pie is ecstasy. Award-winning writer William Goldman once said that “true love is the greatest thing in the world -- except for a nice sandwich,” and I couldn’t agree more. Spaghetti with meatballs, Christmas ham with peas and potatoes, baby back ribs drenched in BBQ sauce -- hot damn, my mouth is watering.

My dilemma is clear: how do I reconcile these two disconnected feelings, the aversion to eating and the joy of foodstuffs, when they ought to be connected? It is from this awkward position that I offer a simple, standard dish that actually united my divergent views.

Bangers and Mash is simply sausages and mashed potatoes. The dish is rooted in the working-class pub culture of England and Ireland and I delight in eating it. Stuffing my face and filling my belly with those delicious meats and taters is anything but a dull chore.

Though I had eaten my fair share of sausages and mashed potatoes over the years, I had never appreciated the unique taste and pleasure of their combination until a recent trip to Australia. Now I can’t get enough.

The moment of enlightenment was at a pub called The Bellevue, a veritable institution opened in the 1880s, in the tony Sydney neighborhood of Paddington. The sausages, resting on a bed of silky mashed potatoes, were a blend of beef and pork. They were drizzled with a generous amount of rich onion gravy and served with a sweet beetroot relish and an assortment of dark, spicy mustards.

I looked at the meal with a mixture of awe, curiosity and excitement. Yeah, it looked good; but would the monotony of eating it be that same familiar bore? Cutting into one of the sausages, I released an intoxicating torrent of its aromatic juices. They mingled with the mash, dying it a warm brown. I used my fork to collect some relish, thick but not overly chunky, and swept it through the creamy mash and the gravy, taking care to gather a bit of mustard for good measure. Stabbing the slice of sausage, I now had a little of everything on my plate, on my fork -- a melting pot of protein and starch. I put it in my mouth. I chewed. I savored the flavor. I swallowed. I was unprepared for what came next.

I was so floored by the taste, a fusion of sweet and savory with a hint of old-world charm, that all I could think about was piling up the next bite. Again, I got some of everything. Again, I was not disappointed. Perhaps more importantly, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I was enjoying eating. Heaping the different components of the dish together and consuming them with glee, I began to realize that the satisfaction I derived from eating had just as much to do with what I was eating as how I was eating it. Each element that made up each forkful played its own role on my Supper Stage and I was the director. I decided what went where, how much of this did that. I was in charge.

The awareness galvanized me and, excited by the explosive party in my mouth, I plowed through the meal. The gravy was diluted with mash, the mustard turned beet red, and the sausage abandoned its casing. Even though I took great pleasure in eating my meat and potatoes, I ate it with a shit-eating grin. It was great.

Esquire

2009-11-18T10:40:00.000-08:00

Esquire is a men’s magazine. It was conceived at the darkest moment of the Depression and was born at the dawn of the New Deal in 1933. The magazine began as a racy publication for men before being transformed into a more refined periodical with an emphasis on the lifestyle of civilized men. Published today by the Hearst Corporation, it speaks to the successful, multi-faceted man who is culturally tuned in. Esquire’s unique blend of intelligent assistance, stories with substance, and ability to entertain and inspire make it a perfect resource for the discerning gentleman. You know that dude from the Dos Equis commercials? The “most interesting man in the world?” He reads Esquire. Hell, he’s probably a contributing editor.I find it to be a fantastic publication. Even though it’s aimed at the modern-day Don Draper, I like to think the magazine appeals to a wide variety of men. It’s classy but not uppity and speaks in a knowing, sensible voice that most men can understand and appreciate.

I’ve only been a casual reader for a year or so but as far as I can tell, the editors have little to no political agenda; everything seems pretty neutral. It was actually the November 2008 issue in which, after 75 years, Esquire publicly endorsed a presidential candidate for the first time (Obama). Still, editorials decrying the recent government bailouts and espousing the virtues of free markets paint a different, but nonetheless balanced, picture.

And since its inception, Esquire has always been a trendsetter in the way of art direction and graphic design. In fact, the third floor of the Museum of Modern Art in Midtown Manhattan rests a tribute to Esquire’s glory years -- a collection of 92 covers from the 1960s and early 1970s that have become, in the museum’s words, “essential to the iconography of American culture." That tradition continues today not just in the ‘wall-of-words’ covers but on the pages behind them. Even with text, graphics and callouts in the sidebars, the layouts still maintain a clean and modern feel without wasting space or being overly busy.Esquire is a veritable wellspring of relevant information for the well-educated and urbane individual. Defined by its range, it sets itself apart from the knuckle-dragging chauvinism present in rags like Maxim and FHM with content edited for an affluent and sophisticated audience -- class not mass. The magazine’s editors state:

"Esquire is geared toward men who have arrived. They dress for themselves; have both the means and knowledge to invest; can order with confidence in a fine restaurant; have a healthy respect and admiration for women; take vacations that enrich their lives and recharge their energy; and have mastered many of life’s basics. What they want is a primer on how to lead a richer, better, fuller, and more meaningful life.”
Esquire’s tagline is “Man At His Best,” a fitting statement for a refined, rich magazine with a tonic splash of charm and attitude. I want to be an Esquire man. I’m not a particularly cultured or well-to-do man; I’m just some dude. I don’t plan on spending $2500 on the ‘essential’ Canali three-piece suit featured in the October 2009 issue, making a dinner reservation two months in advance, or sailing solo around the Cape of Good Hope. I am however, intellectually confident and curious. I appreciate the finer things even though I don’t necessarily seek them. I sometimes prefer the clip-clop of a fancy shoe on a hard floor to the squeak of a sneaker; I can value the cut and quality of a shirt as well as its function; I recognize that a $50 meal is, in most cases, better than a $10 one. And I want to be an Esquire man. Yet here I am, writing blog posts about which skateboard is better at getting me to the local Pabst-pouring dive. Time to grow up?

in the yellow no. 4

2009-11-17T10:50:00.000-08:00

Albatross

See See Rider

2009-11-16T11:22:00.000-08:00

Normally when I see someone rolling down the street on one of those long cruiser boards, I’m quick to judge. “Nice flip flops, brah. Learn to push with your back foot.” But the other day I saw something pretty cool that made me think differently.

I saw a group of skate-dudes ripping around the city on oblong boards with big, soft wheels. They were carrying their regular ‘freestyle’ skateboards under their arms, cruising from one spot to the next. What a novel idea, I thought.

Compared to a typical seven-and-three-quarterish, nose-and-tailed shred stick with hard 52s, cruiser setups are faster and more maneuverable. Too, their grippy wheels handle cracks and rough ground better. By carrying two boards, one for cruising and one for getting extreme, a person can cover more ground in less time and hit more spots.

Though it’s no coincidence that they’re often called ‘beer cruisers’ (most dudes tend to ride them to the Kwik-E-Mart or the bar), these kids were on to something. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before.

Why not make your ride to the next ledge, set or bank an easier, more pleasurable one? Feast your peeps on these cruisers and, if you haven’t already, consider adding one to your quiver.

Krooked (7.125” or 7.5”). The Zip Zingers, though first introduced in the early 2000s, are the gold-standard of cruiser boards. The shape likely existed in some form or another in the 1970s but it’s been refined and updated since then. It’s available in two different sizes (or the 8.6” Zip Zagger) with an aggressive concave and supple tail that allow it to be popped and flipped with relative ease.
Habitat (7.75”). This beauty’s got a cork top sheet for a little extra cushion when you’re really giving it a pushin.’ The shape is pretty plain, utilitarian and functional. I imagine cruising barefoot on this baby would be a breeze.
Creature (7.5" (4" at the tail)). Made of a heavy-duty plastic composite, the Rip Rider is as perfect for a jaunt to the corner store as a trip to a death-metal show. Even though it’s probably flexible, the coffin-shaped board is hella flat with hardly any tail to speak of so don’t count on doing much but rolling and rip-riding it.
Crailtap (7.875”). Since the Girl/Chocolate guys made this puppy, I’m sure it’s a hella sweet ride. Still, it was pretty limited so I don’t know if you can get your hands on it anymore.
Deathwish (8.5”). The Passion Cruiser is designed to quench your thirst for speed. Shaped (obviously) like a 40 bottle, it might be most effective as alternative transportation to and from the neighborhood bar.

FANTASY

2009-11-13T09:31:00.000-08:00

Putting together fantasy bands, while fun, is an imaginative exercise in futility. As with fantasy sports teams, the grouping of players who wouldn’t normally play together only distances the organizer further from reality. And when you really get down to it, the myriad possibilities are enough to make your head spin. So when I decided to assemble a fantasy band, I did so with the utmost care and deliberation. While some might think that musical aptitude or rock-ability would be the deciding factors, they would be wrong. Instead, the only thing that qualifies one for this gig is their rock-and-roll face. Note: Nigel Tufnel was excluded because he’s already in a fantasy band.

Marc Bolan on guitar. Careful not to exhibit the consternation of a player lost in instrumental labor, the T. Rex frontman instead relies on a facial expression of constant sexual gratification. Letting his eyes roll back in his head, he’s making love to his guitar as much as he’s making love to his audience. Accordingly, he puffs his cheeks, exhales forcefully and sighs with visceral pleasure while throwing his head back and presumably jizzing in his pants.

k.d. lang on vocals. She works the pained squint and couples it with an outstretched hand (reaching for what? Help? A higher power?) or a clenched fist to show true, real emotion. Betraying nothing but genuine sentiment, lang gives the sense of a tangible connection to the song’s subject matter. Like Morrissey in a pant suit, she furrows her brow in a smugly affected manner while curling her thin lips around the words. Her composed emoting, when coupled with the longing ache in her voice and the concerned, attached expression on her face, only reinforces her sense of “Constant Craving.”

Mick Fleetwood on drums. Grimacing and wincing like he’s taking a hall-of-fame crap, the Fleetwood Mac drummer always looks uncomfortable when playing. He shifts in his seat and leans every which way in an apparent effort to loosen his bowels while making faces that are consistent with those of a constipated man. With his mouth gaping in either pain or relief, he appears to be awash with the endorphin-fueled feelings of someone who’s just barely survived a traumatic experience. Quick, somebody get this man a sweat rag and some toilet paper. Never mind the fact that he’s still in the middle of a song, alternately flailing madly and punishing the skins or shrugging rhythmically and tapping in time.

Happy-Tom on bass. A heavyset guy styled as a threatening homosexual in a sailor suit, Happy Tom has been going “whoa-oh-whoa” with Turbonegro for well over a decade. His aggressive sneer, clenched teeth and piercing eyes give the impression of a man fighting his way out from the depths of rock-and-roll purgatory. Also, depending on the night, he can be seen as weary, catatonic and generally jaded, which is still cool in an I-Don’t-Give-A-Shit kind of way. Still, by the end of a show, he’s so sweaty that all his makeup has run, creating that worn-out tragic clown image. And how awesome would it be to have one costumed and made-up goon sharing the stage with a fey glam god, a googly-eyed (blame the cocaine) English dandy and a beguiling lesbian?

MULCH no. 2

2009-11-12T09:32:00.001-08:00

The second issue of MULCH has finally hit the shelves. It features a photo exhibition of party people as well as record reviews, tattoo testimonials and the return of Gary Blaster. Pick one up (for FREE) at Powell’s on Burnside while supplies last or get in touch with me for a copy.

Gun Violence

2009-11-11T09:17:00.000-08:00

On the day after Virginia executed John Allen Muhammad, the mastermind behind the 2002 sniper attacks that terrorized the nation's capital and its suburbs, I’m reminded of all the senseless gun violence in the news.

Though Muhammad and accomplice Lee Boyd Malvo killed 10 people and wounded three over the course of three weeks in October 2002 while taunting police with written messages and phoned-in threats and demands, a more recent spate of shootings has again called to attention the ease of acquiring firearms in America.

A man was shot by an intruder in his home in my neighborhood on Wednesday. A shooting at the Fort Hood Army post in Texas on Thursday left 13 people dead and 42 wounded. A man killed one person and wounded five others on Friday at a Florida office where he once worked. A seven-year-old girl was killed on Sunday in Louisiana when a stray bullet pierced the walls of her apartment and struck her in the neck while she slept. Yesterday, a man opened fire at a medical lab near where I grew up and killed two people and wounded two more.

I’m not interested in turning this post into a second amendment condemnation. There are plenty of responsible gun owners who have the right to “keep and bear arms” and I think it’s unfair to label everyone unfit for gun possession just because some people choose to shoot other people. But it certainly makes me think...

...That there are no effective measures to control gun ownership. Crazy people keep getting their hands on guns. People that are unable to legally purchase a gun don’t seem to have a problem obtaining one illegally. And when seemingly ‘normal’ people go postal with their legally-acquired guns, I have to ask myself: is the gun-buying process flawed in some way? Should people even be allowed to own firearms? How many more school shootings, indiscriminate stranger-on-stranger shootings and accidental shootings must we endure before we realize that it’s not necessarily a case of “guns don’t kill people - people kill people,” but rather a case of 'people and guns kill people?'To be clear, I don't think guns should be banned outright. I also don't think it should be as easy as it is to get a gun. Can a balance be found? I wish I had the answer. If anything, the issue of gun control is serious food for serious thought. Eat up.

The Answering Machine Dance

2009-11-10T16:53:00.000-08:00

Since the invention of the answering machine, callers have been explicitly instructed how to leave messages. This has to stop.

I understand that it must have been strange and somewhat difficult for people to get used to leaving a message on a machine (after the beep) rather than with a person or not at all. What I don’t understand is why, after 30-some years, people still need to be told to leave their ‘name, number and a brief message after the beep.’ I feel like everybody is familiar enough with the routine that the instructions can be left unsaid. Is it also absolutely necessary to let the caller know, after reaching the answering machine, that their intended recipient is ‘out, unavailable, or too busy to come to the phone right now?’ Getting the machine is an indication that someone can’t make it to the phone for whatever reason. Otherwise they would’ve picked up the damn thing. An excuse is unnecessary.

The more recent advent of voicemail, instead of improving the message-leaving process, has only opened the door to a number of new aggravations. Why, when reaching an unanswered mobile phone, are callers told how to leave a message (after the beep) by the service provider and the person they’re trying to reach? It’s totally redundant. Why do some people ask the message-leaver to provide a phone number when both the phone and the voicemail system store the number for them? It’s pointless.

If your answering machine or voicemail greeting goes like this:

“Hello. You’ve reached so and so at some number. I’m either out or unable to answer the phone right now so please leave your name, number and a brief message after the tone and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Thank you and have a good day.”

Then try this instead,

“You’ve reached so and so. Please leave a message.”

Not only is it much more simple and direct, it will also compel more callers to leave a message instead of getting frustrated and hanging up.

The answering machine was supposed to make our lives easier, and it has to a degree, by taking messages when we can’t. But as its usage increased and it became an ubiquitous household item, people have been slow to adapt to its subtleties and understand how to most effectively use it. The way I see it, and surely I’m not alone, an answering machine is a two-way street. I don’t want to listen to a long, drawn-out message someone left on my machine. I also don’t want to wait through a lengthy, protracted greeting just to be able to leave a short message on someone else’s machine. Get to the point. Sure, it usually takes no more than thirty seconds to get to the beep in order to leave my message. But it’s not all about the time; it’s about the irritation of listening to someone tell me how to do something I’ve done a million times.

A Captive Audience

2009-10-05T16:48:00.000-07:00

When is the unbridled enthusiasm of one too much for another to take? At what point does a person’s chirpy pep become overwhelming, annoying and ultimately mood-souring?

This morning I boarded the city bus to the office. I was greeted by the eager young driver.

“All aboard! Let’s rock and roll! Bus is in motion!” he exclaimed.

Though I’m more accustomed to a somber, sighing driver, I shrugged and paid this excitable man no mind. But once I sat down, it was clear that this bus driver was unlike any other I’d ridden with before. He loudly announced his every turn, gleefully shouting out the colors of passing cars to no one in particular. Stop by stop, the bus filled up as the driver continued with his shtick.

“Whoa! Left turn! Bicycle on the right! Hang on, folks!”

I put in my headphones and pushed play on my iPod, noticing the rolling eyes and irritated exhalations of other passengers. Clearly, this perky bus driver’s commentary was not what 45 commuters wanted to hear at 7:30 on a Monday morning. Over a quiet moment or during a break between songs, I could still hear the driver.

“All right! Ready or not, here we go! Anyone need off at the hospital? Okay!”

With my music turned up, I wondered what the driver’s motivation could be. Was he simply a happy guy with no filter? Was he trying to cheer up people with a case of the Mondays? Did he misguidedly think that part of his job description was to entertain the passengers? Either way, his captive audience was anything but amused. People shot him dirty looks (which he either didn’t see or chose to ignore), ruffled their newspapers conspicuously and shuffled uncomfortably in their seats.

“Rose Quarter! Blazers look good this year! Watch your step! And we’re off again!”

Not wanting to subject myself to any more of the bus driver’s grating remarks, I turned up my iPod even louder and let my mind wander. Would somebody eventually tell him to shut up? Had someone already done so to no avail? I imagined how the conversation might have gone, the annoyed rider speaking in harsh tones to the ever-chipper driver.

“Would you please keep it down. There’s no need to yell.”
“Just trying to enjoy myself, sir! Trying to keep things fun and exciting in the otherwise monotonous task of bus-driving! My life sucks!”

On one hand, it’s hard to fault a guy for trying to make his day at work more pleasant. On the other hand, this bus driver probably got more people’s mornings off to a bad start than a cold pot of decaf. I, for one, was relieved to get off the bus, relieved for the first time to go to work on a Monday morning.

Brian Unger

2009-08-11T11:26:00.001-07:00

Brian Unger writes:

The health care debate is toxic, revealing a lot about us as a nation. And it feels embarrassing — like the whole world can see our underpants. Or hear us fighting in the kitchen.

First, most of us can't describe accurately the details of the health care reform now under debate. That makes us look stupid or too busy to care.

Second, most of us can't describe accurately the health care or insurance we currently have, so that makes us look kind of stupid, too, or lazy.

Some of us don't care about people who don't have health insurance, so that makes us seem unsympathetic or super lucky.

Most of us don't understand that we're already paying for people who don't have health care — which makes us too busy to care, in denial or merely rich.

Some of us — a lot of us — already receive health care under some form of government plan, but don't believe in health care under some form of government plan. That makes us hypocritical or selfish. In some camps, I hear that makes us patriotic.

A lot of us are a combination of these things: too busy, lazy, a bit stupid perhaps, lucky, unsympathetic, in-denial, really rich, hypocritical, selfish ... and patriotic.

We're having an identity crisis when it comes to caring about the nation's health, which makes me think what we really need is psychotherapy. But, sadly, that's not covered under most health plans, if you have one at all.

To many, health care reform is scary, like someone's building a halfway house for criminals right at their doorstep. It's a N.I.M.B.Y. ("Not In My Backyard") issue evolved into a N.O.M.B.O. ("Not On My Back, Obama") issue.

People never change. But policy can, so our health care reformers must get more creative and visionary.

How about a Cash for Clunkers Program? Not for cars, but for older, beat-up people whose bodies have wear and tear, and can't go long distances when they're filled with gas?

Our government is offering us $4,500 to buy a new car. Can it also offer humans incentives — say, a tax break — to join a gym? To quit smoking? Or to buy produce from local farmers? Reward schools that teach kids how to eat right and exercise? You know, kind of like that class we used to offer kids called "gym."

Let's pay people to stay healthy, instead of only paying for them when they get sick. Then maybe our nation will find its compassion, the one true antidote for its health care identity crisis.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=111736487

Brian Unger is a writer, satirist and actor. He helped launch The Daily Show and he is a regular contributor to NPR. I heard him read the above on my way home from work yesterday. Like him, I’m embarrassed that so many people are up in arms about an issue and policies they know so little about. The people disrupting town halls across the country are just making things worse. If you’re upset, by all means be heard by your elected legislator--just don’t shout them down without listening. A town hall meeting is your chance to speak your mind or ask a question of your legislator and to get a direct response. Why bother showing up to the meeting if you’re unwilling to hear them out?

Josh Keyes

2009-07-31T14:21:00.000-07:00

As a kid, I was always fascinated with atlases and geography books. It wasn’t just the maps and their inherent sense of possibility and mystery; it was the detailed diagrams exhibiting earth science and the natural landscape that excited me.

Looking at a monochromatic continent littered with dots, stars and foreign names that was edged by an equally dull blue mass certainly inspired a sense of wonder. But the visual image was still so bland--lifeless and insipid. Tracing lines with my finger, surveying borders and imagining physical features, never set my mind reeling quite like a cross-section of our incomprehensibly giant planet, split down the middle like a halved apple. Or a slice of the rainforest, cut cleanly from the wilds of Brazil and illustrated with detail and clarity. Here, I could see the layers of the earth, the mantle confining the molten core. I could examine the strata of a jungle, the canopy teeming with just as much drawn fauna as the floor. There were solid blocks of ocean (surface to bottom), the water, sediment and sea life contained by invisible walls, where I could consider the levels and depth of the Pacific and how the change in temperature and light affected its ecosystem. Diagrams like these weren’t just visually stimulating; they helped me contextualize a map. The scale and scope of the dioramic graphics, often given a quarter-turn to show more dimension, could be applied to the featureless surfaces of the maps, making them more lively.

And so it was with great pleasure that I stumbled upon Josh Keyes’ work in an art magazine. He is an Oakland-based artist who paints almost exclusively in acrylics. His pieces recall those same vintage-science-book diagrams, hyper-realistic but with a mysterious and sometimes unsettling juxtaposition between the natural world and the man-made landscape. Conclude what you will.

The Efficacy of Complaining About Things One Cannot Control...

2009-07-28T12:47:00.000-07:00

...specifically the weather.

The people of Portland (and most of the great state of Oregon) are in the thick of a heat wave. This particular heat wave is not unlike the heat waves we experience every summer, yet something’s different this time. Yes, it is certainly hot outside. No, it is no hotter than the hottest days we had last summer or even the summer before. Still, what’s strange is the amount of complaints I’m seeing and hearing.

I have a Facebook page and a Twitter account. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, I’m assuming you have some understanding of both of these social networking platforms. Both sites have a homepage that lets you see what all your ‘friends’ want you to see in the form of ‘status updates’ on Facebook and ‘tweets’ on Twitter. These can range from details as mundane and pointless as “my dog just farted” or “I have smelly feet” to earth-shattering news like “I cast my vote for Mousavi but Ahmadinejad’s goons didn’t count it” and “holy shit, I just saw Lindsey Lohan leaving a club.” In addition, users can share photos, videos and links that they think their ‘friends’ might find interesting (I’m using interesting in the loosest sense of the word).

This week, instead of the usual ‘updates’ and ‘tweets’ regarding current events and happenings, vacation photos and remarkable videos, I’ve been bombarded with a deluge of gripes. A solid 90% of my homepage is composed of folks whining about the heat. Granted, it’s pretty damn hot out, even at night. But complaining about the weather solves nothing. It doesn’t make one cooler. It just makes one a crybaby.

To clarify, updating or tweeting something along the lines of “I’m hella hot” or “it’s hella hot” cannot be considered a complaint as much as an observation, albeit an arguably trivial one, whereas posting something like “I’m melting in this heat; I hate it--kill me now” or “this is hell--someone should either nuke the sun or kill me now” is nothing more than an ineffective protest, a futile grouse with no hope of resolution. Humanity has been, is, and (to a certain degree) will always be at the mercy of the weather and mother nature at large. Grumbling does not beget relief.

Perhaps the intention of the malcontents is not just moaning about the heat. Maybe they are seeking sympathy. Maybe they are reaching out to their online network of ‘friends’ for some sense of communal misery, some indication that they aren’t alone in being hot. I suppose this is one of the many functions of social networking, to connect like-minded and temperature-affected individuals. Whatever my friends’ aim, they won’t find sympathy from me. I’m hot too. We’re all hot. But really, what good can come out of complaining about something we can’t hope to change? Let’s just deal with it. Together. On Facebook. With less bellyaching.

goodies

2009-07-24T15:14:00.000-07:00

The goods are over at gimdang.tumblr.

An Argument Against The Fadeout

2009-07-08T16:50:00.001-07:00

Songs are like stories. Not inasmuch as they necessarily tell a tale or contain a narrative but because they have a beginning and an end. This cannot be refuted; a song starts and, with the passage of time, it reaches an end. Also like stories, some are good and some are bad. This judgment can sometimes be made on the strength of the song’s (or story’s) ending. For me, an ending doesn’t necessarily make the song. By that token, neither does the beginning. I’ve always judged a song’s merit on the sum of its parts rather than the coolness (or uncoolness) of one particular part. A good song always seems to be more about the journey than the destination anyway—the means to the end and not the end in and of itself. Still, a discernible ending is absolutely necessary. It’s the final piece of the puzzle. It’s the curtains. Without it, listeners can be left wondering whether something is amiss or whether or not the song has in fact ended. The sense of finality provided by an actual ending completes the composition and effectively wraps up the entire package (sometimes with a pretty little bow, sometimes with a smoldering bag and shit on your shoe). That’s why the fadeout, a commonly heard ‘ending’ in recorded music, is a total copout.

Now when I say fadeout, I mean the gradual decrease in volume until sound can no longer be heard. To be clear, the fading out of a single note or chord is natural and thus acceptable (a perfect example: the singular ringing chord at the end of The Beatles’ “A Day in The Life”) but the fading out of instruments at play is not (example: the full band’s playing and singing of the chorus that closes “Lucy in The Sky with Diamonds”). I’m sure there exist exceptions to my rule, but I don’t feel like getting that specific.

I see the fadeout as the easy way out of a song, the lazy songwriter’s ending. Why go to all the trouble to write an ending when you can just slowly dial down the master volume? It’s as if a simple coordinated stop at a certain point in a song is too much for a band to handle.

I should clarify something: just because you let a song fade out doesn’t mean you suck or that your song sucks. Hell, all the greats have done it. Capable bands like The Band have used the fadeout. “When You Awake” from 1969 inexplicably fades out in the middle of a verse before Rick Danko even stops playing (let alone singing). The Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction,” arguably the greatest rock song ever (I don’t think so), fades out before satisfactorily ending. Steely Dan even goes so far as to fade out “Kid Charlemagne” while Larry Carlton solos. That’s like turning the lights out on Picasso, making him finish painting in the dark and never letting anyone see the finished product. In odd instances like these, my guess is that the fadeout wasn’t the songwriter’s original intention. Maybe the tape was damaged beyond repair and the band decided to do a fadeout instead of re-recording the song for whatever legitimate reason. Perhaps too, the fadeout was part of the plan all along.

Some argue that the fadeout is as artistic a statement as a well-written ending, making the end of the song less abrupt and lending to a tacit sense of continuation that might be best summarized by country supergroup The Highwaymen when they sing “the road goes on forever and the party never ends.” I concede that some songs with fadeouts are so great that an actual ending would be too climactic or almost sad in a way. The journey’s so extraordinary that the destination can only be a letdown. It’s like when the Griswolds finally make it to Wally World just to find it closed for business. “Sweet Jane” by The Velvet Underground, David Bowie’s “Drive-In Saturday,” Neil Young’s “Cowgirl in The Sand” and “Mambo Sun” by T.Rex would all sound strangely interrupted with an actual ending in place of their slow, almost unnoticeable fadeouts. However, when these songs were performed live, they had to have some kind of explicit ending. Otherwise nobody would know when to clap and go “whooo.”

The way I see it, it’s better to burn out than to fade away (in music, not life).

Michael Jackson, 1958-2009

2009-06-25T16:52:00.000-07:00

He was a certified nut, burned by the limelight, the product of an abnormal upbringing, an object of intense scrutiny and understandably, a total freaky weirdo. But dude could dance, dude could sing--his talent and contribution to pop music and culture will continue to be undeniable.

Doctor Murdered in Kansas

2009-06-01T11:43:00.000-07:00

The senseless murder of a doctor in Wichita, Kansas has highlighted the fanaticism of anti-abortion activists and effectively weakened their argument for the preservation of life.

Dr. George Tiller, 67, ran one of the nation’s few women’s clinics that performed late-term abortions. He was shot and killed while serving as an usher during morning services Sunday at Reformation Lutheran Church. The gunman fired one shot at Tiller before threatening bystanders who attempted to stop him.

The suspected killer, 51-year-old Scott Roeder, was arrested three hours later. Roeder was a fierce opponent of abortion, posting passionate diatribes on sympathetic websites. One post read: “Bless everyone for attending and praying in May to bring justice to Tiller and the closing of his death camp.”

Another of the few remaining late-term abortion clinics is in Boulder, Colorado, where Dr. Warren Hern denounced Tiller's killing as the "inevitable and predictable consequence of decades of anti-abortion" rhetoric and violence. "Dr. Tiller's assassination is not the lone and inexplicable action of one deranged killer," Hern said Sunday. "This was a political assassination in a historic pattern of anti-abortion political violence."

How upsetting that the group that condemns a woman’s right to choose and demonizes the doctors who help them feels the need to resort to violence. How painfully ironic that the group whose views are based on the sanctity of life and whose opinions are often informed by religion includes a man who took a life in a house of God.

As profoundly different as people’s opinions are in regard to abortion, expecting them to be resolved through violence, even murder, is terribly unrealistic and short-sighted. I just hope incidents like this hobble the pro-life movement instead of galvanizing its most ardent supporters.

King Khan & The Shrines storm Portland

2009-05-26T23:22:00.000-07:00

Following his blistering set at Sasquatch last weekend, King Khan brought his Shrines to Dante’s last night for a feverish evening of blood, sweat and beers.

A Canadian by way of India, KK got his start playing with Montreal’s The Spaceshits before pairing up with Mark Sultan, aka BBQ (who incidentally opened the show and later joined KK for a song during the Shrines’ set), as The King Khan & BBQ Show.

In 1999, KK found himself in Berlin, where he ended up planting the seeds of the Shrines. Collecting players who shared his manic passion for ass-kickin,’ the band grew from humble roots into the ultra-tight monstrosity it is today. Along with nine other musicians and a go-go cheerleader, it would come to include Ron Streeter, an experienced percussionist who has played with everyone from Ike and Tina Turner to Curtis Mayfield, and Fredovitch, whose wrath-of-God church organ colors much of the group’s material.

Their garage-y sound fits somewhere between the freakbeat of Sun Ra and the empowering funk of James Brown with a bit of self-deprecating humor thrown in for good measure. They were in fine form last night. Though the weather outside the venue was mild, inside could be found a storm of mayhem with soul-power lightning as the band stewed a heady brew of psychedelic soul complete with reverb-soaked guitar, punchy horn blasts and gut-rumbling bass.

Regarded by some as the hardest working man in go business and sometimes named as the rightful heir to THE James Brown’s throne, King Khan has made a name for himself as a soul-stirring, half-naked wild-child with a penchant for theatrical showmanship. Taking the stage in a get-up that could only be described as tribal-chieftain-jungle-chic and launching into “Land of The Freak,” it became apparent that nothing could be more true.

The group ran through some familiar cuts, working the crowd into a frenzy with “Outta Harm’s Way” and “I Wanna Be A Girl,” which got more guys singing and dancing than expected. “Welfare Bread,” a smoothie-groovy tune about government aid, found Bamboorella (the Go-Go Queen of the Underworld) shaking gold glitter onto those closest to the stage.

As good as the band was, KK was still the main attraction: throwing furtive glances into the audience, laughing menacingly through an echoing microphone during “Shivers Down My Spine” and pausing at one point to command everyone to “freak the fuck out.” Obediently, all but the staunchest of too-cool kids complied.

He cut short “Burnin’ Inside,” interrupting the band for a super-South soul-sermon centered around the tale of him climbing inside his woman (taking off his shoes, of course) before crawling out like a “mucky watermelon.” Prowling the stage like a possessed pastor, KK converted the non-believers while reaffirming the faith of his followers. Indeed, if this show were a religious service, it’d be safe to consider the entire room saved.

But then things got weird during the encore. After leaving the stage to thunderous applause, he and the band returned. He had traded his cheetah print sport coat and tribal headdress for little more than a gold cape and a Darth-Vader-Death-Race helmet/mask. Awkward girls made their way to the stage too, dancing halfheartedly as if they were more concerned with being seen than enjoying the music. As if their presence wasn’t already a distraction, they began throwing handfuls of cake into the crowd and shoving it into the faces of band members. It didn’t quite add up. Then again, much of King Khan & The Shrines’ act doesn’t make much sense. Their appeal though, is undeniable.

Queen of Soul

2009-05-15T15:11:00.000-07:00

It was a clear day. Steely Dan was playing “Hey Nineteen” in my head. I heard Donald Fagen deliver the eye-opening line to the song’s uninformed subject, the line that leads him to realize that he’s growing old and losing touch.

“She don’t remember the Queen of Soul.”

Thinking for a minute, something dawned on me: I don’t own any Aretha Franklin records. Though the generation gap between me and those who were around when She (that’s right, I’m capitalizing it) was releasing genre-defining records is large enough to excuse my negligence, I was embarrassed all the same.

Aretha Franklin is royalty. She is an institution. Her pipes are some of the most famous in music history, at once earth-shaking and spine-tingling, comforting and uplifting, able to leap naturally from breathy delicacy to gale-force power.

Her gift might be most evident on “I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Love You).” The warm tone of Her voice nestles in producer Jerry Wexler’s arrangement, concealing the ticking time-bomb of soul power waiting to overheat and explode from Her chest.

“Call Me” features a somewhat meek, passive coo that slowly morphs into a pleading but controlled holler that demands a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Franklin’s command of Her range is exemplary. She has an uncanny ability to let Her robust voice seep in and connect to your subconscious, even when She’s really setting it loose. Just try and stave off the tingles around the three-minute mark of “Ain’t No Way;” there really er, ain’t no way.

Her version of “I Say A Little Prayer” is much more affecting than Dionne Warwick’s. The melisma that so often bogs down other singers’ attempts to prove their talent is used sparingly by Franklin, adding more texture and emphasis. Even when Her voice reaches the point where the power of other singers’ voices peak, you can tell She could go further, She’s got power to spare. What’s more, it all sounds natural. Nothing that comes out of Her mouth sounds forced or overly rehearsed.

She is truly a living legend, as Her track record makes clear: twenty number 1 singles over twenty years, seventeen Grammies and an induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. More than those quantifiable things are the lasting impressions She’s left on culture and music--an enduring legacy, bound to live on in the hearts, ears and voices of generations to come. Indeed, Fagen was on to something. Impossible to forget, I’ll always “remember the Queen of Soul.”

Time Life Music

2009-04-06T11:18:00.001-07:00

Flipping through cable channels, often late at night, early in the morning or in the middle of the day, has yielded some highly entertaining paid programming over the years. From Vince and the ShamWow towel to Billy Mays and his miracle cleaning products; from Ron Popeil’s kitchen contraptions to George Foreman’s arsenal of grilling gadgets (sadly, I could go on), the litany of extended ads with their horrible hawking salesmen are ripe for ridicule. Still, for as long as I can remember, I’ve always enjoyed the Time Life music commercials. Thoroughly.

For at least two minutes and sometimes as many as thirty, some wrinkled and washed-up forgotten star tells viewers about time and life and the songs that accompanied those memorable times and lives. Whether it was the folk music that tempered the turbulent ‘60s or the jukebox jams at the ‘50s soda shop; whether it’s Country Superstars or AM Gold, the good folks at Time Life music are banking on you finding a connection to one of their many wonderful compilations and picking up the phone to make that first of four easy payments.

The commercials always appealed to me because I was a music lover with a short attention span. In the interest of brevity, the ads played snippets of as many songs as they could, trimming the fat and playing the catchiest part of the tune before moving on to another. Where else in TV-land could I go to hear the best ten seconds of a great old song followed by the best ten seconds of another great old song?

Though I never accepted the offer of six CDs or cassettes containing all my ‘favorite songs together at last in one collection,’ I still really liked watching and listening to the infomercials. I even went so far as to take notes on songs and artists so I could find their work later on.

If anything, the advertisements exposed me to some musicians who enjoyed a little time in the limelight before retreating into obscurity. Now, with few outlets for bygone music aside from some oldies radio stations, these commercials and the compilations they push might be one of the last remaining means of exposure for some of the songs that time forgot. I’m just glad that Time Life remembered.

The Killers the band

2009-04-01T10:10:00.000-07:00

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with this band. When Hot Fuss came out in 2004 and slowly climbed the charts on the strength of its great singles, my faith in record-buyers was somewhat restored. Here was a band with talent, ambition and a sound that, while biting ‘80s synth-pop, was all their own at the time. To boot, they were selling enough records to rival the familiar pop, rap and country acts that tended to dominate the top spots.

I even remember seeing the band’s video for “Somebody Told Me” late at night on MTV2 before their debut even made a ripple (let alone a wave) and thinking “this band is going to be big.” Sure enough, four years and two other albums later, they are among the best-selling American groups and one of the bigger concert draws, counting both hipster elitists and TRL junkies as fans.

It comes as no surprise to me. They are a band of gifted songwriters and fine musicians. The production on their records is top notch and they seem to hold themselves to a high standard.

However, their shtick is becoming tiresome. With Sam’s Town, their second album, the band relied heavily on the epic grandeur of Springsteen’s open-road ballad sound. Though the release took them from the club to the arena, its derivative material did little to set them apart and make an original statement.

Their new LP, Day and Age, is another cut-and-paste exercise in style-biting. Perhaps an homage to the cheesy adult-contemporary sound of another (dare I say) Day and Age, it’s layered with synthesized grooves, tacky saxophone accents and more overdubbed tracks than a bustling rail terminal. The result is an over-the-top album that, while populated with catchy tunes, recalls a sound that was left to die decades ago and makes another weak case for the band’s originality.

As if their music’s overt sentimentality (now beginning to feel contrived) wasn’t enough, frontman Brandon Flowers’ ego is inflating. In the press, he is often quoted saying things like ‘my band is the voice of a generation,’ ‘we’re awesome,’ and so on. This point though, is moot. I don’t want to judge a band’s music by the people who make it—I’d rather let it speak for itself.

Either way, it’s speaking loudly and it’s telling me that it’s drowning in self-indulgence.

MULCH

2009-03-26T09:35:00.000-07:00

Whether or not anyone noticed my absence from GimmeDanger, I'll explain it. I've been working on a zine for a good while and I'm finally looking at a short stack of the finished product. After all the writing, laying out, photo-hunting and laboring over different designs and color palettes, I realized that it'd cost me nearly $7 to reproduce a full color copy. With that, I've decided to issue it in black and white. The content is what you may have come to expect, "a collection of moot musings and mumbo-jumbo, MULCH is just that: a mixed blend of matter."

You can find MULCH in Portland at the downtown Powell's on Burnside while supplies last. Or you can get in touch with me and I'll mail you one. And yes, that is my cat on the cover.

on animal farm

2009-03-25T10:53:00.000-07:00

In a move guaranteed to rile wannabe zookeepers, the Oregon Senate has approved a measure banning private possession of certain exotic animals as pets.

The measure would prohibit ownership of lions, tigers and bears (oh my) as well as monkeys, apes, and alligators. Lawmakers contend that it would protect both human safety and animal welfare.

I couldn’t agree more.

Under current law, people get permits from the state Department of Agriculture to keep exotic pets. The Senate bill would not force people to give up those pets but it would prevent people from obtaining new ones.

Sponsors of the bill said that often the exotic pets grow too large and too difficult to handle and they either escape or are let loose by their owners.

Even though the Oregon legislature is poised to dash my hopes of stocking a menagerie with animals that are better suited to lives in the wild than in my backyard, I suppose I’ll get by with a little Beezer cat.

The bill, which now advances to the House, would not affect wildlife rehabilitators, wildlife sanctuaries, zoos, circuses or research or educational facilities.

THIS JUST IN

2009-02-24T14:20:00.000-08:00

This just in: City of Albany to revitalize downtown area, refurbish crumbling schools and construct Oregon’s first legit Nascar track.

Well, probably not.

But, since the Albany City Council voted to sue a subsidiary of PepsiCo for more than $100 million over the company's decision not to build a Gatorade and Propel Fitness Water factory in the city, it stands to collect some loot.

The city council voted 4-0 Monday to authorize the lawsuit, which alleges breach of contract.

Under a 2006 agreement, a PepsiCo subsidiary said it would build a $165 million beverage plant and a separate $85 million bottle-making factory on 241 acres the company bought.

Last November the company notified the city that because of market changes it had changed its mind.

With the country’s every state and municipality in dire economic straits, one has to wonder if the Council’s unanimous decision to sue was motivated by the city’s own lack of money.

To be sure, this legal battle will be costly and hard fought. PepsiCo is a giant organization with a team of skilled attorneys on its side. If the City of Albany doesn’t win the sum for which it is suing, this lawsuit may cost it more than it can muster and further compound its financial predicament.

Still loopy

2009-02-22T00:41:00.000-08:00

I went to the 32nd annual Newport Seafood and Wine Fest today. It was great. In addition to the typical weekend warriors, I saw sluggish wine slobs drifting aimlessly and bead-draped cougars on the prowl, speaking in shrieks and wearing enough makeup to shame Tammy Faye. All gathered peacefully in a giant tent to drink copious amounts of vino, eat shrimp cocktails and cheer emphatically at the shattering of a glass.

Though I'm no connoisseur, I enjoyed several delicious wines from all over the Willamette Valley. Still, it was amusing to watch the clueless dorks pretending they could tell the difference between a spicy cab and a mellow syrah with a fruity finish.

When in Rome, make lemonade, eh?

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

when life gives you lemons...

2009-02-20T11:10:00.000-08:00

The nation’s economy is in a recession. Stocks and markets continue to falter, unemployment is on the rise, the dollar’s value is dropping and foreclosures are still mounting. While our elected officials struggle to balance budgets and decide which programs get funding and which don’t, our President has done little to rally the people and buoy spirits.

Consumer sales are at record lows, folks are worried about their jobs, investor confidence is waning, and some people are holing up and hording what little they have.

It’s clear that the country’s situation is dire. The last thing we need is the fluffy, happy talk reserved for a child: “there, there, it’ll be okay.” I, for one, find that insulting.

At the same time, the real talk that we’re getting from Obama is terribly gloomy. Though he’s taking care to treat the economic crisis with the utmost seriousness, he’s speaking too solemnly with a furrowed brow about the long slog ahead of us. I, for one, find that overwhelming.

So what’s needed? Obama obviously can’t please everyone. I think a mix of speech and action would serve him, and the population, well. The real talk should be given to us straight but it should be tempered with a sense of optimism and a mention of what we, as citizens, can do to help.

In his defense, he has expressed confidence that the nation will bounce back. These statements though, are delivered with the consternation and stiff body language that leaves me feeling more worried than comforted.

Bill Clinton echoed these sentiments in a recent television interview. "I like trying to educate the American people about the dimensions and scope of this economic crisis," he said. "I just would like [Obama] to end by saying that he is hopeful and completely convinced we're gonna come through this."

Side note: imagine the pressure. All eyes are on Obama. His every move is being dissected by critics, his most ardent supporters are expectantly waiting for him to fix everything, and guys like me are straddling that line, just hoping he can make the lemonade.

Fight

2009-02-18T10:49:00.000-08:00

A fight at a skatepark in Tualatin that left four injured will end up being yet another thorn in the side of the movement to construct new skateparks across the state.

The fight, in which one person was stabbed, happened last night around 7 p.m. and has prompted the all-too-familiar stereotyping of skateboarders.

“Just more proof that skateparks attract the wrong crowd. Fill the darn thing in and make it a basketball court or another playground,” commented one reader on The Oregonian’s website despite the fact that none of the fighters have been identified as skaters.

While business owners complain about the destructive, dangerous and noisy presence of skateboarders on their property, residents fight skatepark construction in their neighborhoods. ‘Not in my backyard,’ they say, citing skaters’ tendencies toward substance abuse and general delinquency.

Still, the past decade has seen Oregon and the greater northwest become an internationally-renowned destination for skaters due to its abundance of world-class skateparks.

The most recent wave of new construction began in November 2002 when Portland voters approved a parks levy which, among other things, provided for two new skateparks at Pier and Glenhaven Parks in north and northeast Portland. The Portland Parks Foundation helped secure funding for a skate spot in the new Holly Farm Park in southwest Portland. Thanks to special funding approved by City Council in 2006, a new skatepark opened July 2008 in Gabriel Park in southwest Portland and a skate area is almost completed in Ed Benedict Park in southeast Portland.

Now, with plans to build another, much larger skatepark in the city’s Old Town near the west ramp of the Steel Bridge, skaters will likely see increased opposition to the construction and/or increased police presence when the project is finished. It’s also likely that the entire project will be postponed indefinitely due to the nationwide economic crisis and the city's financial woes.

Letterman vs Phoenix

2009-02-12T14:39:00.000-08:00

David Letterman hosted actor Joaquin Phoenix last night. Together, the two engaged in what was surely one of the most unforgettable and uncomfortable exchanges in Late Show history.

Phoenix, hiding behind dark shades and a full, unkempt beard, was awkward and distant. Appearing on the show to promote his new movie, he mumbled one and two word answers to Letterman’s questions and prompted the host, himself truly gifted at moving conversations from mundane to memorable, to exploit the situation’s potential for comedic value. Letterman soon began mocking Phoenix, playfully ribbing the actor with sarcastic one-liners, until Phoenix grew contemptuous of the host, the co-host, and even the audience.

The whole exchange culminated when Letterman remarked, “Maybe I'll come to your house some night and chew gum." Phoenix responded by taking the gum out of his mouth and sticking it to the host’s desk.

Whether or not Letterman was actually irritated and whether or not Phoenix was really on another planet, it was some damn entertaining television, and surely sent millions of viewers off to bed wondering whether they just witnessed a stoned actor falling apart before the cameras, or a daring performer tearing apart the very conventions of the late night TV talk show.

Here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HXpYk7WGN5Y. We'll see how long it lasts.

Beaver Cleaver

2009-02-04T12:25:00.000-08:00

Beaver Cleaver and his television family were the iconic nuclear unit of post-war suburban America.

RAVE ON

2009-02-02T15:59:00.000-08:00

Fifty years ago today, Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens played a show in Clear Lake, Iowa.

Their short Upper Midwest tour was billed as the Winter Dance Party and predated the mega-festival super-tour concert scene of today. The lucky few that braved the bitter winter weather to see these young men perform were in the presence of a greatness that was soon to be prematurely snatched away.

Just hours after the show, the three were killed in a plane crash in the early hours of the day that came to be known as “the day the music died.”

Holly was only 22 years old but had already left an indelible mark on the developing rock-and-roll sound. Paul McCartney recalled singing and playing his songs with John Lennon when they were boys. Indeed, the first song the pair ever recorded with a young George Harrison was a cover of “That’ll Be The Day.”

One could speculate that had there been no Buddy Holly, there might be no Beatles. To me, that’s more devastating of a thought than the loss of Holly at such a young age. As sad as his untimely death was and is, at least we can be thankful that he was around long enough to leave a small but lasting body of influential work.

LISTEN TO WORDS OF LOVE, OH BOY!, RAVE ON and MAYBE BABY

I need a new drug...

2009-01-27T19:12:00.000-08:00

...well not really. Huey Lewis sang that and I think his 1984 song's message applies to me too. He needed a change and so do I.

I need some new tunes. Times are tight and I don't have the loot to spend on the hit-or-miss music endeavors that expose me to new sounds. As much as I'd like to dig through the just-arrived record bins or grab that CD that the mag wrote about, I just can't afford to take the chance on its coolness.

So lately, when buying music, I tend to dig deeper into the catalogs of bands that I already like. Or I'll just buy an old album that's been deemed irrefutably classic. Even though I always win with these purchases, it's still not as thrilling as discovering something new or grooving to an old 45 by someone I've never even heard of.

Case in point: When I was thirteen, I bought The Clash's London Calling. I had never read about or listened to The Clash. I stumbled on the image of the iconic sleeve and reasoned that anything with that cool of a photo on the front must be the bee's knees. Turns out that judging that book by its cover was a good move.

Since those days are behind me, I'm calling on YOU, loyal danger-seekers. Please comment with music suggestions new and old. Though I have been known to be a bit of a music snob, those days too are now behind me and I will consider each suggestion with deference. Judging by the amount of hits this site gets, I'm banking that a few of you have a fairly good idea of what I dig.

PLEASE AND THANK YOU.

At the slow bar

2009-01-22T20:23:00.000-08:00

They're playing 'gimme danger' at the slow bar.
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

time to pretend

2009-01-14T20:15:00.000-08:00

I know that all the year-end, best-of lists have already been put out there but I'm finally ready to make my claim.

The best album of 2008 is MGMT's Oracular Spectacular. With its woozy essence and space-disco pulse, the album is a work of staggering genius—not bad for a couple dudes from Brooklyn. Not only does the whole shape-shifting thing rock a room full of party people, it’s alternately effective alone, in headphones, where the soundscapes truly come to life.

By mixing modernist electro with time-tested psychedelic and world music, Ben Goldwasser and Andrew VanWyngarden crafted a debut with enough hooks to snag a sea of indie ears. "Time to Pretend" and "Kids" are so catchy that they'll be playing in your head long after the drugs wear off. “The Handshake” and its multiple parts are comfortably disorienting; the opiate sheen of the first two minutes awesomely sets up its pounding conclusion and the whistling on the fadeout caps the song. The guitar solo on “Of Moons, Birds & Monsters” recalls the freakout at the end of the 13th Floor Elevators’ “You’re Gonna Miss Me” while the aboriginal groove of “Electric Feel” calls to mind Men at Work’s hit “Down Under.”

Still, the album as a whole is refreshing. Nothing else that came out this year sounded quite like it. And despite what could be perceived as their apparent apathy, MGMT make their intention known on “The Youth,” singing “This is a call to arms to live and love and sleep together.” It’s a simple message that resounds across its ten tracks and one that seems more appealing now than ever. That’s what’s so great about it and that’s why it’s GimmeDanger's album of the year.

GO BUY IT IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY.

NYC? Try Portland.

2009-01-13T10:42:00.000-08:00

I saw so many of these cookie-cutter dudes last summer.

PPS Disorder

2009-01-12T10:14:00.000-08:00

Another year has passed. I’m a year older, maybe a bit wiser and definitely more sobered by the weight of the world. Still, I read something the other day that not only applies to me and my ephemeral youth, but to many others at times, and not even within the realm of skateboarding.

The Guest Ed column in The Skateboard Mag is usually written by a washed-up old pro who usually talks about kids these days, how things used to be back in the day, or the generally unexplainable virtue of skateboarding. The most recent issue however, contained a piece written by a young dude who I don’t know. Greg Robinson writes:

If you skateboard and are over the age of eighteen, there is a high likelihood that you suffer from Peter Pan Syndrome. Commonly referred to as PPS Disorder, Peter Pan Syndrome tends to thrive in fully grown adults whose lives are a complete and total synthesis between children’s fantasy and adult reality.

…Peter Pan Syndrome is based on the fictional behaviors and mannerisms of Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. As with the inhabitants of Never Never Land, those who suffer from PPS Disorder experience a perpetual reluctance to grow up and engage in the expected norms of adult society.

…Without proper treatment, those diagnosed with PPS Disorder will experience a general disconnect from the established social order and eventually lose grip on the public’s concept of reality. In the end, the subject will completely devolve into a sort of carefree man-child, strutting through life with the easy-going attitude of a boy and the physical attributes of an adult.

…Skateboarding [or whatever your bag is] is a rickety old vessel that’s going to lurch on well beyond all of our years combined. Only mutiny can properly govern the crew, and it’s that constant revolt that’s kept the ship spotless since day one. Any bullshit is scrubbed down; anything unnecessary is thrown overboard. Seeing as how such a huge chunk of life has already been dumped into scrubbing the decks, every skateboarder has eventually got to ask the following:

Do I abandon ship and swim for land, thus putting my PPS Disorder into complete and total remission?

Or do I remain a Lost Boy aboard the Jolly Roger and go down with the ship in the seas of Never Never Land?

FIND THE BALANCE

Cabin Fever...

2008-12-22T16:58:00.000-08:00

...is a slang term for a claustrophobic reaction that takes place when a person or group is isolated and/or shut in, for an extended period. Symptoms include restlessness, irritability, forgetfulness, laughter, and excessive sleeping. Another one is complete madness.

As the plows and gravel trucks continue to tirelessly fight the mounting snow and ice, Multnomah county has declared a state of emergency in an effort to obtain monetary assistance from the state (not likely) and the federal government (somewhat likely). Tri-met has now canceled all but its busiest routes, effectively stranding anyone without a chained-up four-wheel-drive or a Subaru.

Reading the comments on news sites and other blogs, the general consensus seems to be anger. Anger at the city, county and state that each respective municipality hasn't budgeted enough for inclement weather.

To reiterate yesterday's post, times are tough economically--you can't ignore that fact. Folks complain about tax hikes while our schools and public works still suffer. In an area where snow and ice of this scale are so rare, it seems silly to horde precious money for situations like these.

My suggestion: embrace it. Big kids need snow days too.

LISTEN TO "FLYING" BY THE BEATLES

REDRUM

2008-12-21T17:00:00.000-08:00

Precipitation in Portland is a familiar occurrence and something to which the citizenry is entirely expectant. However, this past week's weather has turned the populace on its ear and once again proved that the city is unprepared for snow.

While many states and cities make room in their budgets for snow and ice control, Oregon and Portland see it so infrequently that it doesn't make sense to set much money aside. Governor Ted Kulongoski was recently forced to slash all spending due to the troubled economy. Further compounding Portland's financial predicament, Mayor Sam Adams said today that the city has spent nearly $1 million over the past week in an effort to clear roadways.

The television stations have forgone their regularly scheduled programming in favor of round-the-clock redundant news coverage that consists solely of weather reports and in-the-field correspondents shivering as they report that "yes, it's still snowing" or "yes, there is still snow on the ground."

Though it's only day two of the second phase of what KGW is calling "Arctic Blast," I've been welcoming the inclement weather. After enduring the playful blame game that I brought the snow back with me from Alaska, I haven't been to work. My office (like many others in the city) has closed its doors until things let up.

My house isn't quite snowed in but there's about a foot of snow piled up and even more blown up against the fence. But if I absolutely had to get somewhere, I probably could.

Still, staying in has been awesome. After countless busy weekends, the lady and I have been able to work on household projects and relax. We've suited up and walked to the grocery store. We've been burning fires and drinking lots of wine. She's been baking too, which works out well for me.

I imagine that cabin fever will soon be setting in; I'll start seeing strange things and scrawling REDRUM onto the walls. For the time being though, I'm just happy to be comfortable and warm, peacefully watching the delicate snow color my neighborhood white.

LISTEN TO "SKATING" BY THE VINCE GUARALDI TRIO

thisiswhereIis

2008-12-11T20:46:00.001-08:00

I'm in Anchorage, Palin-Land! See the tall group of buildings just left of center? The third tallest structure in the city? Well, that thar orangey tower is where I'm staying. The features across the water, almost from where this photo was taken, are just as rugged as those pictured.

I'm not gloating, I'm just stoked to see and soak up another part of this country.Look how big this state is! Even though it's giant, there are hardly any people here--they're all clustered. Come to think of it, governing this state for a little bit would be a great experience; maybe a great enough experience to qualify one for the second highest office in the nation!

LISTEN TO M.I.A.

Dead Confederate

2008-12-05T16:18:00.001-08:00

Just listening to these guys, you can bet they have long greasy hair and bitchin beards. They probably wear soiled flannels and denim that smells like your hippie uncle. It should come as no surprise then that the tunes they churn out are as ragged and slow-rolling as the whiskey and weed-influenced guys who made them.

Their debut album Wrecking Ball has the air of a hangover, cloudy and disconnected but with the awareness that it’ll soon pass. One moment your eyes are half-shut, coasting on the vaguely alt-country groove of “It Was a Rose,” when you’re suddenly startled to attention by the throbbing pounds of the bombastic rhythm section. The heavily distorted and atmospheric thrashing that colors much of the record provides more storm than shelter for the singer, who whines woefully in a voice reminiscent of Kurt Cobain’s grungy howl. The spirit of Cobain lives on “Start Me Laughing” which sounds like a preacher wrestling the devil to the ground while “All The Angels” smolders slower than dripping pine sap before exploding into a brushfire.

It's cool stuff that probably translates better in a live setting than on record. And even though the group is starting to get a little buzz going, I don’t hear anything compelling enough to put them over the edge and get them to full-tilt party mode.

LISTEN TO GONER OR THE RAT

turn on the bright lights

2008-11-26T11:40:00.000-08:00

Interpol is a New York band that’s been putting out consistent albums since 2002. Their brand of dark post-punk has been compared to Joy Division and the Cure; it is tight, sharp and anything but free-wheeling. Drummer Sam Fogarino plays complex beats with computerized robotic exactitude while Paul Banks sings in a cold monotone. Though the vocal can be off-putting and the lyrics uninspired, there still exists a transcendent beauty in the music itself. The shimmering guitars, precisely layered and wasting no opportunity to add a counter melody, the deep-in-the-cut bass at times providing more atmosphere than rhythm, and the progressive drumming meld seamlessly to cultivate a feeling of detail that is almost angular in its sound. Songs like “Obstacle 1” with its stabs of reverb, the hook-laden “Slow Hands,” and “Say Hello to the Angels” with its lonely bounce all pulse with a living quality. It’s heaven and hell all rolled into one—a sublime assault on the senses.LISTEN TO PDA, OBSTACLE 2, NOT EVEN JAIL, REST MY CHEMISTRY

yee-hoo!

2008-11-25T14:14:00.000-08:00

Saddle up, partner! It's high time to get country!

in the doorway

2008-11-19T16:42:00.000-08:00

Despite the misguided devotion of Hot-Topic-mall-punk kids that just like the theatrical look and campy lyrics of the Misfits, I’m still a big fan. But instead of feeling rebellious or counter to the norm singing along to the baby-killing and mother-raping lines of “Last Caress,” I just feel cool shaking to the simple rock.

The band’s sound is full of mirth and malice. Directly influenced by the simple chord progressions and vocal stylings of 1950s rock and pop but injected with a heady dose of doom and gloom, it ups the distortion and changes the lyrical content to something more sadistic than saccharine.

Though the Misfits’ contemporaries regarded them as KISS wannabes (New Jersey meatheads who wore weird costumes and makeup to make up for their lack of talent), audiences were a little more forgiving. While the mainstream ignored them, they soon gained a small but loyal following that was eventually dubbed the Fiend Club by singer and chief songwriter Glenn Danzig.

With a revolving cast of musicians, the band played shows in NYC and embarked on short tours around the Northeast. They recorded an album’s worth of material in 1978 that was sporadically released as a series of singles and EPs but didn’t see the light of day as an LP until 1997. Their first official album Walk Among Us was released in 1982 and made use of horror and sci-fi film-inspired themes and imagery. It’s the kind of music that might upset your parents if they heard you listening to it. With song titles like “Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight” and lyrics like “hack the heads off little girls and put them on my wall,” it’s clear that the band was really trying to separate itself from the pack. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, nobody really took notice and the Misfits remained under the radar before Danzig left in the mid-1980s.

LISTEN TO THE STATIC AGE ALBUM. LISTEN TO THE SIMPLE COOLNESS OF THE ONE-NOTE GUITAR SOLO ON “WE ARE 138.” LISTEN TO DANZIG’S TRADEMARK BELLOWING CROON ON “SKULLS.” LISTEN TO THE POP SENSIBILITY OF “ANGELFUCK,” “HYBRID MOMENTS” AND “SOME KINDA HATE.”

"Stuck Inside of Mobile with The Memphis Blues Again” by Bob Dylan

2008-11-14T15:50:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite Dylan songs, this sprawling word-fest strings together a series of images and symbols to sew a lyrical coat of many colors. Not to be overlooked, the music also envelops listeners in its warm folds with the reticent organ and modest lead guitar serving the verses well by being jauntily unobtrusive and thoroughly complementary. While the backing track takes care not to draw attention away from the words, Dylan sings nine verses identical in meter and melody that culminate in the exasperated recitation of the title lines. But just what he’s singing about is anyone’s guess.

Perhaps he’s commenting, in his cleverly roundabout way, on a sort of purgatory he found himself in after switching from the traditional acoustic folk that characterized his early years to the more mainstream electric sound that turned off (and turned on) some fans. Maybe the song was just an excuse to spout seemingly deep lyrics to an audience of analytical hop-heads that were all too eager to read into the arcane and esoteric words of a poetic genius. I think, perhaps wrongly, that the song is told from the perspective of a somewhat overwhelmed, possibly aimless, person in an existential tug-of-war, maybe Dylan maybe not, who is just watching things unfold through the distorted lens of a chaotic, surreal and hazy high. But at just over seven minutes, the song certainly isn't short on interpretation fodder. Get some!

LISTEN TO BLONDE ON BLONDE

mike aho

2008-11-13T11:23:00.001-08:00

LISTEN TO MERLE HAGGARD

all I have to do is dream

2008-11-11T11:11:00.000-08:00

I don’t really put much stock in the dream world. I don’t really buy into the kind of analysis that tells us what dreams may mean either. The other night however, and this was right before the election, I had a telling dream that hinted at the changing of the political guard. Whether or not my dream had anything to do with recent events is, of course, totally debatable. Either way, the coincidence is noteworthy.

Perhaps signaling the departure of a Republican from the Oval Office, the dream showed the death of a baby elephant. And while I’m glad to see Bush’s reign come to an end, I admit that the dream was a total nightmare. I watched helplessly as a giant snake deliberately constricted the little elephant, squeezing its poop and guts out its butt and causing white junk to leak out its pores like the agonizing popping of a thousand zits. The poor pachyderm moaned pitifully as his eyes bulged and color changed from a healthy grey to a hideous, lifeless grey. It was a slow death, disturbing and deeply troubling, met with little resistance.

So if I’m to take the death of the elephant as symbolic of the Republican party’s descent into the minority and ultimate decline in power, then what does the snake represent? Certainly not Obama and my fellow Democrats, right? Right?

LISTEN TO THE EVERLY BROTHERS

David Foster Wallace

2008-11-06T15:00:00.000-08:00

A self-described “semi-agoraphobe,” David Foster Wallace was hailed as a literary genius, and prestigiously honored as such, before hanging himself in September of this year. I recently read an article on him, his writing and the lifelong bout with depression that arguably fueled his creativity, powered his pen and ultimately led to his death. I’ve yet to read Infinite Jest, the book that solidified his reputation as a beautiful mind, but I just finished a journalistic piece he wrote for Harper’s Magazine in 1996. The essay, in a word (well, two): totally awesome.

It finds Wallace describing and commenting on the tourist experience, the trifling minutiae and the uniquely American excess exhibited during his one week trip aboard a luxury cruise ship in the Caribbean. From Wikipedia: “His ironic displeasure with the professional hospitality industry and the ‘fun’ he should be having unveils how the indulgences of the cruise turn him into a spoiled brat, leading to overwhelming internal despair.”

Wallace writes “Shipping Out” as an unedited camera, taking in everything with little regard for cuts. Neurotic attention is paid to the smallest of details, not necessarily for the sake of adding to the glut of information already provided in the piece, but if only for the special joy that comes from observing and recounting such trivialities. His prose is long-winded, heavily punctuated but not overly complex, and peppered with the kind of specific vocabulary that characterizes a rabid reader. Nouns like “appurtenances,” verbs such as “brazed” and “instantiating,” and perfectly descriptive adjectives like “glaucous,” “uterine” and “methamphetaminic.” Too, the content is so dense, though certainly not exhausting, that Wallace is forced to use extensive footnotes, unable (or unwilling) to cram even more information into the actual text of the piece. His writing is eloquent and pedantic but still retains a conversational quality that shines through in frequent colloquial phrases and exclamations. Whether measuring his cabin in units of “size-eleven Keds” or extolling the virtues of his overachieving shower and “fascinating and potentially malevolent toilet” (“a harmonious concordance of elegant form and vigorous function”), no stone is left unturned. I’m looking forward to reading more of his work.

http://www.harpers.org/media/pdf/dfw/HarpersMagazine-1996-01-0007859.pdf

I read the news today, oh boy

2008-11-05T14:45:00.000-08:00

The American people have spoken and elected Barack Obama as their 44th President. As a relative newcomer to the topsy-turvy and scandalous world of politics, I’m filled with pride, happiness, relief and faith in the future through which our new leader has pledged to guide us. And while Obama’s campaign was run on the platform of hope and change, I hope that Americans, first-time voters and other converts to the political process don’t slip back into apathy with the expectation that government and the new guard will change things for the better, dutifully take care of them and ask little in return. The President-elect even said in his acceptance speech last night, “This victory alone is not the change we seek – it is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you... So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other.”

Obama certainly has his work cut out for him; the situation he’s inheriting is indeed daunting. Though his message resonated with the majority of voters, he still made some big promises that, if he intends to keep, will require considerable patience, sacrifice, and investment on our collective part. Change won’t come easily and instantly, but it will come.

LISTEN TO SAM COOKE’S “A CHANGE IS GONNA COME”

whispering pines

2008-10-28T15:37:00.000-07:00

Though I’ve been exposed to their hits over the years, the appeal of The Band’s music has always eluded me. Lately though, I just can’t get enough of them. Their unassuming songs place more emphasis on cultivating a groove and a feel than on impressing listeners with their musical complexity. The members, all multi-instrumentalists who shared vocal duties, each brought something different and equally valuable to the table. Capably getting down on pianos, guitars, bass and drums in an old-timey fashion, The Band made folksy, gripping music that appealed to those with an inclination to unfettered roots rock and an aversion to overblown and long-winded jams. The fragility of the vocal on “Tears of Rage” and the slow build on “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” speak to both the frailty and the grandeur of their sound. Too, most of the songs foster a sense of community (as evidenced by the film The Last Waltz), bringing people together for a good old-fashioned swig-n-snort sing-along.

LISTEN TO JAWBONE, THIS WHEEL’S ON FIRE and WHEN YOU AWAKE

musing

2008-10-25T22:05:00.001-07:00

Why are smoky, working-class bars predisposed to blues music? It seems that every blue-collar drinking establishment that I visit is playing the blues. Maybe it's just good drinking music.

LISTEN TO CREAM

do you remember Walter?

2008-10-21T16:31:00.000-07:00

Do you remember your earliest musical memory; the first time you heard and recognized music as more than just some organized sounds? I remember being confused as to how melodies worked and why the A-B-Cs sounded better sung than read. Of course at the time, I had no idea what a melody even was, but the fact that I was hearing and thinking about what made a musical hook catchy made me realize that music was something that I wanted to hear more of.

Like many others, I got started down the path to musical enlightenment by my parents. My dad listened to music at home and in the car. If I was around, I listened too. While he always had his stable of classics, I was enthralled by the cheesy adult-contemporary hits that were in heavy rotation on his radio. I recall being fascinated with how the sounds were arranged to make an affecting piece of music. I didn’t think too hard about it but, I knew what I thought sounded good, even if I didn’t know why.

By the time I made it to third grade or so, I was listening to pop radio on my own and jamming to Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 show. So at that point, whether or not I knew why I liked what I liked, my tastes and preferences were dictated by whatever chart-topping songs were being played on the radio. It wasn’t until I reached middle school that I began forming my own tastes and preferences, playing a more active role in seeking out music that I liked and finally, knowing why I liked it.

The big breakthrough and the spark that ignited my fiery passion for music in general came in sixth grade. We had a unit in choir class devoted entirely to the Beatles. This was my first real introduction to the Fab Four and I ended up getting in pretty deep. Their music was undeniably catchy; I could bob my head, tap my feet and sing along—it was a revelation.

Soon after, a friend and I both started exploring our dads’ old record collections and saturating our psyches with classic rock and oldies hits. As the years wore on, I continued to straddle the line between past and present, finding pleasure in the old music that influenced the new and appreciating truly original work. I just dig music—that’s all there is to it.

evolution of an idea

2008-10-20T15:46:00.000-07:00

The Bowery Hotel is in New York. I've never been there but I thought this guy on their coaster looked cool. I liked his stance and the simple style in which he was drawn. I thought he'd make a good lumberjack.

I enlisted my friend Coco, a talented artist, to make some quick changes. She drew this up for me in a minute.

I took the drawing to Aaron at Icon here in Portland and he made a couple changes before sticking it on my side. I really like how it turned out and though I don't think my great-grandpa and his daughter, my grandma, would approve of it, I think it's a fitting tribute that I'm happy to keep to myself.

Great-grandpa was a nature-lover, a dedicated outdoorsman with a great appreciation for natural beauty. He had to take a job in the timber industry during the great depression in order to support his family. I never really talked to him about it before he died, but my grandma and her sister are full of engrossing stories about growing up in logging camps.

Ever listen to that song "Tattoo" by The Who? It's a real cool cut from their early days on which they sing about being a man and getting your arm inked. The chorus finds Roger addressing his new tattoo, “I expect I’ll regret you…you’ll be there when I die,” and commenting on what many believe to be a senseless lark. Think what you will about the sacred art of tattooing--its permanence, its fad status and the undeniable stereotypes it generates--I still think the whole affair can be pretty cool.

That’s not to say that I like all tattoos, oh no. There are some horrible examples out there, tattoos that tell the world how foolish someone was or is and tattoos that demonstrate someone’s impaired decision-making process. I like to think that my tattoos are pretty tasteful. Not only that, nobody can see them (and judge me) unless I take off my shirt. The tattoos are for me and I'm not trying to show them off. My body’s still a temple, it’s just got some decoration on it now.

election fever

2008-10-15T15:49:00.000-07:00

It’s getting ugly out there, folks; people are at each other’s throats. I think I echo the candidates’ sentiments when I say that I can’t wait until November. Mud is flying, some of it’s even sticking. Things are heating up and right-leaning Fox News and left-leaning MSNBC are fanning the flames. The power of the blogosphere is becoming explicitly evident as fiction is being passed off as fact and vice versa. Youtube, only three years old and enjoying a newfound importance as a destination for more than funny clips and amateur movies, is littered with bogus campaign ads and misinformed homemade videos. Though I think it’s great that citizens are passionate about the particular candidate that represents their values and ideals, I also think that it speaks to the devolution of American culture when people get so worked up that they start getting violent with both their actions and their words. Shouting the N word at a McCain rally when Obama’s name is mentioned has prompted gentle rebukes from the Republican candidate. Conversely, when a deafening roar of boos greets the mention of McCain at an Obama rally and drowns out the speaker, the Democratic candidate too has to quiet his supporters. How is a voter to muddle through this mess to determine the candidate of their choice? Answer: turn off your television and examine the issues. The following are but a few of the ones that matter to me.

A lot of people choose who to vote for based on the candidate’s tax policies. I’m with just about everybody in this country when I say that I don’t want to pay more taxes. I do, however, recognize that everything costs money. The Bush administration squandered the biggest surplus our country ever held and now we’re in the deepest debt we’ve ever been while facing the most tenuous economic situation of our lives. Infrastructure is crumbling, crime rates are climbing and many people are finding their cupboards bare. There are times when our streets and highways are free of police because the department doesn’t have enough money to pay its officers. Imagine a policeman calling for backup and getting no assistance; the implications are unsettling. And we can’t complain about ‘kids these days’ if we aren’t giving them the tools they need to succeed. That means investing in education and improving schools. Many school districts in this country are so strapped for cash that they’re cutting school days out of the year, not to mention vital programs that keep our students healthy, stimulated, and off the streets. How do the Republicans expect the next generation to eventually take the reins of this nation if they don’t appropriate more tax dollars for education and invest in the future? ‘No new taxes, we want tax breaks;’ people, you can’t get something for nothing. Let it be known, I’m a firm believer that money doesn’t fix everything--but it certainly helps if it’s spent wisely.

On that note, and especially here in Portland it seems, many people complain about the homeless. What they don’t seem to understand is that the government-run mental health system is so under-funded that it can’t take care of many of society’s most vulnerable people. They end up on the streets, much to the dismay of the civilized citizenry who unrealistically expect these ‘crazies’ to shape up and get jobs or get the hell out of town. These people are ill and require help, not ignorance.

Abortion is a polarizing issue, but it’s still a choice that must be left to the woman. The Republican candidates have made their opinions painfully clear. To them, it’s a black and white issue. But who are they to decide what a woman chooses to do with her own pregnancy? If an expectant mother is unprepared to raise a child, what good would it be to burden her with a supposed ‘blessing?’ Criminalizing abortion could also lead to desperate women seeking dangerous operations free of government safety regulations while crippling the system that might end up having to support mother and child. By overturning Roe v Wade and effectively forcing women to have the baby for whom they are ill-prepared to care, the Republicans would really be ruining two lives: that of the mother and that of the child.

Humans evolved. We weren’t -POOF- created. It’s irrefutable science. Often a tough pill to swallow, science has been blowing minds since the world was determined to be round, not flat. I don’t think it’d get this far, but imagine the precedent that would be set if school curriculum included a unit on creationism (which the Republican vice presidential candidate advocates). Too, stem cell research is necessary to understanding how our bodies work and to finding cures to some of the horrible diseases that plague humanity. Ignoring these studies and calling for their abolishment on religious grounds is not only foolish, but dangerous. The fact that some of our Republican (and Democratic) leaders can comfortably refute scientific fact still troubles me. Go ahead and have faith in the religion of your choice, just keep it out of public schools and policy decisions.

I don’t know too many folks who want to spend their dying days unconscious and connected to life-support machines. But the conservatives, and the Christian right that make up a huge percentage of their base, would have you rot in a vegetative state, draining your bank account instead of dying with dignity. If the doc’s prognosis can be trusted, pull that plug and spare a family the pain of helplessly watching their loved one die slow.

Both Republicans and Democrats agree that this nation needs to end its dependency on foreign oil. What they disagree on is how we’ll accomplish it. Though the continued exploitation of the world’s cache of fossil fuels will get us nowhere fast, “drill, baby, drill” has been a popular chant at McCain-Palin campaign events. Ignoring the fact that the mantra makes people sound like morons at a monster-truck rally, the Republicans want to tap American oil reserves (until they’re dry (there’s hardly even any in there anyway)) and begin offshore drilling. The problem with that plan is that, in order to even get the oil, it will take nearly a decade to get the drilling and pumping machinery (not to mention all the infrastructure associated with it) operational. In the meantime, no progress will have been made on transitioning to alternative energy sources. If we really want to clean up our homeland and this planet, the US needs to take the lead and get the ball rolling on renewable energy. It will not be easy or cheap and it will require sacrifice but, in the long run, it will pay off and set a good example for the rest of the world. The preservation of natural beauty, the new jobs this movement will create and the improvement of the wellbeing of all living things are reason enough for me.

Nuclear proliferation concerns both parties. Worrying about Iran, North Korea and their allies getting the bomb is one thing, but keeping our nukes and telling the rest of the world that they’re not allowed to have what he have is quite another. It's hypocritical and sends them an ominous message. The fact that we’ve got enough nuclear weapons to destroy humanity as a whole can be perceived as menacing to other nations, regardless of our purported peace-keeping intentions and their rogue tendencies. If we’ve got our finger on the trigger, policing those who seek to level the playing field by developing weapons of their own, everybody on this earth feels threatened. Clearly, Iran and North Korea should not have the capability to wage nuclear warfare. However, threatening them will only encourage them to speed up their weapons development programs. “People the world over have always been more impressed by the power of our example than by the example of our power,” said Bill Clinton awhile back. With that, a process of negotiation and joint disarmament is necessary to improving our international reputation as well as putting at ease the minds of concerned leaders and citizens by making the world a safer place. If however, the rogue regimes continue undaunted and refuse to disarm with us, I’m afraid that the consequences will have to be more severe than economic sanctions…and that’s a very scary thought…but at least we’ll have tried.

I understand that there are other pressing matters at stake, not to be overlooked or taken lightly. There are wars and other foreign policy issues, immigration debates, a crashing economy and uninsured citizens getting sick and going untreated. I won’t pretend to understand the ins and outs of those very broad subjects because I don’t know all the specifics. I do know however, that I’m very comfortable with what Barack Obama is saying about them.

John McCain is a smart man with a lot of experience who has actually been a fairly moderate voice in the Senate, something I can admire. But in being the President, and especially in campaigning for the office, partisanship seems to become more of a requirement and I just don’t like where his party stands on many of the issues. While seeking the presidency, McCain’s had to shift his own personal politics further to the right in order to appeal to the Republican base. He used to be pro-choice and he used to champion immigration reform, stances and actions that align more with the democratic position. Now he's anti-abortion and against immigration reform. Standing up for what you believe in and not caving to party ideology is what I call strength of character, something that many conservatives argue he exhibited in Vietnam and something that’s earning him their vote. This campaign has shown McCain to be more of an opportunist than a maverick, sacrificing his integrity and rolling over just to get more votes. That's not very maverick-y. Basically, I can’t abide by the decisions McCain is promising to make if he wins the presidency. Moreover, I have no confidence in Sarah Palin and I don’t think she is experienced or knowledgeable enough to serve as VP or to assume the position should something happen to McCain.

This, of course, brings up an example of the conservative criticism of Obama: his own lack of experience. Though I’m quick to criticize Palin for the same thing, I think it’s important to make the distinction that Obama’s campaign isn’t about experience as much as it’s about his embodiment of resolve, tolerance, intelligence, and patience with the notion of compromise and negotiation. Meanwhile, Palin is quick to tout her limited (and marred) experience as mayor of Wasilla, Alaska and governor of a state with a population comparable to that of my hometown of Portland, Oregon. She’s doing her best to convince voters that that experience is not just enough, but extremely valuable. Does she really think voters are dumb enough to buy that crock? Sadly, there are a good many that will continue to be sold on the ‘hockey mom’ posturing and her ‘regular gal’ characterization while overlooking the fact that she’s grossly under qualified for the office. To make matters worse for her and the Republican ticket, the McCain camp has been granting super-limited press access to her, for reasons obvious to Democrats, and unrealistically expecting the public to see her as an effective, capable leader.

Regarding Obama’s age and experience, I think that a young, eager politician will have smart, experienced people clamoring to serve in his cabinet and hitch their wagon to his star while the ‘maverick of the senate’ may find that he’s burned too many bridges over the (many) years and find himself hard-pressed for good, willing help.

As with all things, time will tell. Until then, educate yourself and decide on the candidate whose vision and values align most closely with yours. Vote.

dig this

2008-10-11T22:18:00.000-07:00

Last week was Old Soul Week at the new GimDang, featuring classic cuts from the likes of Otis Redding, Sam Cooke and Joe Tex. Tune in for more themed weeks to come!

Taibbi on Palin

2008-10-07T16:56:00.000-07:00

Even though I tend to agree with him, Matt Taibbi can be kind of a tool sometimes. I think he takes it too far on purpose though, just to get a rise out of readers. Here's an excerpt from his latest piece in Rolling Stone:

"Sarah Palin is a symbol of everything that is wrong with the modern United States. As a representative of our political system, she's a new low in reptilian villainy, the ultimate cynical masterwork of puppeteers like Karl Rove. But more than that, she is a horrifying symbol of how little we ask for in return for the total surrender of our political power. Not only is Sarah Palin a fraud, she's the tawdriest, most half-assed fraud imaginable, 20 floors below the lowest common denominator, a character too dumb even for daytime TV — and this country is going to eat her up, cheering her every step of the way. All because most Americans no longer have the energy to do anything but lie back and allow ourselves to be jacked off by the calculating thieves who run this grasping consumer paradise we call a nation."

fightin' mad over here, man

2008-10-06T16:00:00.000-07:00

While the Republicans cry foul every time a legitimate assertion is made against them, claiming that the ‘liberal’ media is out to smear them with that ‘gotcha’ journalism, they neglect to understand that the bastion of conservative craziness, FoxNews, has a right-wing stance that borders on total subjectivity. Journalism is built on a foundation of objectivity, not personal opinion and bias. When a network is populated by rhetoric-spitting boobs like Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity, there can be no hope and no expectation for unbiased, honest journalistic integrity. Moreover, even though said claims against the republicans are substantiated by reputable, non-partisan organizations, they still refuse to concede truth and somehow find a way to spin it and soften the blow. Their fellow party members nod in solemn agreement, seemingly accepting the bullshit they’ve just been fed. The republican base it seems, is conditioned to believe what they’re told rather than thinking for themselves.

whatserface

2008-10-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

So all three of the artists featured here are totally rad. Mel Kadel gets buck with the inky pens and illustrates in a style all her own. Millard is her dude and though the medium is the same and his style is similar, the subject matter is more fun and juvenile. Sieben's hecka tight and is starting to get paid lately, doing limited edition work for Adidas as well as Volcom. I have no idea if the pieces they're showing are new or old, but I'm still stoked. Check it out if you're in the neighborhood and avoid the toothless guy with the eye patch--you don't want what he's selling.

abandon ship?

2008-10-02T09:32:00.000-07:00

Have you checked out the new GimDang? http://gimdang.tumblr.com/

humanize the vacuum

2008-09-26T09:12:00.000-07:00

A dude named Chris Ervin wrote the following. Dig it:

I feel a mixture of sadness and envy when I think of people who don't feel deep, inarticulable truth when they listen to their favorite bands. My favorite bands create a sort of connectedness to the universal commonalities of human life, and an empathy for the particularities of the musicians contributing to the unconscious stream of universal commonalities I perceive in the music. I'm sad that there are people on this earth who don't feel the awe and revelation I do - sad that people can't access all the wonderful, empyreal feelings that I can. And I'm envious because it feels a bit silly, sometimes, to feel such overpowering emotions at the sound of guitar strums and Wuhrlizter wheezes. I'm envious of the people who never have to deal with any sadness or pain when they play their favorite records, of people who don't have to change the radio station when ""Wild Horses,"" by the Rolling Stones, comes on the radio, of people without raw, exposed nerve endings.

Dr. Dog at Portland's Doug Fir

2008-09-24T16:06:00.000-07:00

I had been anticipating last night for weeks, trying not to get my hopes up or set my expectations too high. Thankfully, and delightfully I might add, Dr. Dog did not disappoint. Nor did the opening bands--two relatively unknown groups called Hacienda and Delta Spirit, the latter of which has a very bright future.

Working up the crowd into a state of simultaneous awe and rapture, Delta Spirit won over the room and sent people flocking to the merch table after their set. They’re a five-piece from San Diego with a profound, stirring sound and a recent debut album that’s getting lots of attention. One song, “Children,” was particularly rousing and almost felt like a deathbed confession or a reminder to not go gentle into that good night. The guitar player hit the switch on his Rickenbacker and set loose a reverb-laden chord progression with an echoing delay that sounded and felt like a transformative journey to the other side of consciousness. The rest of the band soon joined in, the drummer simply pounding, the singer exorcising some pent-up demon and woefully sucking on his harmonica. It was a spiritual experience and one I won’t soon forget.
I soon snapped out of the Delta Spirit spell, excited by the prospect of seeing and hearing Dr. Dog. I hit the bar and got one for my hand and one for my pocket before finding a spot near the middle of the floor. When they came out, they received a warm welcome and immediately launched into “The Old Days” off Fate, their new album. The song and, subsequently, the show, became an instant party when, about halfway through, it sped up and went to space-circus-land, taking the audience along for the ride. Their music is layered, artfully constructed pop with the unmistakable influence of bands like The Beatles and The Band, at once solemnly heartbreaking and jubilantly whimsical. As fans swayed and sang joyously to “Ain’t It Strange” and “The Breeze,” the Dog reveled in the excitement, tearing through faster versions of “My Old Ways” and “The Girl” while dancing happily and testing the limits of the small stage. Sharing lead vocal duties, the bass player and one of the guitarists sounded great, replicating their respective chord-shredding shout and delicate pitch live and proving that they weren’t just studio flukes. Too, the instrumentation was spot-on--not one of the five missed a beat; this might have been most noticeable on the slow-burning, somewhat intricate rocker "The Beach," which really shook shit up. Whether you dig the songs or not, you can’t deny the musical talent these guys possess. When it came time to end the show, they closed with “Die, Die, Die,” an acquiescent song about giving up built on pervasive percussion. As it grew in intensity, members of the supporting acts slowly began filing onstage with tambourines, maracas, extra drums, even the lid of an old trashcan, and joined the band for one last hurrah. The whole affair was just too damn cool and I suggest anybody reading this heed the following as advice, not as warning: BEWARE OF DOG. The flash on my camera broke too.

none more black

2008-09-18T12:03:00.000-07:00

Did you know black computer screens use less energy than white ones? You can thank me later.

SMELL THE GLOVE. CONSERVE.

The Greatest White Liar

2008-09-17T16:29:00.000-07:00

Upon first listen, you might be mistaken to assume this album was released in the mid-sixties when in fact, it came out in 2005. Armstrong and his band jump out of the speakers like time-portal troubadours, leaving a trail of earnest sweat and lo-fi fuzz in their wake. The heir-apparent to the British invaders that came before him, he covers the bases with pitch-perfect versions of the white-boy blues, sophisticated pop finery and four-squared songcraft that put his forefathers on the map. I’ve never seen the band live--I don’t think they’ve even toured the states--but I bet it’d be awesome; ears ringing with remnants of the Kinks, Stones and Yardbirds smoldering on the scuffed stage. It is however, important to note that Nic Armstrong & The Thieves aren’t just shameless imitators or slaves to the past. Though they use blueprints that have already proved pleasing, their songs brim with energy and passion and, if not originality, then a dedicated commitment to garage rock revivalism. The guitars sound pure, like a pair of wild and unruly mods popping pills and egging each other on in an effort to prove their fearlessness while the drums are simple and discreet, bolstered by tasteful handclaps, tambourines and maracas. Armstrong’s voice is a versatile instrument as well, morphing easily and imparting a range of impressions; he can sound cutting and zealous on the rockers but light and bouncy on the ballads. Par example, “Mrs. Moraliser” and “Broken Mouth Blues” are stomping romps that showcase his raw howl, calling to mind a certain John Lennon. Conversely, “In Your Arms On My Mind” finds him whispering sweetly over a sleepy acoustic chord progression and rim taps while “Too Long For Her” is just the sweetest slice of English charm this side of the Mersey.

LISTEN TO FINISHING TOUCH and SHE CHANGES LIKE THE WEATHER

DONOVAN...

2008-09-15T15:27:00.000-07:00

...was a Scotsman. From the land of Scotland.

With his penchant for vague protest tunes and poetic folk songs, he was sometimes regarded as Dylan lite. Too, his haphazard harmonica playing and unremarkable acoustic strumming were good but not great and certainly lent to the characterization. Pigeonholing an artist though, is an impossible task, and Donovan defied categorization by finding inspiration in world music, rock and jazz, as well as folk. As the 1960s wore on and, perhaps due to the types of chemical stimuli favored by hip young artists, he started mixing ingredients and getting psychedelic, man. Reflecting these influences are tracks like “Season of the Witch” and “Atlantis,” among others, that flow and breathe with a living quality and make use of an array of unusual instruments and strange effects. The harpsichord, compressed reverb (which were fairly typical in the freak-folk scene of that day) and lyrical content on “Epistle to Dippy” are particularly far out. I always liked “Hurdy Gurdy Man” with its dark and stony sound. It’s a creepy song and it’s been used well in films to convey a sense of tense uncertainty and/or impending turmoil. At one point, the crunchy guitar resounds in a manner consistent with a sitar and at another, it thrashes chaotically in a mire of fuzzy distortion (listen closely at 2:03--probably the heaviest 40 seconds in his entire catalog) while the vocal echoes as if it was recorded close-up with a super-sensitive mic in a dank cave. The song is eerie and unsettling, almost like a bad dream. And like a bad dream, it sticks with you long after ending.

LISTEN TO WEAR YOUR LOVE LIKE HEAVEN

nine eleven

2008-09-11T09:36:00.000-07:00

Today is September 11, the seventh anniversary of the terrorist attacks that claimed 2,975 lives at the World Trade Center in New York City, the Pentagon in Washington DC and a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. I think the event will be remembered by my generation, and all others who witnessed it, much as JFK's assassination is remembered by our parents' generation: as a tragedy that united the nation in shared grief and common disbelief.

Do you remember where you were when you heard the news? I do. I was at home getting ready for work, finishing out the final days of a summer job before heading back to college. My mom told me that something was happening in New York; she'd heard as much on the radio. There was a lot of confusion as different sources were trying to piece together what was going on. Out of curiosity, we turned on the television just in time to see the second plane crash into the other tower. We watched as New Yorkers panicked, completely shocked, and TV news anchors found themselves at a loss for words. I remember being awestruck, almost numb in response to what was playing out before my eyes. The scale of the building in relation to the plane blew my mind and it took a minute to register what that explosion meant, how many people had died in that instant. I felt kind of powerless, detached and removed from the whole episode because New York has always seemed like it was a world away from me and my home. Even though those people and I shared a common bond as Americans, I still had trouble relating and identifying with what they were going through. It felt unreal, like a dream or something. Did you ever see the footage of Bush getting the news at some storytelling event? He kind of sits there and you can see the little gears turning in his head, slowly and cautiously. That, I can actually relate to because that’s almost how I felt: confused, unsure and partially paralyzed (reactions that are fine for a citizen but certainly not what you’d want from your president). I then drove to work, glued to the radio as a barrage of stories and explanations were offered. When I got there, we gathered around a television and watched as the towers fell, the Pentagon burned, another plane crashed in a field, and the news media sorted through conflicting reports in an effort to make sense of it all. Too, the citizens of this country were engaged in an effort to do the same.

Benches, one for each of the lives lost, are part of the new memorial at the Pentagon. Aren't they cool? I admit that once I saw the photo, I immediately thought how skateable they could be. The edges are stainless steel and the possibilities are endless. Not only could you launch off it like a ramp, you could grind up it, off it or down it. With all the technical progression in skateboarding these days, the benches offer tantalizing opportunities to switch up grinds and slides and even get some flip-out and 180-out combos going. Couple that with the fact that the ground is smooth and that there are 184 of these benches and you've got a vertiable wonderland of options for lines. Some of the sure-footed pros and hungry ams could go buck on these things. That though, would be treading on very delicate ground. It'd be pretty disrespectful to skate them and even if you tried, you can bet that somebody would be incredulously angry at you. So I say they're off-limits.

The Love Language

2008-09-09T11:59:00.000-07:00

Prior obligations and general busyness forced me to miss MusicfestNW again this year. Though there were few big names in the lineup that appealed to me, I was more interested in checking out some low-brow bands and maybe finding some local dudes to latch onto--‘our band could be your life’ style. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. But other people went, and if it weren’t for my friends, whose musical tastes more or less align with mine, I wouldn’t have learned of The Love Language. Seriously, my buddy Mike can’t shut up about them.

The band is based in North Carolina and their sound can be almost as grand and ambitious as the Arcade Fire’s. “Providence” is a good example with its succinct parts that build into an anthemic, spectacular whole. “Lalita” is more Strokes meets Modest Mouse, built around excited acoustic strumming, ass-shaking tambourine and a euphoric guitar phrase that wouldn’t sound out of place in a jubilant power-pop hop-along whereas “Graycourt” is a pretty piano song complete with softly wistful singing, shuffling drums and an affected vocal track that doubles as a guitar solo at one point. The Ricky Nelson cover, “Hello Mary Lou,” is harsh, full of feedback and static squall that serves as a marked contrast to the polished sheen of the original. And while bright, insistent guitars and fuzz-filtered vocals layered with dense harmonies propel the short “Sparxxxxxxxxx,” the fleeting slide break in the middle begs to be extended.

The band, a six or seven-piece I was told, seems pretty versatile, moving comfortably between styles and moods. They’re signed to an indie label, Bladen County Records, which is also home to a couple notable Portland bands, but they’ve yet to release anything. Translation: keep your ears peeled!

http://www.myspace.com/thelovelanguage
http://bladencountyrecords.com/index.php/the-love-language/

kill your television

2008-09-07T01:52:00.000-07:00

Cable TV is a wasteland. Tonight I had access to the more than five channels that I'm accustomed to and it blew my simple mind. How is anybody supposed to cope with that many choices? As the availability of those 250+ options forced me to cycle mindlessly through the digital TV guide, I still felt that I had to decide on something. Why spend an hour watching bits and pieces of ten different programs when there are far more better things to do (such as complaining about the evils of the TV to my small audience)? Maybe if I knew what I wanted to watch before I set out on my television adventure, it'd be easier to find something satisfactory. Making that decision though, is tough and almost unbearable for a dude like me. There were music videos, classic movies, series' that I've read about, extreme clips of cop chases and people getting hurt, documentaries, nature shows and biographies, as well as a litany of entertaining paid programming. Perhaps the skills of channel surfing have eluded me. Even so, I still have trouble understanding why that many channels and options can be more appealing than a good book or a great record or, for that matter, quality time spent with the ones you hold dear. I guess the choice is up to the holder of the remote control and even though that choice can be easier for some than it is for me, it still leaves me completely overwhelmed. LISTEN TO FUCKING DR. DOG's NEW ALBUM

The Economist on Sarah Palin

2008-09-04T16:06:00.000-07:00

The Economist is a weekly news and international affairs magazine based in London. Though it often takes editorial liberties, I find its content to be witty and informative while retaining the objective quality of a trusted publication. According to its editors, it aims "to take part in a severe contest between intelligence, which presses forward, and an unworthy, timid ignorance obstructing our progress." At issue is McCain’s VP pick; I’m still trying to wrap my head around it—what was he thinking? The following is excerpted from an online piece that someone showed me.

Mrs. Palin, who has been the governor of a state with a population of 670,000 for less than two years, is the most inexperienced candidate for a mainstream party in modern history. Inexperienced and Bush-level incurious. She has no record of interest in foreign policy, let alone expertise… This not only blunts Mr. McCain’s most powerful criticism of Mr. Obama. It also raises serious questions about the way he makes decisions.

Mr. McCain had met Mrs. Palin only once, for a 15-minute chat at the National Governors’ Association meeting, before summoning her to his ranch for her final interview. The New York Times claims that his team arrived in Alaska only on August 28th, a day before the announcement… The contrast with Mr. Obama’s choice of the highly experienced and much-vetted Joe Biden is striking.

The article takes a particularly interesting turn when it states and explains that “the Palin appointment is yet more proof of the way that abortion still distorts American politics.” Check out the full text at http://www.economist.com/world/unitedstates/displayStory.cfm?source=hptextfeature&story_id=12066224.

SHUFFLE, ROUND 5: ROAD TRIP EDITION

2008-08-28T13:29:00.000-07:00

I’m off! I’m hopping in the car and hitting the road with my faithful companion for the long weekend at Lake Tahoe. The trip promises to be full of both action and relaxation. In preparation for the 9+ hour drive, I’ve loaded the CD booklet with mixtapes past and present and some choice discs to while away the hours and keep me stimulated as the landscapes drift by…

The Cribs, “Mirror Kissers”
This literal band of brothers work their British fingers to the bone and shred their vocal chords in this ode to…well, mirror kissers I guess. I’m not quite sure if it’s about narcissism or snorting that booger sugar but I do know that the ragged guitars, bassless breakdown and the spot-on chorus shouting is enough to keep my ears happy as I kiss Oregon goodbye. Note: I saw these guys live a couple months ago and they were horrible--stick to the records if you’re interested.

The Remains, “Don’t Look Back”
This song makes me wanna drive fast until 1:05 when it deviates from its original course and changes up to a call and response preacher-man rant. Not to worry, the band returns to form at about 1:55, kicking into high gear and bashing away on the simple riff and title line.

The Tammys, “Egyptian Shumba”
This old girl-group tune is really strange but, it’s totally awesome pandemonium. These chicks wanna dance Egyptian style (whatever that means) and though I can’t see their dance, I imagine it as sort of an uninhibited shaking with no real sense of form or style--a glorious, liberated mess oblivious to any and all consequence. Shrieking in joy, like sexed-up monkeys over a calliope-style keyboard phrase, they go bananas and take this willing listener along for the ride. It’s their party and they’ll scream if they want to. I might do the same.

The Rolling Stones, “Monkey Man”
Some say that Let it Bleed was the high point of the Stones’ career, the creative and cultural culmination of their sound. With the passing of Brian Jones a couple months before the album’s release, that argument is valid. Exactly what this song is about is anyone’s guess, but what’s undeniable is the shift at 2:32 in which the band unites around an infectious groove and lays back as Keith Richards works the slide on his guitar and sets up Nicky Hopkins for a beautiful piano solo. This is one of those moments that defies explanation; it is what it is.

Charlatans, “Codine”
A dragging sense of lo-fi fatigue is communicated by the fuzzy, echoing guitar and the wearily sung words on this old tune. I’m picking up what this dude’s putting down and when he sings “I feel like I’m dying, and I wish I was dead,” I believe him.

The Groupies, “Primitive”
Like a creeping cad peering through squinted eyes, the singer on this song skulks across the track and claims to ‘love and live’ in a primitive manner. The way he says it, in a leering whine, is cool enough. But if it weren’t for the discreetly magnificent guitar work, unobtrusive harmonica, shaking percussion and inconspicuous bass (with a treble-laden laxity), the song would be decidedly unremarkable.

two sides of the same coin

2008-08-27T13:05:00.001-07:00

This is rock and roll. The New York Dolls played simply; they played fast and loud. Their rock was a spectacle, rife with fanfare and showmanship. LISTEN TO VIETNAMESE BABY This too is rock and roll. Neil Young and his Harvest-era band played in a barn. They played loud, heavy music that pinned listeners with its visceral weight. LISTEN TO ALABAMA

DNC day two

2008-08-26T20:05:00.000-07:00

Hillary Clinton, in what was said to be the most important address of the Democratic National Convention, seemed genuinely sincere as she spoke about the grave stakes in the upcoming presidential election. Within seconds of the start of her speech, she made her intentions clear by advocating Barack Obama and encouraging her delegates to back him. "If you want a taste of freedom, keep going!" said Clinton, reiterating Harriet Tubman's statement while traveling the underground railroad. Appealing to a key group of her supporters who were on the fence about whom to vote for once the nomination escaped Hillary, she diverted the attention away from herself and outlined the issues that rallied followers around her campaign in the first place. She spoke about universal healthcare, equal rights, foreign policy, domestic policy and a green economy and turned them into democratic issues in an effort to unite the party into one right-railing unit. Wisely, she spoke directly to the die-hard faction of women who have said they’d rather vote for McCain than Obama now that Clinton is out of the running, a group whose votes McCain is aggressively pursuing and a group that’s shaping up to be a deciding factor in crucial battleground states like Ohio, Michigan and Pennsylvania. She talked about the suffragette movement and the obstacles that women have had to surmount before exhorting these backers to remember who was most important in this campaign. ``I want you to ask yourselves: Were you in this campaign just for me?'' she said. The democrats have also learned a lesson from the 2004 election. No longer pulling punches in regards to the opposition, they’ve come out swinging. Clinton honored McCain’s service to the nation but was quick to attack his congressional voting record and campaign tenets, likening him to the maligned George W. Bush. She closed her speech the way she opened it--by espousing the importance of this election and championing Obama and the democratic cause:

…We have to get going by electing Barack Obama president. We don't have a moment to lose or a vote to spare. Nothing less than the fate of our nation and the future of our children hang in the balance. I want you to think about your children and grandchildren come election day. And think about the choices your parents and grandparents made that had such a big impact on your life and on the life of our nation. We've got to ensure that the choice we make in this election honors the sacrifices of all who came before us, and will fill the lives of our children with possibility and hope. That is our duty, to build that bright future, and to teach our children that in America there is no chasm too deep, no barrier too great -- and no ceiling too high -- for all who work hard, never back down, always keep going, have faith in God, in our country, and in each other.

I'M CONFIDENT THAT WE CAN CLEAN UP THE MESS THAT BUSH MADE AND RESTORE OUR INTERNATIONAL REPUTATION WHILE IMPROVING THE LIVES OF AMERICANS BY VOTING OBAMA/BIDEN.

PRIDE

2008-08-24T22:00:00.000-07:00

I'm an American--a happy American, but not necessarily a proud American. The neglect of many of my civil rights, the secrecy of my shady governing body and the blatant disregard it has shown to our countrymen and other people of the world have certainly dampened my pride. That's not to say I don't like it here though; no other place feels like home. Every four years, however, I feel such a swelling of pride that nearly all is forgotten. Is it strange that competetive athletics make me more proud of my homeland than the other accomplishments that my nation has made in my time? Seeing American athletes dominate, excel and persevere to overcome odds while competing on the world stage in such a variety of disciplines makes me more proud to call myself an American than any other instance in recent memory. Maybe my memory just isn't good enough, but every time they award the medal, raise the flag and play the anthem, I'm proud to be an American.

I also LISTEN TO JOHN MELLENCAMP sing songs about the heartland.