Surveiller Et Punir

The Future Belongs To The Analog Loyalist

2007-04-16T17:28:00.000-07:00

Stone Age Kicks cassette cover (Project Active Media, 2007)

Photos 1/07 - 3/07 (part 1)

2007-03-13T12:55:00.000-07:00

Photos 1/07 - 3/07 (part 2)

2007-03-13T11:21:00.000-07:00

Yes indeedy.

2007-02-12T10:15:00.000-08:00

April's gonna be a good month, I can feel it...

"We are one-man bands. Don't fuck with us."

2006-11-14T13:23:00.000-08:00

Blue Moose Cafe, Morgantown. 11/10/06.

The Clash tribute show/Mountaineer Boys and Girls' Club Benefit...

2006-09-19T15:08:00.000-07:00

...was pretty fuckin' great!

"We play pop from hell."

2006-06-17T19:09:00.000-07:00

Perry Kirk (second -- and arguably best -- Eyes drummer at the opening night of the Machine Shop, 1989)

The great Mark Poole at the Machine Shop opening, 1989.

Original lineup of 63 Eyes posing for the Daily Athenaeum's lens, Morgantown, WV circa 1986.
(L-R: Wes Poole, Mark Poole, Todd Burge)

Sub-Pop singles club style photo of Mark Poole (w/ his trusty Gretsch Chet Atkins Country Gentleman) sometime in the early 1990s. Classic.

20 years ago

2006-05-27T21:29:00.000-07:00

Operation Ivy is fuckin' awesome...

2006-03-11T12:45:00.000-08:00

...but you're not.

life begins at thirty-six

2006-02-20T16:09:00.000-08:00

here's why (in chronological order):

1) 2/17/06 (10PM - 2AM) FU:EL show w/ ish, ecfop and the BL the friday before, like then pep rally before the big game. lots of non-spectators lending percussive hands on tamboutines, guitar cases, cymbals, drums and --of course -- skull-shaped maracas.

only downer was running into two dudes from this band (which, as you have guessed, wasn't a downer at all -- the downer was they had to go before i went on, which was late, even for me). but they, true to their punk rock nature (which runs depper than anything you can think of), helped me w/ the load-in. what makes this more significant (ie: more worthy of a blog entry) is that one of them helped me load my drums into the dry house at the first ever show i played, january 1987. so things came full-circle. and i didn't take it as a sign then (friday nite) but i do now (monday evening), and hopefully i can return the favor.

2) (2/18/06 -- approx. 1PM) 'we jam econo' courtesy of her eir-anneness and his wattness. totally legit screening @123 (monday film nite) soon. ahh, but the real gift is the heart behind the gift itself, innit?

3) (2/18/06 -- approx. 3PM) hearing a todd burge recording of "pity the party."
unthinkable, in the best sense of the word. these blokes doing an extra special birthday cover set. unimaginably good set and an incredible gesture.

5) (2/18/06 -- 2/19/06, approx. 10:00 PM -- 4:00 AM) lots of good talk, good action, free gin & tonic, booker's whiskey, and candy hearts (and other stuff) from various good people at this joint and a small apartment above it . which led to me getting philosophical at the bar, in the car, in the hall, on the street, in the driveway, in the kitchen, on the steps, in the bed. but that's okay. getting philosophical sure beats getting sick.

6) (2/19/06) didn't feel too bad the next day, either.

***
methinks i'm the richest man in town.

(photo -- a still from LACK*A*DAISY's "I Need" video, summer 1992. L-R: bill sheeder (in chicken mask) my bad self (w/gun). don't ask.

PS. someone sent me a comment. well, two people. one was a well-wisher (ben doyle?), the other comment(at)or was amazed by the fact that i posted a link to the ACLU's site becase i'm a 'scab.' "remember MAMA...?" it said. i'm assuming that's a joke, as the only mama i have supports the aclu (and a lot of other righteous, hardworking organizations) wholeheartedly. i would have posted both (one was sweet, the other kinda funny) but the 'moderate comments' thingy effed up, and now i don't have no sweet or funny comments no more, just a great memory.

auld lang syne

2006-01-04T16:11:00.000-08:00

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And days of auld lang syne

For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
Should all acquaintance be forgot
For auld lang syne

We twa hae run about the braes
And pou'd the gowans fine
But we've wander'd monie a weary fit
Sin auld lang syne

We twa hae sported in the burn
Frae morning sun till dine
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin auld lang syne

And there's a hand my trusty fiere
And gie's a hand o thine
And drink a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne

For auld lang syne, my fiere
For all lang syne
We'll drink a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne

Ants of Fire, Egoslovakians, and Drivers of the Braille

2005-11-05T15:49:00.000-08:00

Today's Headlines

Long-missed punk hero resurfaces for an all-too-brief weekend visit after eighteen months in a Floridian marshland where he kicked some habits (in the arse) and recorded sixty-plus songs in his Anthill. Yours truly is inspired to drink less, play more, and mix down four unreleased Egoslovia tracks at a local studio, and perhaps maybe possibly even release it for public consumption.

***

Stonewall Jackson Five kills it finestyle -- happy death men like to keep things dark.

***
The video for Braille Drivers' Clinton-era gem "20 Class 'A' Cigarette Burns" (Dir. Todd Moser) is complete.

Watch it here.

*Photo: Braille Drivers in Cleveland, May 2004. L-R: Ben Doyle, Bill Sheeder, Unknown, Brian Noga, Aimee Noga, Unknown, J.Marinelli

Placebos and Private Cure-Alls : In Praise of the Joneses

2005-11-05T14:02:00.000-08:00

Fuuuuuuuck. Has it really been fifteen years since the loss of my cassette copy of (the history making BYO records comp) Someone Got Their Head Kicked In and the purchase of best-of/odds-and-sods collection Criminal History?

Decade-and-a-half timespans aside, as this guy said, talent is worth waiting for, and as soon as I espied a smudgy jewelbox festooned with four dreamy, suburban post-Dolls (proto-'Mats?) lookin everywhere but the direction of Chris Amaroux's lens in the Den's dusty ole used section (next to the Big Gulp machine), I knew that the wait would be over. That moments later--shiteatin grin plastered to wideyed middleaged mug--I'd be plunkin down a splendidly spent $6.99. And moments after that I'd be rippin through Thundersesque air guitar lead after beautiful fuckin lead to such gems as "Pillbox," "She's So Filthy," and "Graveyard Rock."

Criminal History indeed. Criminal that a talent of such magnitude could go overlooked for so goddamn long. What else besides criminal negligence could explain why our heroes would, despite their best efforts, forever be relegated to cult status? If that. Sub-fuckin-cult staus. Pick up any book (or watch any movie) about the 80s LA rock scene and you'll find these Joneses erased from public memory. No mention of them in Decline (hell, they'd have been appropriate for either part one or two!), Another State of Mind , The Dirt (Joneses copyist Nikki Sixx didn't mention them once, not even as a desperate attempt at some much-needed street cred), We Got the Neutron Bomb (sure, reading all that wasted ink on Zolar X and Kim Fowley was amusing and all, but...), or any of the revisionist 'histories of rock and roll' specials PBS unleashes every other year.

Fuck it. Sympathy For The Record Industry (the only label with the good taste to cobble together this fine, fine batch-o-jams) knows better, I know better, and hopefully you will after reading this. For those who don't know, the Joneses were sort of a Westcoast Heartbreakers/Dolls/Stones/Slade/Mott/Pistols amalgamation which reared its lipstick-traced, quaalude-stuffed gob, and teased-out red-dyed head some ten years after "Trash," "Personality Crisis," and "Lookin' For a Kiss," all shot through the bored ampheatmine aggro of Orange County punk (TSOL's Mitch Dean was their first drummer, and skater Steve Olsen manned the below-the-knees thunderbroom for a time). It's classic, hi-energy, tarted-up, be-rouged, junkedup, fuckedup, scarf-on-the-mikestand rock and roll, complete with whining, cop-siren Les Pauls (courtesy of the Joneses' single constant, Jeff Fuckin Drake), tightass thunderhoofed tubthumpin that'd make Jerry Nolan blush and bratty adenoid sneers about chicks in ripped fishnets, drugs, booze, death, lust, love, booze, drugs, and chicks in ripped fishnets. Perfect.

Not only were the Joneses a sort of 'missing link' betwixt the likes of Social Distortion and Guns'N' Roses, but they represent LA's last chance for the real fuckin thing, before that drug called MTV came round and duped an entire generation of shouldaknownbetters into buying (into) the well-supervised rebellion known as 'hair metal.' Good bye baby, and amen.

(Listen to and/or buy the Joneses here)

"...darkness worshed over the dude..."

2005-09-20T15:38:00.000-07:00

Alas! At this point, only the soft strains of Mark Mothersbaugh and the wise, squint-eyed visage of my hero and spiritual advisor Sam (fucking) Elliot can lift my sorry, sorry spirits now... tell me what to do, Sammy...

Oh woe is me... first, one of my prize (sacasm) students accused Malcolm X (I had the poor sods analyze "Prison Studies" from brother Malc's autobiography, much to their great chagrin, and my joy) of "sucking" and "hating white people." I believe he was referring to these two activities seperately, but I'm not sure. Kids today... I mean, imagine this guy going on a one-sentence political tirade about the 1960s civil rights movement and you're nowhere close.

I tried to explain to the young man all that "the-author-is-dead" (literally and figuratively) stuff, you know, sepeate the author from the trext, blahdiddy blah blah, and it, erm....didn't really translate. Anyway, I did point out that while Malcolm X did indeed have something of a distate for Whitey (for good reason, no?) he did late in life see the error of his ways and opened himself to all forms of Honkeydom. So no, sonny, the evil ghost of dead Malcolm fucking X isn't gonna rise form the grave and throttle you while you're at home listening to Eminem and drinking Gatorade.

Oh, but my day got so much more tragic... oh boo-fucking-hoo... So, I get home, and I go about my business of checking computer stuff, and what do I see but some nasty comments about me on a "Morgantown music and culture blog" , accusing me of being one of them gol-durn liberal pinko commie scums that got what's-his-face re-elected because I take such a hardline stance on sexist language. Well please, please, please, excuse me for taking exception to the fact that one of the blog writers (uncounsciously) denied that women in Morgantown play in bands. Sure it was an unconscious, innocent mistake and he's a good guy and all, but as this dude says, a bad mouth betrays a bad mind (or a bad upbringing), and what you don't say can be a lot more telling than what you do say. So yeah, I get a ton of shit for it, from people I may or may not know, people I may or may not be "friends" with, thanks to the wonders of the anonymous internet.

I could be wrong, but I may have elicited such a strong response by expressing how I don't like (big surprise) hippie jam band music (though in my comment I did mention a lot of '60s bands -- San Francisco and elsewhere -- that I love. Note this quote, which tastefully employs the lyrics of a local jam-band. here's part of his comment. Brace yourselves -- this is gold:

If you want to really be offended, ma'am, go see Thred....they've got a song called "Bitch Please." All you liberals need to go wash your sweaters!

Ooh. he called me "ma'am." Like, I'm a girl or something. Ugly, ugly stuff, huh? And then he told me I need to wash my sweater. Oh.... brutal. So now I have to deal with angry right-wing hippies who want to offend me and cast aspersions on my personal hygiene (talk about the pot calling the kettle... nevermind). And you know what? I am offended. Stupidity offends me. Calculated stupidity offends me even more. So I told my naysayers to fuck off, and retired form good ol' Couches On Fire. Sorry Aaron, Jeremy, and Brian. You're all good, knowledgable folk, but you can do it without me.

Ah, but this incident was just the tip of the iceberg. I go this this blog (this very one, yup) and find this comment to a post I did about the Reactionaries. brace yourselves again:

wow, covering the this many boyfriends club now...nice.

my wedding ring says "we tip over apple carts"and his says"with the pouding of our hearts."

Now you've been exposed.

Don't write a song about it...just give me back my Yummy Fur/Dame Darcy/fill in the blank recordsAll in good humor and love, my NMH tatoo recipient.

If you know anything of my history, you may have guessed who this person is. And yeah, she's heard some of my music on this site. Again with the wonders of the internet, that beautiful subspace where any asshole or psycho may make attempts to contact you. Man, I love this shit!

Well, here's an open letter to you, oh anonymous commentator:

1) What I cover should be no concern of yours. Go on with your life.

2) Wedding ring? I must have blocked that part out too. One tends to "delete files" in their brain when under great duress.

3)Don't flatter yourself. That song ain't about you.

4)See #3. And no -- I don't have your Dame Darcy records. If I wanted to listen to a New York singer who appropriates the mountain/folk form I'll listen to early Bob Dylan. At least he did a good job of faking it.

Oh yes, I (re)familiarized myself with the Yummy Fur via your (other) ex-punching bag, who was kind enough to burn me a CD. You know, that guy? Lives in Pennsylvania or something? remember? You accused him of a lot of fucked-up shit too.

5) There's no humor in this point. I'd sooner put a cigarette out on my own teeth than speak to you again, so please make no more attempts to contact me, directly or otherwise. For the unmpteenth time, have nice life.

The Reactionaries

2005-09-03T15:45:00.000-07:00

The Reactionaries - January, 1979 -- (L-R) Martin Tamburovich, Mike Watt, George Hurley, and D Boon.

Proto-Minutemen blitzpop -- this is hot, essential listening.

***
"Getting Existential On The Beach"

"Cheap False Teeth"

"Brigate Rosse"

"1979"

That was the week that wasn't.

2005-09-03T14:32:00.000-07:00

You know, I feel kind of silly posting a link to a news story about our president's bad behavior when, within the past five days, he's exhibited much, much worse behavior.

I'm still flabbergasted by this. Five days ago, I thought to myself, "this looks bad, sure, but the National Guard, the Corps of Engineers, et al will see to the problem quickly." Guess we all know how that turned out.

But then, when a presidential administration is focusing all its money and energies toward protecting its vital corporate interests, certain things (like the lives and welfare of thousands) tend to fall by the wayside.

***
At least we can rely on Kanye West to prove that there is such a thing as good TV these days.

***

Extreme flattery department: This blog posted this song from this band I was in once. Play it loud, kids. It's an anthem.

While you're at it, check out this blog, in which this long-lost Morgantown post-punk outfit is paid some long-overdue lip service.

***

And you should totally listen to this song, all the time.

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

2005-08-31T11:14:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-23T16:02:00.000-07:00

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!!!

2005-08-21T17:24:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-20T17:10:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-20T16:39:00.001-07:00

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)

2005-08-17T20:28:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-16T14:21:00.000-07:00

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)

2005-08-15T13:49:00.000-07:00

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'

2005-08-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-14T18:56:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-11T16:44:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-08-11T15:09:00.000-07:00

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