Another Hamtramck Blowout has come to pass. As is always the case I started the weekend bitter and suspicious, found myself happy and listless only to end the 4-day debacle with a shameful search for my long-lost dignity. As is also always the case: I end up seeing only the bands whom I would see at any other given time of the year. The stark and sad reality of the Metro Times Blowout. Virtually every performance I watched this year, I had seen sometime in my recent past. In all of its idealism I think the Blowout fails for me. However, that's strictly from the spectator standpoint. As a performer I always end up playing for a myriad of people of whom many have never seen us perform. This in itself is usually either a very good or very bad thing. Sure, plenty of people were down, but on that same token plenty of folks were not (some dude even had the nerve to extinguish a smoke bomb Colin had lit off during our set). Someone posting on the Detour blog summed these conflicting sentiments best:
Caught the last half of Fontana — one of those X! Records bands people on other blogs seem to really believe in. We believe, too. But we’re not sure Fontana’s puke-punk totally does it for us. Still, we were impressed with their dedication to angularity, and, well, the entire SST catalog. We were also impressed with the bassist’s boots.
Word up to anyone who can give due credit to Geoff's 'Cherry Stompers.' To even attempt to describe the weekend would be above all things inaccurate, irrelevant and unnecessary, so I'll just conclude by saying that the highlight for me came on Saturday morning when I woke on my bedroom floor with all of my clothes (barely) on, soaking wet with my fan blowing on me, so ragingly hungover that I couldn't even blink my defeated and dehydrated eyes.
Well, I did it. Today, on a completely unexpected whim I bought the end-all be-all of jazz (or any other genre) compendiums... the legendary and fabled nine-disc Holy Ghost boxed set encapsulating all of the insanely rare and absurdly unissued recordings of Albert Ayler from 1962-70. Heretofore this existed as just an elusive quest to which my imagination could only exact some lacking penultimate... a void in my very soul which only owning this said boxed set could ameliorate. And now, with it safe in the cozy confines of my room, I will say this much: if the actual music documented on this daunting and truly breathtaking pinnacle on the altar of boxed sets is even half as good as the packaging (it includes a fucking pressed flower!), then I will burn everything else I own in a form of ritualistic sacrifice to it. I promise (and from a brief listen to the first disc of some early recordings done in Finland, 1962 as well as stuff with Cecil Taylor from 1964, it would seem as though that could be a fairly certain outcome). Now... if you are even considering taking that leap and crossing that divide into this enchanted world of Holy Ghost ownership you must first pose to yourself the question, "am I that much of an Albert Ayler fan?" And if the answer to that question is no, the next logical question you must ask yourself is, "What is wrong with me?"
Oh, and as a personal note to myself, I need to press myself harder in the quest for finding the happy median between "too shy" and "too drunk" to talk to girls.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
It was only a matter of time...
Time in the "in-like-a-lion"half of March to contemplate and mediate on the pros and cons of my existence as of recent.
+
1. Microwaveable sweet potatoes: Have you ever read about how fucking good sweet potatoes are for you? They're like a mystical root sent from the Gods of nutrition. I'm practically shaking after I eat one. And like all good things in our orgiastic state of society, sweet potatoes have now been Americanized and can be yours in under 10 minutes. Caution: the plastic wrap usually burns and gets all weird and melted if you're not careful. Don't worry though, the cancers caused by the melted plastic are probably cured by the mystical root anyhow.
2. Shirts with dogs on them/making yourself bleed: People will contemplate and revere you for the most superficial shit.
3. Shows that end before midnight: Unfortunately because a part of me exists in the real world, I'm usually up for work at 7:30 which, suffice to say, blows. So when I can get to bed by 12:30 I have to accept graciously the next morning when my own body isn't screaming how much it hates me. Although, to my credit I could still lead you through an A-604 Transmission after being awake for 36+ hours.
4. Kiss the Pig by Today is the Day: I just received a copy from the fine folks at Pittsburgh's own Relapse Records yesterday. I was anticipating the gate-fold edition but I got ended up with the second pressing... that's right... just the record, liner and cover. Oh well. Typical of the heaviest/abrasive Today is the Day output with lots of "I-hate-you-because-you-are-a-closed-minded-imbecile-but-I-hate-myself-too-because-I -can't-change-how-I-am-blah-blah-everything-is-against-you" type lyrics. This is the best kind of music for when you haven't touched a girl in a few months, or longer. It gets you in that whole "I-wanna-rip-off-my-fucking-skin-and-eat-it" mindset, making masturbation so intense that you end up blacking out, which is a nice treat because you can skip that whole post-masturbation period of regret for how you haven't touched a girl in so long that you've been driven to masturbating so hard that you black out.
5. Self-defeating humor
-
1. Missing the bus: It's like 4 degrees out. On your mile walk to the bus stop you've fallen on some dickhead who doesn't know how to pick up a shovel's sidewalk (to which you cannot complain because you technically are that same dickhead). You have to make sure your hands stay out of your pockets, freezing, otherwise you won't be able to catch yourself the next time you fall, just like you couldn't the first time around. The converging snot on your nose tip is frozen. Your eyes share the same consistency as sandpaper. Old Man Winter is really fucking you in the face... dry. And in that final stretch of the journey, "victory lap," when you are so close to the bus stop you can taste it, you watch the bus drive by, casually thumbing its nose at your sorry state, and you know that you are now at the longest point from when the next one will come.
2. Old dudes in classes: Man... does every old dude in a class have to make sure everyone know exactly his take on shit? For real... There's this dude in one of my upper level American Revolution history classes whose big on drinking with his ex-college buddies and micro-breweries and all of that lame bullshit. Of course, he inserts references to the Founding Fathers and their alcohol habits whilst composing the Declaration of Independence any chance afforded to him. He even has a fucking nylon varsity jacket that says "Brew Crew" on it. To be fair, he's not completely uncouth... he seems to be quite well versed in "ripping DVDs" and History Channel scholastics... and I know this because I've overhear him bragging about these said topics every class period, to the same girls who are mere fractions of his age.
3. Power-pop: I don't know... sorry. I've heard enough I-VI-VI-V chord progressions on A.M. 580 to have some sort of internal aversion to it now. It's not all bad... actually I'm lying, I have fun at some of these types of shows and own some types of these records, I'm just being pissy right now. I don't even understand the distinction between pop & power pop. Sorry, I'm being a bad blogger
4. Nyquil: For me, only the direst of circumstances necessitate the consumption of NyQuil. This hinges on the fact that it simply makes me feel weird, and I mean weird beyond the elementary sense of the word. Case in point: As I stared in desperation at the mocking soft green glow of the hands on my Timex Expedition reading 4:36 A.M. to me I made the decision that chemical intervention was the only bridge that could cross the sleep deprived divide between my body and that blissful state of energy, well earned from rest. Accordingly I drank the lion's share from the coveted NyQuil bottle which rests, dust-covered, on the table adjacent to my bed. Memory from here is nonexistent fast forwarding us to the next light, 12:37 P.M. (according to my phone I dialed my work at 8:16 A.M. leading me to assume I called in sick, as I planned I would) where, in an atypical, half-naked, twisted state of dishevelment and degradation I discovered that my neck was sore and covered with pinkish marks, to which I can only surmise were caused by an apparent attempt to strangle myself in my sleep. Ahhh... another fun night in the comforting arms of NyQuil.
5. Sour milk: You think, "Oh... just a little will be fine. The coffee'll mask it anyways."
+
1. Microwaveable sweet potatoes: Have you ever read about how fucking good sweet potatoes are for you? They're like a mystical root sent from the Gods of nutrition. I'm practically shaking after I eat one. And like all good things in our orgiastic state of society, sweet potatoes have now been Americanized and can be yours in under 10 minutes. Caution: the plastic wrap usually burns and gets all weird and melted if you're not careful. Don't worry though, the cancers caused by the melted plastic are probably cured by the mystical root anyhow.
2. Shirts with dogs on them/making yourself bleed: People will contemplate and revere you for the most superficial shit.
3. Shows that end before midnight: Unfortunately because a part of me exists in the real world, I'm usually up for work at 7:30 which, suffice to say, blows. So when I can get to bed by 12:30 I have to accept graciously the next morning when my own body isn't screaming how much it hates me. Although, to my credit I could still lead you through an A-604 Transmission after being awake for 36+ hours.
4. Kiss the Pig by Today is the Day: I just received a copy from the fine folks at Pittsburgh's own Relapse Records yesterday. I was anticipating the gate-fold edition but I got ended up with the second pressing... that's right... just the record, liner and cover. Oh well. Typical of the heaviest/abrasive Today is the Day output with lots of "I-hate-you-because-you-are-a-closed-minded-imbecile-but-I-hate-myself-too-because-I -can't-change-how-I-am-blah-blah-everything-is-against-you" type lyrics. This is the best kind of music for when you haven't touched a girl in a few months, or longer. It gets you in that whole "I-wanna-rip-off-my-fucking-skin-and-eat-it" mindset, making masturbation so intense that you end up blacking out, which is a nice treat because you can skip that whole post-masturbation period of regret for how you haven't touched a girl in so long that you've been driven to masturbating so hard that you black out.
5. Self-defeating humor
-
1. Missing the bus: It's like 4 degrees out. On your mile walk to the bus stop you've fallen on some dickhead who doesn't know how to pick up a shovel's sidewalk (to which you cannot complain because you technically are that same dickhead). You have to make sure your hands stay out of your pockets, freezing, otherwise you won't be able to catch yourself the next time you fall, just like you couldn't the first time around. The converging snot on your nose tip is frozen. Your eyes share the same consistency as sandpaper. Old Man Winter is really fucking you in the face... dry. And in that final stretch of the journey, "victory lap," when you are so close to the bus stop you can taste it, you watch the bus drive by, casually thumbing its nose at your sorry state, and you know that you are now at the longest point from when the next one will come.
2. Old dudes in classes: Man... does every old dude in a class have to make sure everyone know exactly his take on shit? For real... There's this dude in one of my upper level American Revolution history classes whose big on drinking with his ex-college buddies and micro-breweries and all of that lame bullshit. Of course, he inserts references to the Founding Fathers and their alcohol habits whilst composing the Declaration of Independence any chance afforded to him. He even has a fucking nylon varsity jacket that says "Brew Crew" on it. To be fair, he's not completely uncouth... he seems to be quite well versed in "ripping DVDs" and History Channel scholastics... and I know this because I've overhear him bragging about these said topics every class period, to the same girls who are mere fractions of his age.
3. Power-pop: I don't know... sorry. I've heard enough I-VI-VI-V chord progressions on A.M. 580 to have some sort of internal aversion to it now. It's not all bad... actually I'm lying, I have fun at some of these types of shows and own some types of these records, I'm just being pissy right now. I don't even understand the distinction between pop & power pop. Sorry, I'm being a bad blogger
4. Nyquil: For me, only the direst of circumstances necessitate the consumption of NyQuil. This hinges on the fact that it simply makes me feel weird, and I mean weird beyond the elementary sense of the word. Case in point: As I stared in desperation at the mocking soft green glow of the hands on my Timex Expedition reading 4:36 A.M. to me I made the decision that chemical intervention was the only bridge that could cross the sleep deprived divide between my body and that blissful state of energy, well earned from rest. Accordingly I drank the lion's share from the coveted NyQuil bottle which rests, dust-covered, on the table adjacent to my bed. Memory from here is nonexistent fast forwarding us to the next light, 12:37 P.M. (according to my phone I dialed my work at 8:16 A.M. leading me to assume I called in sick, as I planned I would) where, in an atypical, half-naked, twisted state of dishevelment and degradation I discovered that my neck was sore and covered with pinkish marks, to which I can only surmise were caused by an apparent attempt to strangle myself in my sleep. Ahhh... another fun night in the comforting arms of NyQuil.
5. Sour milk: You think, "Oh... just a little will be fine. The coffee'll mask it anyways."
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