TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

Firewatch. They sit and wait.
Waiting… they’d sing of it, if weariness did not keep them silent. The red light is heavy. It falls like dust over their feet. It crawls up to the knee, illuminates folded hands. It is flightless. Their faces are in the dark. And yet, for some time now, the eyes of the small Frenchman have been illuminated. He has kissed a tiny rose, and returned it to his breast, where it now wilts. The man from Langenau has seen the rose because he cannot fall asleep. He thinks: I have no rose, none.
This, raises his voice. And he sings a dirge that the women at home sing in the fields, in fall, once the harvest is complete.

************************************************

The little Marquis says: “You seem very young, sir?”
And the man from Langenau, half in sorrow, half in defiance: “Eighteen.” Then silence.
Later, the Frenchman asks: “Do you have a bride at home, Mr. Donzel?”
“You?” comes the response from the man from Langenau.
“She is blond like you.”
And silence falls, until the German bursts: “Why the devil? Why do you sit there in your saddle and ride through this irritable land to fight Turkish, then?”
The Marquis laughs. “To return.”
And the man from Langenau becomes solem. He thinks of the blond girls with whom he used to play. Wild play. He would like to return to his house, for only the blink of an eye, only for that long, but instead only the words: “Magdalena - that I may be forgiven!”
How - ? thinks the young man. - Once again, they are unfathomable.

**************************************************

One day, in the morning, there is a rider, and then two, three, ten. All in ice, huge. Then a thousand behind them. The army.
Everyone must separate.
“Good luck, Marquis.--”
“May the Maria protect you, Mr. Donzel.”
They may never hear of one another again. And once they were friends; brothers. When once, they had one another to confide in, now they find that they cannot tell one man from another. They hesitate, falter. The haste and hoof beats resound around them. The Marquis pulls off his heavy right-hand glove. He takes out the little rose, holds a petal to the man from Langenau, like a man might break off and offer a host.
“That this may shelter you. Take care--”
The man from Langenau is astonished. He looks at the Frenchman for what seems forever. Then he slides the foreign petal under his tunic. And it swells from the billows of his heart. Horn call. He rides with the army, the donzel. He laughs sadly to himself: an unknown woman protects me.

Waiting For Godot

Originally for The Believer Magazine:

Waiting For Godot
performed by The Gate Theatre Dublin
presented by CalPerformances
at the Roda Theater, Berkeley, CA
on November 2, 2006


VALDIMIR: Moron!
ESTRAGON: Vermin!
VALDIMIR: Abortion
ESTRAGON: Morpion!
VALDIMIR: Sewer-rat!
ESTRAGON: Curate!
VALDIMIR: (with finality). Critic!

Waiting For Godot, the play by Samuel Beckett, defies criticism. During its performance, the sparse stage and almost superfluous language provoke one of two responses from the audience: either Beckett is God, or that Beckett is Bum. With a director hand-selected by Beckett himself in 1988, one year before his death, and the original cast from that year’s premier performance still together, The Gate Theatre Dublin’s performance left me with the former opinion, and the laughter that filtered through Berkeley’s Roda Theater confirmed that I was not the only one. But aside from its humor, Waiting For Godot’s ability to question its own existence is perhaps its greatest feat.

Throughout the play, the two tramps Vladimir (Barry McGovern) and Estragon (Johnny Murphy) repeatedly state their worst and, more importantly, our worst fears: nothing has happened and nothing will happen. When the lights rise we find a rock, a tree, and Estragon tugging hopelessly on one of his boots. Murphy’s bearded and time worn face has a zombie-like expression, his eyes peer out as though he is not there at all, and he states blankly: Nothing to be done. The two bums will not escape this phrase. They can only sit and wait for Godot, a man they have never met and whom they know nothing about. Director Walter D. Asmus does relieve the despair by focusing on the play’s powerful wit rather than allowing the full weight of existentialist despair to sink in. However, McGovern’s and Murphy’s intimacy on stage suggests they know each other better than anyone should and have already said all that they can think of to each other. Like old travel buddies they bicker ceaselessly and always make up; but their discourse, like their journey, never gets anywhere. Each response seems to degenerate from the former statement ad infinitum.

So how is it that Beckett’s work continues to astound and entertain audiences around the globe? Is there a point? So little actually happens that the play defies the critic’s desire to take a standpoint from which to argue for or against. One of the most widely agreed upon of these shibboleth’s is of course that “Godot”, pronounced God-oh, is the lord almighty. However, Beckett himself never confirmed this. Even when Vladimir and Estragon are joined by Lucky (Stephen Brennan) and Pozzo (Alan Stanford) the action never advances and nothing is achieved. Pozzo, the most hopeful and boisterous of the quartet, ultimately fails at entertaining the two companions and raises his hands in surrender. Nothing to be done.

In the final scene of the play Vladimir speaks with a boy (Barry O’Connell) who has come to tell him that Mr. Godot will not be coming today, but that surely he will come tomorrow. Vladimir seems resigned to the fact that Godot may very well never arrive, and that this is his fate, but he still ritualistically asks the boy a slew of questions. The ritual continues unabated until the boy asks what he should tell Mr. Godot. Vladimir pauses, then stutters, “Tell him… tell him that you saw me and that… that you saw me.” And that, perhaps, is all that a playwright may ask of his audience: that they see the performance and bear witness to its existence. Waiting For Godot may be meaningless, but it does exist - of that much we can be mostly sure.

Everything's Working

Yo, my blog was down and I just wanted to say thanks to all the people that told me about it, nice to know someone reads this thing. Hope you all had a happy halloween from yr perspective areas in the world---Mattie (Matthew Barney w/Bjork)

Poetry Bus Tour @ The Club Deluxe

I don't know the 1st reader, Joshuan Beckman in audience, Noelle Kocot with band, and the scene outside. Thanks to Ingrid Keir and Jennifer Barone for putting it all together and rockin' it as usual!

Wave Books Poetry Bus Tour @ The Make Out Room

"Shaving the moss off our blood"

Pics: BUS, Matthew Rohrer, Cole Heinowitz (squirming feet), dude on BUS, Lisa Fishman, and the crowd.

The writing is in the street and in the air - listen up!

"Almost as sweet as thinking about a moment of you thinking about me"

"Angles are the highest fate of form"

Anne Waldman Reads @ City Lights Books (10/18/06)

I arrived 10 minutes early to a room only 2/3 full but by the time I heard “Hello Anne” waft up from downstairs, there was barely standing room. Anne’s presence immediately gave life.


my
tying
undying knot
wooden sound
knock knot
knock knock

*
my eye
cannot
unsee you
you are
right now
so sound
of airplane
and silent

breathing


It swelled. Anne reads with extreme intonation, viz. she elongates the music within words rather than place words inside of a melody that is outside of them. (Would you live yr life like you write a poem… would you make it formless? wou-ld you step without looking? would you jump from pond to river - complete purpose unknowing--) The intonation belongs to the words as a matter of fact. For example, “neurons” are more like NOOOR-ons­ NOOOR-on­s­ with an octave jump up on the second syllable. Her speech effected me, locked me into the words - one poem ended with a “woonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnndddeer” that filled me with anticipation for the next word (the preceding tempo was high) and yet, that was it. The poem ended.

Podium rocked.

Anne had two new works that her reading focused on. Her book, Beat Roots, is paragraph poems about the good ol’ days with the usual “beat” suspects, as well as Robert Creeley, Amiri Baraka, and a handful of others. She also played tracks from a recorded collaboration with cunning linguist and musician, Ambrose Bye. Here is some of the wisdom resurrected from forgotten:



"You can always match their power w/ words. Stay Candid.”

“A chair is a weapon. Stand yr ground.”

The first attributed to Allen Ginsberg and the latter Burroughs, and when surrounded by Waldman’s words, make good sense. The new book is hand bound by Hot Whiskey Press. Waldman leaves today to go back to Naropa, in Boulder Colorado, where she will teach this summer.

(Note: The two short poems at the beginning were written during moments of transition during the reading and are not Anne Waldman's, hence "my".)

Review - Show - Gnarls Barkley @ Sherman’s Meadow (9/16/06)

As part of the Alice’s Now and Zen concert set in Golden Gate Park, Gnarls Barkley turned the heat-beset audience from lackadaisical to lascivious. The pastiche set included many covers from music’s greats, including The Violent Femmes, as well as this summer’s hits, Crazy and Smiley Faces, off their album St. Elsewhere. Frontmen Cee-lo and Danger Mouse came out in red karate uniforms while their backup dressed in white. The “g-strings”, as Cee-lo fondly reffered to the all female string section, sounded amazing. The guitarist and bassist both had some pretty unique dance moves to add to the performance. But really, it’s all about Cee-lo and his ability to shine into everyone watching him. He talked a lot about universal love and pulled off some daring comments like “Come on people, I don’t want to see you just staring at me” and “I’m gonna have fun up here today, how about you?”. His words forced the mom and pop/ son and daughter audience to wake up and groove. Persnoally, having gone to so many small-venue shows as of late I noticed the loss of intimacy at the show. But I was really impressed with how well Cee-lo handled it. Besides the hits and the wacked out tune The Boogie Monster, the shows highlight was a section entitled “vanity fair” in which Cee-lo listed off his better qualities. He said “I can sing” (giving the just-a-little gesture with finger and thumb), “I can rap” (again the gesture with fans ululating), and “I’m pretty talented (dead pause) I’m not lucky people”. I thought that line was pretty tight, seeing how it is kind of a stigma concerning pop artists. Hardcore man. To see and hear the Smiley Faces video just click on my bro Tracy’s blog Bucktooth Mechanics in my links section.

Review - Show - Walken and Dick Duster @ Thee Parkside (9/13/06)

dick duster \di-k 'd&s-t&r\ n : A gay man's soul patch. This tuft of hair just below the lower lip will dust the bottom shaft of any cock that happens to be insertered in the gay man's mouth. ---urban dictionary.com



Just coming back from the Walken and Dick Duster show. Walken fuckin’ ruled and played precise. Lead singer Shane was on the bass and his voice had a perfect mixture of high tone while being full, that is to say, the points were his vocals were high lighted stood well on their own and were actually musical. Guitarists Max Doyle and Sean Kohler, as I said, were on point and the new drummer Zack Farwell was in a trance, playing brutal and shit. I’ve gotta say if I hadn’t seen Shane at the FACEDOWNINSHIT show I wouldn’t have known about this one, glad I went. As usual they were cool at ease on stage thanking the crowd amidst screams. Nice to have a hometown, eh? (Check their upcoming show at El Rio on Sept. 23rd.)

Randomly, Matt Pike from High On Fire was at the show and I got to talk with him for a second when he wasn’t surrounded by the women. He said Norway was great and that the show with Venom at the Fillmore was fun. Unfortunately their drummer just went in for some surgery so they won’t be out and about again for another 6 weeks. Look for shows then.

I must say the real spectacle began when Dick Duster took the stage. The lead singer grabbed a bro and randomly talked shit to the audience until everyone was worked up to a boiling-point frenzy. The guitars wailed with feedback and the bass thudded along until the place exploded. A mic left on at stage right was soon pounced upon by some dude and then some chick. The lead singer, while goading, walked into the crowd and the whole concept of stage and floor was abolished, people were jumping everywhere and half the vocals were from the crowd - the singer crashed to the floor and was immediately jumped by the singing chick who starts pulling off his clothes, he tries to get up but is missing his shirt and half his pants, he makes it back to the stage only to have her follow, pull off the rest of his pants and give fake head to his exposed member, next he flaps it around kinda like a pin wheel you put in yr garden and chants something like “this is for all you men out there who ain’t got no dicks”, then he sorta pulls up his boxer briefs and jumps right back into the song. The music never stops. It is just one riff. It gets soft. It gets louder. It explodes. That is Dick Duster.

As the show goes on, more exposure, lead singer pushes through the crowd repeatedly falling onto the floor now littered with broken glass and soaked through with beer - people were dumping it all over the fucking place - he is soon a bloody mess (fyi I am not being British). Unfortuantely blood was soon everywhere and my shoes are ruined, my pants stained, and I had to take a shower immediately upon coming home. Alright, that’s a lie, but I really should. Just to be safe. Yeah, I’m gonna go do that. G. G. Allen lives!---

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

And on into night they ride, into the same night. Again the silence. But within them, they have the words from before. The Marquis takes off his helmet. His dark hairs are smooth. The way in which they drop about his head and expand across his neck is almost womanlike. Something in the eye of the man from Langenau: off in the distance an object projects with a glint, something slender, dark. A lonesome column, half-abandoned. And later, it seems to him, it was the Madonna.

RELAPSE CONTAMINATION TOUR featuring FaceDownInShit, Minsk, Cretin, Fuck The Facts, and Unearthly Trance @ The Elbo Room 9/11/06

Southern super fried is, perhaps, one way and “the bass player is fucking wasted” is definitely another way of describing FACEDOWNINSHIT as they shuffled on the stage last night.























Bassist Waylon Riffs’s 3rd person characterization of himself led into a crusty set of pain soaked riffs with bouts of stoned giggles in between. This band has been on my list of must-see for two years now; initially I heard of them through a freight hoppin’ motherfucker from their home town, Greensboro S.C. Their sound resembles much of the sludgy grunge-metal from that region: Eye Hate God, Catharsis, Buzzov-en. Their hypnotic riffs are so completely full with seething disgust for corporate society and its minions that they pass for blast beats. It feels like these guys just want to live out in the woods doin’ their shit, smokin’ weed, playin’ music, runnin’ with the wolves, but they can’t, and are really pissed off that they can‘t.







SATAN
RULES.









I was already acquainted with, and somewhat prepared for, their sound, but their stage presence was a whole other dimension. Their sound check began with them falling into a jam almost against their will, it came that easily. Then the bassist cut the mic-check short by announcing that “we’re only screaming, that’s all we’re gonna do - you shouldn’t even be able to hear us”. Jason Crumer, the guitarist who looked straight outta a death metal Dazed and Confused, catatonically held his guitar like his gut and laughed with eyes 99.9% shut. There was no bullshit here, the boys were just out to have a good time. I mean, their passivity was disarming; anyone having a bad day just had to laugh with them. Launching off with a song from their new album NPON they put to rest any argument against their ability to play well while all fucked up. Crumer’s guitar had a warm fuzz that focused on bright tone - reminiscent of Thin Lizzy or ZZ Top - but BRUUTAL! Ryan Wolfe’s drums kicked in catchy and poignant with a million fills. He has the ability to play a beat so that it rises in intensity steedily to the point when you think it can’t go any higher but it does. And with the multitude of riff extensions he holds everything together.

In between songs the band left long pauses of southern hospitality. The crowd heckled with things like “Go back to Florida”, “I’m gonna throw myself out”, and of course “Play it slower”. But FACEDOWNINSHIT were in no hurry to get to the next song - instead they just kinda laughed hard and heckled back. I mean, from the depth of the depression in the lyrics you’d think there’d be signs of anger in their mien but they were completely down to earth and well natured. The show continued to rock til the last song and at one point filled the room with their characteristic whining feedback, forcing most of the crowd to hold their ears shut: the show was fucking loud. So loud, in fact, the police arrived shortly after they left the stage.














That night four other bands played: Minsk, Cretin, Fuck The Facts, and Unearthly Trance (in that order). Unearthly Trance headlined and I wish I’d gotten a better listen but the night was old at that point, and I hate to be a puss, but I was tired. I do have to throw a shout out to Cretin for keepin’ it real with the Carcass/Phobia stylin’ old school grind. I especially liked “A little ditty about a girl with one titty”. And for anyone who cares, Fuck The Facts is the fucking shit. I gotta say, when the 95lb lead singer Mel Mongeon and bassist Marc-Andre Mongeon took the stage barefoot I was a little skeptical but it turned out they were not talentless hippies. At first they reminded me of Dillenger Escape Plan “mathmetal” or whatever. Some of the guitar was really mind blowing and the dead stops consistent and precise. As the show went on elements of grindcore as well as NYC or Boston hardcore came out. Mel belted heavy growls and the few times she did her pig-squeal-style-vox it was off the hook. Personally I’d like to hear more of that from her because it gave more range to her sound. Part of Mel’s performance is taking a drink of water and spitting it on the floor in front or on the audience; she also let it kinda drip outta her mouth and down her chin. You thinking what I’m thinking? Good prop. When their set was over their merch table was totally swamped and I think that speaks for itself.

Top 5 Quotes By CRONOS of VENOM Made @ The Fillmore (8/27/06)

#5

“If you don’t know this one, well, you better just leave.”

#4

“We entitled the new album, Metal Black, thought we’d keep it simple for you guys this time!”

#3

“We won’t sell out!”

#2

“Nobody’s wearing any makeup up here! Well, unless he is (points to guitarist MYKVS)! This would be the right town for it anyway!”

And #1

“Who wants a free ride on my Doom Tractor!”

Review - Japanther @ The Hemlock Tavern

Just a quick shout out to Japanther for the show at The Hemlock Tavern (8/24/06). The Brooklyn based duo has sprung a west coast tour on us this month in cahoots with This Bike Is A Pipe Bomb. They played with Two Gallants in a warehouse in Oakland the night before, or at least tried to play, the police showed and shut it down. So when their telephone receiver/ microphones were acting up at the beginning of the set at the Hemlock you could tell they were exasperated and just wanted to play. Finally everything was in proper functioning order and they cranked their samples, complete with additional musical accompaniment throughout the songs, and tore up. Ian Vanek plays the drums like he wants to kill you but laughs pleasantly the whole time. Matt Reily’s bass is fast and on point and when he sings harmonies he looks like a grandmother swooping down to plant a kiss on your forehead. Seriously, it’s quite remarkable, people were holding their fucking guts because he looked so funny, lips puckered out and eyes squinted, almost closed. I played a show with these guys back in New York 2 years ago and since then they’ve added the samples and got a hell of a lot tighter. A fast intense song begins on a sample, and I mean on a sample, there is no intro. They nailed it and 20 seconds later it was over. Another song includes overly long stops that come to an abrupt end when bass and drums thunder in. Their timing didn’t seem that exceptional until I noticed that they weren’t looking in each other’s direction. Ian plays with his back to the audience (perhaps to showcase his drum technique?) while Matt stands up front. At one point during the show they invited a guest vocalist up named Stephanie or something. She added another level to the harmony as well as made some snide jokes. The only thing left to remark on is their completely kick-ass matching costumes. They were all black with what looked like that raised plastic goo people put on clothes sometimes. It was silvery-goldish I think and kinda made a line down the right side of their shirts and then connected and splattered down their pants. It reminded me of Star Trek meets Kid’n’Play.

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

The men acquiesced their close quarters, they who originally came from all over; from France and from Burgundy, from the Netherlands, from Carinthian valleys, from bohemian towns and from Emporor Leopold himself. Their stories had all been shared - not just verbally - but each had experienced them themselves directly before they’d become stories, as though the men had all told of the same mother…

Miles Davis say

Miles Davis say
Always known what I wanted
something terrible
a way to purchase back
a a man’s soul
cause when you born
that birth is result
result of that deal
to be born you must sell
your soul
so everyone in “life” dimension
just fumbles empty boxes
into weak shelves
the other realms of reality falter
beyond in their own ways
but in one are all our souls
and since I been young
I communicated with a being there
being there complicated and
unreasonable
so that I might get back to center
stand up taller and blow out a note
or two that’s
that’s really it
ya know
a note made of something
cause most of what we’ve all been hearin
are hollows
and that terrible being
all gold and diamonds and heavy whips
carries all our souls together
(cause they don’t weigh anything)
rummages through from time to time to
remind the soul inside belly that
being exists--
see
we here in life
don’t think we exist for one second
cause we don’t
like all truths this contains some
false
but sucker, you know you know
you ain’t all there
bargain hunter of divinity and sound
checker of element word
a cruel case box and shelf you
put a thing or two upon
stare up at thing or two, kiss up
wind through a time en
keel up
the true days cannot be remembered
cause true day exists now
a bird in a blue dress told me that
alive
breaking down a cage
made of place and hour
we’d never met before, but
she’d known the terrible being
from birth
she’d kissed soul belly’s feet
and knelt her signature across
the line
divine… divine old creature
outsida life
that bird was a cannon aimed into
the black hole
so me and her loved like silly
pigeons in the park eatin’
that day’s breadcrumbs imagining they’ll
be there forever but
course the rain come and next
winter and without our souls we couldn’t
make two empties even one full
the gun silenced her my being
a belly of rot put the now outta her
and she found a belly full of something
else I assure you
adrift
given up her birth I dream her
newness immensity
how full her is is
the color of morning midnight
that kind of… deep sailing
rivers and clear sky
that her Jabberwoky rings those
tones
absolute
so that now I have something to
bargain with
she’s in the terrible’s realm
and I with a horn and good shoes
can put up a blast
fuck all you other suckas…

7/8/06

Review - Open Mic/Wiseproof and the Harmogenous Dooji @ Simone's Jazz & Soul Cabaret

(7/14/06) Last night 377 2nd St. Oakland was off the hook! Taking place was the first night of an on-going open mic hereforth to be known as The Ambiguous Sipher brought to you from the hosts of San Francisco’s notorious Café International open mic (1st and 3rd Fridays @ 508 Haight St.) Dateurah and Wiseproof. In the club, couches lined the walls with veils hanging in between and incense hung in the air. The overall ambience was of an off the hook night club taken over for a night by a bunch of wacked out artists. The revolution is on. It all began with great vibrations, the audience was loud! Dre hosted the spoken word and MC section of the night and kept it original choosing artists randomly off the list.

The featured MC was Oakland’s own One throwing out a dose of his philosophy acknowledging the plethora of realities within one room and promoting only positive mental activity. Next up were the two spoken word features R.A.W. and Ise Lyfe. Ise Lyfe is a story teller who has been referred to as “Oakland’s unofficial poet laureate” and been featured on HBO. His story last night told of a group of animals debating how to get humans to stop eating them. He reminded me of the great Lord Buckley’s style, completely conversational with side jokes and thought provoking witticisms with an age old music flowing through it all. He summed up the moral of the story in the end with a fight between beans and corn bread that resulted in both dying. The moral: don’t promote violence or else you will have it turned on you.

The headliner was Wiseproof and the Harmogenous Dooji featuring guitar, drums, some studio beats and a guest appearance by Dakini. It was a massive amalgamation of musicians’ consciousnesses resulting in mirror-sounds, the band had never played together but all seemed to have styles that were given over Wiseproof’s hardcore lyrics and reggae stylin’. The percussionists fused together and fed off each other and Wise strung through the beats like intergalactic membrane. It was a fucking blast. Wiseproof and the Harmogenous Dooji will be featured at El Rio @ 3158 Mission St. and Cesar Chavez on Friday, July 28th.

Thanks to all who showed up as well as performed for making it a bad ass evening---

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

Everyone shares stories of their mother. A German officer; loud and long he says his words. Like a young girl forming a bouquet by pondering each flower’s worth, flower by flower, making a whole--: in this manner he fits his words together. For desire? To passionately suffer? All listen. The spitting stops. These men are sincere and know what they hear. Even those who know no German understand at once; can feel the words: “Abends”… “Klein war…”

Review - Soilent Green/Walken @ The Elbo Room

Soilent Green’s Sewn Mouth Secrets managed to seep all the way into Maine’s back woods when I was in high school, their crusty thrasher sound and ADD time-changes carried me through the otherwise boring crap that surrounded me with hopes for better days; last night (6/19/06) at the Elbo Room was one such day. All three bands knew each other and came together for that reason as much as to play metal. Soilent Green drove up from San Diego to play this originally unscheduled show. Mendozza, traveling from Vancouver, covered the most distance and opened the set with slow sludgy riffs. The music reminded me at times of Kyuss and Sleep, at other times of other old extinct bands. The groove was mediocre but their stage presence was lacking.

Next up was Walken, I’d never heard of these guys but they’re from San Francisco and fucking rocked the place. A combination of harmonic guitar work reminiscent of the D.C. scene’s Page 99, Mannequin, and Crestfallen with sudden thrusts of screaming mayhem. Lead singer Shane Bergman kept the audience on its toes with hilarious commentary throughout the set as well as the occasional empty beer can. Walken were getting pummeled with empties by the second song. A couple people commented on the fact that the clean guitar work was sloppy but I can’t dwell on that. The over-all effect was an awesome show and the drunken stumblies over frets was not distracting, perhaps even expected. Shortly afterward I spoke with Sean Kohler (Walken guitarist with silly hat) and told him I wanted the album with the second and last songs they played on it, his response was that those songs will be on the forth-coming album so keep your ears open.


Soilent Green took the stage with a presence of experience and their sound was amazing. Brian Patton’s Mesa Boogie guitar rig was the crunchy tone-filled fuzz almost as it is on the albums, just a little more distorted and FUCKING LOUD. They opened with Forgive & Regret off the new album Confrontation. Next up ripping into the southern-fried Sewn Mouth Secretes. Then back to the new stuff with Leaves Of Three. The changes were all there and brutal as fuck. The pit was soon dominated by inhumanly large dudes and the space before the stage completely bare. A few people mentioned that it was intimidating. I’m no megalithic mastication but I had a great time jumping around. However, having the space so open was a bummer, other than pit it was just a line, two-deep, along the front of the stage screaming with Ben Falgoust. But I wasn’t really paying all that much attention to that as Soilent Green grinded away. They played all of the jazzy interludes on Sewn Mouth Secrets and it felt like we were in the Louisiana swamp drinking fresh lemonade. Hell I even swatted a few flies. The crowd demanded an encore and received one of the heaviest songs I’ve ever heard from Soilent Green. Sick show!!!

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

The man from Langenau shifts in his saddle and says: “Herr Marquis…”
His neighbor, the small fine Frenchman, had been quick to speak and laugh for the first three days. Now he is absent. He is like a child, that must sleep. Dust comes to rest and stays on his fine white collar; he doesn’t notice it. He has become a faded bouquet in his expensive saddle.
But the man from Langenau laughs and goes on: “Herr Marquis, your eyes are the same. Certainly your mother‘s eyes are the same--”
Then, all at once, the little man comes into bloom, brushes the dust off of his collar, and is like new.

Review - Hank III @ The Fillmore

Last night (6/8/06) the Fillmore Theater’s main floor was alive with boot stompin’ honky-tonkin’, shrill yee-haw’s were in the air, and toward the end of the night a giant circle pit crept up to center stage. Who else could it be, bringing together the elements of quality country and deathmetal, than Hank 3. The Murder Junkies were the opening act, the band formerly headed by G G Allin, featuring the vocals of Jeff Clayton of ANTISEEN. I missed their set due to some last minute whiskey drinkin’. The guy waiting with me for the 22 line to arrive turned out to be going to the same show and so we passed the wait with Jameson. Seven shots and one on the rocks in 45 minutes, not a bad start.

After arriving and getting drinks at the bar we stared at the sold out scene before us, cowboy hats of course, metal and country tour t’s---it was my first time in the theater and now I understand why so many people could call it there favorite venue in San Francisco; the room is huge but not too huge, with tables and balconies, and the stage is the entire width of the room more or less. Joe Buck, the bassist, came on stage while the equipment was being set up and gave one of his traditional snarls; Mohawk a mess dressed in cover-alls he set the crowd cheering. When Hank III, complete with the band, hit the stage the place exploded. He began by asking if everyone was ready to raise some hell tonight cause he was. You can imagine the response.

The first song was the title track off their new album Straight To Hell. They skipped the eerily gospel sounding intro on the album version and started the show off at rocket speed. Hank’s acoustic sounded like crisp metallic machinegun fire and then he broke in: “well, my worn out boots are takin’ me up town/ and I’m lookin’ for trouble and I wanna get loud/ serve me up a drink and I’ll shoot it back down” which seemed rather appropriate for our evening. I noticed that I was one of those obnoxious people who scream the lyrics as loud as they possibly can and that the couple in front of me had relocated, but then I realized also that I was one of hundreds of Hank fans doing so. Plus, wasn’t that what the lyrics were about?

The second song, coming off his original album Risin’ Outlaw, was one of several surprises Hank had in store that night. The next astonishment was Adam McOwen’s fiddle solo. I wish I could convincingly describe the rapid speed and hardcore intensity that he put through those speakers --- it blew away the entire crowd, you could look over and just see jaws across the board flapping in the tonal blast. At the end of the song/solo there was a half-second when everyone was still in shock, a brief glimpse into the swollen awe in everyone’s chest, and then a forest fire of applause. It wasn’t a Gibson Flying V, it was fiddle, but he could tour with Slayer and still kick ass.



Hank and co. must have played almost everything off of Straight To Hell with the crowd backing up the chorus lines and rebel yells in step with the more anti-establishment lyrics. That’s when it began to wear on me, these anti-pop catch-phrases were being gobbled up while some of his more impressive musical feats were passing by unnoticed, but that’s show business, right? The less familiar fans will grab onto the punch lines first, I just hope Hank doesn’t indulge them too much. Besides the new stuff he continued throwing in songs from his first two albums as well as a couple songs that I couldn’t place as covers and might have been brand new material. His cover of Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison was dead on and felt immortal, just another bad ass country singer carrying on tradition. A pleasant surprise.

Toward the end of the set Joe Buck’s stand up bass was still a-thumpin’ and McOwen’s fiddle fingers a-flyin’ but Hank’s voice began to show the effects his metal sets are taking. The metal fans were growing restless too and after about an hour he closed up shop with Five Shots Of Whiskey, did a brief rockin’ switch with the Damn Band and Gary Lindsay on back up vox, then took intermission. At this point I was totally in the bag what with the many shots and massive hits of weed from pipes, joints and whatever else was being passed around. The rest of the show was spent jumping around in the pit and throwing metal horns to the sky; I think I remember him saying that a song was a Super Joint Ritual cover, the band that Hank joined up with Phil Anselmo from Pantera. Otherwise it was a heavy blur of metal.

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

Riding, riding, riding, through the day, through the night, through the day.
Riding, riding, riding.
And the courage has worn so and the longing grown so large. Never any mountains anymore, hardly a tree. Nothing dares stand up. Unknown buildings huddle, thirsty, by a marsh stream. Nowhere a tower. And always the same picture-- Man has two eyes too many. Only at times in the dark can a man believe he knows the way. Perhaps we return day after day to the same piece of land that we painstakingly won already under the strange sun. It could be. The sun is heavy like it is at home in the middle of summer. But we took our leave in the summer. The dresses of the women shone reaching for the ground… and now we ride all day. It must be autumn by now. At least somewhere, women sadly know of us.

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

R. M. Rilke wrote this as a young man (age 25) in one night, 1899. Though it tells the story of a man fighting in Hungery in 1663 it gained immediate success during its 1912 publication selling 8,000 copies in three weeks. I love this work for its simplicity; Rilke was capable of fitting a lot into basic physical gestures and landscapes.

Die Weise von Lieben und Tod
des Cornets Christoph Rilke

(The Lay of the Love and Death
of Cornet Christoph Rilke)

“…the 24th of November, 1663. Otto of Rilke / of Langenau / Granitz and Zierga / travelled to Linda to collect reperations for his fallen brother Christoph who fell in the campaign in Hungary. He demanded compensation / but the Lehensreichung would give nothing / Otto of Rilke walked into the same trap his brother Christoph had (a man in a beige uniform brought him the death certificate: Cornet in the Campaign of Baron von Pirovano the Imperial etc.. All the men on horseback of the Heyershen regiments…were deceased) and returned home…”

ZINE Review - WT Chronicles

Written by men and women on or below the poverty line, WT Chronicles gives a voice to people usually voiceless by exploring issues of class, gender, self-esteem, and life.

WT “White Trash” Chronicles was established by Jen and Sonia; both single mothers who balance work and community action. Jen works full time at a homeless shelter and Sonia volunteered to help rebuild Katrina-Country last spring. Jen is currently enrolled in the Stonecoast MFA program at the University of Southern and Sonia is a recent college graduate. Their mission statement describes WT Chronicles as “a publication celebrating working class writing and art” in an attempt to “fully explore the conditions of poverty that many Americans live under”.

I first met Jen and Sonia at a poetry reading held at Acoustic Coffee every Tuesday (located at 32 Danforth St.), and quickly noticed the effectiveness of the zine, then going into its 11th issue and 11th month. Inside of issue 11 the prose ranged from mamaspitfire’s essay on Class, Masculinity, and the Capitalist Blues, which used real life stories to show how the social construct of male-as-breadwinner has been used to exploit working class men, to The Boss, a work of fiction written by WonderBred about… you guessed it. WT Chronicles also crams in poetry, cartoons, revolutionary lyrics, black and white illustrations, and samples of essays written by recognized writers responding to the politics of class. Not an inch of space is wasted because of the number submissions that Jen and Sonya receive each month.

Besides revealing the local talent, Jen and Sonya have used WT Chronicles as the focus of an educational lecture at the University of Southern Maine and held a benefit with the Portland Victory Gardens Project to benefit Maine Books for Prisoners. This latter feat was achieved by presenting a night of poetry, much of which was previously published in the zine. The turnout filled every seat in the room and left many standing. Since my initial encounter, WT Chronicles has reached its 14th issue and put up a website. If you aren’t in Portland the same week that Kinko’s gets ripped off and miss the printed version, visit wtchronicles.org to find selections from past and present issues’. Another way to get your hands on future WT Chronicles is to write Jen and Sonia at wtchronicles@hotmail.com. WT Chronicles will release a new issue next month (5/1/06).

Statue of a Human Head. . .

Made of Missing Shoes and
Coffee Cups or Dog Bowls

a dog lifts its leg
to the train

as it goes
whistling by

its owner.
how many times

sheltered
rhythms

one’s own heart beat
catches on

the sleeve
of a cabman driving

with a drunken fare
to Vegas marriage.

I bore him
for a moment

and it took all
my strength.

1/17/06

Review - Hank Williams III - Straight To Hell

The best approach to Hank III’s new double disc album Straight To Hell (released Feb. 28 ‘06 on BRUC Records) is to sit down just before dark with a bottle of whiskey and a joint the size of Grandma’s turkey baster; within seconds you will realize that the HELL raised tonight comes from a whole new dimension. Cause Hank’s music is a lifestyle, it’s a hell raisin’, honky-tonkin’, pot smoking’, girly lovin’, train hoppin’, belt buckle wearin’, tattoed manifesto of a lil’ something called country. Hank and the Damn Band represent an American anti-culture that originated before Johny Appleseed even planted a tree and long before Garth Brooks showed up, as Hank’s family history attests. With his new album comes the next heel stompin’ jambory, and damn it’s been a while.

Straight To Hell’s sound, at first, is that of traditional country album. Steel guitar twang, boppin’ bass, fiddle-sqeal, and banjo strummin’ announce the first song. It sounds like an ancient record found at some garage sale that you happened to take home and haven’t stop listening to since. A rare find, a glimpse at old time reality--to help induce this skunky nostalgia Hank and the Damn Band did all the recording themselves in a “good wooden room” in Nashville, on a Korg D1600, as the album jacket boasts; a simple recording device with built-in CD burner. The ambiance is as low down and dirty as the lyric’s subject matter. But don’t be fooled, as steeped in tradition as this album appears, its full of surprises, like the sample of low rolling Satan-laughter 34 seconds into track 1.

The story-telling lyrics tell about living hard, the drinkin’ and druggin’ and how it’s all going down hill. But the morel is always the same: we’ll get by somehow, and there ain’t no other kind of livin’! Hank has a rare talent for putting the listener in the condition he describes. So maybe you haven’t woken up surrounded by empty bottles, broken glass, the sound of someone crying, and bullets in the walls, but gad-damn if he doesn’t put you there. And if you have been there, he’ll comisserate with you about it. Hank’s other favorite subject is heartbreak, a subject everyone can relate with, though this album is not as saturated with love songs as his last release, Lovesick, Broke & Driftin’. The lonesome cowboy isn’t gone completely, Hank’s yodel still rings true on many songs, imbibing them with sorrow, but the hard partying cowboy wrote most of this album.

Besides the 13 tracks on Disc 1, Hank III gives a 42 minute long track on Disc 2. It is a solo perfomance full of psycodelic samples, tweaked production, and good ol’ country songs. Disc 2 reveals Hank’s desire and ability to take country in truly original directions. Songs proudly mock polite society as well as “pop country” by combining country crooning with punk and metal screams lowly mixed into the background. The overall effect is a violence that many will find distasteful, exemplified in Not Everyone Likes Us: “I think I’d rather eat the barrel/ of a double farrel loaded shotgun/ than hear that shit/ they call pop country music/ on 98.1”. But the bottom line - straight up - distorted screams have never been mixed with traditional country before this album. And only Hank III could make it work. Straight To Hell is written for anyone who loves good ol’ country music and likes raisin‘ a little hell. Don’t expect Straight to Hell to let you go to bed early, but if you play it at Grandma’s she probably won’t listen carefully enough to catch all the Satan stuff.

Blueberries By The Bay

Maine is one of the largest producer of blueberries in the world and consequently has a fondness for the small colorful fruit. And not simply for its taste. With recent studies showing that eating blueberries is good for your health, the rest of the world has begun to take notice of blueberries, and this means more business. But behind the world-wide trade of blueberries and the big companies like Wyman’s or Cherryfield Foods Inc., lie the small Maine communities who make it all possible.

I grew up in Cherryfield Maine, a five and half hour drive to Boston, an hour drive to New Brunswick Canada, a five minute drive to the Atlantic ocean. Ever heard of it? Few people have, though it is the “blueberry capitol of the world”. There, blueberries are a way of life. At age 12 every August began to take on a new meaning: three to four weeks of waking up before the sunrise and to spend a grueling day bent over on the blueberry barrens raking beneath a hot sun, treelines in the distance, the only source of shade.

Arriving on the barrens, the bushes are still covered with the night’s dew. I wear several layers of clothes to keep warm though all but shorts and a t-shirt will be left when the day is through. I grab my rake and a stack of boxes and move toward the first available row. After a few jabs with my rake, my hands and feet are soaked and my back aches from the days before. I can smell the sweet fermented scent of crushed blueberries underfoot. How am I going to manage another 10 to 12 hours of this?
The days are filled with hard work but something invaluable comes with this yearly harvest: co-workers. Maine’s blueberry harvest employs around 8,000 annually, many of whom come from out-of-state, bringing with them a brief period of cultural diversity in my usually quiet town. To judge how close the season is to beginning, I need merely observe the number of new faces at the local “corner store”. The majority of blueberry harvesters are Mexican or Native American, however people from all walks of life are present.

The relationships that develop on the barrens rarely last longer than the blueberry season, though some lead to one or two letters. As people travel from all-over to come rake they have stories from all over. A Mic-Mac Indian from New Brunswick was at one time the Golden Gloves Champion of the world (though he was not a very good raker). Another man I met had worked with my favorite actor a couple months before in Texas. Felix, a Mexican who spoke strong English, would tell me about his family back home and how they depended upon the blueberry harvest. He also taught me how to eat a Mango. Later in the year, perhaps on a winter day, I might receive a letter from a fellow raker now far from Maine, in a place I could only dream about at 12.

Now the cultural diversity is here to stay. The migrant influx has resulted in making my hometown one of Maine’s most culturally diverse, quite a feat for a downeast town of just over 1000 inhabitants. And it was the blueberries that brought the diversity. At the end of the sweaty day, drinking by the water truck, I learned that the world is a much larger place than the street I grew up on and the town whose limits might also have been mine. Every August the lesson is taught again.