Maybe it's summer. Maybe it's not.

Yesterday, I had my first full day of work here , and I'm not sure if it's the hour drive (each way -- luckily, I had a tape of these guys, these blokes, and this band to liven things up), or the fact that I had to be awake at the very non-rockandroll hour of seven in the morning to make it on time, or the fact that there was a bit of a snafu in the bookstore getting me all of the desk copies that I need (of course, this poor sap is the one who ends up looking like an irresponsible chump), but after a full seven hours of sleep, I feel kind of washed-out... good thing I got some of this stuff to help me out...

***


Not that it was all bad. The students seem -- for the most part -- pretty respectful and willing to learn, and even kind of cool. And I know from cool.

And the staff, and other faculty members were more than helpful.

And I love teaching. I pretty much slipped right back into it after a year-long 'sabbatical' from the gig.


***

Found this news story through the good folks at Indymedia.org. And if it weren't so scary, I'd be laughing my ass of right now.

***

To Mark M., Jeff H., and anyone else I owe mixed CDs to. I'm sorry. I'll get 'em to you soon, possibly at the show on friday, which starts at *ahem* 10:30 PM.

Get Your Brain Overhauled Here: Morgantown's Mind Garage, 1967 -- 1970

While searching the internet for some source material on a piece on the history of underground music in Morgantown that I've been writing for Couches on Fire, I ran across an amazing website that chronicles the adventures of Morgantown's leading '60s psychedelic rock band.

Now I have some ultra-cool clippings, posters and pictures to accompany the tape (of the MG's first two RCA -- yes that RCA -- LPs) that this guy made me.

Just in time too, as the band will be releasing a CD of demo tapes very soon, and a reunion show (to occur in 2007) is in the works.

Stay tuned, if you can find the station,

J

...I give you a testimonial... the MC(Morgantonian Clusterfuck)4!!!

Okay, so last Friday I played a show at this place with this guy, these guys and these guys. And while all of them were quite good, the show was a mess: no-one knew what time the show was actually starting, no one knew who was playing when, and in what order. As a result, the last band (it was their last show for a while, as one of their crue will be away for grad school) had their set cut short. Worse yet the last song was to include a guest appearance by this talented bloke, of this band, and the poor fellow (and his wife) stayed out till 3am for nothing, while he should have been resting up for a long, long drive across the country for a family event.

While the above situation is something of a chronic one for this place, it can be changed with a little less unnecessary fingerpointing (there was a bit of that going on, but it's forgivable as a heat-of-the-moment occurrence), and a little more positive action -- 'cos a little positive action goes a long way.



Thus, I offer you my five-point plan.

Point one: If you book the show, you're responsible for who goes on when. It's not the owner's
[or the sound(wo)man's, or the door(wo)man's] job to dictate a running order. It is imperative that you step up and tell whoever's turn it is to kick out their respective jams. Try threatening them with, "well if you don't go on now, you won't play at all." That'll do it.

Point two: Give a start time on the flyer/announcement, and stick to it.

Point three: Better yet, put the start time for each band/artist on the flyer/announcement.

Por ejemple:

Bachman Turner Overweight: 11:30
!Schprekken!: 10:30
The Electric Adenoid Seven: 9:30

Point four: Even better still. Post a these start times by the door so all can see.

Point five: Bring a watch, and keep your eyes on it.

***

I'm going to enact this system for the next show I play (Friday, September 2 at this place). And chances are, I'll be the first act (threat by example). And I'll be ready at 10:30 PM sharp.

Will you?

Randy "Biscuit" Turner: 1949 - 2005

Just found this out about five minutes ago and it's killing me. For those who don't know, Randy "Biscuit" Turner was the lead vocalist for Austin, Texas punk iconoclasts the Big Boys, a band whose songs ("Which Way To Go" and "Influence," for example) not only blended hardcore punk with pop and funk, but made my life as a teenage outcast a little sweeter.

Here's the full story from the Austin Statesman.

Weleton Skitch

You know, there's something about two Marshalled-up Gibsons playing rippstortin' metal leads in perfect 5ths of each other that just gets me every time. It's just so Wagnerian...so tragically European...

...take two Grant Harts and call me when you die. (for R. Wehrle and J. Hindal)

Don't ask me how this song escaped my radar until now; Seattle's Posies pay a sad, tender homage to my Husker hero.

If you're not too distracted by a guitar break that could easily have come straight from side three of Zen Arcade, the lyrics might make you pine for a time when barrelchested Minnesotans crosshatched the lower 48, blazing a trail of flying v bottlerocket bursts and ridecymbal symphonics about Celebrated Summers and Girls Who Live on Heaven Hill.

Canandaigua Lake

We -- that is, Eir, Fuzzy, Elizabeth, and myself -- set out on a long drive to Canandaigua Lake, NY that almost never was. Yes, I'll skip the detials, but no I won't slip on thru without recognizing my (our) debt to Brian Pennington who generously allowed the use of his plastique.

And we were off: Sheetz tuna sub then new Mould CD then hi-flown hrs on I-79 north then conversation then Spoon (older and newer) then God I smoke too much then medieval shanty towns near Grove City then conversation then Death Cab then a change in landscape then Burger King then the Damned then a talk with Fuz about the history of DC hardcore then upstate downscale supermarket at sunset then to snaky NY highways then some gas then Cuba then cellphone catcalls to Ben and Billy then Lungfish then the massive lake then we were there.

And 'there' was the Miami Hotel, which could have been designed by John Waters, which is to say it was fantastic: pink flamingos, baskets of candy, mirrors, fixtures. Box wine in the fridge. Bad (good) TV.

Me'n' Eir bunking with Billy and Sam(antha). Gave her the glittery Sid T-shirt I'd promised.

Quick change then it was off to cocktails, which meant Black-and-Tan, which also meant Ben-n-Sandra, Chris Turco, Sara Doyle, Chad Sine and scores of others. It also meant a walk to the dock behind Sandra's parents' cottage.

Back at the hotel with Turco in tow. SLF blasting at inhuman levels. More substances. Then 'private time' with Eir then the best sleep I'd had in ages.

Next day: fetching guitars from Roman Wheels. Practice with Turco, he learns the song quick and we run thru it two more times. It'll be alright, yeah. First time I've ever been nervous about playing music in front of people in upwards of a decade. Trip to town. Amazingly well-kept old buildings and businesses. And people.

6:30PM. And here's where I'll slow down. We arrive at the site, lakeside with black and white umbrellas, hanging lanterns, an i-pod. Wine Spritzer. Beer. Kebabs. Salads. Messages to the couple typed in red ink on 30s-era typewriters. Billy's steel drums in front of a tree, about a yard away from where the wedding ceremony is to take place. Here's where I'll really slow down. I swear. The ceremony is in the Quaker tradition, which means that the congregation forms a circle around the couple, who stand in silence for about fifteen minutes, then say their vows.

It's an intense fifteen minutes. Later I'll tell my pals that I had been chopping onions. The silence is broken by what sounds like an vocoder voice reading a poem (but it was an actual person, who I actually met later), then a woman reads Shelley, and I think about when I first met Ben in 1988, a gangly teenage mess of thick shoes and blonde frightwig, and how he's the sweetest, most talented man I've known. I really start weeping. Another reader, another poem. Chris signals to me, and we sit down on a rock with our guitars and play The Gathering Storm, an ancient Appalachian folksong. My voice breaks, then I'm thru it and it feels like something else is playing the song but using me as an instrument yes an instrument and the song's playing me which only happens once in a great while and when it happens it really happens.

And we finish and Billy starts playing a beautiful Tom Waits song on his steel drums and I'm thinking a million thoughts at once, but mostly I'm thinking about how I've been to dozens of weddings and how maybe three of them have felt this right.

Adventures In Huntington (originally published on Myspace, 31 July 2005)

Yesterday's two shows in Huntington mark the first time I've ever taken my Angry Young One-Man Band out of town, and may I say, a good time was had by all, or most, or some, or me anyway.
***
The lovely Eir-Anne and I pulled my beloved Swamp Thing into the HYAMP parking lot around six-thirtyish, and I hurriedly set up while she and Brian "Uncle Bibbity Bop" Pennignton went to take care of hotel reservations in nearby Ashland, Kentucky.

As things were running late (much respect to Steve and Paul of Fud for setting this up under uncommonly difficult odds) I started immediately with the first set of the evening. The plan was to play two very brief, six-song sets -- my gear on the floor with no PA, vocal running through a small guitar amp and delay/slapback pedal; anyone who's seen me play before can tell you that that is my usual way of doing things. Aside from my pedal-snare falling out of its stand once or twice (this actually hasn't happened in a while, but it happened, and it's high time I resolved this issue once and for all, and the McGyver-esque solution came to me in a dream this morning in Kentucky), the first set went off without a hitch, and the audiuence that was there seemed to be enjoying themselves.

The second set was not as enjoyable as I would have liked . At some point I heard an awful noise coming from what I thought was my guitar amp. Wrong. As it turned out, an unnamed member of Huntington's Social Junk was testing his gear on my time. (I couldn't see exactly what that gear was, as I was in a seperate section of the room), and while I more-or-less ignored this unexpected collaboration, (I did make one comment: "hey brother, I know we're all artists and we're all beautiful and all, but could you please NOT soundcheck while I'm playing a set"?) a few members of the audience started yelling at the guy (Will you SHUT THE FUCK UP?!) , and Descension Rate bassist Doug (a sweet dude and great musician) frightened the guy into stopping, or turning down, or something, 'cause the "soundcheck" stopped eventually.Thanks, Doug.

Anyway, this young man's behavior was doubly deflating, not only because soundchecking your gear while someone else is playing is extremely rude and unprofessional, but because up to that point I had been really looking forward to playing with/seeing Social Junk (their myspace songs are outstanding), and we all know what it feels like when a musician you respect behaves like a tool.

So what did I do? I outnoised the noisemaker and played the most rabid, blood-pissing version of "She Said" since Hasil was drawing breath, complete a solid five minutes of Who-esque auto destruction -- feedback squall, distorted kazoo fuzz, drums everywhere.

Later, Social Junk played what seemd like an hour of sub-Neubatuen noise. Guess they've abandoned their more accessible Sonic Youth/Pixies pop leanings. Disappointment is as disappointment does, I guess.

The Dig-Its killed. Paul (aka: Mick McMick of the mighty Fud) channeled East Bay Ray , Billy Zoom, and Johnny Thunders perfectly, and vocalist Amber stalked the stage like a female Iggy while their excellent drummer lived up to his Who t-shirt. The DIs are easliy one of the best punk bands in WV.

Though industrial musi ain't my cup of tea by any strecth of the imagination, My D-Rate pals (I wanna make t-shirts that say "I heart Stan" ) were quite good as well (the "Left-Right, left-right" song was powerful as hell, and I'll be goddamned if Ryan isn't the best guitarist in Morgantown), despite the fact that a group of people were lighting off fire crackers while they were playing. It's not like I'm some uptight, anti-pyrotechnics type. But -- and remember this, kids -- do not set them off while a band you do not know is playing. If you're friends with a band, or they know it will (or possibly could) happen, and most importnatly, if they don't mind, and it's cool with the owners of the venue, then knock yourself out, and pardon my italics.

Fud is soundtrack to two young lovers stricken with down's syndrome having unprotected sex in a Boone County trailer park. Their minimalist skronk (they have penned such gems as "Popeye's Legs" , "Two Brothers Fucking", and my personal favorite, "Myrtle Beach Handjob") is ten times as homoerotic as pro-wrestling and more exhilarating than your Uncle Cletus' bathtub crank. And while this penultimate Fud gig was great, it was topped by the near-riot that was to happen at Marley's Dog House.

***

Oh yeah, the thing about Fud that not a lot of people realize (due to the fake beards, sunglasses, and sheets and all) is that Orange Stuff is a hell of a drummer.

***
A message to the HYAMP staff: from now on, try to be aware of how many bands are playing at the gig. If there are six bands (yeah, I'm a fuckin' band) , don't split the money up five ways, that way, everybody gets paid. Again, Steve came through like a champ on this one. Not only did he book two shows in town in which he no longer lives, but he gave me Fud's (he plays in this band) cut of the money so I could get back to Morgantown. The man is nothing short of a saint, and if I can ever return the favor, I will.

***

We pulled into Marley's and, due to the fact that the Polish Corn Dogs (which contained ex-Truckgrind Your Face member Steele) needed to borrow some equipment (I happily obliged these gentlemen, of course), I played on the actual stage, and used an actual PA system. I know that isn't my usual way of doing things, but at Marley's it worked out very well. The drums were good and loud, the vocals were clear, and much to my surprise, people went apeshit. Kindest response I've had in awhile. Of course, the snare fell out of its stand and all, but it happened to have landed in a very strategic way which made it even louder. Let's hear it for happy accidents.

I unfortunately missed PCDs' set, due to my much-malinged nicotine addiction (got lost in downtown Huntington on the way back from the 7-11), but still made it back in time for Fud's set. As they were setting up, I was approached by Social Junk's Rickman (who I've only known from a few friendly bits of Myspace correspondence). He apologized for his bandmate's behavior at the HYAMP gig, and we shook hands. It was cool to meet him in person. Nice fellow.

On to Fud. Holy fuckin' tapdancing Christ. They pulled no stops for their swansong set. Sure, no live maggots were included in the onslaught (this has ocurred before), but there were plenty of firecrackers (until the soundman threatened to shut the place down), broken glass (I personally abhor the cartoon punk cliche of bottle throwing but still fully expected it, and I'm certainly not one to make rules for anyone else; what can I say? Fud gigs get fuckin' crazy). Rumor was spreading that Fud were exacting revenge on Marley's for not allowing Descention Rate, Social Junk, the Dig-Its, and No Heroes Here to play (both the Hyamp and Marleys bills were to be the same), by playing the last section of "Myrtle Beach Handjob" until the Marley's staff shut everything down, and indeed the final section of "MBHJ" was extended for quite a while. And I do believe the combination of casio synth whine, the (classic mid-80s) Butthole Surfers-ish tribal pounding, and the succession of orgasmic moans, courtesy of Mick McMick (aka: Paul), triggered some sort of adverse reaction in the audience's brain chemistry, because before I knew it, a minor riot erupted on the floor. More firecrackers (inside the aluminum trash can Orange Stuff uses as a kick drum this time), lots of talcum powder (courtesy of an audience member). At some point, someone jumped on the drum kit, then someone (the same person?) took Orange's trash can and gleefully began beating against someone else's head.

***

After getting paid (thanks again to Steve and Paul), saying goodbye to all the nice H-Town folk, etc., Eir-Anne and I drove to the hotel in Ashland, where on route we were stopped by the Ashland, Kentucky Police, who were conducting a routine sobriety check. Despite the fact that I had drunk maybe four beers in eight hours, I (eyes red from talcum powder, shirt smelling like a brewery from several hours of being in a bar) was subject to the "follow-the-cop's-finger" test, and asked rather rudely about my (assumed) marijuana usage.

Waffle House, five minutes later: ordered hash browns (capped and scattered), three eggs (scrambled) , grits (with butter and a bit of salt), juice (orange), coffee (cream only), and while I generally do not eat animals, I felt compelled to order a plate of bacon, in honor of my narrow escape from the cloven clutches of Ashland's finest. Out

Think I'll call it 'Last Gasp of the Opinion Police' or 'Big Brother's Little Sister'

A quick note before I sign off.

Any creative scene or community in which a dissenting opinion is chastized, or soundly (violently) criticized (as being altogether 'negative' and 'harmful') by the prevailing social order -- in fact, any scene or community that can't deal with criticism of itself -- isn't a scene (or community) at all.

It's a social club.

And I'd rather not have anything to do with that, thank you.

***

On a brighter note. This guy got married. And it was a gas.

More on that soon.

***

Listen to this guy, and these guys.

***

Todd Stoops bakes a mean muffin.

***

That is all.

why one-(wo)man bands are the future of music

In case you may not know, I've been doing a one-man band for the past few months, and I don't mean to get all high and mighty about it or anything, but it's been a pretty neat experience so far. It's do darn enjoyable that I urge anyone who hasn't done it yet to give it a try.

Costs and equipment

It's not that it costs that much money or anything; I already own a decent guitar and an amp, and I had a couple of drums lying around, pretty low-grade stuff, nothing fancy, really (a few years ago at a party I had at my old house, Fuzzy and I had the bright idea of putting the keg in the bass drum I use now, if that tells you anything). In fact all you need is a decent-sounding amp (a late 1960s Fender Bassman -- if you're gonna play guitar in this situation, playing through a bass amp, or anything that'll give you a lot of midrange and low-end is key. I would also suggest using the neck pickup for a woody, percussive sound). I knew a nice slapback sort of echo would be important (to fill in as much space as possible. Heck a good deal of the clicky, percussive sound you hear is guitar) so I initially ran the guitar through a Danelectro Dan-Echo, but the Dan-Echo shit the bed after a while, so I lucked upon a cute little Danelectro Corned Beef reverb pedal in the used room at Fawley Music for about $22.I also run a Kazooka electric kazoo through a Boss distortion pedal, into a cute little Peavey Minx (given to me by my friend Clayton, bless his heart). For me, the distortion pedal is key for the kazoo, because it kinda makes it sound like an old 60's fuzzed-out guitar -- essential to the sound I want. Plus, the Kazooka has a little built-in condenser mic, which you can sing through as well, for that dirty, CB radio vocal sound.

As far as drums and other percussion goes, I have a snare and a bass drum, both operated by foot pedals (again, the used room at Fawley Music came in handy here -- got both of these for around $20 each. Oh, and use a wooden beater on the snare pedal, so it sounds like the snare's being whomped with a drumstick). Attached to each pedal is a strap, with an egg-shaker (about $3) duct taped to each (again, this adds another dimension of rhythm and helps fills up some space). Also attatched to each strap is a small piece of metal, which clangs against a cymbal I have mounted to the bass drum. And, when the moood strikes me, I tap a tambourine with my foot.

Other concerns.

You're gonna have to stabilize the whole mess somehow. Try using the bases of any microphone stands you have lying around. I'd also lay the whole thing on a carpet, so the drums don't go sliding all over the place. The best method for all of this (and for any musical experimentation) is trial-and-error.It's also a load of fun.

Why one(wo)-man bands are, well, the sex.

1) You have the freedom to practice whenever you want. This is a biggie, kids. if you're a o(w)mb, you can have band practice at your own convenience, as often or as infrequently as you like. I'm a once-a-day guy myself.

2) At gigs, you can set up wherever you want. Of course, you'll have to bring a mic and an amp to sing through, but it's worth it if you wanna set up on the floor (instead of the stage, which I do most of the time, to change the rock dialogue and upset the "fan-musician" heirarchy a bit). Hell, set up by the jukebox, or in the bathroom. Or by that cute guy or girl at the end of the bar. It's all you.

3) You can even go on tour without having (to buy) a van. All of my gear fits nicely into the trunk and backseat of my little Ford Escort. As Watt says: "Jam Econo."

4) You think two-pieces are fucking punk? Well, try the one-piece. A few years ago, the duo was all the rage. The
o(w)mb is the next logical step. You seriously can't get any more DIY than (quite literally) doing it all yourself.

5) Contrary to popular belief, not all O(W)MB music is psychobilly. Not to diss on any of these hardworking dudes (fucking massive respect to Hasil Adkins (r.i.p.), Bloodshot Bill, Scott Biram, Joe Buck, Almighty Do Me A Favor and Dan Schooley, who are simply choosing to play the music that they wanna play and are all fuckin' amazing at it) but just about everytime I've told people I do a OMB, they assume it's a blues-based, quasibilly, hypersexualized romperstomp (which at times it is, I confess, but I don't really have the hair or the threads to really do it right), however, as a o(w)mb you can explore any genre you want, or if you're like me, and don't really believe in genres you can play any number of beats you want, in any meter you want, at any tempo you want, using whatever chord structure you want. You can be Hasil, sure, but you can also be Pavement, the Wedding Present, The Fall, Crass, Guided By Voices, Wire, Huggy Bear, Beat Happening, The Ramones or Sonic Youth. The only limitation you have is your creativity. Just keep practicing.

6) Since it's just you up there, you don't have to come up with a 'clever' band name. Need I explain more?

7)O(W)MBs are downright revolutionary. In today's homogonized musical climate, screaming your guts out while playing a McGyvered mess of jacked-up instruments all at once is a poltical statement in itself (of course, we may quibble over terms, but I agree with Legs McNeil when he said that "don't step on my blue suede shoes" was the most important political statement in the history of rock and roll, 'cos it was about respecting other people's personal space). At any rate, the very idea of a O(W)WB is the access principle taken to its fullest extreme. We're a blood-sucking tick in the polluted, acne-ridden ass of Sony Music.

***
Thanks for reading, and I'll see you at the next show.

Feral Hymns, and why "indie rock" must die a bloody death.

Feral Hymns is the new album by Lungfish and it's not only one of the best in a long career, but it embodies everything that seems to be missing from today's fake-ass indie rock horde -- soul, guts, brains, individuality, a feircely (true) independent spirit, and a willingness to be a bit creepy, to make the listener a bit uncomfortable, to shake them into thinking about where they are, what they're doing, what their leaders are up to, who their friends are.

***

To be completely honest, the "I" word has carried very little meaning for me since the early 90s. From all evidence it's morphed from a non-categorization to describe bands and artists on such intrepid labels as SST, Touch and Go, Dischord, etc., (led by the highly unfashionable Greg Ginn, Corey Rusk, and Ian MacKaye) to a strict way of playing and consuming music. Even in smaller scenes (long-considered to be the last hope of the real) it's become an exclusive low-rent cocktail party, a fashion show, a sad little shadow of its former self, a ripoff of a ripoff of a ripoff. And if you participate in this scam, conventional wisdom dictates that you're gonna pay through the nose in more than one sense.

Ah, but who am I to say what you should and shouldn't do with your parents' hard-earned money? Go ahead and buy (into) it, bring your daddy's credit card to the Church Of Satan and scrape away your brain cells one-by-one on the newest, latest, coolest piece of crap, rather than *gasp* discover something for yourself, something that you'll cherish for a long time, without the help of (e)m(p)t(y)v, Myspace (now owned by Rupert Murdoch), one of the many ads that batter you senseless if you spend any amount of time online, or what some douchebag (who would be better suited for fraternity life than my precious underground music scene) has on his t-shirt.

How progressive and forward-thinking can a band be when they're featured prominently in the music section of Wal-Mart? C'mon... if your band's gonna pull some shit like that, call it something else, for the love of God.

***

And the categorizations? If I have to hear how "my band is sort of a neo-angular dancepunk with a slight freakfolk shoegazer influence" someone's gonna get throttled by the collar of their ironic Welcome Back Kotter t-shirt. Well, probably not (chances are I'll just roll my eyes and get a beer). The point is, if you have to pigeonhole yourselves just to get fans (another word I fuckin' hate) then you probably should not be playing music in the first place; the best music is done by the musician, for the musician, because the musician not only wants to make music, but has to. The best songs are written without regard to image and marketablity. Period.

***

And the new Lungfish LP contains ten of the best songs I've heard in a while.

The War On Turdism...

...begins at home. Preferably in front of the bathroom mirror. Got that?