LIVE REVIEW


Live
The Dirtbombs, The Real Pills, The 9's
Satyricon, Porland, Oregon
8-17-01

Though Stagger Lee were supposed to open, the 9's were fine as a starter. Sure they hadn't exactly forged their own identity, but I'll given them slack for being new. Their clean garage rock sound was enjoyable, with their last two songs with keyboards perhaps providing them a key to an interestng direction to separate themselves from the pack. In my lowly opinion, garage (and I don't mean that new UK dance bullshit) is perhaps one of the hardest rock ghettos to toil in and be good. Not only does one have to rummage the past, but to be truly good, one also has to make that reconfigured past contemporary and relevant. This reason alone probably explains why so few garage bands are able to actually be great. Most would rather recycling clichés than sing about their dads beating them like Billy Childish (to name one example).

Next up were the Real Pills, who represent everything terrible and mediocre about most garage bands. Though techinically proficient (and the kids seemed to enjoy their playing), I find them just boring -- and they seem to always be the Portland band that opens for visiting garage bands. God knows I'm tired of their by-the-book tedium. Perhaps the answer to their lackluster approach lies in the fact that they may be a record collector band, emulating their heroes without adding anything new. Their Pretty Things cover was beyond lifeless, a photocopy of a photocopy.

Finally, the moment I had been waiting for -- Mick Collins, the King of Rock 'N' Roll with his Dirtbombs, reigning champs of garage skree. His gentle, self effacing cool always blows me away. There he stood where his shiny, silver shit wedged between his 2nd guitar player and bassist, both of whom were cracking jokes. But, Mick -- all he needs is kindess and his amazing voice and guitar playing. Hell, he even apologized to my significant other, Jane, for bumping into her when she was leaving the lady's room. To my chagrin, though, the sound for the Dirtbombs was attrocious. Perhaps the sound man was confused by the two drummer line up, though by looking at him you would think he probably listens to the Doobie Brothers all of the time. Or perhaps the sound man was confused by suddenly having a such powerful hot wire of a band after the previous two acts. All I know is that Mick's voice was barely audible through out most of their set and for at least half of it the instrumentation was murky. Even so, you could still feel the lightning storm groove of the Dirtbombs thunderstorm. Perhaps the most poignant moment was after the show watching a pimply faced, shy boy approach Mick to try to talk to him. Patiently, Mick took the time listen to the lad as he stammered and paused, a big easy smile stretched across his face. What a goddam gentleman and what a brilliant musician.

REVIEW


mac
review: Cannanes--Communicating at an Unknown Rate
Sun Aug 19 16:08:25 2001


hard for me to write about the Cannanes really, I feel like an honorary Cannane myself. Their early meloncholic basslines driving spikes into me head. The new sound (as visited on this record) reminds me more of the Go-Betweens early stuff, spacious yet concise. Reverb and strum, recalling days on the porch, a cuppa tea and a lie down.

I've come to trust these Cannanes, for better or for worse. And there is something oddly reassuring about their songs. That said, this record is not without a duff track or two. But the overall puh is still in tact. As far as I'm concerned, you can keep your 'punk rock' records in a chest. This, um, band is still living the dream. They manage to perservere in the face of obscurity & futility...making records for their own sake. Few bands with this sound sound so convincing,... so timid, yet so full of hope.

Creepy Bug Story Parts 1 and 2


>Nora
Ok Ok
Fri Aug 17 12:58:40 2001


Ok, since you asked here it goes:

Creepy Bug Story
By: Nora Drive

Back in the summer of ’93, while on hiatus from the beloved schoolkids, I took a job pimping myself to Urban Outfitters (which isn’t really relevant but felt good to get that shameful secret into the light).

At the time I was paying $275 for a garden level studio in Yspilanti, MI where I was about to enter my sophomore year at Eastern Michigan University. The apartment was a singular rectangle with a large closet along the left wall (which previously housed a Murphy bed) and a small hall off the right wall that had a refrigerator and also led to the ladies room. At the time, my futon ran along that rightside wall.

On the particular night in reference, I had returned home late from a Store Meeting where “corporate” taught us all how to steal so we’d know what to watch for when shoplifters were afoot. Exhausted, I crawled into bed and wrote a few things in my journal. As I went to put my journal down on the baby blue carpet that covered the whole rectangle of the room, I noticed a strange bug. I wasn’t sure what it was but was sure it no longer needed to live if it was squatting at my casa. I squished it my journal and promptly fell asleep.

All thru the night I imagined things crawling on me. Tossing and turning, swatting and smacking until finally I actually did hit something foreign. I mentally told myself I would need to turn on the lights and convince myself there was nothing in my bed otherwise I would never get to sleep.

I sat up, turned on the lights. Turned off the lights to do a double take and make sure I wasn’t still dreaming and then turned the lights back on again…..

More to follow, I must take a conference call now…..

Nora
Completion, hold on to your panties...
Fri Aug 17 15:04:55 2001




Creepy Bug Story
By: Nora Drive

(Cont’d)

Let’s see, where did I leave off? Oh yes, I had just turned the lights back on again….

Once I convinced myself this wasn’t a dream where I was in the sterile white room with all the bugs from Creep Show (because I’m pretty sure nothing was sterile in my apt) I threw back my covers to see my bed swarming with the same kind of bug I had killed earlier. I jumped to my feet on my bed and braced myself against the wall. It was then that I realized the entire wall beside my bed was covered in these god-dammed bugs as well. And, to make matters worse, they seemed to be entering from the space where the baseboard and doorframe met and as they streamed out of that itty bitty crack, they continued to fall into my bed.

Still unsure of what the hell these creepy crawlies were, my mind raced,

“Ok, they aren’t biting me, so that’s good. What are they going for here? None near the sink or counter…Holy shit, where’s my baby blue carpet?! Oh fuck, it’s a sea of them, my carpet is a sea of bugs, brown-grey ugly bugs! Oh jesus, how am I going to get rid of these? Where are my shoes. Oh fuck, they’ve swarmed my shoes. They seem to like fabric and wood, not food. Not cockroaches, ok, this isn’t about my housekeeping. What the hell are these?! What am I going to do? Oh shit, are those two mating? Great procreation to boot….shit, fuck, piss, I’m screwed…”

out loud I scream “HELP!!”

They hadn’t gotten to my phone, plastic wasn’t their thing. I call my mom because I don’t know my landlord’s number and I’m not rummaging thru these things to find it. My mom doesn’t answer because it’s about 2am at this point. I scream “get up! Get up!” in to the answering machine to no avail. I take the “call several times in a row” and approach. My mom finally answers, albeit pissy,

“What?!” she moans

“Mom, it’s me, I need you to come get me. There’s some kind of infestation here. There are bugs pouring out of my walls, there in my bed, in my clothes, in my shoes. There everywhere, mom, come get me…”

“what kind of bugs?

“ I DON’T KNOW, Lots of bugs mom. They kind of look like ants but only have 2 parts to the body and wings twice as long but they don’t seem to fly. JUST COME AND GET ME, PLEASE!!”

“Ok, wait outside, don’t wear anything they can hide in and dammit, I told you to keep your place clean..”

Great, I’ve got an infestation and I’m getting a guilt trip about my cleanliness…

I wait outside as told, in a pair of pocketless shorts and a wifebeater, barefoot as my shoes were being used by some bugs at that juncture. My mom arrives with a small can of RAID and wants to go inside and take care of the bugs herself. I tell her that a can of RAID isn’t going to make a dent but she obviously underestimated my accounting of “lots of bugs”. She opened my door and screamed. She sprayed a little patch into the hundreds hanging out right inside the door. They shriveled and this seemed to please my mom. As if she’s discovered something the ads didn’t already tout “RAID kills bugs DEAD”

All the way back to mom’s house I’m lectured about my house cleaning. I keep telling her I didn’t think it had anything to do with my cleaning (or lack thereof) but she manages to fill the entire 30min ride with the subject.

Exhausted, I’m excited to sleep. The next morning I was up early calling my landlord. He asked permission to enter my apartment “Hells yeah. I want no trace of last night left” He calls me back from my apartment to tell me he thinks they are gnats. I asked him if he had ever seen a gnat because those weren’t gnats. I suggested termites as I had that thought the previous night and looked them up in the set of encyclopedias my parents have in the basement. “No, we don’t have termites in Michigan” says the cracker. “What Michigan? The one on Mars because we most certainly have termites in the Michigan of the U.S. of A” he hanged up on me.

Two days later my landlord was done bug bombing my place for “gnats” and the gas seemed to clear the termites too. He vacuumed and save for the occasional shriveled carcass, the place was cleaned of all evidence of infestation. When I pulled into my drive upon returning back to my apt for the first time, the ancient oak tree in the yard across the parking lot had been cut down. Cross-sections of it’s trunk piled up. At closer inspection, I could see that the tree had been completely gutted. A huge whole straight through the middle. I figured the colony got sick of feeding off the dying tree and decided to wander across the parking lot and enter it’s new food supply through my wall.

LIVE REVIEW


mac
dirtbombs, Empty Bottle, Chicago, Aug.10th, '01
Wed Aug 15 10:38:00 2001


After an afternoon of listening to the Cubs in traffic, plenty of Old Style & Becks, and a grill out session...I insisted we take a cab to the show, me in vacation mode with a wad of cash burning holes in me pocket. We arrived at the club in fine fiddle, despite racist cracks from our cab driver, ....we were ready. Gabe called, said he'd meet us at the show...a couple Old Style later, we were, what'd I say...um, ready. Opening band was completely forgettable, so I raised my Schoolkids radar and scanned the joint for Nora Drive. No one wearing pajamas with booties, red-rosy cheeks barley discernable in the smoke and dark. Hair pulled back? Maybe not, it wasn't so hot today, a Florida boy enjoying the milder temperatures. I'm usually pretty good about these things, finding people in a crowd. Hey there she is...(?)...no, maybe not. A stick for boyfriend ?, specs in mind: 6'+ and 130 Ilbs, lanky. Hmmmmm. There's one!
Sideburns and an Old Style in hand. Can't be sure.......

Now I'm fucking sweating, this place is hot, but the beer is watery(..thank Chan.) We go to the front room, and look at the Pin Ball machines. Gabe shows up, the Gainesville connection thickens, good to see him...I ask about Hstencil....I ask about Drive. He no know no Drive. Oh well. THE second band I never see for the sweat in my eyes keeps me near the front door, gathered with friends and fresh air. I'll be honest, they didn't sound good from the next room. Or look like I'd wanna sweat to 'em. My new favorite band they are not. Huh? I was ready for the dirtbombs, my radar picking up all kinds of mixed signals: more beer, cute girls, Chicago, and all kinds of detritus... well, soon enough.

The mighty, shades wearing Mick Collins took the stage. Two bass players, & two drummers in tow. The sideburned bass player to the right tries to get the crowds' goat with cracks about the Southside. What, are we too white for you?
Fucking racist! I can ingnore him though...'cause he's like a gnat compared to the presence of Collins, who doesn't need to say anything, the guitar and soul speaking volumes more than any middle class white dood from Detroit could ever say. Bassist in the dirtbombs or not. YOU can be replaced punk, this is Mick's show, baby.....

BLAM...like Burl Ives hitting a plate of nachos supreme, the dirtbombs were off, a blistering one minute tune of fuzz-bass, bass, and guitar skree,,and we were off to the races, friend. I better get an Old Style, um, fast, this shits got me riveted. THE vocals need to be adjusted quick...cuz I can't hear my man so good. Problem fixed. Ok.

Song after song they burned, filling the room with more heat, my head a wobble like a Sammy Sosa bobble-head doll.
A fist in the air. A wooo-hooo. This is what we came for, and this is what we got. Thank you Mr. Collins, for getting the weekend off right. I didn't know the tunes, but the tunes they knew me alright.

I'm ready for another Old Style.

TOUR RECAP


abomp
the adventures of DL Bucket in Amrica.
Wed Aug 15 08:29:47 2001


Hi, on popular demand (well, Brett asked for it anyway), the DL Bucket tour report. I guess i'll better use capitals.

So......what can i say, Amrica is great! The food is great, the people are great, actually everything is one size bigger (um....yeah, even the people :) ).
We lived on fast food for 11 days, experienced the original Taco Bell diarrhoea (sp?), and i'm still cursing those jalopeña peppers.

First we went up to Boston, to go see the Secrets. I think we got Martin worried about wether or not we would arrive, but all the tax-free goodies we brought made up for that i guess.

The next day we played at the Secret's Paul's secret barbecue festival in Ed's Shed, which was great. The show was headlined by one half the new indie-cabaret sensation Ed in the Refridgorators, and we're proud to say that we saw him in his own environment. Good burgers too!

After that we drove to a show in New Hampshire "not too far away". We also learned that "one block away" actually means a half an hour walk later that week.
The place we played (fittingly called "The Sad Cafe") was non-alcohol, non-smoking, but that didn't matter to the Secrets or us. And the sign "Rock from Holland" outside the bar cracked us up!
Another secret surprise show by the Secrets, by the way. Here's a band that just shows up at a place, says "we want to rock" and does just that. After that there was a party, of course.

The next day, there was a 9 hour drive down to Washington. When we got there at about 7:30 we met Brett and his fridge full of American beer, which was nice! We hastily packed all our stuff and roadie Brett drove everything to The Galaxy Hut in Arlington.
After all the travelling and partying in Boston i think our show was a little low-energy...but anyway..

After a good nights sleep there was some sightseeing to do for a couple of days, which i shall not bore you with.

Then. August 9th. The Velvet Lounge. I could tell you about how our show went, but Colonel Klink really got the party going! And can you believe they were complaining about their sound? Jeeeeesus! It was nice meeting Tobo, although we could hardly talk over the disturbing sounds of the Klink. Col. Klink and us got ourselves a little cult follwing by then, and a late night was had at the Lounge and the neighbouring King Pin.

I don't remember too much of the day after, so i suppose it was good.

The day after we went to a record store in Arlington, where our roadies had driven our stuff again, and played an in-store gig there. Some Virginia cable station actually recorded it for local TV...
We weren't too satisfied with our overall performance though, so we bought off the frustation afterwards
with some massive record shopping there.

Ok, then, party at the Klink House with The Secrets who came down to Washington, and Colonel Klink him(their)selves. I guess you should have been there. Three FMBB bands packed in a superb sounding basement, crowded with people and....(you might start to think we're alcoholics
i'm afraid)....
I met Travis there, which was nice too...it was all so weird to have 4 people in a house who sorta knew eachother but never met.
Hell broke loose. Actually, just when the Secrets started playing, there was a power failure in the block starting next the the Klink House. The way i understood it, Casa Klink was the last one with power.
Rock!
Oh, no, hell broke loose after that. No offense, but i think there has yet to be a FMBB party topping what all happened that night. Bodies flew, nuts got crashed, madness.

Two days later we got to the Klink House again (and suprisingly most of it was still intact), where we met up with Klink and the Secrets again, and after some hardcore pizza eating went to see Fugazi, which was great. I don't think we'll ever become straight edge though..
Then we spent our last money on pitchers (jeez....this must sound really bad by now), and had the Last Supper or whatever it's called in style. We said goodbye to the Secrets before heading over to the Klinks place again where Ed just couldn't stop laughing while watching Chris Farley (sp?) sketches and i sure hope Brett was really sleeping and kept his eyes closed while facing that couch....uh..

I'm sure i kept out a lot of good parts, but that's all my brain is capable of recalling right now.

All in all, seriously, honestly, the most fun we (i think i speak for all of DLB when i say that) had in a long long time! Thanks guys!!
Hopefully we'll see you all again next year in Holland, or otherwise we'll just come back to your places.

Oh, i also learned that Martin is a hairy guy and Brett has great facial 'rock' expressions.

LIVE REVIEW


higgins
fugazi, the pupils @ fort reno park, wdc
Tue Aug 14 19:42:16 2001


capping off an unusual week which featured out of town guests from boston and the netherlands, meeting several board personalities and the oh-so-rare party at the masters estate, was the annual fugazi show at fort reno park. for those not in the know, fort reno was part of dc's ring of defense during the civil war and has been a bastion of the local rock/diy scene for 33 years.

the pupils (daniel higgs and asa what's his name from lungfish) opened up and were really quite good. their sound was very sparse, generally just vocals and one or two guitars and maybe a drum machine. the sounds the two former fish conjured out of their rigs were truly incredible...hot and crunchy (but never too metallic) tube sounds...friendly but menacing. daniel higgs is just a great performer, so intense and so imposing w/ his bushy beard and fatigue jacket.

the crowd grew thick, the weather got heavy and fugazi performed.

a good smattering of material from repeater, steady diet, red medicine and in on the killtaker. after seeing them 4 or 5 times, i'm consistently amazed at how well ian mackaye and guy picciotto play guitar while twisting, leaping and contorting. whether you dig their politics or not, these guys are damn good musicians and excellent performers to boot.

Questionnaire Answer to Question 1 for Monday


Cameleopard
Re: Questionnaire For Monday
Mon Aug 13 00:37:51 2001

1. Account for your weekend activities (you may make something up if you wish to impress the other research scientists).

I watched Pollock on Friday night, alone. I made love with some canvas and paper. I read a critical essay of Heart of Darkness. I tried to masturbate for about an hour. I noticed a sore throat while eating some popcorn. I made my toe bleed. I slept on the floor Friday and Saturday nights. I came up with a large number of ideas. I decided I'd like to become an anonymous musician in my spare time, like Jandek. I ran down some streets. I also ran back up those streets. I accidentally tore a picture I was working on. I took a large amount of medicine at various times for a persistent two-day-long headache. I wrote a small form script for processing specified information and displaying it immediately on a webpage along with previously recorded data. I made a quick bastardization of the former PRL header picture for fun. I changed my clothes a few times, not always in the morning as one might expect. I cooked some food and then wasn't hungry. I ate the food when I was hungry, but it was cold, dry and hard. I thought about the shape of a hill for too many hours. I decided to actively work on not getting addicted to the smell of turpentine. I thought about attempting to masturbate again, then remembered the previous incident. I realized I was talking to people that weren't really there about a situation that never really happened. I think I forgot to take my medicine one evening. I encouraged my dog to smile. I noticed the little particles always floating in the air because of the light. I felt like a great beast of the sea swallong mouthfulls of plankton. I read The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays by Camus. I read a number of other miscellaneous things. I typed responses to some things on the internet. I talked to some people about some things at some places for varying amounts of time. These things ranged from simple and short questions to a clerk to much more complex discussions with friends. I thought about how it would be simultaneously pleasant and annoying to have a girlfriend again. I decided it would be more draining than beneficial in the end.

Fly Like An Eagle


jack cole
PRL Story: Fly Like An Eagle
Sun Aug 12 11:45:38 2001

Cowards


Sicily
cowards
Sun Aug 12 10:13:31 2001


I know what you're saying...

When I was in that situation it was basically the one guy who was a couple years younger, still in school, who would have all of his cronies over just about every night of the week. I'm all for the weekend party, even the occasional "let's get pissed" on whatever day, but it was like clockwork and I could never understand it considering this guy lived with me and another guy and we both had to get up at 6:00 - 6:30. All of his friends went to school and I guess they didn't have to be up early because they were always partying...even during the weekdays. I think they just liked coming over to our place because it was fairly pimped...we had a pool table, a nice stereo, sega, food, beer...college boy's dreamland, right? Anyway, this roommate and I had some major problems after this went on and on. The other guy we lived with would just hide in his room and deal with it, but I wasn't about to give up so easily. It all ended after one Tuesday night/early Wednesday morning when about 10 people decided to come down to the basement to get stoned where my girlfriend and I were trying to sleep. My other roommate was sleeping as well. It was like two or three and they totally woke us up. I had to get up and tell some people how the cows ate the cabbage, and they all left, but what a horrible scene it was. They had absolutely no respect for a guy who was just trying to pay his own bills...I really think that's half of the reason these people acted like such jackasses...it's really easy to party all night and just not give a fuck when mommy and daddy are fronting the bills, you know?

It sucked because this kid when it came down to it was a really cool guy, very intelligent and we had a lot in common, but his lack of respect for me over time became too much to take and we do not even associate anymore. He could never just tell me he was having people over..they would just be there all the time. It was like I was the fucking visitor in that house and that's just not right, especially when YOU'RE the one paying the rent and bills. Once pretty much best buds and now we haven't talked in like two years. And the bastard owes me money...

The sad thing is that I'm sure by now all of those people have totally forgotten about all of this...I'm the one stuck with the memories. Thanks, Dudes.

To answer your question Jack, my lady and I live in an apartment downtown here in SLC. I've got some loud shit too, but luckily I've got an understanding neighbor...I just let him know what's going to be going down and I don't do it too late and it's not a big deal. Most places in the downtown area I would say are similar...we have the right to make noise within a certain time range. Wish I had a house, then I could get really loud, but you have to make due with what you've got.

Regarding the PRL library...I was really happy that a few of you could relate to my post and that a lot of you have had similar experiences. That's why I like this place, we all seem to have a lot in common. So yeah, it's OK, I'm really flattered to tell you the truth.

Signed, SATAN
Tim
preview-I need criticism please
Fri Aug 10 20:54:04 2001


I haven't said a peep for such a long time that it is hard to know where to begin. I suppose that I should admit that I have recently gotten married, it was a good wedding and I am sure that it will last as my mate is one of a kind in the person department. I suppose that I will also have to admit that I had a pleasant christian marriage and in that area I sort of feel sorry for my new bride as all the demons possible that could come to destroy such an event, did.
I was pretty nervous the night before and stayed at a friends house after closing out a pretty tame bar. I kept the liqour at bay and ended the night around 3 am with some Southern Comfort on the rocks. I woke up around 11 am and called my future wife to assure her that she was not to be jilted. Promptly I went to my mothers house and took a nap and then woke up around 2 pm to beautify myself and put the tux on.
I was growing confident and thought that things were sailing smoothly, and they did. The ceremony went off without a glitch except for the fact that my wife put my ring on the wrong hand…but there were no quivering of voices or fainting or any of the crap that normally makes that kind of event awkward. Even my son, who is 6, did a perfect job (as much as can be expected from a 6 year old boy) as the ring barrer. The only thing that I could tell that went badly that day up to this point was the weather. It was freaking hot and muggy as it ever is in this part of the world. Even the photographer did a wondrous job of keeping out of our hair.
So our wedding in this picturesque southern style christian church went well. The solid white columns rising 50 feet up to heaven(?), that were supporting the porch of the cathedral were inspiring and gorgeous. Solid and stoic, they symbolized to me that a life with another soul needs to be beautiful and serene but full of support and strength as well.
So soon it was time to go to the reception and I fully expected all kinds of hell to break loose and in a minor, yet to some in a major way- it did.
No sooner had I arrived at the reception hall I was informed that the very first person to sign our guest book had signed it, "SATAN."
Deep inside me the little anti-social person that I was humored but at the same time I was flustered as the person bringing me the news was on my brides side of the family and they were to say the least - a bit miffed. It was and is of their conclusion that my bride would be extremely upset. I thought initially the same way, which then made me furious that some idiot that I had invited had done this thinking that I would get a kick out of it- which I secretly did- but I had not yet spoke to my wife about the issue.
Soon I spoke to her about it I realized why this was the person that I was marrying. She simply stated that this was a good day and something silly like that wasn't going to ruin her day.
I later found out that the culprit was one of my best men and that the marijuana had got the best of him. However, for this juvenille behavior he will never be referred to anything other than "SATAN" at any social occasion. So all in all it will be a fond little memory for my wife and I as she giggles about it now and then.
So on with the honeymoon.
I won't go into the nitty gritty but the honeymoon was good for what honeymoons are usually known for, however providence allowed us the ability to spend our honeymoon in Rome.
Now, this is going to get complicated as for the entirety of my life I have been of the influence that art is objective. This two week trip has began to entertain my mind over-riding my pre-conceived notions in-so-much as that I need to write another whole article about it. So fortunately you have read part one of a two part series that I am sure bored you to tears, but do not fear as I believe that my new notions about art and culture that I gleaned from this may help some in the same manner that it helped my ignorant self understand my condition on this unreal globe of ours.
It still hasn't kept me from writing run-on sentences so never fear- it can't be that dangerous

The ubiquitous syzygy...


Cameleopard
The ubiquitous syzygy...
Fri Aug 10 22:06:11 2001


I will relate in words, as succinctly as my writing manner permits, the events that have transpired (during what you might have noted as my abscence) either in direct effect of me or in close enough vicinity (a parenthetical is remark here because "vicinity" is notably and importantly relative) as to enable this humble giraffe to observe and make due note. I was in my makeshift laboratory (a cave in a glacier) performing some initial tests in preparation for my next big experiment*. And it was while in the midst of a large burp that I noticed something odd. I had fallen asleep. After waking up, I decided to investigate further. I went to my local Bob Evans restaurant (they serve breakfast at all hours, the geniuses). I was dialing my table (with a napkin to conceal my fingerprints, of course) and noticed a cross-eyed genie smoking a burgundy barber's pole. I approached the whispy apparition with all the caution of an obese woman in spandex tights on a lake of thin ice. The carpet was humming a vaguely familiar tune. (I think it was a particularly moving song I heard in an elevator on my way to visit my favorite doorknob in its highrise apartment in Saudi Arabia). I bumped into a family of anorexics and we all danced to a mindless tune that inhabited our automatic bodies until I started to sweat. Over stated lobes we feversihly ate our fingers. I told them I had to go just as they were proposing that we knock holes in some trembling cancers laying on the sidewalk. I forgot what I had started walking across the room for and was soon entranced by some throbbing lobster noses. They introduced me to a fellow from Algeria through their own jovial corpse handlers following foreign ladies down the month-long sidewalks of Spain. I got caught screwing hobo toads and freedom with an audience of awed backseat gland squeezers. The officers told me to kiss mister triangle, but I wasn't listening. On my way through the parade I caught a glimpse of famous dead singers pushing lower cannibal orbits through greenly doubling seventy walruses that were juicing and choosing fated dogmas (no doubt going on orders from McGee or McGoo). I was made introverted by a stranger in pulled-high striped pants and that initiated in me an urge to skim my own skin for fat floating to the top. Luckily, I remembered the thimble nob often strikes bone causing illuminated flecks of metallic shit to ooze from my bubbling belly. "Distance the integers of pain and pleasure", a retarded brick falling by my window said. I was too distracted to heed its advice; distracted by the token sloth gibbering in the corner. By the way, sometimes my arm twitches maniacally. While in the bowl of a drought-laden chef my kitchen burned with fury and slumber. "Introduce me dreary", pined a finger food groupie to its questionable lover. I replied, "never lift the pans!". "Always sand all the cold bras, ever they hit my jingling flea." By this time everybody was tumbling through jostled dander on the sheets of Robot New York's filthy bed. I was then I was hit with the stunning revelation that Bob Denver and Burl Ives ululate poisonous landmines as they enter gynecological positions without regarding the noiseless orgasms of a million future dead men and women! After getting back to my solitary glacial edifice, I noticed the pudding cups had been locally displaced to spell the words, "Borneo, slit the wrists of all the type-keepers and bottlenecks, hear?". Then the damn radio tower started chasing me again! My running feet are pounding a hard rhythm that I keep confusing for my heartbeat. I feel like Sisyphus!




*My next experiment, at the time, was to be an exhaustive series of pudding cup displacement tests. My initial tests invlolved the eating and logging of different puddings (I kept detailed information on their consistencies, textures, viscosities, temperature change rates, amount in cup, flavor, aftertaste, digestive time (when possible to measure), and any accompanying accoutrements and package art). After these test it was my intention to wait for and observe any random spatial displacements of the empty pudding cups. I was going to use this data in correlation with my eaten content data to construct a theory on which pudding cups displace more than the others. From this I was hoping to be able to work out the location of interdimensional pudding factories and/or other oddities not imagined.

LIVE REVIEW: Dirt Bombs, Bobby Stratoshere and Phantom 3


Nora_Drive
Not a complete bust

Sat Aug 11 10:58:53 2001


I didn't find mac. we didn't really have a good plan for finding one another, I think we both thought our acute schoolkids instincts would have been enough.

the night wasn't a complete bust and I have a new favorite band. Even scored the setlist for good measure, my plan being a devout follower of Bobby Stratosphere and the Bloodclub

Maybe my missed connection with Mac was because I described myself as the "least indi-rock looking girl in attendance" And if only Bobby's mom, her knitting circle, and his aunts didn't show up to make a home movie of the show, I may have been correct about my description.

While setting up, bobby looked very quiet riot: over-dyed black, shaggy mullet, studded leather wrist bracelet, tight jeans and black t-shirt. When he started tuning a pointy washburn guitar, I knew I was gonna have to give up my seat to have a closer look. Mickey Strangelove, the bassist and who's fanclub I'm going to personally start, looked like holdback from '82 with too much eyeliner and lip twitch stolen from Billy Idol's playbook. He really thought he was a rock god and his eye of the tiger t-shirt was the only thing keeping me from believing he was. Forest Lonn is the kind of boy I like, long and lanky. His platinum (with roots) helmet of hair looked like a halloween wig my brother once had when he dressed as what he called a "punk rocker" in the 5th grade. The costume was a cross between Adam Ant, Billy Idol and the Fonz. Forest was trying to be rock and roll but the mom/ aunt knitting circle just wouldn't leave him alone. It's hard to be rock'n'roll when you can't say "no" to your bandmate's mom. The poster was a cartoon of the band and during set-up all members were accounted for except the cartoon chick, tara montana.

Once the formcore flames were in place behind the amps, the bicycle lights were set on "strobe" to give the flames the effect of "flickering", and cellophanes on the house lights were all changed to red, the fellas disappeared to let us all prepare to have our asses rocked.

It was beyond brilliant, dare I say genuis? Somebody, maybe mom, made them all rubber bellbottoms that they all accented with platform shoes. Tara's black rubber tubetop had red accents that made it look like something beastly clawed at her breasts, beautiful.Bobby was wearing a jean jacket that he rendered sleeveless and dedazzled the breast pockets with rhinestones. This exposed his "EVOL" tattoo and I wondered if this guy was actually paying homage to Sonic Youth. I like to believe so, it makes be feel less guilty for loving Bobby and his Bloodclubs as I do.

The show rocked. they were having so much fun and so was most of crowd. The part of crowd that realized that this was camp not really serious and who could appreciate how skilled these musicians were, anyway. I think the highlight was a song called "Penetrator" not because it was the best song but because of the lead in. Bobby told a story that was forgettable and finished the banter with "and the title of the song is..." pause for effect, lower voice to a pitch that is sinister and thrust studded leather bracelet arm forward "PENETRATOR" to which some entusiastic attendee says "Oh Yeah!" Which made bobby almost lose his sinister purpose because the vibe was getting deliciously silly and everybody just couldn't what to hear this Pentetrator.

As always it seems, I had to pee and missed the bass solo. That sucked because mr. strangelove is such a cracker on stage making what I'm sure he believes are good rock'n'roll faces and don't get me wrong, they are, but they were making me giggle. The way he would stand with one leg forward, bent so that his back leg was low and then proceed to tap the front heel in time (fast) as he leaned back, eyes closed, in particular. When he opened his eyes it was to look directly in to those of a girl attendee. Gorgeous showmanship, I tell you. Oh, I mustn't forget, they had a photographer there and mr. strangelove couldn't help but strike a pose everytime he thought he was inframe. Can you see why this creature needs a fanclub?

Forest Lonn was a powerful drummer for such a wispy gentleman. It's been a while since I've heard someone with that kind of energy as well as talent. I was thinking that I hope he's got other gigs as well but, as the show rocked on I realized he's a perfect fit for this quartet so I quickly parrished the thought of other endeavors for him.

I was so sad when it ended. I want them to play everyday. Maybe my 29th bday!

Of course the Dirtbombs rocked too but it was expected. I only note the unexpected. The Dirtbombs are the kind of band runaway truck ramps for, once they get you going it's going to be a long, wild climb to the top before you slow down. Mick is just an unlikely looking rock hero he sat the bar, head hung, and minding his own beeswax for the first 2 act. But get him in a gold lamay (spelled phonetically) shirt, put him on stage and watch as his legend alone makes him larger than life. I think can speak for everyone at the venue last night, save for the first band, Phantom 3 (there's just no good reason a rock-sorta-billy band need a full time sax player, although he was the most competent musician of the 3), a good time was had by all and hopefully everyone else realized it was a show to remember.

THE MORAL OF THE STORY: see bobby stratosphere and blood clots. it'll do your rock and roll soul good. And duh, don't miss the chance to be a runaway truck the next time the dirtbombs rock your city.

Considering Giving Up


by Sicily

I get those feelings all of the time too...sometimes it all just seems fruitless and a waste of time, but dude, you can't quit, you just can't. I don't think there are that many people left with the kind of values and tastes that you have and damn it, you have just as much right to do this as anyone else. If you have a sound that you think is neat then record that sound and mess with it...put other things in there too. If you have something you think you should say and if it sounds good with some music being played to it then by all means go for it. These are things that I tell myself when the inevitable frustration sets in...

I know you're against the idea of just making music by yourself, but I tell you, even though you lose a lot of the creative possibility, with a bunch of ideas coming into one, the things that you described being frustrated with band wise....I think doing your own thing would be pretty liberating for you.

It was for me anyway, I was tired of trying to make three other people happy all of the time, it was like having three other girlfriends...I've already got one, you know? Trying to work with everyone in getting together, keeping people happy so that they would play better, incorporating an equal amount of creative input...all for a couple hours of practice or a show, which usually would rock, but the very next time we'd get together they wouldn't remember shit and we'd have to start over...it took us way too long to get a collection of decent material together and when we did a couple of the guys decided that "they just wanted to put it on the shelf for a while and work on other things"...infuriating I tell you, especially because they were the ones who said they wanted "real" songs to begin with...I have more of a improv type of attitude, and when we did that it ruled. But now they're doing the same thing with different people...I just couldn't do it anymore, it felt like such a dead end for me, mostly because I don't know too many other players I'd be willing to try anything with. The selection is very small here in SLC. I could go on and on, I already have and I think I've lost my point...sheesh.

I guess what I'm saying is that you shouldn't let your frustration with others get you down to the point that you want to quit the music thing altogether...in this day and age, although it does take a bit of money to get going, you can make any kind of music that you want, totally on your own, and make it sound really good. The technology is here...

At the very least, keep on recording your songs on a four track, keep writing stuff...lay it down so it doesn't get lost. Maybe in the future you'll meet some people who share your ideas and tastes...

I hope none of this sounds preachy or anything...really I have no clue what I'm talking about. I just get upset when I hear this kind of thing...people getting frustrated with other people...because I once had this dream of the perfect band, composed of friends...it didn't work out for me and my feelings really got trampled in the mix, but I still try to make music, most of it sucks, but I'm learning and having fun at that's all you can really hope to get from it in the end. I will never stop and you shouldn't either, Jack Cole.

Review


by Jack Cole

Avey Tare & Panda Bear
spirit they're gone spirit they've vanished
Animal

Ten Images in My Head while Listening to the Album

1. A melancholy stuffed animal tea party, a panda bear and a sprite sipping their cups and nibbling on their crumpets while relating to each other the sad things that have happened to them during the week.

2. Tinkerbell's light gets dimmer as she realizes she will lose Peter Pan to Wendy. Her rage beginning to smolder, she considers doing something rather rash.

3. The woodland creatures huddle together in the ashes of their forest, which recently burned down. Bambi wonders if he will ever get the attention of the fawn he likes, but feels guilty thinking about it in a time like this.

4. In a woodland glade, beams of sunshine are slowly blocked out by incoming clouds that cast shadows over the dancing creatures, who become disjected and run back under the trees.

5. A ghost attempts to be friends with a bunny but does understand when she eats her children. He wonders if he should approach her about it, but instead chooses to just sigh.

6. A young Smokey Bear wakes up in the zoo, his whole body smarting from the burns that encompass it. Confused by being surrounded by concrete, he wonders where his woodland friends have gone.

7. A wolf and a Cairn terrier fall in love in a campground, trysting at night while the terrier's masters are asleep in the RV. The wolf sheds a tear as it watches the RV driving away, the terrier longingly staring back through the RV's dust encrusted back window.

8. A small child cries as it watches squirrels tear off small bits and pieces of his blanket, hanging from a tree branch, to take for making nests.

9. An open music box is accidentally left behind on a tree stump in the forest. By nightfall it is surrounded by woodland creatures which sit hypnotized by its sound. Above, an owl takes flight and begins to fly down, its claws open and ready.

10. A small boy, not paying attention to where he steps, gets his foot caught in a rusty bear trap. Feeling sorry for him, several fairies attempt to open the trap's jaws so that the boy can free himself. Try as they might, the fairies are not strong enough. Embarrassed, they quickly apologize and flutter away. The boy is found several weeks later by a troop of Cub Scouts.

Review


by jack cole

Abraxasaxophonic
Smooth Jazz Vagina
NGWTT

arrington de dionyso, leader of Olympia's Old Time Relijun, turns on the radio and tunes it to a soft jazz station, listening to the cavalcade of stars play their light weight sax melodies, Sandborn following G and Chick jumping in with some Thetan improvization. The music, half tuned in and slightly distorted, leaves no mark, like a meal that upsets your stomach, going in one end and then out the other. Listening, Mr. de dionyso decides to pick up his saxophone and play along with the soft jazz station's offering, his bleating goat skronk stampeding through the flat, beyond harmless landscape. The sounds then begin to butt heads, locking their horns, the gurgling yowl grinding against the prefab ease. Perhaps the best thing to happen to smooth jazz since Pat and Kenny started to beat each other up over who was the biggest charlatan. Mr. de dionyso has achieved a monumental slab of audio. One should considering getting it before he gets his ass sued off for using full recordings of the smooth jazz maestros.

Moldy Peaches

The Moldy Peaches

By Jack Cole and Hanoi Jane

When I listen to an album like the Moldy Peaches' self titled debut, I wonder if the songs will have any lasting value beyond the immediate moment in which they were created. But at the same time, I can't resist the way that they create that feeling of being the awkward, over-enthusiastic kid among peers suspected to be much cooler and more experienced. Though only one them of them can be actually considered young, I do appreciate their compositions' sense of lo-fi screwing around -- their songs have the aura of recordings made by post-adolescents at night while finishing a case of PBR they got their older sibling to buy. This epitomizes their knack for incorporating those too familiar melodies and guitar riffs that live in our subconscious in a way that leaves you wondering if that really is from that one song that you can't remember. All of this goes to point to the fact that in some way each song is primarily centered around their lyrics, anti-hipster hipster condemnations and, perhaps, genuine expressions of insecurity in a world primarily concerned with the Pecking Order of Cool. On many songs, their innocent vocals combine with worldly lyrics such as "I like it when you slip me a rufie " to give a feeling of a worldlier childhood game of doctor. This feeling is intensified by their talent for pulling out the right musical cliché at the right time -- for example, at the end of the primarily low key "Nothing Came Out," which concerns pining away for a hipster indie boy, the mood is disrupted at the end by bleeding electric guitar solo, which imparts to the listener the hopelessness of the situation presented. Though their lyrics do lean towards being just a little too clever, they are balanced by their ability to geuinely capture social unease. I don't know if I'll even want to listen to this album in even a few months, but I haven't taken it out of my stereo since I got it (maybe).

Review: Octis & Vertical Slit


by Jack Cole

Octis
OR:12ˆ³
Peterbilt

and

Vertical Slit
Vertical Slit & Beyond
Ropeburn

Octis' 2CD album is like a biology lab in high school. You arrive at class to discover that the teacher has set up several microscopes with different slides. With your fellow students you line up and peer at each one through the lenses, scribbling quick notes before you move on after 5 seconds. During that brief point in time while you look through the slides, your eyes take in one cell biopsy after another, 30 second slices of speed metal configurations knotted up around epileptic drum machine thuds. Sitting back down at your desk, you try to make out your notes, lost in the doodling and chicken scratches. You make out amongst the clutter, "Mick Barr, formerly half of Crom-Tech." You notice "only 15 minutes on each CD, 2 years in the making" and you wonder why it took so long to make what you've seen through the microscopes. You jot down, to solidy your thoughts in case you get called on to answer a question, "I suppose there must have been some grand reason for the scheme behind this, the 2 pill shaped CDs containing a quarter hour each of 1 minute squiggles -- too bad it doesn't compel me to want to know."

Later, you get back your essay test on the slides and discover you have been given a F- for not "getting it, man." You crumple it up and toss it into the waste basket and go back downstairs and pull an ice cold Coke out of the fridge, taking it outside to the porch where you drink it while smoking a cigarette. Mumbling under your breath, you consider how fucking lame school is, wishing you could hang out with the cool kids who sneak off campus and drink and smoke while listening to strange punk rock records that leave you strangely uneasy and elated at the same time. Stubbing out your smoke in the overflowing ashtray, you know Jim Shepard had it going on more than Mick Barr ever will. Where as Mick carefully prepares his slides and ferments obscurity for its own sake, Jim gets smashed up on booze and then records his rage and frustrations, making sure the mic, placed hapzardly between whisky and beer bottles, picks up the load tear of the scabs he picks off. The flow from Vertical Slit seems natural, the alienation and anger making perfect sense (especially after you've had a few yourself) -- not forced and wooden like Mick Barr's noodling as Octis. Of course, after a few Jim might get surly, forcing you to scamper off. But, hey, it's better than sitting at a bar with an uptight guy talking about his Satriani records.

Guys like Jim hang themselves. Guys like Mick know how to hang out right.

This Is Only A Test


by Tim

I was in the United States Navy a long time ago and I didn't like it. I was always in some sort of minor trouble. I went in to be a nuclear engineer but got kicked out after being involved in a minor alcohol scuffle. I went with the cops to the base willingly to file a charge against this dude who had stole my stereo and then beat up my friend only to have me stop him by a couple of pretty good wrestling moves I learned in high school. I restrained that guy, he was an angry ball of menace. Anyway when we got to the base they busted me with a breathalyzer, they said it was mandatory since I was underage. At the time I didn't understand, I viewed myself a hero. I wasn't, I was a rule breaker so they kicked me out of engineering school and sent me to a ship to become a plumber/welder...rare was the day that I saw sunlight. The first day on my ship these guys hit me with a wrench, I went through all kinds of crazy hazing shit. There was no love-hate, it was all hate-hate. My only friend on the ship lasted 5 months and he tried to kill himself. He still walks like a gimp to this day. When he attempted to end his life, the executive officer asked me if it was because he and I were gay. When he said that, I knew I had to get the fuck out of that place, I started acting nuts. I finally got kicked off the ship about 2 years later...the ploy that finally worked was telling them about the whirling razor blades I saw everywhere. told them that they would spell out KILL similar to the way a kid would spell out his name with a sparkler. I told them that live was livable but that other people had to die because they upset gods plan for me on this planet. I came up with some pretty good bullshit. Then they sent me to Wiesbaden Germany where I could meet with a therapist/doctor. Somehow they didn't believe me a threat to myself just to people on my ship. So, I wasn't locked up or anything, as a matter of fact I got a little month long vacation in Germany with pay...free to come and go as I pleased. I remember when I finally took my battery of psychological exams I wanted to fail them more than I ever failed a test in my life. I got lucky and noticed the pattern, every fifth question was mildly inter-related. I took it and the results were certifiably whacko. By all the tests I took I was one hundred percent schizo...The doctor was laughing when I came in...He said, "This is very funny, this is the craziest shit I ever read...and you are not crazy at all." "I find this so funny that I will recommend you for a discharge." I must have made his day or something, who knows. Well I was happy as a lark until I realized that they were sending me back to the states to get more therapy and observation. I was in Portsmouth Naval Hospital for about a month and one day I just couldn't take living with nut jobs anymore and told the good doctors that I was actually sane. It took them a week to decide with me. Unfortunately they sent me back to my ship. But when I came back, some of the people who used to fuck with me stopped. I guess you can never really tell whether someone is actually nuts or not. They were sort of afraid of the reputation that proceeded me. Anyway, about a year later I did get kicked out anyway for some other crazy bureaucratic shit. It really didn't bother me. I went home and enrolled in college and didn't really look back.

REVIEW: The Panics
The Panics
I Wanna Kill My Mom!!!
Gulcher

Before you charge forward to embrace the next hot band, trading in your Mogwai CDs for the upcoming group, Hamstrung Panda, perhaps you should pause for a second and reflect on the soldiers who died in battle to open the door. One such fighting unit in 1980 was Bloomington, Indiana’s the Panics, Hoosier high schoolers almost completely solitary in their pursuit of punk rock. Sure, they probably broke no new ground and were ragged as all Hell, but nonetheless they possessed the spirit in its fullest. With their only role models the British punk scene and the Bloomington institution the Gizmos (though in 1980, this was not the peak formation) who taught them how to play their instruments, the Panics was formed by four loser teens who liked punk better than Christopher Cross and Supertramp and had the snotty, sloppy chops to take a good stab at annoying their hometown. On occasion, you just have to sit back and let the raw of energy of teen punk burn out your nervous system as you join them in bantam cock bragging like “We’re Bloomington’s best band and we buy our drugs on the courthouse lawn.” Yeah, sometimes the kids are OK after all. If it weren’t for high school outcasts and rejects, you wouldn’t have anything interesting to listen to at all. The only misstep on the reissue, which includes their single, one compilation appearance and stuff from a live show, is including 4 songs from a god awful reunion show last year. People shouldn’t let people who haven’t played in decades try to recapture their teenage angst and anger when now they own cell phones and drive SUVs.

A note on Gulcher: Gulcher has done a significant job preserving Bloomington, Indiana’s important slice of Punk history. Up to the Panics release, Gulchers had kicked into the world 3 Gizmos archival releases. The first one, Gizmo studio recordings and all of their 7 inches, is probably the only one you need since it features the band at its top form while Eddie Flowers and Kenny Highland were members. With these two at the helm, the Gizmos were one of the best pop culture rock shredders. At the same time, its also well to remember that Bloomington was also the orginal home of MX-80, who at their peak were masters of the old school art punk gene splicing lab, One can only hope that Gulcher will next revive the fortunes of Dow Jones and the Industrials, who rival the Screamers as kings of synthpunk.

Review by msp
msp
review: acid mothers temple & the melting paraiso u.f.o.
new geocentric world of acid mothers temple
Tue Aug 7 17:35:42 2001

pong cult prog begets animal new sun thunderous unvision of fabulous fable favor fingers electric zen guitars, violet violins, bowed peacock harps, organic organs, conundrum bouzoki, total zurna, loud alto angry saxophone wasp, cornemuse collapsing, under silent night synths, vague mountain vocals of changeling channeled atrophy undone throughout a speed guru vector fired friendly over no calculus dippers.

angel danger spin.

u.f.o. garden hip pie.

japanese children transform earth structure into painted airplace and sail away.

space silent. vacuum without sound, but telescopic construction of atmospheres, layers of action and energy bring us together as one and project a sound through the medium of the mother under us being embracing embryotic aggregates of air and heaven earth spaceshipful.

cargos are wonder and we are the cacophony of a thousand lounging epitomes. the triumph of an arm lifting around a back to bring two planets under rotational infinity. binary sucker suns slipping tongues under every fun.

our hands imprinting the dust on the moon.

put out by squealer. (http://www.SquealerMusic.com)

m.

Review: Raya Wrath Of Fancan


Raya Wrath of Fancan
S/T
Self-released

Put the CD-r in the stereo, slouch down in your chair and then perk up your ears to Aenida Technologies and Development Equipment's late night 70's rumble, drums and bass flowing along just below slightly off tune guitar swagger. Each of the songs captures a slice of jaded afterhours ("Drunks make jokes to help make the time pass by") philosophizing loosly strutting under dimming street lights. In some ways, Raya Wrath of Fancan sometimes seem like an alternate universe version of the Lou Reed who recorded the disco rock disaster, The Bells -- except that in this alternate universe, Raya Wrath of Fancan serve it up right, mixing the ingredients to satisfy the ears with actually interesting playing and lyrics. I predict that in the future everyone will be shaking their bootys to Raya Wrath of Fancan, alcoholics and exhausted party goes slow gyrating after getting home from the bars. One never knows what they are going to get when someone sends them a CD, but in this case it was pure Solid Gold baby. If I were a schmuck like you, I'd be writing a check for 5 dollars or so and sending it to Ronno right now -- he's got it going on.

Oink Oink
I am the Pataphysical Pig! I like to go oink, OINK!

Pataphysics Research Laboratory


a review of computer cougar

ex members of rorsarchach (sp?), beautiful skin, born against.


a gern blandsten super band.

hailed under some sort of "new wave new wave" banner.



it's a very short.

8 songs in 18 minutes.

really angular, jangle-fied, driving, out of breath.



a few aren't new material.


good fuckin band, but like the rapture, i'm not sure if i can fully bite when you consider the references.

can i hail a band with a resume?


m.

Pataphysics Research Laboratory


Princess
I don't think he got around to your songs
Fri Aug 3 10:44:36 2001

I'd chalk it up as a mistake on his part.

The show was great but I'm biased. It actually inspired me to write my first fan letter since, uh, maybe 95. Just in case you all thought I had an ounce of creditibility I post here the contents of said letter (which will never be sent) because, yes, I still think I'm 12:

THE BACK STORY

Me, May of 1996, when you opened for Joe Henry (?) at the 7th House in Detroit: “My friend, Diane, wanted me to request that you play “Grudge Fuck” tomorrow in Chicago. She loves that song” You, not really listening: “SUCKER! You like that song?! It’s joke on girls like you! I had an ex-girlfriend who loved that stupid Gin Blossoms song and I’m making fun of it” (or some sentiment similar. You definitely called me a sucker and relayed the Gin Blossoms story) Me, taken aback by the name calling: “Not, me, dork, I said my friend, Diane, and it was about playing it in Chicago tomorrow. I was the one asking for “One Hand” tonight” You, still not really listening but even more inspired to call more names: “You’re a sucker for having a friend like that and a SAP for liking the ballads” Me: “How come you wouldn’t play it? It wasn’t like there were a lot of people requesting shit” You, paying a little more attention: “Did you see a piano up there? That song is ¾ths piano; I can’t play it without a piano.” …and so on and so on went our conversation (if we can call me talking at you and you shutting me down at every turn a conversation). As the night wore on the “SUCKER”’s and “SAPS!”’s got louder and wetter and thusly flowed very smoothly from your mouth throughout our jagged “conversation”. The only thing I said that piqued you interest was that my mom was at the Bob Seger concert that evening. The story was supposed to be about me having to run up the highway, climb a fence (in a short skirt, no less), and cross the parking lot of the Palace all in an effort to make sure my mom got into the Seger show ok AND still make it back to Detroit in time for your set. All you heard was “Bob Seger” and proceeded trying to get anybody else in the bar to take you to see Bob. If none of this sounds remotely familiar, I’m not surprised. It was bound to have left more of an impression on me than it would have you. I’m not sure if it was the one-two punch of me finally leaving home (ann arbor) for the wild west (boulder) the very next week and having a musician I admired call me not only a sucker but a sap as well but man, did that encounter stick with me. At 23 years old I was left staring down the barrel of gun loaded with sap and suckers and wondering how long I had suffered from such a state of being. I couldn’t listen to “Dance the Night Away” or “Pinebox” without feeling like I had been taken for a ride or that I was brunt of a joke. I guess I still hadn’t learned that I wasn’t the axis of the world. That night, at the 7th House, you asked my friend Joe if he’d consider putting out a single of some stuff you had been working on with your brother. I think he, at that point, had everything tied up in the simon bonney project. When Subpop released that project I was a little nervous to pick up “Overcome By Happiness” (OBH) because I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out I was still a sap. Despite my better judgement, I picked up the record and forever assured myself that I will always be a sappy sucker. I’m not foolish enough to go into detail about what OBH meant to me. I’m sure, when provoked, you could throw down something harsher than sucker. I’m equally sure I don’t want to find out that a musician I admire also thinks I’m a dumbass (maybe you already have come to that conclusion, I just don’t want to know about it). I would like to say, however, that with OBH you once again kicked my ass when I needed a good ass kickin’. I know that most folks wouldn’t describe that record as an ass kicker but it is. It kicked my ass.

FRONT STORY:

I was at the Schuba’s show last weekend. OBH kicked my ass out of Denver and back to the middle west where I belong (until I can find cause to take me eastward where I *really* belong.) I didn’t dare approach you because: a) you’re still about as approachable as rabid raccoon on an august afternoon and b) b) chicago is still like a new pair of shoes-I’m still getting used to the fit. And if I know anything it’s that I don’t need any attention called to my sapibility or suckerhood especially by the talent for the evening. I did, however, let out a big “wooo-hooo” when you segued into “Grudge Fuck” with your Gin Blossoms story. That display may have called attention to the suckerhood but I guess I’m ok with that. It was great to hear you sing live again. And even though I did see a piano up there this go-around, my calls for “One Hand” went unanswered yet again. I’m getting used to the fact that this world isn’t about me and your consistent rejection is at least an absolute in the less than perfect version of a world without me as it’s center. While “World Won’t End” is still growing on me, I can’t help notice the lack dead or dying woman on this record. You’re in a happier place. Maybe you’re a raccoon in mid to late afternoon these days. Once again the sap, I am taken with “Flaming Wreck” but if I tell you much more, you’d throw down those harsher words I referred to earlier. Thank you for kickin’ my ass. Thank you for making me painfully aware that being a rosy cheeked chick doesn’t make me interesting. And thank you for showing me that not all rockstars could give a fuck about what their music means to me. I will always be a “fan” of yours if only from a distant “woo-hoo” away. I hope this record will bring you the success you deserve. And the next time you’re thru Chicago, I’ll be the girl yelling “One Hand” and, just for old time’s sake, ignore me, will ya?

Pataphysics Research Laboratory
American Woman
by Jack Cole

In the summers, home from college, my friend and I would drive around at a night, bored in the outback. More often than not, we’d usually wind up at a nearby truckstop off the freeway where we’d suck down coffees and argue endlessly, One of us would always feel compelled to be the Devil’s Adovate, depending on who was being earnest. Eating a piece of pie, we go back and forth about our pitiful lives or discuss how much TV we’d watched (but never what we watched).

One summer my friend, deep in the trows of a “Hippies are alright” fixation high lighted by his numerous listenings to the Hair cast recording, dragged me down to Eugene to go to the Oregon Country Fair. I was game merely for the fact that a roadtrip would be nice -- in addition, Duc Ly, who had just turned 21, would be along to buy the booze we required. I could put up with some baked baby boomers for a while if the end result was camping and beer on the beach afterwards.

The Oregon Country Fair was a nightmare -- more so than I’d imagined it would be. The year I went Ken Kesey had disassociated himself completely from it, condemning the whole endeavor that had originally begun on his farm. Of course, that’s like the pot calling the kettle black since Kesey was just as much a wasted burn-out -- a 2 trick pony that should have been dragged to the glue factory long a go. As for the fair, containsed in a copse of trees in a farm halfway between Eugene and the coast, I found myself trapped in a crush of hippies and yuppies mulling about the various booths selling crystal trinkets and wheat grass juice. My claustrophobia kicked in almost immediately, my head spinning as I was smashed the tie-dyed, unbathed, and topless. My eyes were injured by seeing the sagging, wrinkled breasts of wasted baby boomer women or hippie reunions. Burn-outs would vaguely recognize each other and try to communicate, their short-term memories short circuiting their attempts to tell each other where they had been been all these years. Eventually they would just give up, hugging each other before parting. Don’t ask about the music, unless you’re into feeble 60’s veterans who should have quit playing years a go (or, perhaps, should never have been encouraged at all). The big headliner that year was Dinosaur (the same band that forced another group to add Jr. to their name (thoughly, oddly enough, J. Mascis would probably be right at home now at the Country Fair)). Dinosaur was a Frankstein stitched together from the decaying parts of other dead bands like Quicksilver, etc. Need I say anymore? Eventually, my friend and I convinced Duc Ly that we all need to leave. My friend had had his fill of hippies. Hair no longer seamed so appealing. Duc Ly, on the other hand, hadn’t minded at all. The crowds reminded him Saigon when he was a kid. He couldn’t understand why all the people crammed together bothered us.

Driving back to the beach, where we’d set up a campsite, the Oldies station played. Neither my friend or I could stand much else on the airwaves. Duc Ly kept trying to get my friend, who was driving, to play this band Christmas on the tape deck. My friend snorted, “I don’t listen to that college crap. I hate screaming teenagers.” Perhaps he should have given in. The next song that came on the radio was The Guess Who’s “American Woman,” and accursed tune that always brought bad luck to my friend and everyone around him when he heard it. He tried to laugh it off -- nothing would happen this time, he cuckled.

An hour later we arrived in Florence, the small touristy town near the campground. Before going back to our site, we hit the Safeway and stocked up on on food, ice and a case of PBR. The late afternoon had begun.

After unloading our supplies and setting up our tents, we walked down to the dunes with our ice chest full of beer.

Drinking, we all lay back in the sand shooting the shit and complaining about our lives or giving each other a hard time. Duc Ly, obsessed with his looks and getting girls, daydreamed aloud about what he planned to do reach his objectives. My friend ribbed him about the copy of GQ Duc he’d brought. Finishing his beer, my friend filled his bottle up with sand, tossing it up and down in longer and longer arcs. I watched, growing more nervous by the bottle’s trajectories. Duc was oblivious, probably thinking about what strategies he should use to impress the opposite sex.

My friend’s next toss of the bottle into the air was perhaps affected a bit by the alcohol. I watched it rise and fall in slow motion. Quickly, I jumped out of the way, not knowing where it would land. With a crunch and spurt of blood it hit Duc on the bridge of the nose. Blind and confused by pain, Duc screamed, “I’ll never be on the cover of GQ now!”

We didn’t know what to do about Duc. We we’re too drunk to drive, our legs wobbly and our vision impaired by a cheap beer haze. Somehow, even though loaded off my ass, I was the volunteer to drive back into town to buy some more ice and first aid supplies for Duc.

Driving back from the Safeway, my hands shaking, a cop car followed me almost all the way back. The next morning we took Duc to an emergency room. His nose was broken. I can still see his large family all peaking out the windows of his house when we brought him back to Canby, a small town about a half or so away from Portland. After Duc got out of the car, my friend turned to me and said, “I can’t believe he threw away all of the beer when I got gas for the car.”

The last time my friend heard “American Woman” a teenage girl rear-ended us on the freeway. The car, which I was driving since my friend was touch tipsy, did a 360 in the middle of the lanes. My back was badly injured. The only injuries my friend suffered were lacerations on his face from the tray of 7-11 nachos he’d been eating at the moment of impact.

American Woman, stay away from meeeeeeee.

1. Pataphysics Research Laboratory
2. Baboon Club
3. Mickey Mantle's Liver
4. Flame On!