Just Because

Because I’m operating on only four hours’ sleep, and because I have a ton of work to do, and because I can’t think of anything to post about anyway, I share the following quote with you (because the author’s always sage advice in this instance seems especially true):

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.
                                                                        — RAY BRADBURY
On the other hand, now that I see those words onscreen, I’m reminded that reality ain’t all that bad. It’s not bad at all.

Some random thoughts….

*See Paula Poundstone on Real Time With Bill Maher? I see that she’s just gone full-throttle with the trademark David Byrne suits (Maher’s “dressed like a clownâ€Â comment was expected but funny), and she consistently strayed so far from relevance and humor (that zombie movie joke was so bad it hurt my feelings) that the show appears to be scrapping the barrel for guests. Like anyone in her position, she writes books now.

*The latest episode of Tony Soprano Wakes Up, Lays Around, And Deals With Nagging Wife was a pot-boiler, and stayed true to this final season’s tendency to jump around a little too much. At least there was no tackling of gay bars (not unlike Police Academy’s depiction) and goth kids.

*My new favorite channel, Retroplex, has been wearing out Mel Brooks’ The History of the World Pt. 1, a movie that does not hold up.

*Chrysler’s in trouble, but the real matter at hand is: Who in the hell needs a Lincoln? Old people that absolutely MUST buy American? Need a truck? Buy a real truck. And this thing? Drive a Camry. And for the assholes with no style, there’s Old Reliable. There is no visable difference between this guy and the flagship SUV’s being manufactured by Hyundai and Kia, and no visable difference between the scrawny, shrill, Yoga-Iggy-Pop-bodied ladies that drive them all. The only Lincoln that I can get behind is the Town Car, and they give the Town Car the weakest engine. They also give the Town Car a front bench seat and rear-wheel drive, which you gotta love, for some reason. Poor old Town Car.

*I’m attending a funeral tomorrow morning. An old friend died, one that could have been considered my best friend if one were to look at my late teens/very early-20’s. We drifted apart, and barring the immediate situation at hand, tomorrow morning will stand as an incredibly tense, odd experience re: old friends. I will write about this over the next few days. Let that be a warning….unfunny, personal post coming up!!

*Last night, I passed out in the middle of Phantasm 2, and tonight I’m going to pass out in the middle of this blog entry. I will not write about this over the next few days.

 

Even you can write for the NYT – I TAILGATE AGAIN

This article appeared Friday in the New York Times. Despite my issues with the subject matter, which are laid out below in the form of endnotes, it is astonishingly poor journalism and writing. This made it through the editor gauntlet at the NYT?? Incredulous.

Read It Here

OFF THE BEATEN BEAT

by Mylena Ryzik
 
ON Monday night inside the GlassLands Gallery, a converted warehouse in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, 100 or so people (1), alerted by MySpace pages and music blogs, gathered for a concert by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. For an hour, the singer Karen O yelped and shrieked and pranced around a makeshift stage in a paint-splattered gold bodysuit, often wading into the audience a few feet away. At the end of the night the band took requests; to close the set, as her band mates played on, Ms. O paraded most of the crowd toward an alley behind the building, a musical moment as intimate as a reigning rock star can have (2). “We hardly play small venues anymore, but this one is definitely special and personal,â€Â Ms. O said afterward. “My favorite kind of party to be at or show to see is a house show. This is as close as you get.â€Â (3) Amid the teeter-totter energy that currently defines New York’s music scene — where the lamented demise of one club is offset by the splashier opening of another — many artists can be found outside that playground entirely, performing at off-the-beaten-path locales like warehouses, rooftops, apartments or inside a Brooklyn oil silo (4).
Music fans with limited funds and a taste for adventure (5) look forward to the summer concert season, which is about to turn the city’s parks and other public spaces into musical free-for-alls. But there are already many places to see bands for little money, without sellout crowds, ticket surcharges or security pat-downs. (Yes, Virginia, there’s even cheap beer.)
And the lineups are diverse. Experimental music did not die with the closing of Tonic (6), nor did grungy rock (7) with the fall of CBGB. With a little planning and an active MetroCard you might catch the next Arcade Fire performing in a parking lot (8).
“Anything is a venue,â€Â said the promoter Todd Patrick, known professionally as Todd P. For six years he has made it his mission to program music in far-flung places, from divey bars in Greenpoint (9) to Lutheran churches to private lofts. Now New York’s alt-location guru, he has recently expanded to work with bands on the verge of stardom (Animal Collective, which he booked in 2005) and even nationally known acts (Oneida, Trans Am) at large clubs like Studio B in Brooklyn, winning the attention of the music industry (10).
But Mr. Patrick’s hallmark remains the cheap, on-the-fly, do-it-yourself concert, promoted through his Web site (toddpnyc.com), his e-mail list (13,000 strong) and MySpace, blog and newspaper and magazine listings. Essentially a one-man band, Mr. Patrick, 31, has interns who work the door (ticket prices rarely go above $10) and stamp hands (he only does all-ages shows) while he helps set up (11).
“Because the idea is about D.I.Y., I like to show the strings,â€Â he said. “I want people to come to the show and see me build the P.A. system, (12) see that there’s nothing glossy about what we’re doing. I think alternative venues are a great way of doing that. It just kind of throws it off. If a club is the quote-unquote appropriate place to see music, why do people have so much more fun in a warehouse?â€Â
Last weekend was typical: On Saturday night he booked shows at two unexpected spaces, an Ecuadorian restaurant across from a low-income housing project in Bushwick, Brooklyn, and a loft apartment in Ridgewood, Queens. (13) Both drew several hundred people to outer-borough neighborhoods not typically known as destinations.
The restaurant, Don Pedro, had a full menu of ceviche, $3 bottles of Negra Modelo and a small stage in a brick-walled back room where Cass McCombs (14), a singer with a Lou Reed croon (15), performed to a packed house. William Alberque, 36, a Defense Department analyst visiting from Washington and a longtime fan of Mr. McCombs’s (16), said he preferred seeing him anywhere but a rock club. “The D.I.Y. spirit is wonderful,â€Â he said. “It’s just you and the band, five feet away. You buy into what’s happening so much more. It gives you musical butterflies.â€Â (17)
At the loft there was even less distance (and more butterflies). The headliner, Dan Deacon (18), a sensitive electro-party rocker from Baltimore, performed on a patch of carpet in the middle of the room. No stage or bouncer separated him from his audience, which swarmed around, fists pumping, creating a heaving, dancing, steaming mosh pit. (19) Even the walls vibrated.
In shorts, a sweat-soaked Mickey Mouse T-shirt and his trademark oversize red spectacles (think of Sally Jessy Raphael), (20) Mr. Deacon leaned over his keyboard and mike, persevering despite sound problems. His 20-something fans had started singing along even before he passed out lyric sheets. (21) Crowd-surfers easily reached the ceiling, and a camera crew from Vice magazine recorded the whole thing for hipster posterity. (22)
Skip to next paragraph Mr. Deacon, 25, credits Mr. Patrick with helping propel his career from unknown novelty act (23) a year and a half ago to headliner today. (He plays the Mercury Lounge tomorrow.) “He helps out-of-town bands break and get known in New York more than anyone else I know,â€Â (24) Mr. Deacon said in a bedroom after the loft show. Nearby, interns counted the door money; Mr. Patrick takes 10 percent before expenses (security, interns) and the rest goes to performers. (Mr. Deacon noted that he made more money at Mr. Patrick’s shows than at regular club gigs.)
Along with low overhead other common traits of this scene include out-of-the way locations (a long walk from the subway is common), online promotion, candles instead of spotlights and a high tolerance for graffiti: GlassLands, where the Yeah Yeah Yeahs performed as part of a video shoot, has two rooms where anyone can scribble on the walls, markers and paint provided. (25) Many places lack proper licensing; Mr. Patrick switches locations often to avoid the authorities. (Don Pedro is a legal establishment with a liquor license; the loft space was not.) (26)
Of course not every alternative site is scruffy or hard to reach (27) — or illegal. The Apple Store in SoHo has free performances by bands like Blonde Redhead and the Bravery several times a month (28), often before their sold-out sets at major halls. At Monkey Town, (29) a performance space and restaurant in Williamsburg, a back room lined with stylish, low-slung white sofas and walls outfitted with video screens offers a high-design setting for lo-fi acts. (30)
The city’s nonmusical cultural institutions also frequently book scene makers: Cat Power performed at the Museum of Modern Art this year, and later this month the American Museum of Natural History morphs into a disco with a D.J. party given by the event guide Flavorpill (rocking out beneath the blue whale garners at least as many cool points as trekking to an outer borough). (31)
But adventure — or a sense of discovery — is important. (32)
Perhaps the biggest wow factor lately comes from seeing a show at a former oil silo on a stretch of the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn. Occupied for the last two years by Issue Project Room, an experimental arts organization, the silo is hidden behind an imposing metal gate with a small sign just off the Carroll Street bridge. Between the lapping (if occasionally stinky) water, the courtyard filled with poplar trees and the warm glow emanating from the two-story performance space — the top floor is reached by an exterior metal ladder — it’s as far from mainstream clubland as you can get.
Rebecca Moore, a singer and violinist active in the protests over the closing of the Lower East Side club Tonic, performed at the silo last week. “I am very grateful for Issue Project Room,â€Â she said from the stage: a rug at the front of the room. “We couldn’t get away with playing staplers at many other places.â€Â (33)
And that’s exactly the point, said Suzanne Fiol, the founder of Issue Project Room. “We are trying to be a breeding ground for experimental work, and we need spaces like this to nurture it,â€Â she said. (34)
(Issue Project Room will leave the silo in July, but another group, MeanRed Productions, will move in. An outdoor concert series is planned; Nicodemus, a D.J. and founder of the traveling party Turntables on the Hudson, is already booked for Turntables on the Gowanus.)
And the alt-location audience is eager to trade accessibility for authenticity.
“It feels good to give money to something that’s not so commercial,â€Â said Laurel Frazier, 42, a corporate travel agent who came to see Ms. Moore. “It seems more supportive of the artists and their freedom to do what they want to do.â€Â (35)
For Mr. Patrick, who said he considers his bookings a form of being a curator, that independent spirit matters. “It actually does totally come up from the grass roots,â€Â he said. “There is not someone in a boardroom sitting around deciding what the new bands coming out of Bushwick are going to sound like. (36) I really love going to shows, and I really think it should be a more purely appreciative-of-the-art experience than it often is.â€Â
And, he added, “almost inevitably there’s a party afterward.â€Â (37)
Ms. O, for one, appreciates Mr. Patrick’s events, like a Deerhunter loft show she attended the night after seeing the band perform at Mercury Lounge. “The energy, the vitality of it, was on a different level,â€Â she said. (38)
Though he’s no longer working with Studio B, Mr. Patrick is being courted by several other places, including actual clubs in — gasp! — Manhattan, and he said he hopes to open his own legal space. (A previous attempt at an underground spot was halted by the authorities in 2005.) In the meantime he is working on a long-held dream to book a show in the upstairs dining room of a 24-hour Midtown or Wall Street deli. Because, well, why not?

1.     Ooooh…..INTIMATE!!!! Alert: Here comes the obligatory “we’re getting back to the small venues/real fans despite our superstar statusâ€Â!!!
2.     Is the future editor of an oral history reading? Where they there!! Sure hope so!!! History is being made!!!
3.     No, a house show is as close as you can get.
4.     Chaos!!
5.     No, adventure is getting lost in the woods. Standing around with your fellow hipster action figures in some shithole performance space or “off-kilterâ€Â location while a band fidgets through music that no one will care about in a year….not an adventure.
6.     Unfortunately.
7.     “grungy rockâ€Â – did my 74-year-old aunt write this?
8.     Did I just read a grammatical error in the NYT??? Was this writer so overtaken with the idea that the Arcade Fire (who it should be noted sound like some ill-advised artsy of The Hooters and are a horribly slow-moving target that I shouldn’t be wasting a sentence on…..though I will admit to opening a “Creative Bankruptcy: Main Offendersâ€Â file on AF…they’d better watch their back!!!) might play a park or vacant lot that he can’t write straight???
9.     Music in a “diveyâ€Â bar??? What a slice!!! Pack heat!!! DANGER.
10.  Mmmm….tell me about these elusive “show promotersâ€Â that are setting the world on fire….
11.  Whoa, slow down. Are you saying that he….PUTS ON SHOWS?!?!? This is too much.
12.  Again, it appears that no one has EVER SEEN A FUCKING SHOW BEFORE. Build the P.A.? Who are you, fucking Springsteen mopping the bar after a performance? You bring your metal lunchbox, too, mister punch-the-clock-rock? D.I.Y.? Why is this being presented as a new, interesting concept? Oh, and there’s nothing “D.I.Yâ€Â about any band mentioned in this article.
13.  Just stop. It’s overload. The history of rock is being rewritten. A show in a loft apartment? A rock show in an ethnic restaurant? Are these destinations considered “adventurousâ€Â because the Brooklyn hipster plague is partially replaced by, oh I dunno, people that grew up in the neighborhood or might speak Spanish?
14.  Need I explain that people have been putting on shows in this fashion for decades? I really need to map that out?
15.  Oh good, I now know exactly what I’m getting into. As a music writer, it’s not TOTALLY against the rules to authoritatively comment on music that you obviously haven’t heard, but at least make it funny or inject some meta or Situationist bullshit into it. Cass McCombs sounds nothing like Lou Reed.
16.  Cass McCombs has been around for what, 4 years? Longtime fan? I suspect his longtime fandom of impressionable 20-year-old indie chicks far outweighs his love for McCombs.
17.  Yep, you bought into something alright.
18.  The latest “outsiderâ€Â artist that has nothing to do with true outsiders and everything in common with the herd mentality running rampant within this “undergroundâ€Â, “D.I.Y.â€Â culture.
19.  …..of lemmings.
20.  There’s a misconception that this guy rocks an original “nerdyâ€Â or “touchedâ€Â agenda, when, as you can see, he is indistinguishable from every third cookie-cutter 25-year-old walking up and down a Bedford Avenue.
21.  Cute.
22.  Hmmm… “posterityâ€Â is the word I’m having a problem with here.
23.  “Noveltyâ€Â acts require something novel.
24.  Great, we need more bands.
25.  Did this writer start going to shows at age 30? Is this concept really being presented as imaginative?
26.  Not that I’m a fan, but when stacked up against the NY club kid situation of the early-90’s, this seems like a Wheel of Fortune party.
27.  Oh well, thank god for that, I was getting nervous.
28.  Both known for their D.I.Y. aesthetic.
29.  Great name.
30.  Ok, so now it’s “lo-fiâ€Â. Is there a Rock Terms For Dummies book floating around that I haven’t seen?
31.  I have no idea what to write about that statement.
32.  Then direct me to someone who actually writes about that.
33.  And you shouldn’t. Still waiting for that “wowâ€Â moment. Playing staplers…thanks for exemplifying a moment when experimental = worthless.
34.  Well, looks like you have a built-in audience that will unconsciously fall for the widespread hoodwink of improve noise.
35.  This paragraph deserves repeated readings. The article seems to focus on 20-somethings, yet none of them would talk to this writer.
36.  Think again, Mr. Idealist. And if that doesn’t exist, it wouldn’t have to, as I’m sure that these new bands are just palatable, plagiarizing, and indistinct enough to satisfy any boardroom’s needs.
37.  NO!!!! The shows in lofts w/out bouncers and people getting to stand in front of bands was almost too much, but AFTER PARTIES???? Stop!!!
38.  You mean it was like….a show, which happens each night in every single city or town in this country?

Pre-Eviction?

The old woman left her apartment, looking about her as she always did for danger, her mouth screwed into a rictus of anger. In her right hand she clutched an envelope. In it, the culmination of six years’ agitation rested, folded in thirds. She grabbed the handrail with her left hand and gingerly let herself down the three stairs to where the postboxes were. Reaching up on tiptoe, she slipped the envelope into the box with the hated name on it. At last! Soon the foreigner would be gone.

As for the foreigner, he was doing what he’d been doing all week: waiting. Waiting to hear if any of the seven publications he’d pitched on the Fes Festival of World Sacred Music, to which he’d been invited by its publicist, had responded. Waiting to hear from a literary agent to whom he’d pitched a book three months ago. Waiting for money to arrive into his American and German bank accounts so he could buy some food, which was running out. Waiting for it to stop raining. Waiting to see if the guy who bought his used CDs was going to come.

Waiting isn’t something you have to spend a lot of brainpower on, though, so when he heard the sound of somebody sticking something into his postbox he at first thought the mail had come. Not that, in these days of e-mail, anything of interest ever showed up in the mail, but you never know. More likely, it was yet another pizza menu. When he’d first visited Berlin, back in 1988, pizza delivery had just been instituted. He remembered his girlfriend’s about-to-be-ex-boyfriend exulting about it. “The pizza was horrible!” he’d said. “But they bring it to you!”

He cracked the door, looking for the crone, who’d appeared in the middle of the previous night, awakening him with her door-slamming. She wasn’t there, so he rummaged for his key and unlocked the box. He knew what was in the envelope without opening it, but he opened it anyway as soon as he was back in the apartment. It was as he’d feared:

“At the moment, you are eleven months in arrears on your rent: €5,547.41. You also owe maintenance costs for 2006 in the amount of €783.57. Total is €6,330.98. Please remit, within ten days of the date on this message, €3,809.43.” (This amount is just over $5000 at today’s rate). The date was May 10.

He knew what to do from past experience. The first thing to do was not, under any circumstances, to panic. The next thing to do was to get back to work.

***

Which, admittedly, was easier said than done. But I’ve got two more radio bits to write, and, once that’s done, I can voice them and bill enough to pay off two months’ rent. I’d been planning to do that already. One is as good as done: Swamp Dogg, that elemental force of nature whose early recordings — including a blues he’d made on a disc-cutter at the age of 11 with his mother playing drums — I’d listened to the night before. The other is a matter of listening to a CD and knocking the elements together.

The bad news was, the Fes thing was now officially down the drain. Of the seven editors I’d written, only one had responded, saying he’d get back to me, and he hadn’t. (Another checked in last night, and said no). But in order to pay two months’ rent, I’d have to use the minimal money I’d have had to spend for food in Morocco. Possibly this was for the better. I’d wanted to see the place — hell, even Marie hasn’t been to Fes! — but to tell the truth the bill looked kind of anemic this year. Of course, it was more than just losing a trip to an exotic location; I was really hoping to make contact with a new outlet for my work which I could develop and thus be able to increase my earnings. This may yet happen, though.

The other bad news was that I’m not at all sure what I should do at this point, from the legal side. If I can only pay off a thousand Euros by the end of the month, does that mean the landlord (who’s, to his credit, been very reluctant to do this and was no doubt pushed by others) will now instigate legal proceedings? If so, should I just hoard the money against the eviction? Or, if a judgement is found against me, does this mean dealing with the bailiff again? Probably so. At any rate, it’s the weekend, and there isn’t a thing I can do about any of it right at the moment.

Which makes the injunction against panicking all the more sensible.

Another thought occurred to me, too. This is the start of the season in which the students in the centre historique of Montpellier start to leave and vacancies of affordable apartments start. They’ll be gone until late August. Maybe this situation can be turned to good effect in getting me out of here: find an accommodation with the landlord and leave by a given date.

Of course, all of this hinges on work to pay for it all, and that’s the sticky part. There just doesn’t seem to be any. And the weird behavior of the dollar versus the Euro makes budgeting of even a minimal sort very tricky.

What I’d really like is some good, meaningful, involving work, of course. I’d hate to think that it’s all gone forever, and that, at the age of 58, I’m going to be forced to find another way to make a living. Plus, of course, the mental stimulation that working brings means that the creative functions start up again, and I get more ideas, which lead to more work, and so on and so on. Sitting here writing e-mails — and blog posts — is hardly the highest and best use of my time and talents, after all.

Unfortunately, if things take a legal turn here, it’ll eat up time I could be spending doing what work I get. That will mean a reduction in the theoretical amount I’d earn which I’d need for the move. And I also realize that if I do move I’m going to need a financial cushion to smooth things out until I get used to the costs and rhythms of a new place.

This isn’t going to be easy. Or, I suspect, fun.

But, whatever it is, it’s going to happen. And the first thing to remember is, don’t panic.

Almost all that’s on my mind lately is the book. …

Almost all that’s on my mind lately is the book. With that in mind, here’s the first random 10 songs from my iPod when I hit shuffle.

  1. The Mountain Goats – “Pale Green Things” (The Sunset Tree)
    This is the kiss-off final track from The Sunset Tree, a downer of a song cycle (so says the author of the forthcoming 33 1/3 book Shoot Out The Lights) about, presumably, John Darnielle’s abusive step-father. The elegaic feel of this song, both a curse and promise, is unbelievably poignant, a way of making a semi-fond farewell to someone hated more than loved. The lyrics talk of a trip to the racetrack, and end with these lines: “My sister called at 3 a.m./Just last december/She told me how you’d died at last, at last/And that morning at the race track was one thing I remembered/I turned it over in my mind/like a living chinese finger trap/seaweed and Indiana sawgrass.” My poetry professor used to say that most song lyrics are doggerel made more meaningful by the way they are sung, and I think he was mostly correct about this. This is the exception.
  2. The Embarrassment – “Song For Val” (Blister Pop)
    Just over a minute of a poorly recorded little punk anthem. “I don’t care for old people,” goes the lyric.
  3. Dinosaur Jr – “Start Choppin'” (Where You Been)
    Man, this is a surprising collection of songs! This is a post-Lou power-pop song layered with a couple of dozen J. Mascis guitars. I’m not a huge fan of later Dinosaur Jr, but this is one of the keepers.
  4. The Mountain Goats – “Woke Up New” (From a free eMusic Pitchfork Festival sampler)
    This song also appears on Get Lonely, which I also have, so hey, it’s a duplicate and I can delete it to make room for new music. Yay! I must have my random factor set to be more likely to repeat artists, because I can’t believe I’d have enough Mountain Goats out of the 4,178 songs currently stored on my iPod to bring them up twice in the first five songs otherwise. Get Lonely is an ok album, but the lyrics never rise to the poetic heights of the previous few albums and the artiface of the songs actually seems to distance me from Darnielle’s characters, rather than drawing me towards them, also unlike the 2-3 immediately preceeding albums.
  5. Isis – “Backlit” (Panopticon)
    I think Darnielle, a metal fiend currently working on a 33 1/3 book on Master of Reality, would dig this transition. Isis plays trippy, expansive metal. I understand many of their longtime fans dislike this album, but I like it a lot, almost as much as the classic Oceanic. See, I love long post-rock tracks (meaning that the music relies on jazz-like textures and moves through suites rather than verse-chorus-verse structure), and this sounds like the metal version of that. As much as I like Isis, I wish they’d join Mastodon in dropping the cookie monster vocals, although I think that may be the primary way that metal fans identify Isis as a metal band these days. Did I mention that this song is nearly 8 minutes long and features as great stripped-back bridge part? Like it.
  6. Tom Ze – “Dulcineia Popular Brasileira” (Tom Ze)
    From the master of mindbending tropicalia, this is a somewhat unsuccessful early fusion of 60s-era radio pop with Ze’s distinctly odd sensibilities. There’s better examples of what Ze can do when he’s cooking with grease.
  7. Devendra Banhart – “Anchor” (Cripple Crow)
    A short burst of sweetness that may also be called “Canela”. I put this on a bedtime mix I made for my 2-yr-old.
  8. Bill Evans Trio – “Peace Piece” (Everybody Digs Bill Evans)
    I’m taking this as proof that my iPod would rather be laying in a shady hammock in a cool breeze. This track, a slow sort of ur-New Age ivory tinkling, but with, y’know, tons of heart (unlike George Winston, f’rinstance), always sounds like it should score the inevitable final compromise between the protagonists and antagonists in a Miyazaki flick.
  9. The Mekons – “Cocaine Lil” (Mekons Rock ‘N Roll)
    A spacey, sing-song tale of a coke addict. The lyrics read like a Victorian morality tale.
  10. Prince – “New Position” (Parade)
    Wow, I had no idea I had any songs from Parade in my iTunes at all. I’m completely unfamiliar with this song. It ain’t Prince at his maximum brilliance, though.

Missteps. I love missteps.

It’s bedtime. I’m in no condition to be writing IN MY WAAAAH IN MY WAAAAH IN MY BLOG. Here are some creative mistakes that bring a great big smile to my incredibly handsome face:

1. Illbient -  When you have a genre spearheaded by a man that subheads his already perfect-storm-of-stupid moniker with “That Subliminal Kidâ€Â, well, you have a pretentious (yet mercifully brief) movement that is deservedly slotted to wash through the cracks of music history, hopefully never to return. Say it to yourself: “ILLBIENTâ€Â “ILLBIENTâ€Â “ILLBIENTâ€Â

2. The Black Dahlia – It takes real talent to fuck up a story/book quite this bad. DePalma deserves to be locked in a room with the Yoko Ono boxed set!!! Un-f*cking-believable!!! I gave the seven foot tall “daddy-oâ€Â of noir James Ellroy a ride to the airport once. What a walking cartoon.

3. Paris, Texas – Wim Wenders is officially my OVERRATED DIRECTOR OF THE WEEK. Paris, Texas? Uh, I have shit to do this afternoon…can’t make it. â€ÂOh wow, watch how he utilizes space and silence!!â€Â Yeah, watch nothing happen for the sake of a flimsy story. Check Puh-leeeeeze!!! No more movies for people that f*ck to NPR!!!!

 

 

THE APOTHEOSIS OF PSR

That’d be “primitive sh** rockâ€Â, as discussed in this forum here and documented in amazing, glorious detail here. Well, my favorite PSR song of all time needs a fair hearing, too. This nasty, downer of a 60s garage track from THE MODDS came out on “American National Recordsâ€Â, but I’m a little unclear as to what date it came out – I’m guessing ’66. All you can hear is the scarily fuzzed-out guitar; slurred, I’ve-just-been-dosed vocals, and what appear to be maracas shakin’ in the background, but legend has it there’s actually an entire band lost in the murk there somewhere. What a friggin’ masterpiece. Deservedly resurrected by the CHEATER SLICKS on their “Whiskeyâ€Â LP in 1991.

Play or Download THE MODDS – “Leave My Houseâ€Â