Canned Hamm and Friends – Sincerely Christmas CD (Pro-Am)

And when they say friends, they don't just mean the same old reindeer and elves—the first guest is the somewhat unnerving Sssssssalty The Rattlesnake. Big and Lil Hamm promise to put the "X back in Xmas" and don't disappoint, sending all their love straight out to their audience of miserable shut ins with the sultry disco stylings of "Sexy Elf" and "Secret Santa." The ultrashrill Hamster Hamm drops by with a harangue about the mess the Hamms have made unwrapping their gifts, but he's barely annoying compared to stand up comic Neil Hamburger, who tries to cadge a place to sleep by comparing himself to the baby Jesus before agreeing to sing the cranky instant classic, "Office Christmas Party." The boys explore such high holiday concepts as the sin of gluttony, making snow angels, getting high on egg nog and meditating with the sugar plum fairies, and before they're finished, Lil Baby Jesus raps his way out of his diaper and Ivan Hrvatska turns in an entry in the happily miniscule genre of Christmas seduction songs. The Hamms even revamp their hit "Father and Son" into a holiday selection. Don't hit eject just yet: there's an almost special message from Santa himself for all good little boys and girls. If you must buy just one Canadian-made Christmas album by mustachioed men this year, make it Sincerely Christmas!

Best of 2007

Here are the highlights of my listening, watching, and reading year:

New Stuff:

• Southern Culture on the Skids–Countrypolitan Favorites: ‘Skids covers album, songs by Wanda Jackson, Kinks, CCR, et al

• Mitch Easter–Dynamico: Could be a new Let’s Active album, minus the female vocals and plus more power chords

• Mick Harvey–Two of Diamonds: Dark balladry by Bad Seeds member

• High Llamas–Can Cladders: More Brian Wilson meets Bossa Nova – the ‘Llamas best since Hawaii

• Brant Bjork & the Bros.–Somero Sol: Stoner rock from surfers

• Junior Senior–Hey Hey My My Yo Yo: B52s meets 60s bubblegum meets contemporary dance; every track is a little party

• His Name is Alive–Xmmer: Left-of-center pop by longstanding indie rockers

• Mum–Go Go Smear the Poison Ivy: Boards of Canada with more hooks 

*Woodjen Ships–Woodjen Ships: Like early Deep Purple with Spacemen 3 sitting in. 

Reissues, Compilations, Etc

• Anne Briggs–The Time Has Come: Breathtaking folk from 1971

• The Shoes–Double Exposure: Demos from Shoes albums Present Tense and Tongue Twister; some of the best Power Pop ever made

• Dwight Twilley Band–Sincerely/Twilley Don’t Mind: More of the best Power Pop ever made; Twilley Band’s first two albums, plus 4 excellent bonus tracks

• The Zombies–Into the Afterlife: Recordings made by Zombies members shortly after Odyssey and Oracle – a must-have for Zombies fans

• Neil Young–Live at Massey Hall: Solo Neil, on guitar and piano

• True West–Hollywood Holiday Revisited: Debut EP + first LP by Paisley Undergrounders – like Television from the West Coast

• Pylon–Gyrate +: Surf guitar meets art rock meets the Athens sound

• Gene Clark with Carla Olson–Live in Concert: Original Byrd and granddaddy of alt.country Gene playing live, near the end of his career and life

• The Bongos–Drums Along the Hudson: The bonus material is stupid, but it’s great to have the main album on CD

• Gram Parsons–GP Archives, Volume 1: Flying Burrito Bros. playing live as the opening act for Grateful Dead over two nights in San Francisco, 1969

Best Music DVD:

• All My Loving: British-made documentary from late 60s which makes the argument that the day’s pop stars were changing the world for the better. A little heavy-handed, but great live clips and interview segments of Donovan, Who, Hendrix, et al

Best Music Book:

• Riot on Sunset Strip by Domenic Priore: Contends that the music that came out of LA in the mid-to-late 60s was actually much better than what came out of San Francisco during those years, contrary to what critics and SF snobs have always said. Really gives a lasting impression of the scene on the Strip during its Mod/psychedelic heyday.

Best Non-Music DVD(s)

• Cult Camp Classics, Vol 1-4 (Sci-Fi Thrillers, Women in Peril, Terrorized Travelers, Historical Epics): Great cinematic camp fun, spread over 4 box sets containing 3 movies each. Joan Crawford plays a scientist trying to housebreak a cave creature; Lana Turner’s stepdaughter’s boyfriend slips her a hit of acid; a nerve-wracked family gets terrorized on the highway by a group of delinquents; the movie being parodied by Airplane!

Best Non-Music Book(s)

• Hard Case Crime series by Dorchester Publishing: Ongoing series of high-quality pulp novels, some from the 40s-70s, others by current writers. 5% are no good, 70% are good reads if not memorable, 25% are outstanding.

Judee Sill – Live in London: The BBC Recordings, 1972-73 CD (Water)

In these intimate, revealing solo performances (just Judee with her piano or guitar) recorded over three sessions for a British audience, the mistress of L.A.’s Rosicrucian folk mysteries shares her exquisite, multi-layered compositions alongside memories of her musical influences and inspirations, and where the songs fit in her personal cosmography of romantic and spiritual loves. I imagine the disk will appeal to people who are already fans of her debut and “Heart Food,” but it’s strong enough to stand as the introduction it was to UK radio listeners. Sill describes how the Turtles found her living in a car with five other people and gave her a break when they recorded the lovely “Lady-O,” then turns in an effortless, stripped down take on that stunner. After hearing Sill talk about the UFO-as-savior symbolism of “Enchanted Sky Machines,” the ’50s R&B sources of “Down Where the Valleys Are Low” and how “The Donor” signifies a plea to god for a break she no longer feels she deserves, those songs will take on new layers of significance. This is a surprisingly warm and funny series of performances for so esoteric a songwriter, and well worth seeking out, though the multiple versions of five songs should be noted. Too, Michael Saltzman’s tender notes reveal the tragedies of Judee’s short life, from fears of madness, romantic obsession, drug abuse, injury and the ill-advised crack about David Geffen that scuttled her career, and explore the conflicts that pulled at the artist and finally pulled her down.

What’s Up, Sars Volta?!?!

Like to read? Good. Enjoy this action-packed post/bulletin/irritant of Earles and Jensen news and fun facts!

First, here’s a clip from the late-70’s made-for-TV mess, Death Drug. It pays off in the end.

Now…

**Take a look at our revamped MySpace profile!! Listen to the posted track!! (If you are not receiving this info from our MySpace profile, go here.

“Kurt Loder Has Lost His Mindâ€Â will be on Disc 2 of Earles and Jensen Present: Just Farr A Laugh Vol. 1 and 2.

What about those photos!?! We were afraid to post more, as those images will be part of the entire breathtaking package (see below), and we didn’t want to be held accountable when people’s brains began melting from their ears!!

**Take a look at this link!! Both of the photos, beautifully-taken by local Memphis photog Geoffrey Brent Shrewsbury, will appear in the Earles and Jensen Present: Just Farr A Laugh Vol. 1 and 2 booklet. The Arby’s photo was taken a mere seconds before we were dismissed from the premises. No shirt, no shoes, NO PROBLEM!! The golfing photo session was a little more laid back. I (Earles) had to train the 14-year-old kid on how to hold a cigarette in one’s mouth. We were going for sort of a Caddyshack “bad caddyâ€Â thing. If any reader can come forward with a story about a ne’er-do-well teenage caddy that listened (or listens) to Killdozer, well, I can’t really promise anything, so never mind.

Me: “Do you smoke? Have you ever smoked a cigarette?â€Â

Teen made to wear Killdozer t-shirt: “Of course not.â€Â

Further info: 
 

Earles and Jensen Present: Just Farr A Laugh Vol. 1 and 2 will be released February 19th on Matador Records. It will be a double CD set of what currently constitutes the world’s greatest collection of prank phone calls. Included in the package will be a book (not booklet) of drawings, photographs, and writing, all courtesy of multiple contributors. 

Bleachy, absurd celebrity impersonations, pop-cultural clusterf**ks, total insanity – the whole gang is here…a 150 minute assault on your funny bone.

Think about Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk, Yes’ Tales from Topographic Oceans, the Hampton Grease Band’s Music To Eat, The Mothers of Invention’s Freak Out, Husker Du’s Zen Arcade, the Minutemen’s Double Nickels on the Dime, TFUL 282’s Mother of All Saints, Ross McElwee’s Sherman’s March, and imagine if there was a prank call/comedy version of these wonderfully indulgent, macro masterpieces. This will become a reality on February 19th, 2008.

A short list of artists that contributed drawings: Mike Aho, Archer Prewitt, Devendra Banhardt, Mark Henning, Ian Marshall, Gavin McInnes, Jake Oas, Aurel Schmidt, Matt Sweeney, and Megan Whitmarsh.

Don’t know ‘em? Look ‘em up. Some of these people can be found on the Internet.

When an early version of this press release was circulated on Mr. Earles’ blog (www.failedpilot.com), a reader commented that (grammatical errors left intact) “this thing sounds weirdly artsy for a comedy album… its weird how comedy ceedees are now adopting obtuse inde rock artwork. imagine if richard pryor albums had, like, a blurry pile of leaves on it. am i right?â€Â

No sir, you are wrong. No square centimeter of the physical package or split second of the recorded works resembles anything that could be considered “abstract.â€Â We’re talking pure entertainment from point A to point Z, people. Earles and Jensen Present: Just Farr A Laugh Vol 1. and 2 will not enter your as a box full of useless cardboard, printed with neon scribbles in the name of “art.â€Â

The entire list of writers that contributed forewords is as follows: Gregg Turkington (AKA Neil Hamburger, comedy genius, writer, Warm Voices Rearranged), Matador co-owner/co-founder Gerard Cosloy, David Dunlap Jr. (writer, Washington City Paper, Memphis Flyer, funny guy), and master humorist/writer Neil Pollack (books: Alternadad, The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature, Never Mind The Pollacks: A Rock and Roll Novel, editor/contributor: Akashic’s Chicago Noir).

All of the must-be-seen-to-be-believed photography is by Geoffrey Brent Shrewsbury. Seriously, it will blow your mind.

Otherwise, the respective introductions and thousands upon thousands of words of track-by-track commentary are provided by Andrew Earles and Jeffrey Jensen.

Who you are dealing with:

Along with writer Ian Christe and artist Steve Keene, Jeffrey Jensen founded modern day Brooklyn NYC around 1992, during the Dinkins administration. In March of 2007, he traversed Europe confounding the Arctic Monkeys (and their simpleminded fans) as “The Mooch,â€Â the funniest character to ever grace the world of YouTube. The uninitiated can be floored by combining “The Moochâ€Â and “Arctic Monkeysâ€Â in the site’s search engine. An accomplished artist, Jeff is known for his puppet shows, intricate nightlight dioramas, and evenings of vast entertainment, as well as anything else you could possibly think of. With his incredibly magnetic personality, Mr. Jensen has left a lasting mental imprint on anyone that has spent over an hour in his presence. Jeffrey has played in many bands, including The Closet Case, The Jewish, and The Star Spangles. Earlier in this career, he served as the bass player for Homestead recording artists Smack Dab, a band that keeps some seats warm in the cutout bin. He drives a 1982 Chrysler Lebaron, contributes regularly to Vice Magazine, and was accidentally shot with a .22 rifle when he was 13-years-old.

Andrew Earles is a writer and loosely-defined humorist based in Memphis, TN. His words regularly appear in The Onion A/V Club, Spin, Harp, Paste, Magnet, Vice, Paste, Chunklet, and The Memphis Flyer…among others. He founded The Cimarron Weekend in 1997, co-publishing and co-editing said argument-starter with David Dunlap Jr. until 2001. Four or five people like to claim that it was a great zine. From 2001 until late 2006, Andrew was a regular contributor to Tom Scharpling’s The Best Show on WFMU. As far as books go, his essays have appeared in the now out-of-print Lost In The Grooves (Routledge) and remainder table favorite, The Overrated Book (Last Gasp). He is a core contributor to The Rock Bible, to be published by Quirk in 2008. Most of his attempts at live comedy have failed miserably. Andrew is a proud Southerner and amateur, wanna-be outdoorsman that loves to fish, act like he knows a lot about animals, and walk around in the woods. He sometimes has a smart mouth, yet against all logic, has yet to receive that long-overdue ass-whomping (not an invitation). This is his blog: www.failedpilot.com

Jeffrey Joe Jensen and Andrew Scott Earles are Leo’s, reliably carrying all of the negative and positive baggage of that particular sign. Amazingly, and unknown to the duo until several years ago, they share the exact same birthday of August 15th.

The Passengers –Something About You (I don’t Like)

The Passengers –Something About You (I don’t Like)/Two Lovers –Private pressing (1979 UK)
I met these guys at the time outside the CBS building in Soho Square just as they were signing to Epic. They had pressed up this single privately in order to create a buzz and it worked as both tracks were later released on the faux-independent Blue Inc. and also on Epic proper. It looks like they were uncertain as to which song was to be the A side when they pressed it up, but in my book, there was no contest as Something About you is a powerful Punk/ Power Pop number of the highest caliber. To me it sounds like The Members infused with a top Pop tune and featuring a great rockin’ piano part such as Nicky Hopkins would lay down on those early Kinks sides.

Click on title for an edit of Something About You
As a dubious marketing exercise, I will also be listing this single on ebay https://search.ebay.co.uk/_W0QQsassZpurepop1uk this evening. It’s the last single I will be listing until January -Thanks!

Rats

Earlier this month, I visited a friend in Prenzlauer Berg for dinner. As I approached the apartment, a rat scuttled across the pavement.

Now, many of you probably aren’t surprised by that; after all, Berlin is a big city, a dirty city, and that’s just where you find rats. But one of the most surprising things about Berlin is simply its lack of rats. Even in the most wretched apartments here, or at least the ones I’ve been to, you just don’t find them. The city is extra-diligent about cracking down on them, and on places where they could breed, and as a result, you’re far more likely to see a marten or a weasel (especially in cold weather) than a rat.

But, as you might guess from the way my luck runs, I’ve had experience with them. My last apartment, which I moved into a little over twelve years ago, was a nightmare. I took it over from a guy I knew whose wife had gotten a job in Hong Kong, and it was a huge, ground-floor place in a particularly depressing part of Wedding. It was in the back, not on the street, but it was just exactly what I didn’t want: two coal ovens, for one thing, each of which burned a different kind of coal, which, because the neighbors had destroyed the coal-cellar assigned to the apartment, I had to haul around 35kg of coal into just about every day. For another thing, there was nothing of interest in the neighborhood, or, as I discovered, for many, many blocks around. None of my friends wanted to go up there, but at least it was close to the U-Bahn.

Now, in the street-front was a shop which looked like it had been closed for a long time, given the dust on the windows, with a sign behind the grating indicating that it sold espresso machines wholesale. As the bitter winter, one of the coldest on record, faded into spring, there was activity there. Out went the espresso machines, and in went a bunch of burly guys, cleaning the place up. Soon, a sign appeared, saying that an Italian ice cream place would be opening. Certainly nothing too exciting about that; those places are omnipresent here, and, since I don’t eat ice cream, I don’t know if any of them are any good, although I suspect not many are. Finally the place opened, with a sign saying the ice cream was made on the premises, which I found surprising, since the shop was incredibly tiny and I couldn’t see where they made it, not even when the back door, which opened onto my and my neighbors’ living space, was open.

One problem that I had was that I was subletting this place illegally. I believe all sublets in Berlin are illegal, but some landlords are cooler with it than others. I was told that this place was owned by two sweet old ladies, one of whom had briefly taken English lessons from the guy who’d sublet it to me. At any rate, I never saw them. I paid rent to the guy I’d sublet from and he paid the landladies. My address was c/o him, as it had been at my previous sublets, and I never had any trouble getting my mail until one day we got a new postman. He was an ageing hippie, from the looks of him, John Lennon wire-framed glasses and a greying pony-tail. But looks can be deceptive. “I can’t deliver mail to you because your name isn’t on the post box,” he said. I told him that the name of the guy whose apartment it was was on the box, and that should clue him which box to put it in. “No,” he said, “you have to have your name on the box or I won’t deliver it.” I’d been warned not to do this, but it looked like I didn’t have any choice. So I wrote my name on a label and pasted it onto the box.

The days got warmer. Finally, in July, it got downright hot. A friend came to visit and when he got in the apartment he said “Man, those are some mellow rats out there. They didn’t even budge when I came walking by.” I looked out the window, and sure enough, there were a few grey lumps in the lawn. When he left, I watched him go, and he stamped his foot. The rats scurried a bit, then settled down after he was gone. This didn’t look good. That night, as I left for work, I noticed that there were a bunch of empty cans out back of the ice cream joint. The labels indicated they’d contained peaches in heavy syrup. No doubt that’s what had attracted the rats. The ice cream guys couldn’t be bothered to walk a few steps to the garbage cans and throw them in.

I got off work at about 11, and I’d go to Zoo Station to catch the subway back up to Wedding, and it was there, among some of the most unsavory residents of Berlin, that I noticed more rats. They were between the tracks, the same color as the pebbles, but unlike the pebbles, they moved. They’d run for the sides when trains approached, then come back out again, scavenging for who knows what. I guess I just hadn’t noticed before.

It started to cool off again, following the usual pattern of warm days but increasingly sharp nights. I was sitting, reading, one night when I heard a sound from the kitchen: eeeep eeeep. From my time on the Lower East Side in New York, I recognized that immediately. When I checked, I found a couple of turds. They were big enough that I knew the animal I was dealing with, and it wasn’t a mouse. I went to a hardware store the next day and bought a rat trap and baited it with peanut butter. Don’t mess around with cheese; go for the stuff they really like. That night I was awakened by a snap, some high shrieking, some rhythmic flopping, and then silence. I fell back to sleep.

The next morning, there was, as I’d expected, a large, dead rat in the middle of the kitchen floor. I picked it up and went outside to the garbage bins, which were overflowing with empty cans left by the ice cream guys. As I deposited the rat, there was the sound of scuffling inside the bins. I bought another couple of traps. It was getting colder. The ice cream guys would be closing down. They’d want in, somewhere.

A few days later, the doorbell rang. It was the hippie postman. In his hand was a bill from the electric company. “I’m not going to deliver this,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here.” And with that he walked off. Now what?

I bagged a few more rats. This was getting unpleasant.

Soon, a letter, registered mail, arrived for the guy I was subletting from. The word “Hausverwaltung” was in the return address. It was wrong, but I suspected I should take a look at it. After all, he was in Hong Kong. And it was what I’d feared: the bill the postman had refused to deliver had been sent back to the electric company as undeliverable. They, in turn, had alerted the landlady that Herr Ward had apparently skipped town. The landlady checked her records and saw there was no Herr Ward on her books. She checked the mailboxes and saw my label on the box. She terminated the lease.

I faxed Hong Kong. The guy filpped out. He told me to get out immediately and cursed me for losing him his big, cheap Berlin apartment. He announced he’d be back in a couple of weeks to close the apartment down. I had to be out by then.

I was hardly heartbroken, but the timing could have been better. I had a lot of work to do, and this was just complicating things. Still, it was time to look for a new place. And there were the rats.

In late September, the ice cream shop closed for the season. The cans were no longer being tossed out the back door, or in the garbage bin. I headed to Zoo Station at 8 one Saturday night to catch the first batch of Berliner Morgenposts to check the apartment listings. There weren’t many, but there was one from a woman in Mitte who needed someone to take over her lease. I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in the east, but things were, it’s true, cheaper over there. I called the next morning. It turned out that not only was she a journalist, not only did she speak English, but she recognized my name from the magazine. I looked the place over. It was fine. We set a date to meet with the landlord.

The furious guy from Hong Kong was still due, and the woman in Mitte was having trouble moving out. I moved some of my stuff in, and left some in Wedding. A friend had rented a place in Neukölln that he’d partially furnished but couldn’t yet move into, for some reason. He let me have it for a couple of days, just to sleep in, while things shook out. I’d go to Wedding, pack some, call a cab, and move it to Mitte. Finally the day came when a friend rented a truck to take everything, and I woke up early, and went to the apartment to start getting things together for the big move. When I got there, there was excitement in the courtyard. One of the garbage bins was on fire, and the neighbors had a bucket brigade going. I reflexively looked to see if I could help, but it appeared things were going well, so I went inside.

About twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to see an old woman leaning on a cane, and a well-dressed younger man with her. The woman started shouting. “You started that fire! I’m calling the Kripo [Kriminalpolizei] and having you charged with arson!” And who, I asked the man, are you? “I’m her lawyer.” Do you speak English? “Yes.” Does she? “No.” Good, let’s speak English. I hope you’re being well-paid for this. “Not nearly enough,” he sighed. I told him I’d been asleep in Neukölln when the fire had started and only wanted to pack my stuff and leave that place for good. The guy who had the lease had missed his plane in Bombay, I think it was, and would now be a few days late, but she could deal with him when he got here. “You’ll really be gone this afternoon?” the lawyer asked. I promised him that as soon as he got the old bat out of my presence, I’d go back to packing and they’d never see me again. “Have a nice day,” he said, and steered her towards the courtyard.

So that’s how I found the place I’m leaving now. People are always surprised when I tell them that this — rats, coal heating, being informed on by my postman — happened in West Berlin instead of East Berlin, but someone recently theorized that the postman could well have been ex-Stasi, given a job where he could do no harm. Possibly. Another friend who’d been studying law and had dropped out to work in the Post Office later told me that the postman had broken something like eight federal laws. No doubt.

I hope there aren’t any rats in my next place. With four, three, or two legs.

It’s official, here comes the worst blog entry in Failed Pilot history.

To detour from self-promotion, pop-cultural alienation, and failed stabs at humor, it must be noted that I am amazed daily that one of my cats is about to turn thirteen. This will be simple…the sort of thing one might read on an Elliot Smith fan’s blog.

This (once) solid black, longhaired, somewhat overweight and big-boned (he’s a BIG cat) asshole makes a frequent habit of vomiting hairballs onto my bed, records, and books. His hair is turning a combination of black, gray, and maroon. The name I gave this animal is “Marcel.â€Â It means nothing. He’s smart, one of those “like a dogâ€Â cats, which is good, as I don’t like dogs. Cats are the thinking man’s pet. Dogs are a complete hassle.

One of Marcel’s asshole moves went like this:

One night, I returned home from a long evening of drinking to find one of Marcel’s bottom fangs protruding from his mouth at a right angle. Suffering from a fairly serious abscess, Marcel was rushed to the vet during the next day’s mind-shattering hangover (not much you can do about this at four in the morning). One confusing, blurry day and $600 later, Marcel was returned home minus his two bottom grabbers (one had simply fallen out earlier that year…I found it on the floor).

Several years prior, Marcel was prancing around on my balcony and fell fourteen feet, belly-flopping a concrete flowerbed border. He cracked two ribs and shredded his front claws in the failed attempt to regain purchase before the fall. Needless to say, it was soft food for a month. PRESCRIPTION soft food. Familiar with the racket that is prescription pet food? Let’s hope not.

At times, considering some of the healthy gifts that Marcel leaves in the litter box, I hallucinate that I own a giraffe. Either that or a large man is sneaking into my home to use my cat’s toilet. I like to confront Marcel while he’s doing the business. Yelling “BAD CATâ€Â usually does wonders for his little walnut brain.

Marcel gets along fine with his adopted sister, a very fat (18 – 19 pounds) orange tabby named “The Mayor.â€Â I absorbed The Mayor into the fold during the summer of 1998, thus replacing her predecessor, a fascinating cat named “Colby.â€Â Colby could fetch and had bi-colored fur. Each hair started out white, and turned black, giving her the look of a cuddly ashtray. Sadly, Colby died of kidney failure after months of incredibly stressful treatment. The Mayor has a tiny frame. Her obesity makes it appear as though she swallowed a grapefruit. The other cat in the house, my girlfriend’s beautiful calico that owned the premises before I moved in, is another story. Marcel emotionally and physically terrorizes this cat on a daily basis.

Aside from my mom and fewer than four others, I’ve kept a longer relationship with Marcel than any other warm-blooded creature.

This is not an obit, nor is Marcel ill. If anything, he is a little too healthy for a 13-year-old cat, but if he continues to rob me of a good night’s sleep (hairball barfing, furniture destruction, needless howling at all hours), there will be issues that require tissues.

Yeah, right. Marcel is untouchable. You can view Marcel and my two lesser cats by visiting my MySpace profile. You’ll have to find that on your own. Dig around for a picture of me with a horrible haircut, “workingâ€Â in bed.

Here’s to you, Marcel, may there be many more years in our love/hate relationship.

See, I told you.

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