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Tom Waits, Steve Martin, Affronti, Souls of Mischief and James P. Johnson

Posted by: on Oct 12, 2009 | Comments (0)

Tom Waits is releasing a live album, Glitter and Doom Live, on November 24, just in time for the Christmas season. It includes 17 songs from various shows on his tour last year. I saw two shows from the tour; one at the beginning when the players were still finding their footing and one at the end, which was one of the greatest shows I’ve ever seen. The live album features a bonus disc in the CD version called “Tom Tales,” with 40 minutes of Waits’ trademark ruminations on “romantic spiders and injured vultures” (the bonus disc comes as a free mp3 download with the LP version). Here’s the track list:

Lucinda / Ain’t Goin Down (Birmingham – 07/03/08)
Singapore (Edinburgh – 07/28/08)
Get Behind The Mule (Tulsa – 06/25/08)
Fannin Street (Knoxville – 06/29/08)
Dirt In The Ground (Milan – 07/19/08)
Such A Scream (Milan – 07/18/08)
Live Circus (Jacksonville – 07/01/08)
Goin’ Out West (Tulsa – 06/25/08)
Falling Down (Paris – 07/25/08)
The Part You Throw Away (Edinburgh – 07/28/08)
Trampled Rose (Dublin – 08/01/08)
Metropolitan Glide (Knoxville – 6/29/08)
I’ll Shoot The Moon (Paris – 07/24/08)
Green Grass (Edinburgh – 07/27/08)
Make It Rain (Atlanta – 07/05/08)
Story (Columbus – 06/28/08)
Lucky Day (Atlanta – 07/05/08)

Steve Martin, comedian and banjoist extraordinaire, has been booked at the Napa Valley Opera House to play on Thursday, November 5. If you were stuck behind a tree or thousands of other people when he played in Golden Gate Park, there’s still a handful of seats left for the Napa Valley Opera House, which is comparatively the size of a shoebox. Click here for tickets, which run $110-$125 per person and are going very fast. Might I tangentially also recommend Martin’s very wry and funny memoir, Born Standing Up, if only for his fantastic story about running into Diane Arbus at Disneyland, or the passage on briefly dating Linda Ronstadt.

Healdsburg’s jazz scene was set to lose a fantastic outlet when the Palette Art Café was sold, but thankfully, the new owners of the just-opened Affronti have carried on the tradition of showcasing excellent small combos in their intimate environs every Thursday night from 7-10pm. Reports on the food are positive as well, and dinner reservations are the best way to get a good seat. Upcoming acts include Cat Austin (Oct. 15), Ken Cook and the Gravity Trio with Scott Peterson (Oct. 22) and the Adam Theis Mega-Quartet (Oct. 29). The location once played host to jazz bassist Henry Franklin, and might I tangentially recommend Henry Franklin’s The Skipper, a very good record that I wish I had discovered prior to his performance there this summer with Azar Lawrence and not, sadly, afterward.

Souls of Mischief, far from being past their ’93 prime, have a new album, Montezuma’s Revenge, out in early December. They are still one of the best live hip-hop groups in the Bay Area. Every time I see them open a show, I feel bad for the headliner, who bumbles through a set doomed to inadequacy. Next week at Slim’s, they hold to the fire the feet of Ghostface Killah, a great rapper currently on “miss” in his hit-and-miss catalog of albums. Parlay the temptation into instead seeing Rakim, a great rapper who hasn’t made an album period for a while but who never disappoints, at Slim’s on Oct. 25. Might I tangentially recommend Eric B. and Rakim’s Follow the Leader, an album packed with just as much genius as Paid In Full but not, you know, overplayed.

Here’s my favorite story of the week: Earlier this year, Scott Brown made a pilgrimage to the final resting place, in Queens, of stride master and jazz piano pioneer James P. Johnson—only to find an unmarked scattering of weeds. Shocked at the lack of respect for one of jazz piano’s inarguable giants, he called on some of New York’s stride aficionados, including Dick Hyman and the Bad Plus’ Ethan Iverson, in order to raise money for a proper tombstone. You can read about the marathon nine-hour cutting session here, and rest assured that James P. Johnson will have his life and legacy properly marked.

Tom Gaffey Needs Your Help

Posted by: on Sep 29, 2009 | Comments (21)

Okay, folks. It’s serious.

The Phoenix Theater in Petaluma is in such a severe financial crisis that Tom Gaffey has been laid off. You might not have noticed, because he’s still working there every day, but it’s true—he’s been taken off the payroll.

“I need to be back on in about a month,” Gaffey told me yesterday, “or I’m gonna be in trouble. “

On the phone last week, Tom tried to downplay the situation, saying that he’s been through thin times before, back when the Phoenix was a smaller operation. “If I could cover the rent, the PG&E and the insurance, then we were golden,” he says. “But now we’ve got some other things going, and the fact of the matter is that stuff is so cool. The music school, the clinic, the art programs, all the extra stuff we do is just so important and so valid. When you see the clinic on Thursdays, it’s absolutely full, a good long line of people waiting to get in. You can’t deny this is a great program.”

To that end, the only paid employee at the Phoenix right now is music program director Gio Benedetti, and even he’s been cut down to half-pay. Executive director Amber Faur, like Gaffey, has also been officially laid off. Bruce Hagen, board president, explains that both are still working at the Phoenix in a volunteer position, and “they’re working as hard as they ever did, God bless ‘em.”

It just doesn’t make sense. Say the name “Tom Gaffey” anywhere in Sonoma County and an air of beloved reverence is instantly conjured. This is a guy who’s given decades of encouragement to teens who didn’t get support from their schools, their families, their social circles. Who’s said yes to starting a band, painting a mural or realizing some other potential when every other adult has said no. Who’s given years of sincere advice in place of nagging, and provided wide-ranging opportunities to kids who’ve only known closed doors.

So how could something like this happen?

For years, the Phoenix used to be run by Gaffey alone, who in addition to booking shows also oversaw a bunch of kids who hung out after school, played guitar, made art, put on plays, edited films, skated and helped each other with homework. When the theater was saved from being turned into an office building in 1999 by a group of dot-com benefactors, it slowly eased into the Phoenix Theater of today—a nonprofit model where all those extracurricular activities are now official programs eligible for grant funding.

Hagen says the theater had banked on getting some significant foundation grants and major donor grants, “but the word we’re getting is ‘You guys look like a great program, you have a pretty solid organization, but we’re not taking anybody on right now.”

The shows haven’t been doing too well, either. Up to half of the theater’s income once came from door receipts, but the Phoenix was forced last year to be overly cautious about booking rap shows, “and as troublesome as those sometimes were,” says Hagen, “they were very profitable for the Phoenix.” (The long-running series of Super Hyphy shows usually brought in at least $2,000 per month.)

All told, the Phoenix needs about $20,000 a month to stay afloat. In addition to funding, the theater is in need of energetic board members, reliable volunteers and “people with skills in administering a nonprofit,” Hagen says. “Ten years ago, we had a situation where the Phoenix couldn’t exist on the model that it had. And now, we’re in a similar situation where in this economy, we can’t get by unless we have a greater level of support from the community.”

Those interested in volunteering time or skills can get in touch with Hagen directly by emailing him here. As for Gaffey? “I’m fine for a little while longer,” he told me, “but I may have to go out and find a job here real quick.”

For those who’ve been inspired or supported in any way by Tom Gaffey and the Phoenix Theater, helping out is as easy as clicking here and making either a one-time or monthly donation. They’re a 501(c)(3) now, so it’s tax-deductible. Now is the time to help out. Countless people have seen firsthand the benefits to having Tom Gaffey at the Phoenix Theater. If enough of us pitch in, we can rescue one of the worthiest causes in Sonoma County. Every bit helps.

90210

Posted by: on Sep 20, 2009 | Comments (0)

Last night, for the first time in my life, I watched an episode of Beverly Hills 90210. The daily bulletin announcer at West Beverly High School kept trying to get MC Hammer on the phone, which seemed amusingly out of date until special guest Debbie Gibson showed up at the end. At least Hammer is playing Hardly Strictly for the second year in a row; the last time I saw Debbie was at a Cubs game, leading the crowd singalong of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

There was a scene in the show where Brandon is hot for this girl of really vague Hispanic descent, so she takes him to a Hispanic Cultural Center to test his mettle in the hard ghetto or whatever. (“She’s a straight-A student,” says her friend, “but it’s tough you know, with the gangs, and the drugs.” I believe this show was screenwritten by Lassie.) Some terrible 101.7-FM hard rock music is blaring, and everyone is jazz-dancing in sync, like they’re in Cats. I enjoyed Mick LaSalle’s response in today’s pink section to this guy who questioned plausibility in movies, but this took the cake.

Goddamn, That DJ Made My Day

Posted by: on Sep 19, 2009 | Comments (0)

Anthony Williams, a.k.a. DJ Roc Raida, has died. Even if you are not a fan of DJing, watch the clip below to see what the world has lost. I was amazed when the X-Ecutioners came to Future Primitive in S.F. and blew everyone’s mind with their choreographed acrobatics. Lots of people on the West Coast dismissed ‘em as “trick DJs,” and that’s legitimate, but tricks are entertaining and they were entertaining as hell. Rest in peace, Raida.

Bands Start Up Each and Every Day

Posted by: on Sep 18, 2009 | Comments (0)

I look back in weird ways, I guess. I have a compulsive need to chronicle the past, and assemble tidbits, and remind myself that it happened. To remind myself that bands existed. I collect flyers, set lists, broken drum sticks, drawings, strange notes between band members, letters, practice tapes, broken strings. I sometimes present these items to their originators years later, like a mom bringing out the third grade report card again. “See?” I implore, “You ripped this Paxton Quiggly sticker off your bass in the middle of your set at the Highway 12 house in 1995, and you threw it on the floor, and you thought you’d never see it again, but look, here it is! And look, you got an ‘S’ in reading, and your teacher wrote ‘Is attracted to the books of Judy Blume’!”

It’s fine and dandy to be reminded of third grade, but it’d be downright ridiculous to actually go to your third grade classroom again, and cram into the tiny wooden desk seats with all the others you went to school with, and attempt to re-create the magic of watching “Riki Tiki Tavi” for the first time on the 16mm projector. This is how I feel about band reunions. Know your past, and build on it, but don’t rehash old moves.

So. Pavement is reuniting for a tour in 2010. Pavement is one of the greatest bands of the last 20 years, and we should by rights be shitting our pants about this, but how excited can even a diehard fan be with dead weight of Malkmus’ mediocre solo career and Spiral Stairs’ failures in the 10-year interim? Does context not bog down the grandeur of “Stop Breathing”? If the band smiles while playing “Major Leagues,” is it because they love the song, or because they’re getting paid? Is it unfair to read too much into an ex-band’s good time?

There is no concerted band-reunion backlash. This is the summer of nostalgia. Michael Jackson, Woodstock. Pastel-colored T-shirts with white blazers. Reissues, repackages, reunions, retracing. Bands performing classic albums in their entirety. Everyone clawing back ceaselessly into the past, avoiding whatever it is they’re scared of facing. I can understand needing a warm familiar place to reside say, during the Bush administration, but why now? Look around. Now is when we have a smart president and we have these weird artistic opportunities because of the depression and we have this gung-ho spirit of change and hope and possibility, and the best we can do is help the Pixies sell out three shows of a no-surprises song-for-song set of Doolittle, a very good and very old album they recorded over 20 years ago.

Next week’s Bohemian column is on a stellar book coming out on September 29, Gimme Something Better: The Profound, Progressive, and Occasionally Pointless History of Bay Area Punk from Dead Kennedys to Green Day. It’s a collected oral history of a very special time in many people’s lives, my own included, told by over a hundred band members, scenesters, zine editors, promoters, volunteers and old friends who save things like set lists and practice tapes. A mammoth work at 500 pages, it will have an impact on the Bay Area in ways we can only prognosticate, except for one. “Are you ready for the bickering to begin?” I asked authors Jack Boulware and Silke Tudor yesterday. “Oh, it’s already started,” Tudor said. “It started when we began interviewing people.”

I’m a champion of history, which shouldn’t be confused with nostalgia; history is telling stories about an old flyer, while nostalgia is trying to book the same show with the same bands at the same venue all over again. History can also be unsettling, and having events close to one’s life wrapped up neatly into book form sometimes gives the eerie feeling of mummification. I mentioned this to Boulware, and asked, “Why write about all this stuff now? Isn’t it a little too early?” He laughed.

“When you’re too young, you don’t really have a perspective on it, as much as when you’re older,” he explained of most of the book’s interview subjects. “When you’re in your 30s, you’re embarrassed of the stuff you did in your 20s, and you don’t wanna talk about it. But when you’re in your 40s, and you’re talking about something that happened in your 20s, you have a little bit of distance on it.”

In other words, if Boulware and Tudor hadn’t tracked these people down now, who knows what stories they’d have been unable to share? Lots of writers have tackled the Bay Area punk scene and failed; by handing the book’s voice over to the people involved, Gimme Something Better is like being homesick without leaving home, and an epic chronicle that people will be talking about for years to come. I can’t say as much for the average band’s sad-sack reunion tour, where the prevailing feeling is that of watching overgrown children dance for Grandma.

Konocti Harbor Resort to Close

Posted by: on Sep 10, 2009 | Comments (2)

After languishing on the market for two years, Konocti Harbor Resort is closing. I’m not going to make the expected jokes about washed up has-beens. This is a total blow.

Along with uninteresting bookings like Styx and Rick Springfield, Konocti, which is owned by Local 38 Union of Plumbers, Pipefitters and Journeymen, has consistently brought the biggest names in country music to the area. Look at the list of performers who’ve played there, and it reads as a who’s-who atop of the country music charts: Tim McGraw, Taylor Swift, Rascal Flatts, Toby Keith, Carrie Underwood, Brooks and Dunn, Faith Hill, Trace Adkins, Miranda Lambert, Dierks Bentley and Brad Paisley all come to mind.

Country music stars are often just as easy to make fun of as leftover arena-rock slop like Lynyrd Skynyrd and KISS, but with Konocti closing, where around here are people going to be able to see them? Toby Keith can’t play the Wells Fargo Center; it’s simply too small. Maybe someone could book him at the Petaluma Fairgrounds, but will he really want to play on a temporary rented sound system in a dirt rodeo grandstand? Konocti had a solid working relationship with these artists, and they kept coming back to the place, as run-down and decrepit as it may be.

Some people say it’s just as well that Toby Keith, a confirmed douchebag, can’t play around here anymore, to which I recall the last time I went to Konocti, to see Trace Adkins. He sang songs about soldiers and mama and workin’ hard and America. To see the fat shirtless guys cheering, the disabled veterans crying, the kids in wheelchairs smiling, the toothless MILFs dancing, and the plumbers, pipefitters and journeymen and their families all singing along was to witness a culture that we too often criticize without understanding.

The bottom line is that a slice of happiness for these people has been lost.

I Want to Take You Away

Posted by: on Sep 8, 2009 | Comments (2)

Good morning, absurdity. How did you know to arrive on time, and in the form of Charo?

Her 2002 show at the fair in Santa Rosa is still one of the best five dollars I’ve ever spent, and the passing of time hasn’t dulled her ludicrous sensibility one bit, as evinced by a glorious appearance singing Rihanna’s “Don’t Stop the Music” Sunday on the Jerry Lewis telethon. Try to watch it with a straight face. I dare you.

We Gonna Do a Song That You Never Heard Before

Posted by: on Sep 7, 2009 | Comments (0)

These DJ Shadow Handmade records really are something special. They come in die-cut sleeves with hand-stamped titles. They’re pressed thick with textured, wrap-around covers. And yes, they come Sharpie-personalized and numbered with your name written on the back cover.

Better yet, they’re great mixes. I once saw DJ Shadow at the Fillmore in 2000 spinning a short, dark set that included a nice vocal loop of “Quality Control.” It was cut short by an overflowing bill (try keeping 28 DJs on schedule, including Invisibl Skratch Piklz last show), and a VHS tape of the show was released, but without Shadow’s set. Lost to the gods.

Or so I’d thought. Skratchcon Rehearsal Mix is that set, recorded at home the night before the show, and the unheard second half is killer, based around the Zack de la Rocha collaboration “March of Death.” (Also keen for clicking the cart is Evening Session Mix, the long-rumored Miami booty bass set Shadow spun during one of Mark Herlihy’s Future Primitive Sound Sessions at the Japantown bowling alley in San Francisco.)

If you want to see DJing at its finest, check out the video below of Shadow and Cut Chemist at the Fillmore later that same night, re-creating, from original sources, Double Dee & Steinski’s famous “Lesson” series. It’s almost ten years old, but since Serato has come along and threatened to eliminate this type of skill entirely, it’s more relevant than ever.

My New Baby Girl

Posted by: on Aug 19, 2009 | Comments (3)

Two weeks ago, I sat at work, writing about Mistah F.A.B.’s terrible new song that blatantly rips off The-Dream’s “I Luv Your Girl.” Then, the phone rang, and my wife, Liz, calmly told me that she needed to go to the hospital. I set the receiver down, and I looked up at my co-workers.

“Well,” I said to them, “I’m having a baby.”

Ten hours or so later, with Liz exceeding all barometers of awesomeness on a medication-free labor, our baby girl, Lena, was born. It was an amazing and very, very happy experience, and when I held her in my arms for the first time, I instinctually began singing to her the first lines that came to mind: “That perfect night, the night we met / There was magic abroad in the air. . .”

And so it began. I am both purposely and inadvertently going to fill Lena’s beautiful little head with more music than it knows what to do with, and I am going to obsess over the impact it’s having or not having on her life. I mean, It’s kind of cool that when she’s grown up, I’ll be able to tell her that “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” was the first song she ever heard, but honestly, is there really any lasting import to the songs I sing to my kid?

Plenty of parents think so—just look at horrendous crapola like the Mozart Effect, or, on a slightly less nauseating scale, the sincere awe in parents’ eyes when they discover that their small children like Blondie, or Nirvana, or Radiohead, or, gee, I dunno, whatever those parents happen to be playing around the house all the time. I drives me crazy. They’re kids! Of course they’re gonna like it!

Really, parents’ perception of what music their babies like and don’t like is 60% projection, 35% happenstance and only 5% authentic reaction. If parents play the Beatles, the kid is gonna like the Beatles. I play Lil’ Wayne, and the kid likes Lil’ Wayne. I can’t delude myself that Lena actually appreciates the melodic or lyrical nuance of “Money on My Mind” or “Weezy Baby”—I’ve been singing a lot of old barbershop songs to her, too, songs like “The Darktown Strutter’s Ball,” “Huggin’ and Chalkin’,” “Hard-Hearted Hannah.” She likes them. I’ve rapped L.L. Cool J verses to her. She likes it. I’ve sang both Peggy Lee and MDC to her, and she likes it.

What can I say? Kids like music and they’re not that discriminating. The best hard evidence of this is that when she’s crying, I can put on John Coltrane’s Ballads and she’ll wash over with bliss, close her sweet little eyes and stay quiet, but I swear to God the same thing happens when I play Coltrane’s late-era, cacophonous Interstellar Space.

But the most exciting thing is playing certain records and knowing they’re hitting fresh ears for the first time. Charles Mingus, Mingus Ah Um. The Dirty Projectors, Bitte Orca. Jurassic 5, Quality Control. The Cribs, Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever. Sam Cooke, Night Beat. Morrissey, Vauxhall and I. A Tribe Called Quest, The Low End Theory, which is the first record I played when we brought her home. Having a baby around the house is like having a close friend who’s never heard every record you love, and getting to experience the magic of them all over again—for the first time.

So thanks to everyone who sent in their good wishes, and thanks to the readers for being patient while I was gone. Thanks also to the dozens of friends who’ve brought us food, helped with building the baby’s room, come over and done the dishes and generally looked out for us. You know who you are; I owe you all chilaquiles.

That said, some things have happened in the last two weeks which bear mention:

1. Rashied Ali, who comprises one-half of the aforementioned Interstellar Space, died in Manhattan at age 74. See a wonderful interview with him here.

2. Les Paul, too. The first Terry Gross interview I ever heard was with Les Paul, and I remember being completely touched by his generosity of spirit. When Gross asked him if it was discouraging, with arthritis, having to adapt to fretting his guitar with only two fingers, he replied with, “What do I do? I just figured out, that if I could do whatever I did then, I just figured out how to do that with two fingers.” (The interview’s here.) For years, he played every week in New York City, and the New Yorker calendar listing always gave him his propers and identified him as “national treasure Les Paul.” Some years ago, the New Yorker calendar editor demoted him to “electric-guitar innovator Les Paul,” which was a tiny little thing that made me sad.

3. This guy, who apparently loves Miles Davis and Nintendo in equal doses, has paid glorious tribute to Kind of Blue by rendering the complete album in 8-bit.

4. Finale is a former automotive engineer from Detroit who is this year’s best underground rapper so far. Believe it.

5. I have stopped being irritated that these lists exist, but if you’re looking to get riled up about what other people think, be their guest.

On the Stereo: Building the Baby’s Room

Posted by: on Jul 30, 2009 | Comments (0)

I’ve been working a nonstop string of 12-hour days doing construction on my house lately—building a bedroom for my first baby-to-be—and while nailing, sanding, wiring, sheetrocking, and plumbing, I’ve had lots of music-listening time. Construction work is traditionally affiliated with heavy doses of AC/DC, but because I would rather be placed in a vat full of rancid hamburger juice than listen to AC/DC for any extended period of time past, say, two and a half minutes, I’ve had to make do with less-macho tunes.

 

Okay, okay, I did listen to Thin Lizzy, but hey, it was their first album, which is meandering, sort of psychedelic, and totally cool. No one would mistake it for AC/DC. Its first song is “The Friendly Ranger at Clontarf Castle,” for cryin’ out loud, which is an anagram for “Defer Thinly a Fragrance Transect Toll.” Bon Scott would never come up with something like that.

 

Jack DeJohnette, who is the most bendable drummer I have ever seen, released a record earlier this year with Danilo Perez and John Pattitucci, both currently with Wayne Shorter’s group. It’s called Music We Are, and if you would like to hear jazz musicians who predate the Bad Plus by many years sound like the Bad Plus, it is the recording for you. Heavy left-hand pumping on the upbeat, drumming that sounds like egg beaters. Pattitucci, as always, is the Entwistle of jazz—anchored and regal.

 

It Still Moves is the album that sold me on My Morning Jacket, but Okonokos drained my proverbial bank account—I listened to the entire double live album every day for a complete month, if I recall. It’s always weird going back to the studio recording when you’re accustomed to the live versions, and part of me had been thinking about getting rid of all the My Morning Jacket albums besides Okonokos. Yesterday, while screwing drywall, I realized that would be a foolish maneuver.

 

Smokey Robinson plays a rather expensive concert this weekend at Robert Mondavi Winery, but I want you to consider how your life would be changed if Smokey Robinson had never been born. Think: No Motown as you know it. No “Ooo Baby Baby” or “Who’s Loving You,” or “You Really Got a Hold on Me,” or “I Second That Emotion,” or . . . ah, I could go on and on. And speaking of live versions that rival studio recordings, check out this footage of “Tracks of My Tears,” proving Smokey Robinson is still in top form. Wait for the bridge, and man, brother, that’s from 2008! Now dry your eyes, and let’s move on.

 

It is the fate of even the greatest DJ mix CDs to be listened to for a week, absorbed, loved, and discarded. For some reason, I’ve kept Andy Smith’s The Document around for years now, probably because of the presence of both Peggy Lee and the Jeru the Damaja on one mix. Paul Nice’s Soul on the Grill has stayed with me for years, too. Others, like Cut Chemist & DJ Shadow’s Brainfreeze or Z-Trip and Radar’s Future Primitive Soundsession, belong in a mixtape hall of fame of sorts; admired from behind glass, remembered for their achievements, and rarely listened to ever again.

 

Litany for the Whale has put out Dolores, an album I cannot help but compare to Converge’s Jane Doe. It begins with a couple terrifying minutes of noise courtesy of the Velvet Teen’s Judah Nagler—I think of it as a more ferocious, cracked-out stepsister of “Sartre Ringo,” from Elysium, and makes stronger the case for noise as composition. The rest of the album is like morphine for people raised on hardcore, which is not to say it’s wimpy. Just soothing.

 

Some nights are Lennon Sisters nights. Others, the Boswell Sisters. Lately I’ve been resting my bones to the McGuire Sisters and their collection Just For Old Times’ Sake. I can do without the honkey education of “The Birth of the Blues,” but give me signature songs by Jimmy Durante, Johnny Mathis, the Platters, April Stevens and Duke Ellington sung by some effervescent gals on a diet of Jesus and yellow corn, and I’m there.

 

I know nothing about Woods, except that they are unfortunately from Brooklyn. Making the discovery that a good band is from Brooklyn is a lot like discovering a good baseball player is on steroids. Therefore, I wish Woods were from Lexington, especially since they sound far more Kentuckian than Park Slopian. They also bear the distinction of being the first band in some months whose record I bought after hearing them on the radio. It’s messy, untied, and perpetual.

 

Speaking of the radio, 95.9 KRSH has been getting lots of construction airplay on the job site. I am always thrilled when the KRSH plays things like Spoon or M. Ward, which happens every so often, but even more glad when hear “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” as sung by Hayes Carll. Something about “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” always seemed corny to me, especially when the Ramones covered it. Hayes Carll turns the same words and chords into a completely believable treatise on eternal adolescence. It’s like the song was written just for him. Bill Bowker yesterday also dropped the needle on Jeff Buckley’s version of “I Know It’s Over,” which reminds me of two things: 1) Jeff Buckley is one of the fortunate few who could actually present a necessary Smiths cover, and 2) Bill Bowker has now been on the radio for 40 years. Way to go, Bill!

 

Also on the ghetto blaster, competing with the nailgun: the Majesticons’ Beauty Party, the Blasters’ Hard Time, The Queen is in the Closet, Los Lobos’ Good Morning Aztlan, Grizzly Bear’s Veckatimest, and quite a few spins of Drum Dance to the Motherland by the Khan Jamal Creative Arts Ensemble.

I’m gonna be a dad here in the next few days, and then I’ll see you again soon.