The Big Green House

Tuesday, September 30, 2003

 

Hell reports shortage of long-johns, ice skates

At long last, work has begun on the final projects requiring attention before we make the big move over to Science Manor. Who knew it would take this long? We had a call in to a contractor way back before we left on our vacation. When we�d returned from our trip to find that we hadn�t yet received an estimate from him, Science Girl called every other day for two weeks before finally accidentally catching him in the office. He said that he hadn�t sent an estimate because so much time had passed, he�d assumed we�d found another contractor. Yeah, that would explain why we kept calling and leaving messages, Einstein.

Needless to say, we did find another contractor after that.

This guy seems to be on top of things; Science Girl says we might even be ready to move by the end of the month. I�m guessing mid-November, myself, just because I suspect something will come up and derail our suddenly speeding train. We pessimists are pleasantly surprised when things go right, and are reassured in our worldview when they don�t.

bmarkey 9/30/2003 09:16:00 PM

Monday, September 29, 2003

 

No quarter

Elia Kazan was a very good director.

He was also a despicable rat who sold out former friends to the House Un-American Activities committee. You know, the McCarthy witch hunt.

It makes it very difficult to enjoy watching On The Waterfront. You have to divorce the person from the artist, which I sometimes have trouble doing.

I�m not gonna dance on his grave, but neither am I gonna feel too bad for his passing. If that makes me small, so be it.

bmarkey 9/29/2003 10:37:00 PM

 

Pabst Blue Ribbon, neighbor

FM Knives, The Spits, The Intelligence, Sunset Tavern, 9/27/03

I�d never been to the Sunset for a show before, although I once spent a rather desultory St. Patrick�s Day evening there during its previous incarnation as a dive bar. It was the kind of place that had a drain in the middle of the floor & probably had more than one opportunity to put it into use. (Thanks to Science Girl�s friend C. for remembering that little detail.) Now it�s done up in faux Chinese restaurant style � lotsa red, black, and gold everywhere (including the incredibly sticky carpet; maybe they shoulda kept the drain after all), ideograms on just about every flat surface, �vintage� framed Asian advertising posters, etc. I�m not sure if this is progress, exactly, but I guess it�s better than the nicotine-stained walls I remember.

The Intelligence went on around 10:30 � 11:00. To be honest, I found them somewhat monotonous, myself. There just wasn�t much tension in their music. They�d find a vaguely Fall-esque groove and stick with it until the song petered out. Lather, rinse, repeat. SG said she heard some Bauhaus influence as well. Not my idea of a good time, but some folks seemed to be digging it. Take that for whatever it�s worth. It was a short set, anyway.

The Spits were up next. I�m not really sure what to say about them. On the one hand, their sound was really good � guitar bass drums punk, fleshed out with some obnoxious (in a good way) two key synthesizer stabs and harmonies (!) between the bass player and guitarist, who traded off lead vocals. Bonus points were awarded for sporting the Unabomber look � all four members hit the stage in zipped-up hoodies and mirrored aviator shades. Very stylish, indeed. On the other hand� um, I suspect these boys had been drinking a little before the show. Given that this was a Saturday night show, I�d guess they got started Thursday morning. After the first three songs, every number was billed as the last for the night. There was a lot of fucking around between songs, including some fairly incoherent audience-baiting (I haven�t heard the phrase �You fuckin� pussies!� this much since, oh, maybe seventh grade), pouring beer on those down front, hitting various audience members with mike stands and guitars, etc. The audience, for their part, kept up a steady barrage of empty cups, ice, wads of paper, and who knows what else. Overall, lots of testosterone and cheap beer* flying around. It got tiresome after awhile. When they could be bothered to play, though, The Spits were pretty good. I, for one, wouldn�t mind seeing them again, as long as they were denied beer until after the show.

As Brian the promoter swept up all the crap thrown on stage, a large portion of the audience (friends of The Spits?) went home. Out of a crowd of maybe 150, I�d say 75 left early. Which was very much their loss.

In a perfect world I wouldn�t have to tell you about FM Knives, because you�d already know and love them. They�d be all over the radio, which would still be locally owned and operated; national music magazines (which would know enough to cover actual musicians rather than manufactured starlets and hideous pseudo-bands) would feature them prominently on their covers; MTV, of course, would never have happened.

Things being what they are, this is quite possibly the first time you�ve heard of the band. It is therefore my great privilege and pleasure to inform you that these guys are simultaneously the bee�s knees, the cat�s pajamas, the otter�s housekeys, and the nudibranch�s pituitary gland. By which I mean to say they�re quite good. Their songs are very much of the melodic school of punk, a la the Buzzcocks. The band themselves were loose yet tight, if you follow me; it appeared that the singer had (at least) a nice buzz going on, but there wasn�t a lot of extraneous bullshit to slow things down. In other words: less fucking around, more rockin�. And quality rockin�, at that. Those of us who stayed around saw and heard a great show** (including, I�m happy to say, the keyboard player for The Spits, who was merrily bopping away right down front). Do yourself a big favor and see FM Knives if/when they come to your town.

*What is this fascination you kids have with Pabst Blue Ribbon? It can�t be the taste. I mean, I�ll drink PBR when I can�t afford anything else, but it sure as hell ain�t my beer of choice.

There. I�ve just cemented my old-fart status. If anyone wants me, I�ll be clipping Metamucil coupons over here in the corner.

**Except for the three boys involved in the virtually non-stop homoerotic cabaret directly in front of Science Girl and myself. I don�t think they saw much of the show, as they were much too busy punching each other on the shoulder, grabbing each other around the neck in headlocks, and, at one point, rolling around on the floor together. One of them had a punkette �date� with them, standing off to the side with a fairly bemused look on her face. I wonder if she knew she was gonna be their beard for the night?

bmarkey 9/29/2003 08:03:00 PM

Friday, September 26, 2003

 

Did he get a gun rack, too?

Can anyone tell me why this is news? Am I missing something? Am I wrong to think that I speak for most of the sentient world when I say that I do not give a husky fuck what either of these people do? If he has a burrito for dinner tonight, am I going to see �AFFLECK FARTS!� headlines in tomorrow�s newspaper? And if I do, will one of you have the courtesy to shoot me?

bmarkey 9/26/2003 08:57:00 PM

 

I never lived in my mother�s basement apartment

Last Sunday I went to the Seattle Public Library book sale. (Science Girl wasn�t feeling well & stayed home.)

They hold the sale in this huge building on the former Coast Guard base out on Sand Point Way, right by Magnussen Park. Tons of books, all in generally good condition, all for incredibly low prices. I�d had to miss the last couple of sales, so I was glad to be able to make this one. My score this time around: a three-volume History of the American People, from pre-history through the Kennedy assassination; a �concise compendium� of the Warren Report; The Devil�s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce; a biography of Adlai Stevenson; a book on wine tasting which is more technical than I originally thought, to the point where I�m going to have to get Science Girl to translate the scary scientific formulas for me; a collection of Sumerian myths; a Frugal Gourmet cookbook (Jeff Smith may or may not be a boy-disturber, but some of his recipes are pretty good); A Distant Mirror by Barbara Tuchman; and Nothing like It in the World: The Men Who Built the Transcontinental Railroad 1863-1869 by Steven Ambrose. (Can you tell I like history?) Grand total: $6. Not bad, if I do say so myself.

And that�s after everything had been picked over on Saturday, and fighting the piggies blindly stuffing books into boxes Sunday. From the Friends of the Library press release: �This widely anticipated event is attended by families, the young and old, book-lovers, students, teachers, book store owners and bargain hunters, according to Joan Amatucci, chairwoman of the sale.� Not to mention the occasional man-child or spinster.


bmarkey 9/26/2003 08:25:00 PM

Thursday, September 25, 2003

 
Well. Not only did the work I couldn�t finish last night fail to evaporate of its own accord, but it seems to have bred. It�s not looking real good for a real post tonight, but I�ll se what I can do. �Cause I know y�all are holding your lives in abeyance until you see what I have to say.
bmarkey 9/25/2003 06:15:00 PM

Wednesday, September 24, 2003

 
No real post tonight, since I�ve had several steaming heaps of end-of-the-month crap dropped on my desk and more keep showing up hourly. Oh, to be wild and free and tentacling across the treetops like the mighty tree octopus!

*sigh*

Perhaps next lifetime.

(Link via Mr. Dan Kelley)

bmarkey 9/24/2003 06:59:00 PM

Tuesday, September 23, 2003

 

Dying is easy... comedy is hard

People ask me, from time to time, if I miss the theater. Invariably I say no, in the most emphatic way possible. (This usually involves grabbing them by the ears and headbutting them, while simultaneously screaming �No fucking way!�. It�s hard on both parties, but I find it an incredibly effective way of getting my point across.) My experience therein can be summed up thusly: it�s a collaborative art in which very few people actually want to collaborate. As always, your personal mileage may vary.

One thing I do miss, though, is the experience of getting a laugh from an audience. If you�ve never experienced that sensation, I don�t know if I can describe it accurately for you. I mean, it�s one thing to crack up a couple of friends at the bar; it�s something else entirely to get, say, 300 strangers to laugh. It�s very� satisfying. That sounds really lame, but it�s the truth. You put in a lot of work in rehearsal, getting your timing worked out, adjusting whatever business you�re doing, and then you take it out in front of an audience and (hopefully) get your yuks.

Physical comedy is deceptive: when it�s done well, it looks absolutely effortless. None of that work should show. Acting like a klutz and actually being one are very different. A good pratfall requires exquisite timing, the physical dexterity and grace of a dancer, and a willingness to make yourself look like an ass. I had no problem with that last part, but as I am a klutz by nature, the other two weren�t always there. My hat�s off to those who can do that sort of thing and do it exceedingly well. Including the following:

Probably one of the nicest guys I ever had the privilege of working with was Jeff Raz. I first met him when he taught a clowning seminar at our school; I later did some backstage work for the Pickle Family Circus during one of their holiday shows. (The second picture from the top is from the show I worked on.) Raz is a great teacher, very patient and constructive in his criticism. He�s also a really funny person, both onstage and off.

I never had the opportunity to work with Geoff Hoyle, but I can tell you that the hardest I�ve ever laughed in any theater was when I saw him perform his solo show A Feast of Fools. (Apparently now he�s using an accompanist; I don�t remember anyone else involved in the show, but it�s been about 15 years since I saw it.) It�s almost merciless, how his bits are stacked one on top of another. There was very little time to breathe, I was laughing so hard. Go see him if you get the chance.

Otherwise, you�ll be kicking your self for years afterward, as I am for not seeing Bill Irwin�s Fool Moon when it played in Seattle a couple of years ago. He�s probably the most famous physical comedian working today.* Those of you in or near New York have a great opportunity to see him at the Signature Theater this year.

*I don�t want to hear about Jim Carey. Mugging and physical comedy are not the same thing.

bmarkey 9/23/2003 08:59:00 PM

Monday, September 22, 2003

 

Mark Arm is trying to kill me

Mudhoney, The Fall-outs, The Shut-ins, Crocodile Cafe, 9/18/03

We left the house far too early, as it turns out. We�d forgotten that shows at the Croc don�t even get underway until 10:00. That�s OK, though, since it left us plenty of time for a nice Anniversary dinner & a few drinks before showtime. We were actually in the club early enough to hear part of what we later figured out was Mudhoney�s soundcheck, and for me to be nearly bowled over by Mark Arm as I was awaiting my turn at the bar. I said, "Excuse me". He went about his business as if I wasn�t there.

We ran into Science Girl�s old friend Brian before the show got underway. Brian used to book shows into Zak�s, before it went under. He said he�ll be doing some booking at the Funhouse, which is essentially Zak�s under new management if I understood correctly. (There were beers involved, so I may have missed a few important details.) In the meantime, he�s booked FM Knives and The Spits into the Sunset Tavern on the 27th. If you�re gonna be anywhere near Ballard next Saturday, it would be well worth your while to check it out. It�s a record release party for the FM Knives, who are driving all the way up from Sacramento (!) just for this show. I�ve heard nothing but good things about both bands, and Brain is a genuinely nice guy who deserves the support. Besides, the cover is only $7 and you know you�ll spend at least three times that ON BEER ALONE over the course of the week, so you�ve really got no excuse not to show up.

Mark Arm almost ran into me as he was exiting the men�s room and I was entering. I didn�t say anything this time.

On with the show, eh? None of us had ever heard (or heard of) The Shut-ins before. As it turns out, they�re a power trio with a nice if innocuous line in the garage end of punk rock. The singer-guitarist sounds something like what you might expect Bon Scott would have sounded had someone snuck up behind him and given him an atomic wedgie while he was singing. Kind of a strangulated growl, I suppose you might say. I found it a little off-putting at first, but it does grow on one over the course of a set. That�s about all that stood out about them. That makes it sound as if I�m dismissing them, and that�s not my intention at all. They do what they do well. It�s just� nothing really exceptional.

No near collisions with anyone between sets.

On record� oh, all right, on CD, The Fall-outs also come down on the garage end of the scale, if in a much more distinctive way. Short and punchy, with lotsa tuff riffs and what the sociologists like to call alienated lyrics. Such was indeed the case Friday night, although SG and I were both somewhat surprised to hear overtones of surf music as well. I thought maybe it had just been me, but she brought it up herself, with no prompting from yours truly.

The other odd thing about seeing the Fall-outs live is the seemingly meek demeanor of singer-guitarist Dave Holmes. He looks as if he could be a kindergarten teacher. For all I know, he is. He's very much not the rock star, as SG put it. He essentially stands there, playing and singing, working out his lesson plan in his head. It�s somewhat at odds with the sound he�s wringing out of his guitar, not to mention the nature of the lyrics and the way he sings them. Having only heard the band on CD before, I half expected them to be jumping and flailing all over the stage. The fact that they did not do so & still put on a good show is a testament to how good they are. I�d go see them again, in a flash.

In an apparent rush to get backstage after The Fall-outs finished their set, Mark Arm ran into me. Again. By this point, I was starting to get a little paranoid. I was wondering just how I�d pissed him off. I don�t think I�d ever encountered him before. Maybe I�d cut him off in traffic once.

I got a bad feeling when the PA system started playing Deep Purple just before Mudhoney went on. "Hiway Star", fucking "Smoke on the Water"� it�s just not a good sign. Within five minutes, we saw a very out-of-it guy being 86�d, and an apparently quite upset young lady nearly ripped SG�s arm off in her attempt to get out of the club. When the band finally took the stage, they began with a slow, sludgy (no kidding?), mostly instrumental piece. SG felt that they were "just wanking".

I�m not all that familiar with their work, so I was curious to see what they�d be like live. Their sound is what you might imagine you�d get if you had vintage Iggy writing songs for vintage Black Sabbath. There was a time, back when I was, um, herbally indulging myself, when I would have been all over their wall of sludge like a tornado on a trailer park. Nowadays, I just find it kinda tedious. Don�t get me wrong, now; I�m not saying they were bad. I kinda liked their faster numbers, and I was glad I got to hear them play the immortal "Touch me, I�m Sick". I�m just not much into that really thick sound anymore. Nor is Science Girl, and she cut her musical teeth on it, so to speak, having grown up here.

This would probably be a good time to mention that I was somewhat freaked out by the fact that, from where we were standing, it looked as if Mr. Arm was staring� right� at� me throughout the show. It was a little unnerving, I must admit.

At any rate, when SG suggested that we cut out after about 45 minutes of their set so we could beat the rush for a taxi, I readily agreed. I think that may be the first time I�ve ever left a show before the headliner had finished. Neither of us was terribly into the show, and we�d seen the band we�d come to see. Besides, I didn�t want to give Mr. Arm the opportunity to smack me upside my head with his ultra-groovy silver-glitter-finish Les Paul. Mark, whatever I may have done, I�m truly sorry.

bmarkey 9/22/2003 06:28:00 PM

Friday, September 19, 2003

 
Welcome to my three-day weekend. This is going to be just a quick note, since Science Girl and I must run a few errands before heading off for dinner & an evening of Iggymania Mudhoney. SG is actually more interested in seeing The Fall-outs, and I�m just a curious lad who was living elsewhere during the heyday of, um, grunge. A full report will more than likely be posted sometime later. Perhaps Monday. Who can say? As the Bozo Dionysus himself once said, the future�s uncertain and the end is always near.

Oh, and before I forget: Yaar.

bmarkey 9/19/2003 12:46:00 PM

Thursday, September 18, 2003

 

Off the road and into the ditch

OK, I think I�m over that little speed bump I was stuck on for the last couple of days. I was very definitely not in a frame of mind conducive to writing, but it seems to be passing. In celebration, let�s rip the shit out of a beloved American classic, shall we?

Jack Kerouac�s On The Road has been one of the templates for Hipster America since its publication back in 1957. Ever since I was a wee lad I�ve been told what a great book it is.

I�ve been picking it up, off and on, for something like twenty-five years now. Usually what happens is I read a few chapters in and throw it across the room in contempt. I made myself stick with it this time, finishing the last chapter before work today. My opinion: pretty much an unmitigated turd of a book. It�s a virtually plotless travelogue detailing the cross-country wanderings of some of the most selfish, self-centered parasites ever. I have no idea what Neal Cassidy was like in real life; his alter ego Dean Moriarty, the focus of the book, is a borderline-psychopathic prick with all the attention span and sense of responsibility of a jackrabbit. A real shitheel, in other words. Kerouac�s character, Sal Paradise, comes off a little better, if only because he doesn�t knock-up and abandon women on both coasts, as Moriarty does � he just follows Moriarty around and moons over him.

As Science Girl pointed out the other day, the book takes place in an adolescent fantasy world.(I�m paraphrasing, unfortunately, since neither of us could recall precisely what she�d said. Rest assured that it was full of her usual deadly accuracy.) Actions have no repercussions, and the hedonistic pursuit of �kicks� is everything. Need food? Steal it from the mom & pop grocer too busy having dinner to hear you sneaking into the store. Need money? Sponge it off your aunt. Girlfriend nags you about living in rags without enough food? Smack her, dump her and leave town. The Mexican whore you just paid a dollar for turns out to be fifteen years old? Bonus!

Women in this brave new hipster world exist only to fuck or to cook. If they�re not occupied with either of those activities, they�re expected to sit quietly and wait until they�re needed. All Negroes, aka �colored people�, are noble savages, bopping through their blues and exuding untouchable coolness at all times. Which is a step up from their non-existence (or worse) in most fiction of the time, I suppose, but such Romantic crap is still incredibly condescending. They�re still being treated as non-human. African Americans are just as capable of being uptight and clueless as anyone else.

Mexicans get similar treatment. The scene in which Moriarty, Paradise, et al, pull into a small Mexican town, effortlessly befriend a local hustler, and score copious weed and cheap teenaged whores made me wonder how many hipster pendejos read that and went off in search of similar experiences, only to be ripped off. If they were lucky.

Asians, on the other hand, are exotic and inscrutable; the measure of wildness of one party described early on is that there was even a �Chinese girl� in attendance. Gosh! Imagine that!

All that is sorta beside the point, though. You can�t really separate the writer from the time in which he wrote. Kerouac was writing during a time of button-down conformity, when anything out of the Caucasian norm was automatically sick, pitiful, and/or wrong. (Not unlike today, in some ways.) He�s not much more racist or sexist than most other Beats I�ve read. And, to his credit, Kerouac was remarkably tolerant of homosexuals, given those times.

So, what about the writing itself? Well, I�m gonna have to side with Truman Capote on this one: it didn�t strike me as writing so much as it did typing. There�s not much plot to speak of. A multitude of characters float in and out of the narrative, most of which never develop beyond a stereotype. Those who do are generally creeps and jerks. Metaphors and similes are very much of a hit or miss nature, and far too many of them missed for my taste. (I haven�t read any of Kerouac�s other pieces, so I don�t really have anything to compare to his work here. Maybe he was just trying too hard.)

A lot of people have gotten a lot out of On The Road over the years, some of whom I respect a great deal, so it may well be that I�m way off base on this. I dunno. Maybe it�s too much of its time for me to tune into at this late date. Or maybe I�m just too old to be reading it now. I�ve gotta say, though, I�ve had the same problems with it since I first picked it up in my twenties.

So it could boil down to my being just too stupid to get it. That�s as may be, but my gut says that if this was indeed one of the blueprints for Hipster America, it�s no wonder so many hipsters are such assholes.

bmarkey 9/18/2003 10:33:00 PM

Wednesday, September 17, 2003

 
Sorry, kids. I appear to be having a little existential thing going on here. It comes up every now and again.

Talk amongst yourselves for awhile.

bmarkey 9/17/2003 09:50:00 PM

Tuesday, September 16, 2003

 
I have nothing to say. While that hasn�t stopped me in the past, I�m feeling somewhat scrupulous today. (Could just be a rash, but my money is on scruples.) Writing about the minutia of being me is little more than an exercise in dullness, for both of us, so until I can come up with something worth writing about I�m gonna be quiet.
bmarkey 9/16/2003 05:58:00 PM

Friday, September 12, 2003

 
I am just not equipped to deal with Warren Zevon AND Johnny Cash dying in the same week. Let me just say that Mr. Cash had a lot to do with my interest in country music, and that he was one of the few subjects in life where my father and I saw eye to eye. As with Mr. Zevon, I�m glad that he�s no longer in pain.

It seems like all I write about these days is either death or myself, and frankly I�m pretty fucking sick of both topics. Seeing as this is my sixth night of work in a row, I think I�m entitiled to sit tonight out, go home and drink myself into a better tomorrow. See ya on Monday, unless I can come up with something else between now and then.

bmarkey 9/12/2003 05:15:00 PM

Thursday, September 11, 2003

 

Cereal boxes don�t count

I�ve always enjoyed rooting around in used bookstores. Seattle is a great town for that, as there are tons of bookstores here, new and used. Having been on a budget for most of my life, though, I�ve spent more time scouting the used shelves. Besides, I love the smell of old books. Always have.

So, by this time I have collected a fairly large number of books, about three quarters of which I�ve actually had time to read. Science Girl has just about as many titles as I do, if not more. Add to all our books those that came with Science Manor (quite a few, on a wide variety of subjects), and you�ve got a huge selection of reading material from which to choose, right there where we both will soon be living. Wall-to-wall books. In other words, heaven.

At least, it should be. Only problem is, for some reason I�m finding myself bored brainless by the halfway point (or earlier) of just about every novel I�ve picked up over the last couple of years. Fiction just doesn�t seem to do it for me anymore, for whatever reason. Oh, I�ll go back and read Raymond Chandler for the umpteenth time, and I still drag out the Brautigan once a year or so, but otherwise the extent of my reading lately has been limited to newspapers, magazines, and non-fiction books. (And blogs, of course.)

I�m not sure why this is. Perhaps I�m picking the wrong titles. Maybe my attention span has atrophied from years of watching TV, or it could be that the fiction center of my brain is full. Who knows? It does irk me a bit, though, since novels and such have been a source of great pleasure for me since I was a pup.

SG says there�s lots of non-fiction at Science Manor, and I seem to recall that being the case as well. So there�s that. And this fiction-phobia I�m experiencing may just be a short-lived anomaly in my reading habits. I hope so, anyway. It�s going to be along winter of staring out the window otherwise.

bmarkey 9/11/2003 09:37:00 PM

Wednesday, September 10, 2003

 

Fall on me

The rain has returned, at least for today. The sky has been slate gray all day long, and the wind is whipping the trees around.

I couldn�t be happier.

Well, that�s not strictly true. So far as I know there�s no ceiling on happiness, a point at which one is no longer allowed to feel better than one already does. I sure as hell hope not, anyway.

The leaves haven�t started turning yet, since it�s been so warm, but it�s only a matter of time. Soon the Science Girl sweaters will come out, and I can start wearing my beloved flannel shirts again. Cold and rain and fog and maybe, just maybe, if I live a pure and righteous life, we�ll get some snow this year.

I know I�m jumping the gun a little here, but I just cannot wait another day for fall to begin in earnest. Usually what happens is we get a few days in a row like today, I get happy and start acting like it�s actually November already, and then that damn �Indian summer� kicks in and I�m walking the dog with my chamois shirt in full effect, but it�s 78 outside so I�m perspiring like the proverbial pig. All because I got suckered by a couple of rainy days. Every year I swear it�s not gonna happen again, and every year it does. It�s like some sort of perverse autumnal ceremony in which I am The Sweating Man, the one who, through ritual disappointment and discomfort, insures adequate rainfall for the coming year.

The things I do for you people.

bmarkey 9/10/2003 09:14:00 PM

Tuesday, September 09, 2003

 

It�s all good

One thing I�ve never really understood is people who only listen to one genre of music. Even at my most dogmatic (and I really was a little asshole about such things, for longer than I care to mention), there were usually at least three or four different types of music I would deign to listen to. I�ll go through phases where I listen to a lot of, say, country, but I�ll still through some other stuff into the mix, just to keep things interesting. And that, for me, is the key. A steady diet of anything becomes tedious after awhile.

I�m not saying there�s anything inherently wrong with limiting one�s musical horizons, of course; that would be as foolish as insisting that everyone share my taste. (Of course, the world would be a better, happier place under such circumstances.)* But I do see it as self-limiting. If something is A and A only, it�s missing out on options B-Z, which can cover a lot of interesting territory.

Also, hopping genres allows one to hear the music in a new context. Playing Hank Williams next to Ernest Tubb next to Lefty Frizzell is fine, but playing �Lovesick Blues� next to X�s �Beyond and Back�, let�s say, or �See the Sky About to Rain� by Neil Young, or maybe Otis Redding singing �You Don�t Miss Your Water� (just to pick a few possibilities off the top of my head � I don�t know that they�d actually work together, but in my mind they do) is going to show each song in a different light. They all have some similar elements; they may not be obvious at first glance, but when played in that context they�d become clearer. At the very least, you might re-examine them.

All popular (western) music of the Twentieth Century (and the 21st, so far) is an amalgam of various predecessors. That�s what�s so cool about it. It�s a little of this and some of that, and suddenly you�ve got something new and exciting. Rock & roll is country + blues, more or less; R&B and soul came from a mixture of blues and gospel; country is based in part on English folk music and blues. And on and on. I�ve heard the argument that jazz is totally original, but my understanding of it is that it sprang from the blues, at least partially. The blues, in turn, originated from a mix of African music and old hymns, according to at least one theory.

These are all rough approximations, of course, and I�m not trying to downplay the work of the innovators who first thought to create new sounds from a combination of older ones. I'm over-simplifying things to make a point: there really isn�t any music that�s 100% �pure�. Everything is informed by everything else. So to say �I only listen to_________� is to miss the big picture, to my mind.

As always, I may be full of shit.

*Kidding now, but I meant it back in the day.

bmarkey 9/09/2003 09:34:00 PM

Monday, September 08, 2003

 

Life�ll kill ya

You�ve probably heard by now that Warren Zevon died. If not, well, he did.

Ordinarily, what I�m supposed to do now is tell you what a cool guy he was: clever songwriter, intelligent, willing to credit his audience as being just as intelligent, mordant dark humor, blah blah blah, etc. All of which is true, in spades. But I�m not gonna do that this time around, mostly because if you didn�t like him when he was alive, his being dead isn�t gonna make you like him any better.

I tried to buy his new album on Friday, but they were sold out. I�d heard a lot of very good things about it, I�d liked his last couple of albums, and I knew it was going to be really difficult for me to buy it after he�d died.

See, I used to work in a record store, back when they used to be record stores. During my tenure behind the cash register, the following musicians died (this is from memory, so there�s no intended slight if I forgot somebody): John Bonham, Bon Scott, John Lennon, Bob Marley, and if you want to stretch the term �musician�, John Belushi. After each death, there were swarms of people coming in to the store & asking for the deceased�s records � people who would never have thought of listening to that particular artist while he was alive. It was truly creepy. I opened the store the day after Lennon was shot. There was a line of people waiting there, before I�d even gotten in the door. For weeks afterward, there was a steady stream of people asking us where the John Lennon albums were. It finally got to the point where we started referring to him as Dead Lennon, as in �The Dead Lennon section is right over here. Enjoy!�

The same thing happened, to lesser degrees, when the other guys died. The ghouls would descend and snap up LP�s they never would have touched while the artist was still around to enjoy the royalties. Sure, there were also some actual fans among the vultures, but most of them already had everything anyway.

So I�m gonna feel a little funny going into the store on Wednesday, when they�re supposed to get in another shipment of The Wind. Not funny enough to keep from buying it, but I�m going to be wondering what�s going through the clerk�s mind the whole time.

Life�ll kill ya � that�s what I said
Life�ll kill ya � then you�ll be dead
Life�ll find you, wherever you go
Requiescat in pace, that�s all she wrote

bmarkey 9/08/2003 10:19:00 AM

Sunday, September 07, 2003

 

All my taste is in my mouth

Science Girl had dinner with an old friend the other night. SG mentioned how much we had enjoyed American Splendor. Her friend said that it sounded good, but that she�d never be able to get her husband to go see it since he was only interested in movies starring Vin Diesel.

Everybody thinks that they have exquisite taste. And they�re right, as far as they themselves go. But why is it that the very music that makes me bounce around the room in a fit of pure idiot glee might leave you cold, or even force you to flee the room with your hands over your ears? Why might your favorite music make me think of sticking my hand in a drill press?

What is taste, anyway? How do we acquire it? I think we can agree that it is something acquired. There is no innate predilection, is there? Or is there? I dunno.

Some of the things I still love today were first introduced to me by my parents (Italian food, Miles Davis� Kind of Blue, reading, etc.), yet it would be a very great stretch to say that we have similar tastes. We could say the same about friends, acquaintances, and society at large; all of them are influences, but we all diverge at some point or another, and often along many different lines. How does that happen?

Mind you, I�m not saying that it�s bad that it does happen. If we all liked the same stuff, it would be a bland world at best. Plus, turning someone on to something you think they might like wouldn�t have nearly the same charge as it does now, since all the guesswork would have been removed: if I liked it, so will everyone else. Feh. I don�t know about you, but I enjoy being at least somewhat unique.

I�m just curious as to how the mechanism works. What sparks enjoyment in person A, and why doesn�t person B derive that same pleasure? Just a little mental bubblegum for my little brain to chew on while I sit here at work on a drowsy Sunday evening.

It finally rained last night, and it�s been pleasantly overcast all day today. Exactly what I picture in my mind when I think of Sundays; slow-paced, maybe a little drizzly, and nothing to accomplish. I get up and take the dog out. On our way back we stop out front, shake the rain off the Sunday New York Times, and bring it in. Back inside, I make a nice pot of tea and a little breakfast. The rest of the morning is spent with nose in newspaper. In the afternoon, it�s a long walk with the dog; in the evening, a nice supper and maybe a bottle of wine.

There. I�ve just described for you my ideal Sunday, and I�m willing to bet that there were several among you who read that description as �slow death�. We�re back to taste and preference again.

bmarkey 9/07/2003 09:08:00 PM

Thursday, September 04, 2003

 

Naugahyde

Remember last week when I mentioned the 52 days of seventy-plus weather? We�re up to 59 now. Today was hot (86) and muggy. I could feel the entire city sticking to itself. (Not a good feeling, in case you�re wondering.) Those who ventured outside were looking pretty well sapped, which would describe my own status as well.

Fortunately, we are supposed to get some rain, starting Sunday. Unfortunately, I will be here at work that day. Since I had just asked for the 19th off, I could hardly say no when my boss asked if I would be available then. Not happy about the prospect of the one day weekend, but there are some times when you can�t gracefully wiggle out of these things.

Hmm. Is it ever possible to wiggle gracefully?

bmarkey 9/04/2003 08:18:00 PM

Wednesday, September 03, 2003

 
OK, this is cool: David Ossman will be doing some local radio this month. Too bad I�ll probably forget to listen, knowing me. Airing the show right in the middle of Saturday makes it difficult, too, but maybe I can get it together to at least tape it a couple of times anyway.

The Big Green House is just far enough north that I can pick up KSER�s signal, most of the time. I�ll listen to them from time to time when I�m having trouble sleeping. That's how I found them in the first place.

bmarkey 9/03/2003 10:52:00 PM

 

March to fuzz

Friday, September 19th will mark the third anniversary of my first date with Science Girl. (SG says it's actually the 20th, and I think she's probably right. Play along with me, eh?) We are celebrating by going down to the Croc to see Mudhoney and The Fall-outs. �Cause what could be more romantic than �Touch Me, I�m Sick�, right?

I feel bad, and I've felt worse
I'm a creep, yeah, I'm a jerk

Come on
Touch me, I'm sick

I won't live long, and I'm full of rot
Gonna give you - girl - everything I got

Touch me, I'm sick, yeah
Touch me, I'm sick

Come on baby, now come with me
If you don't come
If you don't come
If you don't come
You'll die alone

I'm diseased, I don't mind
I'll make you love me 'till the day you die

Come on

Touch me, I'm sick
Fuck me, I'm sick

Come on baby, now come with me
If you don't come
If you don't come
If you don't come
You'll die alone

Makes ya feel all squishy, don�t it?

Science Girl was actually (briefly) acquainted with the boys in the band, back in the day, before they became big. Well, medium-sized, anyway. They ended up at the same parties she did, I guess.

She�s pointed out Steve Turner to me at a couple of shows.

That�s it. That�s all I�ve got today.

bmarkey 9/03/2003 09:18:00 PM

Tuesday, September 02, 2003

 

Look at me! What are you lookin� at?

Over the course of the day Saturday, I think we saw about five or six men wearing kilts. That�s not unusual for a summertime event here. Most of them were of the Utilikilt variety, although I recall seeing at least one traditional Scottish kilt as well. (Sorry, no clue as to which clan.)

I�ve never really been tempted to wear one myself; I�d feel incredibly self-conscious for one thing, and I get all the cooling breezes I need from my good old hiking shorts. But to each their own, said the farmer as he kissed the pig. I certainly have no problem with other guys wearing them if they so choose.

There was one guy at Bumbershoot who obviously had some issues to work out, though. He was wearing a black kilt, black boots, and a black T-shirt which read �Keep staring � maybe I�ll do a trick�. We first saw him at the Catheters show. He would walk up behind a group of people, stand with legs spread and arms crossed in the classic �I�m a badass� pose, and wait to be noticed. When acknowledgement was not forthcoming, he�d move over to another group and repeat the performance, scowling all the way. It was so painfully obvious that he craved attention from strangers � presumably so that he could then scorn it.

I completely understand the need to set one�s self off from the herd, especially while in one�s twenties. I had my ear pierced for that very reason back in 1979, when such a thing on a man was relatively uncommon.* I took a lot of shit from total strangers back then, but I came to expect it after the first couple of go-rounds. You learn that there are members of the herd who don�t like anything that�s different. So it strikes me as being willfully perverse to simultaneously attract attention to yourself and become angered when you get it. There are much better things in this world to get worked up over.

*I stopped wearing my earring when I noticed characters on TV sitcoms wearing them. I think the hole is just about closed now.

bmarkey 9/02/2003 10:24:00 PM

 

T is for Tiberius

Star Trek tribute bands in Sacramento. Too funny by half, but it raises a couple of questions: 1) Why didn�t I think of this first?; 2) Where the hell were No Kill I when I was living down there?

Actually, I can answer #2: they were in junior high, possibly elementary school. (Edit 9/3/03: Make that high school or after, according to Gorn himself.)

Since I can�t download anything at work and we have a really pokey dial-up connection at home, would anyone be interested in downloading their mp3s and burning them to a disc for me? I�m dying of curiosity. Literally. Do this thing and save my life. Thanks.

(First two links ripped directly from the pages of d/blog.)

bmarkey 9/02/2003 05:04:00 PM

Monday, September 01, 2003

 

Bumbershoot me

Here I am, celebrating another glorious Labor Day. How, you ask? By Laboring, of course. It always annoys me somewhat, being at work while virtually everyone else in the country is taking the day off. It�s as if everybody else is at a party to which I was not invited. (For the purposes of this complaint I am ignoring the fact that I generally dislike parties of any sort and avoid them whenever possible. It�s the principle of the thing.)

Hmmm. Rather than waste everyone�s time by bitching about things that cannot be changed at this point, perhaps it would be more constructive to recount my Bumbershoot experience with Science Girl.

The day got off on the wrong foot; due to my apparent inability to keep more than one thought in my head at a time, we missed all but the last ten minutes of Solomon Burke�s show. This made me sad, but at least we got to hear him sing �Everybody Needs Somebody to Love� and �Don�t Give Up On Me�. He was in fine voice, and the audience seemed pretty appreciative. He invited folks to get up on stage and dance during that last couple of numbers; I hope the family of the cute little girl he brought down front so she could dance in front of his throne were able to get some pictures.

Since we had to scramble to get down to Seattle Center on time, we hadn�t been able to get much in the way of breakfast before we left. We took advantage of the changeover time between shows to grab a couple of Polish sausages from one of the many food booths inside Memorial Stadium. This was a mistake on my part. While Science Girl was able to eat hers unscathed (aside from a little extra mustard on her fingers), I was very nearly blinded by the jet of scalding hot grease that came shooting out of my weenie when I bit into it. (Don�t read anything into that sentence, please. This is my fifth pass at it, and I just can�t escape the rather unfortunate imagery.) Thankfully I was wearing my sunglasses so I got off relatively lightly, with only a burnt upper lip. No permanent harm done. I figure this was the Universe telling me that I really shouldn�t be eating meat. Or, in this case, meat by-products.

Next up was Macy Gray. Neither Science Girl nor myself are huge fans, but we both kinda like her. She�d probably be OK in a club, but her show wasn�t really working for us in the large outdoor stadium. (She needs to ditch the wanky guitar player though, and pronto.) We bailed after a couple of songs to go see Ian McLagan. I liked him, SG didn�t really, but we both agreed he�d be better in a club as well. Oh well. Off we went, to check out Minus the Bear. I�d heard all kinds of good stuff about them, so I was naturally curious to actually hear them for myself. Eh. Kinda generic punk/emo, as SG put it, but not bad. We stayed to the end of their set, which by this time had only three or so songs left. So you should probably take that into account.

Since we had almost an hour to kill before the next band we wanted to see, we decided to go have a look at Flatstock, the show of concert poster art. Very cool indeed, although we were somehow able to resist the temptation to buy � mostly because there was so much to choose from.

The Catheters were pretty good � loud, obnoxious punk, just like Mom used to hate. The singer definitely had an Iggy thing goin� on, what with the jumping and the sweating and the stage diving and what not. Fast and punchy. Also, let�s not forget that the copious amount of lungers he was hocking up and spitting onto the stage was pretty amazing, if somewhat nauseating. Kudos to the rest of the band for not slipping in all the snot.

Ewww. I just read that back. I�d delete it right now, if it weren�t true.

On to more pleasant things. Neither of us had heard Kinski before, although I�ve seen all sorts of wonderful things written about them. It was a very nice surprise indeed to find that they live up to the hype. Ordinarily the phrase �post-punk art rock� is enough to strike terror deep in my soul, since it usually means screeching atonal feedback histrionics or noodling ambient pap. Kinski has the feedback and the ambient stuff, but they�re also capable of some enormous psychedelic/garage-type riffs, too. Hypnotic yet scrappy, artsy yet still able to hold a groove. We both dug them a lot, although I suspect that the same magic we experienced Saturday most likely wouldn�t transfer to CD very well. Doesn�t mean I won�t keep an eye out for the new disc, though. And bonus points were awarded for having a bass player named Lucy.

After Kinski�s set finished, we decided to take a little dinner break. I had a vegetarian burrito, which made absolutely no attempt whatsoever to maim or injure me; SG went with the blackened salmon, which apparently put up no fight either.

We were both interested in seeing the Dusty 45�s, but their show was pretty lackluster for rockabilly. Again, it may have been due to playing outdoors. I know from performing Shakespeare in the park, way back when, that playing outside is very different indeed from playing inside. I�d assume that that�s doubly so for musicians used to going onstage in smokey clubs late at night.

Anyway, we bailed about five songs into their set & looked through some of the literary booths. The �Zine Archive was of great interest us both. All sorts of �zines from back in the day, placed in their historical context. We may have to go down and have a look through the archive itself.

Back to the music: The Donettes opened for and backed Wanda Jackson. The Donettes on their own were OK, if somewhat timid. I think they may have been a little nervous about backing the legendary Ms. Jackson. She�s still got The Voice, kids, even if it does betray her every now and again on the slower numbers if it does. As she mentioned during the show, she�s been doing this for something like 50 years (!), so an occasional stray note here and there can easily be overlooked, especially when the rest of the notes are so damn right. It was fun to hear �Fujiyama Mama� live, I can tell you that much.

We were pretty pooped by the end of her set. We�d been listening to music and walking around the Seattle Center grounds for about nine hours at that point, so we called it a night.

All in all, a fun day out.

Aside from Kinski, I think the best thing we saw all day was during the Catheters show. SG spotted him first � a normal-looking ten year old boy at the side of the stage, rocking out in a supreme fashion, very obviously enjoying himself. What appeared to be his mother and sister were with him, very obviously not enjoying themselves. They left after a couple of songs; it took him several more tunes to notice that they�d left. He kinda shrugged to himself and turned back to the stage, rapt, transported from such mundane concerns as the whereabouts of his family by the power of loud-ass rock & roll. (Don�t worry, they came back for him later.) I don�t know that it was his first show, but I like to think that it was, that we were there for the creation of One Of Us.

I can only hope that the kid wasn�t put off by the scary space dancer directly behind him. There were space dancers all over the grounds, flapping and flailing and spreading their patchouli reek. Shouldn�t they be following Bob Weir down to the grocery store or something?

bmarkey 9/01/2003 08:26:00 PM