TruckerMythology

Dead

2008-09-19T00:37:00.000-07:00

This blog's dead. Check out my living wine blog or my myspace page, which features my photos of metal shows and tattoo conventions. Take it easy---

Demiricous

2008-05-06T18:44:00.002-07:00

Album: Two (Poverty)
Label: Metal Blade
Released: October, 16th, 2007

If you’re wearing a trucker-hat and shootin’ at cats, you’ll love this album. Heshers unite! Demiricous, outta Indianapolis, brings a hopeless night of boozin’ to your one horse town. Two (Poverty), the appropriately named follow-up to One (Hellbound), is full of quickly changing riffs that keeps their straight-up approach to rock‘n’roll interesting. With lyrics like “There is no value/I have no trust/I represent nothing/So fuck yourself,” vocalist Nate Olp spreads visions of a world of depression, poverty, and self-loathing shared by bands like FaceDownInShit, Eyehategod, and Buzzoven. Unlike these bands, Demiricous does not cross into the sludge genre. Instead, they keep it dirty with guitars mixed in the forefront with a ton of crunch and fuzz, similar to the likes of Corrosion of Conformity. Chris Cruz plays all around his kit and creates a similarly huge thunder. The recording allows his double-bass and tom-work to make any stereo’s speakers tremble with pleasure. While the chunka-chunka-chunka of the guitars can get old at points, none of the songs are obvious throw-aways. Two (Poverty) serves a nice shot of metal, straight up.

Meshuggah

2008-05-06T18:44:00.001-07:00

Album: obZen
Label: Nuclear Blast
Release: March 11th, 2008

A big wet arterial spray by the name of obZen has saturated records stores worldwide. Though the first 8 seconds may fool you into believing you accidentally picked up a Tool album, the crazy people will soon begin raving, and they won’t stop for another 52 minutes. The Swedish war machine’s signature creation - complex rhythm cycles tightly held within 4/4 timing - has become even more intricate, concocted with the precision of a nihilistic scientist (or is it scientific nihilist… I can never get these things straight). Track 3, Bleed, shows the band rearing its decapitated head with inventive perfection: they create an all encompassing swarm of tone that sounds like the tightening and loosening of a guitar string in perfect pitch.

Masterfully recorded at their own Fear and Loathing Studio in Stockholm, Sweden, the production is impeccable. Dick Lövgren’s bass guitar on the beginning of Lethargica is perhaps one of the loudest and most authentic bass sounds ever recorded. The only limit to which Meshuggah seems capable of succumbing is in their guitar solos, which sometimes seem to stumble forward whereas everything else does a mine-field dance. Compared with past albums, obZen is the obvious next step for Meshuggah; a bit more melodic (Fredrik Thordendal and Mårten Hagström’s 8 string guitars are doing them justice), incredibly aggressive, and staggeringly complex. With Tomas Haake’s jarring but somehow coherent downbeats, obZen is another feat of musicianship that retains its listenability. Meshuggah have again made progress through their surgical experiments on music’s anatomy, and may I add, without remorse.

Animosity

2008-05-06T18:43:00.004-07:00

Album: Animal
Label: Metal Blade
Release: October, 2 2007

When metal sounds like it’s on the verge of losing control, it usually affects the listener in strange ways. The listener may begin to thrash around, break things, or react with other acts of violence, forcing innocent onlookers to question his/her mental health. Please expect these reactions while listening to Animosity’s recent progress: it wears a mask of absolute fucking chaos. Leo Miller’s singing is the main contributing factor to this madness. His vocals overstep their expected timing regularly, doing a dance around the music.
Animal is the group’s follow-up to premiere album Shut It Down (2003). The crew, straight outta The Bay Area, are just over 20 years of age, and as with several of their contemporaries, musically advanced far beyond their years. Guitarists Frank Costa and Chase Fraser and bassist Evan Brewer bring a practically endless number of different cadences to each riff. Mastodon-like guitar runs might ring out for a second or two, a good example comes 54 seconds into the title, but they never fully indulge in that sound, always keeping it metal. So aggressive are the guitars when combined with Navene Koperwies’s drumming that the album’s multitude of stops may not register until the second listening.
This proof of technical ability itself may also come as a shock since the initial experience is, as aforementioned, that of total fucking chaos. Evangelicult, clocking in at 4 seconds, is a fucking ballad. The rising, tormented scream beginning the awesome: You Can’t Wait, stands out as a reminder that the fury of this album does not lessen. Animal has the complexity and precision of a machine, but the primal rage of an animal working on reptilian reflexes.

Crom

2008-05-06T18:43:00.003-07:00

Album: Hot Sumerian Nights
Label: Underdogma Records
Released: between 2 months and 2,000,000,000 years ago

Crom is the sexy beast you’ve never dared let out. A beast that craves the overdose and the whore, and doesn’t really care what you think. Hot Sumerian Nights is its soundtrack, a grinding smorgasbord of sample-filled decadence. By the time I heard the singer do an arrogant imitation of scat between songs, I was hooked. Unlike many bands, they do not use samples superfluously, but to create an atmosphere of chaos with the scatological humor of Blood Duster. For example, on track 22 an eerie horror sample begins playing on a cassette tape and then someone hits stop: the slap of the outdated tape coming to a halt stings like a slap from Jani Lane (vocalist of Warrant).

Crom supposedly originated in LA in 1992, but I don’t believe anything they say. They released The Cocaine Wars in 2001, on Theologian, as a nameless trio, then in 2005, added two more nameless members and began recording Hot Sumerian Nights. At least that’s what the press release says. As with all good grindcore, the album has a short attention span. Few of their heavy but lighthearted riffs actually materialize into songs. However, songs like Battle Axe Butchery/Banned In B.C. and Zamora are pure grindcore. The band’s ability to completely change its mind at any point is actually appealing: it’s close to impossible to be bored by this album.

I’m pretty sure that when Crom say “two-year recording process” at “Snow Cave Studios” it’s just code for a serious LA coke-binge (the guys obviously couldn’t keep up an interest in anything else [see: Hot Sumerian Nights]). Regardless of what they do in their spare time, this album does rock. At the end of the title track, a sample asks: Isn’t this overkill? And yes, yes it certainly is. Let that beast out baby.

Crom

2008-05-06T18:43:00.001-07:00

Genghis Tron - Board Up The House

2008-05-06T18:42:00.002-07:00

Label: Relapse
Release Date: February, 19th 2008

Genghis Tron has created a dreamy, trance-infused landscape that lulls the listener into a cheap 3-D animated oasis before bursting it apart with pure sonic rage. Relying less on The Locust-esque chaos that infused their debut album, Board Up The House is orchestrated at times like an epic 80's movie soundtrack (think: The Road Warrior). Both vocally and instrumentally, songs like "I Won't Come Back Alive" show a complexity of melody heretofore unreached by the band. But thankfully, they also give melody the finger: Board Up The House keeps it angry, strategically placing some of its heaviest hitters toward the end with massive hooks that last only seconds and do not repeat, ensuring that this album will only get better over time. While the overall brutality has lessened, this crew straight outta Vassar College is keeping the hipsters at bay with tracks like "Colony Collapse" and "The Feast." They've done it again, walked the tight-rope between grindcore and electronica without sounding dumb.

Sworn Enemy - Maniacal

2008-05-06T18:42:00.001-07:00

Century Media Records
Release: February 12th 2008

Few bands have the ability to change genre without sounding like a bad joke. Entering the arena in 2001, Sworn Enemy was a hardcore band with metal tendencies. They produced some killer breakdowns and dueling guitar intros, but they never chose to push it to a full metal sound - until now. Maniacal combines hardcore’s clean riffs, gang vocals, and staggered drum rhythms with metal’s speed, blast beats, and dissonance, without becoming another metalcore stereotype. Sal LaCoco’s screams are surprisingly comprehensible at breakneck speeds. Granted, the guitar solos can’t hold a candle to Slayer, but Jared Buckwalter’s drum-work keeps it interesting.

The Ocean - Precambrian

2008-05-06T18:41:00.002-07:00

Metal Blade Records
Release: Nov. 27th, 2007

The Ocean is immense. It’s a story from Germany of striving for an ideal. In 1999, guitarist/songwriter Robin Straps stopped at nothing to overtake his vision, recruiting a band in Berlin, then absconding a WWII aluminum factory where they built bedrooms, rehearsal spaces, and studios. That was just the start of it…

Precambrian, their 3rd release, proceeds to spread their complex sound and philosophy. Featuring vocalists from Cave In/Old Man Gloom, Converge, Integrity, and Breach singing beside vocalist Mike Pilat. The Ocean uses violins, piano, glockenspiel, etc. supplied by the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, alongside their thundering guitars, bass, and drums, to create a somewhat Isis-like ambiance. However, they use sobering restraint: absolute heaviness is not the end-all be-all. Perhaps this creates a new type of heaviness; one that goes beyond pure aggression.

The violins on the album are often used with little accompaniment and offer a sense of tragedy that few metal bands ever have. The transitions into beautifully arranged riffs are clean and disgustingly heavy, like watching Saturday morning cartoons in your underwear then getting kicked in the balls (or tits). The harmonies and tone of the violins and piano might be trying for some listeners, but after listening a few time, the shock may turn to appreciation. Precambrian is an immense work that will take years to understand.

Brain Drill - Apocalyptic Feasting

2008-05-06T18:41:00.001-07:00

Metal Blade
February 5th 2008

When the whine of the drill commences, memories of scenes in the movie Hostel arise - a man strapped to a chair with a drill burrowing into his flesh - and then the music begins. Overtly technical, destructive, and unceasing, Brain Drill have created a monster of a first album that gives a new meaning to the word “extreme.” Do not, I repeat, do not expect the destruction to lessen at any time. At about 1:54 minutes into the title track “Apocalyptic Feasting,” the vocals have the effect of pissed of Gods arguing inside St. Peter’s Basilica. Dylan Ruskin’s (Burn at the Stake) guitar offers a fury of seemingly effortless neck-hopping from low bludgeoning riffs to some of the craziest finger-tapping I’ve ever encountered, and Marco Pitruzzella’s (Vital Remains, Vile) endless blast beats seem to break the laws of physics. I mean, like shouldn’t these guys implode or something?

Heaven Shall Burn - Iconoclast (Part 1: The Final Resistance)

2008-05-06T18:40:00.000-07:00

Century Media Records
Feb.5th 2008

Heaven Shall Burn’s songwriting has created an album that pulls each note into the next. The domino effect likewise drives each song: the space between them seeming nothing more than a rhythmic absence. In the vein of melodic metal, similar to The Black Dahlia Murder, Iconoclast’s guitar-work smoothes over their rough edges without losing heaviness. This, their fifth album, thankfully enjoys a complete absence of melodic singing. In places where it might fit, for instance “A Dying Ember,” singer Marcus Bischoff screams on key instead; a daunting task in deed, but one that he’s up for. The lyrics are loosely conceptual, based on the idea that God is dead and must be avenged. Lyric “For Years, we hide in blackness” says it all: the band has emerged again, into the light.

Ascension of The Watchers - Numinosum

2008-05-06T18:39:00.000-07:00

13th Planet Records
Feb. 19th 2008

Skillfully crafted by Burton C. Bell (Fear Factory, G//Z/R) and John Bechdel (Killing Joke, Ministry), Numinosum is designed to be a spiritual journey. At times the album can put you in a trance, particularly on Evading, with repeating melodies that move forward with a lulling cleanliness. The lyrics themselves are heavy, written from a personal place: the loss of self through tragedy. Canon For My Beloved is about losing the love of one’s life. The band reverently asks: My God, Hear My Prayer/ Can you hear me?, but by the end of the song the mantra becomes a frustrated scream. At times the album verges on pure ambience, like abstract Massive Attack, but the lyrics are very straight-forward. By the end of Numinosum, there is a peace and new relationship with reality. Depending on the current state of the listener, this album could be revelatory or else just a soundtrack to a long winter night.

Clutch's Neil Fallon: One For The Road

2008-05-06T18:33:00.002-07:00

When I first heard I was interviewing Clutch’s Neil Fallon, my blood went cold. This is a man who draws on the suprasegmentals of ancient Greek poetics while describing the nights of dereliction that most people would take to their graves. With nine full-length albums and a slew of EP’s, live recordings, and side projects, Clutch has brought rock‘n’roll into the 21st century, the weight of their innovation placed squarely on their instruments. Punk, blues, metal, gospel, and whatever else - Clutch has used it all. Their first album, Pitchfork, verged on hardcore, while their most recent album, From Beale Street To Oblivion, has strong overtones of classic rock. I was prepared to meet broody intellectuals conversing about conspiracy theories, music history, and Louisiana barbecue.

I arrived at Slim’s as they were doing soundcheck. Clutch seemed unconcerned with soundman specifics, more intent on jamming one of their older songs. I waited for them backstage, a subterranean network of graffitied rooms. Fallon arrived, with his big beard and denim jacket, trailed by a video camera collecting footage for a long-overdue documentary DVD. His composure immediately put me at ease. He is the type of guy who looks you right in the eye when you speak to him.

Clutch formed in 1990: a bunch of high school kids in Germantown, Maryland, intent on raising havoc through rock‘n’roll. “Like most people, I wanted to get out of my hometown immediately,” Fallon says. He joined the band a year later. “We started doing hardcore shows ‘cause they were the easiest to get.” And the band were taking anything they could get, sometimes getting paid in pizza. “At times, it was like licking a 9V battery. But it was great fun. It was throwing stuff over the fence and seeing where it lands - we never had a meeting and were like, we want to do this, or we have this goal, we just wanted to play shows. To be honest, a lot hasn’t really changed on that fundamental level. It’s just some guys who want to jam and learn while doing it.”

Tim Sult (guitar) and Jean-Paul Gaster (drums) were the technically trained musicians in the band. When they took the stage later that night, the combination of Sult being totally cranked and Clutch’s streamlined sound made for an absolutely massive guitar tone. The slightest contact between pick and string would resound through the room. Accordingly, Sult’s rhythms and solos had to be dead on. When the band formed, Fallon played guitar - in his words - “very very poorly. Then I started singing. I was actually a fill-in for their other singer who couldn’t make a show; then I kept filling in.” Hard to imagine anyone besides Fallon singing for the band: they’ve kept the same line-up since recording their first album. Dan Maines on bass was trained similarly. “Dan had an electric guitar, and we asked him if he could play bass. He said yes, though he’d never seen a bass or touched a bass. At least that’s how he puts it.”

The band was entertaining the idea of college when they started getting bigger and better shows. For Fallon, the idea of being a professional musician seemed too good to be true. “I spent many years thinking that this wasn’t going to last. It really wasn’t until 2000 that it really dawned on me that this wasn’t going to end.” Touring with bands like Pantera, Slayer, Corrosion of Conformity, Therapy?, System of a Down, and Iron Maiden must have gotten the point across.

Hearing the content of Fallon’s lyrics one might suspect that he was raised by a family of truckers, spent time in outer space, and dated Marilyn Monroe. “When I hear either a great story or something outlandish it makes me listen to what a person is saying.” A good example are the opening lines to 10001110101: Ribonucleic acid freak out/the power of prayer/Long halls of science/and all the lunatics committed there/Robot Lords of Tokyo/SMILE TASTE KITTENS. Fallon can go from badass, to thought-provoking, to absurd in seconds.

“To be honest, half the time when I’m looking at a finished song I’ll ask: What the hell’s this about? But I know if it sounds good. Maybe in a couple years I come to understand it, in retrospect. I just look at writing lyrics as having a complete carte blanche. You can say whatever you want. No one believes horror writers or science fiction writers have been to the places they write about. Sometimes people are taken a back by the absurdity in rock and music, but I’ve always loved that. There’s never really any message, ‘cause I’m always changing my own opinions about stuff. If anything, it has to have a balance between giving people enough tangible things to listen to, while also giving them enough elbow room to create their own input. That keeps it alive. If everything were written in obvious terms, it’d be dead in the water.” Clutch’s website designer, Doug Fisher, came up with the cool idea of linking Fallon’s references within the lyrics portion of the site. For example, click on “little bunny fu fu” and you go to www.bussongs.com.

Gospel also plays into Fallon’s style, imbuing him with the air of a preacher. It is not uncommon to hear “Can I get an Amen” during a Clutch song. He was not, however, raised on such music. “I went to Catholic Church, man. They had a lot more bells and smoke.” He fell in love with it through television and the radio. “Just the groove of it: it has a huge swing and melodies that went into the blues and rock‘n’roll. They really aren’t that far flung from each other when you look at the family tree of rock and music.”

During the last-minute set up at Slim’s, the crowd swelled in anticipation of Clutch. It’s hard to be an opening band anywhere, but in San Francisco the audience won’t even arrive until the headliner begins to set up, preferring to smoke cigarettes in the fog than watch untried bands. I asked the dude in charge of Clutch’s merch table if a lot of people mosh at Clutch shows. He said no. He was wrong. Clutch played all their favorite songs to a room full of maniacs: Immortal, Tight Like That, I Have The Body of John Wilkes Booth, 10001110101, Cypress Grove, The Mob Goes Wild, and choice selections from Beale Street, to name a few. Gaster did several drum solos, and similar improvisation ran through the whole band, often resulting in fifteen-minute compositions of two or more songs. Unfortunately, organist Mick Schauer, who has been featured on Clutch’s last two recordings, was not present. Sarah Billiet, cellist and organist of opening band Murder By Death, instead provided accompaniment on a couple of Beale Street’s songs.

The sleek, classic sound of From Beale Street To Oblivion fit nicely beside Clutch’s more metal songs, and sounded more aggressive live than on the recording. Back in 1995, Dan said, "We may not sound like Led Zeppelin or Black Sabbath or AC/DC or bands like that, but we owe more to that kind of band in a way than any other." On Beale Street these influences are felt more than any other album. Fallon doesn’t want to look at it as a return to their roots, however. “The more we play the more we understand rock’n’roll music and we’ve come to appreciate the confluence between American blues men and English rockers, that period of time when classic blues and rock just mated, between 1975 and 65’. That’s when my favorite music was made. I don’t think we ever want to consciously go back to our roots. It’s sort of giving up and surrendering and we always want to move forward.”

If there is one thing that defines Clutch, it’s constantly moving forward. Fallon hates the idea of having a crutch, whether it be LSD or four-four timing. “Reality, as it is, seems to be pretty entertaining. I don’t need to make it any more exciting because it’s pretty overwhelming as it is.” Their work ethic has them jamming 3-4 times a week and “time off” is more of a mindset than an actuality. “We’ll get back from tour and in a week be back at JP’s place. Sometimes you have to bang your head against the wall for weeks, but then you’ll have this moment when, all of a sudden, there’s half a dozen songs. Having played together for so long we can anticipate each other’s intents. At this point, playing with other musicians is like learning another language. But it’s important to risk failure, it helps you reference where you are and where you shouldn’t go.”

Beale Street was recorded in an entirely different style than previous Clutch recordings. Upon settling the basic track list, the band began a two-week tour across the country that ended in an L.A. studio, with producer “Evil” Joe Barresi (Tool, Queens Of The Stone Age). Having toured with the songs, they were fresh in their minds and in their fingertips while recording. The process gave Beale Street a live feel, a richness or soul. “I like songs where you can hear someone inhaling or the squeaking of a high-hat hardware. It makes it sound like you’re in the room. It’s got more presence. Whereas recordings that are sterile, just a list of songs, are maybe sonically impressive, seem kind of dead to me.” Mick Schauer’s B3 organ (or “sonic trampoline,” as Gaster calls it) added its warm tone to a second Clutch album, again allowing Sult the freedom to do more solos as on Robot Hive/Exodus.

With “2 dozen ideas” for songs already in the works since recording Beale Street, it sounds like Clutch will continue releasing an album almost yearly since ‘97. Fallon has also recently released a side project called The Company Band, and Gaster, Sult, Maines, and Schauer have completed work in their side project, The Bakerton Group. When I asked Fallon to predict the future ten years from now, he answered realistically, and optimistically: “Let’s see, that will be 2018.” He screwed up his eyes. “Hopefully, we’ll still be making music. Touring gets harder the older you get, not because your back hurts but because your roots get deeper at home and your responsibilities get deeper. Hopefully, we’ll still be able to go around the world and play rock‘n’roll and entertain people while doing it. ‘Entertainment’ sounds like a cheap idea, but that’s really what it is. People work all week and by the time Friday or Saturday rolls around, they want to adjust their head a little bit. To be able to do that here, there and anywhere, that’s all I can really ask for.”

Scarecrow

2008-05-06T18:33:00.001-07:00

Scarecrow is an integral part of the Bay Area’s metal, its members having made up such bands as Exhumed, Dekapitator, Repulsion, Old Grandad, Vicious Rumors, and Cutthroats 9. With this band history, you wouldn’t expect anything less than what Scarecrow brings, but you might not be ready for it. Matt Harvey’s and Bud Burke’s dualing solos are seemless, Will Carroll exploding like a suicide bomber behind them, and Damien Sisson’s bass drives them onward. To put it simply, Scarecrow’s concept of a break down is a drop from 300bpm to 250bmp. But they don’t skimp on catchy riffs: the hooks are there, as the audience at Annie’s Social Club attested, their fists raised to the chorus of Twilight’s Last Gleaming. I actually cracked a few ribs that night, while trying to photograph them, and that, in the morning, if not anything else, made me think of Scarecrow.

Mattie: How would you describe Scarecrow‘s sound?

Matt: Ugh, metal? Old school metal.
Damien: I always say “classic metal?”
Will: I always say all the “M” metal bands: Metallica, Motörhead, Megadeth, Metal Church, Mercyful Fate… all those bands. We’re just a big M.

Mattie: What are you looking forward to about the tour?

Will: Playin’ to people other than ex-girlfriends and drunks I’ve known for 15 years. (laughs) It’s the first tour any of us have done in a while, so it’s a bonus.
Damien: I’m interested to see how the band works together, and see if by the end we have a new perspective on our playing.

Mattie: And you’ve got a new album to promote?

Matt: It’s a split with Landmine Marathon, a kind of death-core band, similar to Bolt Thrower. It won’t be one of those splits where you can’t tell the difference between the first and the second band. (laughs)

Mattie: How’d recording go?

Matt: We’d only been playin for a couple months when we started to record. The guitar tracks turned out to be unusable so we went to a whole separate studio, and then those weren’t usable and that was totally my fault. So we did it again. It seemed like this endless process, and definitely the last time we record like that.
Damien: I remember what you said, Yeah, it should be done and out by January, 2007.
Matt: I meant ‘08. (laughs) I think when we started, we didn’t even have Bud yet.
Will: I didn’t even know this guy yet! Neither me or Damien. Actually, we didn’t know Bud until a couple days before our first gig.
Damien: Like first practice, it was like, lets take some photos.

Matt: Bud, yr solos are crazy, how do you play guitar so fast?

Bud: No life. Stayin’ at home and just jammin’. It’s not a very exciting story. I’m just totally addicted and love it.
Matt: The lady of the lake came out of the swamp and taught him…
Will: Yeah, he goes home and squeezes madballs all the time.

Mattie: I thought a madball was an eight ball in a sock?

Will: No, the little monster head balls.

Mattie: Did you approach it technically or just from loving it?

Bud: For a long time I didn’t know what I was doing, just jamming’ and havin’ fun. Eventually, I learned some music theory because I got more curious about how it worked. From there I began to practice scales. I’m the scale guy and Matt’s the riff guy.
Will: Before our first gig I walked into the studio and Bud was doing the Pac-Man theme song, and I was like: This guy is in.

Mattie: Will, you’re playing in four bands right now?

Will: No. Scarecrow is the only real active band. Old Grandad plays here and there and Ulysses’s Siren and Warning are both on hiatus.

Mattie: How do you hold all those songs in yr head?

Matt: This guy has a photographic memory. He not only knows all of those songs, but he knows every metal cover song, straight through.
Will: Yeah, I really don’t know how, cause I don’t take care of my brain, that’s for sure.

Mattie: Where do most of the lyrics come from?

Matt: I wrote the first few songs when I was working at Alternative Tentacles (Jello Biafra’s record label) and I got exposed to a lot of political shit. So the earlier ones were political and the most recent ones are about kickin’ ass.
Will: It’s about putting the scalple down and pickin’ up a baseball bat.
Matt: Just shit that fits the engery of the music. The music is heavy and aggressive and powerful so… even the political lyrics aren’t about telling people what to do. The whole thing for me is keeping them open ended enough for people to take what they want from it, if they want to. Or else they could say, I like music that’s loud and angry and I don’t care what the guys sayin’. Nothin’ too fancy. Not savin’ the world.

Mattie: Speaking of saving the work, if Scarecrow were president for one day, what would be the first thing you’d do?

Bud: I’ve definitely got my agenda planned. If we were president, #1: legalize pot.
Matt: I’d use it to make lots and lots of money.
Will: While they’d be doing that, I’d be sleeping.

Scarecrow recently released a split with Landmine Marathon on Level Plane Records. They’re available at www.level-plane.com and at all their shows. With the new album done, they’re looking to work with a record label.

Fueled By Fire

2008-05-06T18:31:00.001-07:00

FUELED BY FIRE
by Buttface Bamman

Fueled By Fire isn’t what you might expect of a thrash-metal band. Don’t get me wrong: the riffs are there, the mind-blowing shred-skills, the skank beats, nihilistic lyrics, and whammy bar shrieks… but they aren’t even old enough to drink! In fact, Chris Monroy, one of the two lead guitarists, is just 16, and I predict he’ll have set several fret boards on fire by voting age. Ugh… heh heh. Though their songs may make you want to parachute into a nuclear holocaust, they’re totally chill guys. They’ve got the unique excitement of a band being recognized all over the world for the first time. But they definitely aren’t boasting; they’re just happy that people like their music.
It’s easy to imagine that Fueled By Fire are at the beginning of a prolific music career. They’ve been signed by Metal Blade Records with a three CD deal: the first, Spread The Fire, was released in September ‘07; and this April they’ll leave for their first European tour. For a band that plays mostly underage shows, they’ve got a lot of growing room (in fact, this, the night of their first Northwest American Tour, was their first 21+ only show ever). For more on upcoming tours, check out www.myspace.com/fueledbyfire. Ugh… heh heh, you said moron.

Buttface Bamman: So heh heh… do you guys like, do it?

Band: What?

BF: You know, score with chicks and stuff?

Rick: Yeah, we do it all the time.

BB: Whoa.

Carlos: It's all about the music: fast and loud.
Rick: It drives us, it drives everyone in the crowd. Bang your head!

BB: Spread The Fire is cool. Have people…aghh…like have
people…ugh…are people like, whoa… this is the most awesome thing I've ever heard?

Carlos: Yeah. Surprisingly. I mean around the world and shit. Particularly Germany. I mean, there's nothing but metal over there and for them to say that we're true metal…
Rick: It's a fuckin' honor.

BB: Do you ever like, write a song, like, dnnn dnnn dnnn dnn,
dnnndnnndnnddnn when your like in line at Walgreens, and then wanna punch people and like, smear Vagisil all over their face?

Rick: Yeah, sometimes I want to punch people in the face. You hear it all in yr head. We've been playin' in the same garage for 5 years now. We try not to sit down and just say, we need to write a song now, and it has to be this long, and whatnot. We just jam.

BB: Some dude, earlier, said you were like, Fueled By Fashion… do you wanna like, call up his mom and like, spank her?

Rick: I'd rather beat the shit outta that guy. He doesn't know us.
Carlos: Yeah he doesn't know we've always dressed this way. The way we dress is a way of life for us. All of this shit is a way of life. These guys can talk their shit.
Anthony: At least they know who we are. We don't know who they are.
Rick: No one's ever said anything to our face either.

BB: Ugh… you guys ever smashed your instruments?

Rick: I want to… but it's too expensive.
Chris: If it wasn't mine maybe. I love my guitar.

BB: On that song Dreams of Terror, at about 2 ½ minutes in, it sounds like some guy got up in the background and went:
blahblahhhblalhdalsdhladjflajdsgfdsagdl;k!!!#!%!$#rqf!

Anthony: What part was that?
Carlos: Oh, the back up part. That was actually two separately
recorded tracks, one high and one low, and we put them together and made it sound just like Freddy Krueger. We were pretty surprised, so we kept it.

BB: Ugh, you're going to like, destroy this western us tour, what are you most excited for?

Carlos: Meeting the people who like our music. We've got a few 21 and older shows so that's cool. Then the second half of the tour will be all ages shows, and that will rule.

BB: You're set to do the Reign of Tyrants/Keep It True X festival in Germany this April. Will it be your first time playing in Europe?

Anthony: Yeah, I'm a first time flyer. I'm fuckin' scared.
Carlos: Right now, this tour will be our first time out of the state, except once in Mexico.

BB: If you could say one thing to your high school principle, what would it be?

Carlos: You are a fuckin' burnout.
Anthony: Look at me now bitch! There were a group of them dude.
Rick: Yeah, they were all dicks. There was some punk band that wrote a song that said, Fuck Mr. Z.
Carlos: Oh yeah, Mr. Z. They fucked with him. They were like: Fuck Mr. Z!
Rick: Anyway, he probably wouldn't even recognize us.
Carlos: I wouldn't recognize him.

BB: All joking aside, it's been damn impressive talking with you guys, I don't know what I expected, ugh…heh heh, but it's been great. Anything you'd like to tell our readers?

Anthony: Hopefully we'll be playing before you soon.
Carlos: Thanks for all the support.
Rick: Just want to say thank you.

The Dry Spells

2008-05-06T18:30:00.001-07:00

The Hemlock was packed in anticipation of the unique blend of folk and rock that can only be described as: The Dry Spells. Tahlia Harbour and April Hayley’s vocals saturated the venue with layers of harmony while, amazingly enough, still sounding bashful; reminiscent of daughters asking permission to go to the movies with plans of running away from home. Adria Otte’s guitar achieved an eerie, old-world ambience within the melange of instruments, including two new additions to the band: ex-drummer Raphi Gottessman and bassist Diego Gonzales. It was the band's first night playing a show with Raphi in four years, but the connection was there; the wide variety of instruments forming a wave of eclectic sound. Having gone to college with the band, it was nice to catch up in a dimly lit alley, before the show.

Mattie: You always seem to have a new instrument when I see you, how do you come across them?

April: We do have some incidental instruments, like the shruti box and the melodica.. they’re kinda like toys. They just kinda make their way into our lives and we play with them. We also have a rain stick tonight. (laughs)

Mattie: How would you describe your music?

Tahlia: It’s rock music. I want to use that broad term to keep it open to all the influences that we have.
April: Some people have described it as tapestry rock, because we weave so many layers together. It’s not conceptual in any way. It’s an aesthetic vacuum.

Mattie: The first song you wrote was based on a girl who was accidentally killed by a deer hunter, why did that compel you to write?

April: I guess I’ve always been intrigued by tragic tales. It seemed like a very poetic thing to happen, even though it was real, it seemed like it could be a folk song. So I made it into one.

Mattie: How did you ever begin to work together on those incredible vocal harmonies?

Tahlia: It happened very naturally. Completely. And I’ve never sung with anyone where it happened that way.
April: Me either. (awe’s)

Mattie: You do a version of Black Is The Color, a traditional and well-covered folk song: How’d you do it differently?

Adria: We actually wrote the music first without the song in mind.
Tahlia: We’d been playing around with some old folk songs, and the melody just fit.

Mattie: What are some of your favorite venues to play in?

Adria: I really like Café du Nord.
Tahlia: I like the Hemlock too.
Adria: I really like playing in people’s living rooms, but we hardly ever do that.
April: Yeah, playing at parties rocks. There are some really cool houses to play in.

Mattie: Like warehouse parties?

April: No, this big beautiful punk, like Victorian house, between Capp and 17th.
Adria: I think it’s called the Capp Street Asylum or something. I don’t think they actually do shows there any more.
Tahlia: We want to start playing haunted houses.
April: Yeah, just haunted houses. A haunted house tour.
Tahlia: We’d also like to play weddings.
April: We used to have this band called The Special Occasions…
Tahlia: We’d play anything, your cat’s funeral… or if you were just fired…

Mattie: Where did you find the art for your CD cover?

April: That’s my boyfriend, Devin Cecil-Wishing, and he has a website. He collected the items in the picture because they reminded him of us, then painted them. I found the dead hummingbird.

Mattie: So how have The Dry Spells changed since our time together at Bard College?

Tahlia: I think we started playing music together because we were all friends, and now it’s moved beyond just friendship. We’re trying to play things more beautifully and more accurately now. We also added a bass player.
April: When we were in NY, I feel like we didn’t even know what we were doing?
Adria: Yeah, all the academic distractions. (laughs) I feel like the Bay Area and the Hudson Valley are both beautiful settings that we reflect in our sound and lyrics.
April: Raphi, do you have anything to add, since you were in the band six years ago, then quit on us?
Raphi: Well, I just moved here from the east coast and joining the band had a big influence on that. Caitlin, the old drummer, and I were going opposite directions; we waved on the road.

Mattie: What’s gonna change now that your back?

Raphi: We’re all like a family and I think I know where the music is coming from. A band can do serious music and still be spontaneous. I think we’ll feed off each other that way… we’ll see what happens tonight.

Mattie: What drew the band to the Bay in the first place?

April: I just followed the rest of them, I didn’t want to come here at all.
Adria: I’d been thinking about moving here while at Bard. For my interests too. I didn’t want to go to NYC… I used to come here every summer to visit family.
Tahlia: We recorded some music here our freshman year in college. To play music it helps to have a community, and the Bay area is pretty laid back. We’ve met a lot great musicians here.

Mattie: Do you think SF is a scam?

April: Oh shit, that girl just fell! Um, I don’t think I could live here for the rest of my life because you’d have to live with 5 people forever. I’m never going to be rich, I’m just a librarian.
Tahlia: It’s a struggle and I definitely have my moments of frustration. But then I do get energized by all the other people who are doing creative things and how I can’t leave that. I don’t know if I‘ll ever leave, but I do get frustrated. It’s really expensive to live here.
Adria: But we might not be here for the rest of our lives guys, cause global warming will melt all the ice and then our house will be under water.

The Dry Spells hit the studio again in May to work on a full CD for fall release. To hear their music, check up on their next shows, or buy their CD’s visit: www.myspace.com/thedryspells.

High On Fire

2008-05-06T18:27:00.000-07:00

Like Hopper and Fonda in Easy Rider, High On Fire’s riffs have picked up speed. When I heard “10,000” off their 1st album in 2000, I declared the opening riff the best since Sabbath. Now, with the release of their fourth album, Death Is This Communion, Rolling Stone has also noticed Matt Pike’s ability and given him the titled of one of the Top 20 “New Guitar Gods.” Of the creative process, Pike straightforwardly says, “There are certain things you know, and certain things you dick around with.”

To see them in the Bay Area, their home, on the last night of their “first” North American tour, was ideal. The show was packed for the second night when Pike and co. launched into “Fury Whip,” the first track of Death Is This Communion. They played a few classics, notably “Eyes and Teeth,” but stuck mostly to new material. Oddly, the group played few songs from their last release, Blessed Black Wings. In the middle of the show, a masked man ran on stage in his undies and jumped around like a pixie before stage diving into the pit. From the looks on the band’s faces I don’t think they had any idea what the fuck was going on. Des Kensel’s drums sounded like Hannibal’s army of elephants grinding the skulls of the dead into dust. New bassist Jeff Matz, formerly of ZEKE, added a huge bass tone. Pike communicated with the audience crammed beneath him and got some lovin’ from the ladies in the front after the encore. But before all of this, I met up with the band to talk about the tour and home-town pride.

Mattie: I woke up really hungover. Got any good cures?

Des: There’s the spicy bloody mary…
Matt: There’s the “hair of the dog” approach, or the drug you did the night before or some drug you didn’t do that helps balance and calm you. Or of course, you could always O.D. on vitamins.

Mattie: Since touring worldwide, what do you look forward to when you return to the Bay Area?

Des: Home.
Matt and Jeff: Yeah.
Matt: Having a home. Having a girlfriend. Having some sort of life.
Des: I like coming back to a nice Bay Area burrito. Then I hit up Zack’s for a slice. Those are two of the first things.

Mattie: Matt, what was it like moving to the Bay Area from a military school in Colorado?

Matt: Ahhh, I got to be a spoiled punk rocker (laughs). I moved here in ‘89. Got to go to 942 Gilman Street. I was livin’ in San Jose but I’d drive up to Berkeley and Oakland every weekend for the metal shows. In San Jose there’s still a scene there. Growin’ up I got to see Neurosis and the Melvins and all these people that were just coming up that are, like now, they’re legends. It’s weird to see that happen in front of you.

Mattie: And Des, how’d you get out here?

Des: I grew up on the East Coast, in Connecticut, and I came out in ’96. Threw my drums in the car, and drove…

Mattie: It was random?

Des: Well, no. I wanted to stop in a couple cities and jam with people. Kinda a little drum vacation. I ran out of money in SF and had to get a job, and then I ran out of places to park my car and sleep, so I found an apartment. Then I found a girl(laughs). Then I started jammin’ with Matt and I was like, Well, I got an apartment, a girl, and a band--I’m good to go. I mean, it was during the dot com thing and finding an apartment was almost impossible. But in the Mission there was just a killer punk and metal scene and I was lovin’ it. Just goin’ to warehouse shows, specifically 17th and Capp. I just became a “local” pretty quick.

Matt: And we were spoiled. People came to our first shows immediately. Not packed…

Des: Not packed, but like a 100 or 150 people on the first night we played at the Covered Wagon Saloon…

Matt: Yeah, for a band that they’d never even heard play. We were kinda lucky like that.

Mattie: Did some fans carry over from Sleep?

Matt: Yeah, a little bit but mostly just us knowing a hella lot of people. It boosted us up, gave us the self-esteem to keep going.

Mattie: Of the members of Sleep, Al and Chris went on to form “Om” and Justin became a monk, but you just got more metal. Why?

Matt: I got sick of playin’ slow. And Des comes from a hardcore/East Coast background, so we instantly wanted to try to speed it up but not play punk rock.

Mattie: Death Is This Communion slays, how’s the tour been going?

Des: It’s been killer, very positive.
Matt: I didn’t expected this response. The changes have been like--we just have more time to sound check and make sure everything’s dialed up. We’re all getting more anal about how we like things on stage and it’s the first time we’ve got a crew, a driver… Before we’d be vanning it. We’d be that band that stays on your floor and it was cool, but it’s nice to have these amenities.

Mattie: I saw you did multiple drum tracks on some songs.

Des: I think on “Headhunter” I have 4 or 5 tracks. And three on “Khanrad’s Wall.” It’s something I wanted to do for a while.

Mattie: Some people are suggesting that the guitar was held back on this album to allow the drums come through. Have you taken a “less is more” philosophy?

Matt: I don’t know about that. I think the guitar on this album is really in your face. It’s not as dry, and it’s not as up close a sound. I think that Jack went for a little different tone. But the riffs on this album are right there. I’d have to disagree.

Mattie: And you guys met Jeff through Hank Williams the 3rd, right?

Matt: No, we‘d admired his bass tone when we toured with Zeke. What happened was, I called up Hank and asked if he’d like to be a guest bassist on our next album, cause I couldn’t figure out who to get. And he said, have you tried Jeff Matz.
Jeff: It was good timing, cause Zeke was coming to a grinding halt. Our singer/guitar player is married with a kid and isn’t really interested in touring anymore. I jammed with these guys a couple times and it sounded cool and it’s been great ever since.

Mattie: Would you say Zeke is done playing?

Jeff: Zeke still plays local shows in the Seattle area, but that’s gonna be about it.

Mattie: Matt, people are beginning to catch some of your songs’ literary influences. What are some of your favorite books?

Matt: I generally love anything by Lovecraft, the LOTR trilogy, Philip K Dick, I mean Valis is bizaar, and then there’s Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories. The lyrics have a lot of agnostic, a lot science-ficiton, religion, political things, a lot of them are masked in a duality of my personal struggles or our struggles as a band.

Mattie: You guys like to add anything?

Matt: Just, uh, High On Fire’s here to slay and here to stay! I thought that one up earlier, today… (laughs)

Cannibal Corpse's George "Corpsegrinder" Fischer

2008-05-06T18:24:00.000-07:00

It’s been 25 years since Brian Slegal founded Metal Blade Records and there’s never been a better time to be a metalhead. For this most brutal of anniversaries, the label sent Cannibal Corpse, The Black Dahlia Murder, The Red Chord, The Absence, and Goatwhore to shred the American country-side with a violence unseen since the days of Manifest Destiny. In San Francisco, a line formed outside Slim’s hours before the box office opened on the second night of performances. Cannibal Corpse bassist, Alex Webster, chatted with waiting fans over a boxed dinner. And before the sun had even gone down, Goatwhore ripped into their set. The Red Chord, riding on their new album Prey For Eyes, allowed their Boston roots to shine, mocking the crowd, then launching into their signature blend of complex time changes, noise, and grindcore. Next up were The Black Dahlia Murder, who’s guitarist, John Kempainen owes his playing ability to “just the pure chronic intake of it all” as much as practice. It was the night before the official release of their new album, Nocturnal, and I was lucky enough to speak with singer, Trevor Strnad. And later, I got to speak with pummeling vocalist, George “Corpsegrinder” Fischer, of Cannibal Corpse.

Just before Cannibal Corpse came on stage, a bouncer stated, “there’s gotta be like 700 people in here.” For a venue with max capacity at 420, that’s pretty brutal. Cannibal opened with The Time To Kill Is Now. Their ninety minute sets always seem to stretch the concept of what is physically possible. The band looked like a bomber flying straight into the crowd, Corpsegrinder as the propeller. Before the show, we talked in between drummer Paul (Mazurkiewicz) icing beers and everyone cracking the vilest of jokes.

Mattie: You’ve been on the road since September 6th. How’s the Metal Blade 25th Anniversary tour going?

George: We’re having a really good time. All the other bands are great. We’ve toured with everyone besides The Absence before.

Mattie: Any special things taking place for the anniversary?

George: In L.A. Brian came on stage. Trevor from Black Dahlia Murder was singing Stripped, Raped and Strangled with me, and near the end Brian came out and put us in a headlock. I didn’t know who it was and I was ready to kill, but then it was Brian and I was like, ok. Brian sang some of the lines, too. Twenty-five years is a long time, and I think when we look back we’ll be like, wow we were a part of that. A lot of us are here because we listened to and bought records that were Metal Blade records.

Mattie: Has Cannibal Corpse always been with Metal Blade?

George: Since the beginning. Brian’s like a friend, it’s never a business meeting, like: Hi Brian, how are the records selling? (laughs) No, it’s like, hey Brian, how’s it going. We go to football games.

Mattie: I’ve noticed during performances that you take a particular stance when screaming the high vocals. Is that to keep the air flowing?

George: I used to lean back because I thought it’d give me more air. I used to think that. Then I stopped. (laughs) It’s one of those things, I don’t think about how I’m singing when I’m singing. Kids ask, How do you do that? Well, I don’t smoke anything. Period. I don’t drink before the shows. Sometimes, if I can’t get the “catch” from the deep stuff, you know (growls), I drink some soda. Someone told me that once, when I couldn’t get my growl to go over the hump. Cause the syrup coats your throat. I was always against it, but it worked.

Mattie: Since the music is so technical, how do band practices usually work for you guys?

George: If we’re doing a tour we pretty much do the set list. If there’s one song that particularly, we’re having trouble with, we practice it. If we’re doing a record, obviously, it’s different. It’s more a question for the other guys cause they write the music. But, when it comes to a new song, if Alex wrote it he has to teach the riffs to Rob and Pat (O’Brian). He probably has a general drum beat in mind. He’ll say, Paul, why don’t you do a skank beat or a blast beat here and then Paul will tweek and tinker with that. In the studio everything is under the microscope, that’s where I tweek things.

Mattie: About The Wretched Spawn DVD included with the album, it’s incredibly informative…

George: Yeah, I think that the reason it was so popular was because of that part with Frantic Disembowlment. It made people, who maybe doubted the band’s ability to play, open their eyes. We aren’t the most technical band compared to some bands. We have some songs that are slower and just heavier than shit and aren’t the hardest thing to play. They have more groove to them. And some songs are outright hard to play. Make Them Suffer, is a great song, but really difficult. Even if people have no love for the music, they may at least respect it, after seeing the DVD, which for me is the biggest thing. No one knows how hard it is to sing these songs except someone who plays in a band. And me.

Mattie: Kill is the fastest, most brutal, no bullshit CC album to date, in my opinion. Was there anything in particular that motivated you?

George: I just think everyone writes what they write. Gallery of Suicide is where we got people saying we were experimental, if you will. But we don’t sit around like a meeting board and go, OK, this is how we’re gonna write this record. This is the first album without Jack (Owen), and we thought, Let’s clean-slate it. The title is short and sweet. It sums everything up. I like the brutal covers but it’s cool having a cover with just the band name and album title. No one’s looking at how brutal the album cover is, they listen to the music.

Mattie: What’s it like being part of the Metalocalypse cartoon?

George: I actually just did some more stuff in L.A. three days ago. It’s great. (Creators) Tommy (Blacha) and Brendon (Small) are awesome, super cool guys, and totally into metal. The fact that they get guys in bands to do voiceovers is awesome. It’s good for us cause people who aren’t metalheads are watching it. All the help we can get, every person wearing our shirt, is a big bonus. We play an underground form of music. And I think there’s a misconception that they are making fun of metal. There are some things in metal over the years that, you know, you can laugh at. I could look at old pics of myself when I was a metal teenage and go--(makes pained face). If you can’t poke fun at yourself, you can’t laugh at anyone.

Mattie: It’s funny to hear you say that CC is underground, it’s been around eighteen years. You’ve just been THAT band.

George: Yeah, and there are a lot of other bands that have been around for that time. There’s Morbid Angel, Immolation… and its because of the music and the fans. We all help each other. We bust our ass at the shows. We’re more visible now cause the band was in Ace Ventura, I’m doing these cartoon things, we did Sounds of the Underground, we played a birthday party for Cher’s son Elijah. All the bands are a community, so a victory for us is a victory for death metal in general. And it’s better than ever right now.

Mattie: It’s been an honor, anything you’d like to add?

George: Stay METAL.

Oregon - Willamette Valley - Chehalem Winery

2008-04-29T12:05:00.000-07:00

Chehalem Winery
Willamette Valley
503-538-4700

Oregon is Pinot country, which means that it’s one of the most weather sensitive wine regions in the world. Pinot noir benefits from warm days and cool nights. 2002 was hailed as one of the best wine years in Oregon history (about 30 years total), and many wine makers believe that 2006 will rival that. Chehalem Winery in Willamette Valley produces a few popular and well distributed wines that can be found in most wine stores. However, far superior wines can be found when visiting their winery. With tastings by appointment only, I highly recommend the intimate and delicious experience their tasting offers (plus, they’re free).

Chehalem considers France’s Alsace region their standard for quality, and accordingly allow the weather to determine the taste of their wines. Some producers would rather force their grapes into a particular taste during the production, but, as Jason explained during our tasting, Chehalem prefers to allow their wines to reflect each year’s unique weather. For example, 2007 brought early rains, two weeks early in fact, so that year’s wines will have a higher acidity. Allowing such characteristics to come through allows drinkers to taste the past and perhaps develop a closer relationship with the wine region itself.

I liked Chehalem’s whites, particularly their 2006, Pinot grigio Reserve, which has an impeccability delicate toastiness similar to restrained Californian chardonnay while retaining the light fruit of the Pinot grigio grape. I was even more blown away by their selection of Pinot noir. Chehalem has three vineyards dedicated to the grape, hence the name of their most commonly found Pinot noir, 3 Vineyards, which combines them. Their three high-end Pinot noirs showcase one of each vineyard, and the particular growing conditions can be clearly tasted. My favorite was the 2002 Stoller Vineyard Pinot Noir, grown in volcanic soil. This tasting is not one to miss.

The Best Hot Chocolate in the Bay

2008-04-29T11:40:00.000-07:00

Bittersweet, The Chocolate Café
Two Locations: San Francisco - 2123 Fillmore Street
Oakland - 5427 College Avenue
www.bittersweetcafe.com

What more can be said? If you prefer your steaming cup of cocoa more chocolate bar than chocolate syrup, the Bittersweet café will be a relief, if not a revelation. The menu offers a choice of five decadent hot chocolates, each meticulously researched for the better part of a year by the café’s founders (self-proclaimed chocoholics). As a staff member explained the mélange of milk chocolate, semi-sweet chocolate, non-dairy chocolate, and cocoa percentages, the science of it all made my head swim. Luckily, you don’t have to know the theory to taste it.

Just try The Spicy: with a blend of four chocolates plus cayenne and white pepper, it’s not for the faint of heart. Its delicate heat seems to come from all sides at once. If spicy isn’t your thing, the Mocha is the café’s signature chocolate latte, a combination of chocolate, espresso, and milk. The always friendly staff melt what look like pieces of chocolate bars, add espresso, then pour the almost bubbling concoction into the mug, where cool milk is added to achieve the perfect temperature, sometimes with a bit of “latte art” on top.

Besides the hot stuff, Bittersweet offers pastries, cakes, and seasonal gelees, all made in-house. But I’d put my money on anything chocolate. The croissants aren’t so flaky and have a pitiful amount of chocolate inside. The gelees are light and not overly sweet, suggesting the perfect piece of fruit, but why eat fruit when the chocolate cinnamon cake or ganache is a perfect accompaniment to your chocolate overdose? Further, a dazzling selection of hand-picked chocolate bars from all over the world lines the walls. To bring such delicacies to the Bay Area was what originally prompted the creation of the café.

Along with the warm cocoa and staff, the café’s décor is a blend of antique wood and pastels. Though the line can sometimes be daunting, it’s only because each cup is made to order. With an upstairs for extra seating, it’s a shame the café does not offer a wireless connection. On second thought, that might be a good thing: with internet access and hot chocolate this good, I’d have no reason to leave.

Brains In The 80’s: Review of Return of the Living Dead

2008-04-29T11:12:00.000-07:00

With punk sarcasm, cheesy acting, and not-so-cheesy gore, Return of the Living Dead turns the Godfather of horror into a sleaze show. But that’s a good thing. Released in ‘85, the film picks up where George Romer’s The Night of The Living Dead left off, asking the logical question: What happened to all the zombies? It turns out the military vacuum sealed them in barrels, then lost them. Those canisters somehow got into the basement of a medical supply store, where they’ve been gathering dust… until now. Frank, hilariously played by James Karen, is a senior employee with an over-developed sense of humor. He’s teaching the new-kid the ropes when they accidently break one the canisters open, releasing a noxious gas that turns the dead, into the un-dead. Too bad for them the store is located beside a cemetery where a bunch of punks are listening to bad 80’s music on a huge boom box.

This movie succeeds in all the places it shouldn’t. With the exception of Karen, the acting is ridiculous; a bunch of teens with names such as Scuz, Spider, Suicide, and Trash, complain about life while desecrating a cemetary, yet refreshingly, and unexpectedly, by the end of the movie it’s clear that everything is the grownups’ fault. When the owner of the medical store shows up, he’d rather try to fix the mess himself than get bad press, which leads to some sick scenes in a mortuary, and furthers the spread of the infection. Then there’s the military, and they sure aren’t going to fix anything. By the time infected rain begins to fall on Trash, dancing naked between gravestones, the world seems long gone. But not before the movie cranks out a mass of solid gore to a soundtrack featuring such bands as The Cramps, Flesh Eaters, and The Damned.

Beyond the zombies’ obvious craving for brains, many of the film’s ideas are just plain demented. I mean, did anyone expect to see a split dog used for medical education barking on its side on the floor? Or two men who are still alive when rigormortis sets in and blood pools inside their flesh? Then there’s the torso of a woman, her exposed spine flipping around like a fish out of water, who shrieks, “Brains make the pain go away!” All right, maybe you would expect that. But there’s another twist: the zombies are smarter than those in Romero’s film and move a lot faster. This concept has been recently exploited, but seeing it done well in the 80’s is a treat.

Filled with epic moments, like a zombie reaching for a police CB and requesting, “Send more cops,” this movie is hilarious and surprising. But for all the camp, when the original zombie from the canister makes his appearance, the special effects are enough to gross out even the most seasoned horror fans.

This Is The End...

2008-03-02T18:44:00.001-08:00

The purpose of this blog was to get myself to write. Secondly, it was to create an example of my writing for the editors of magazines, zines, journals, and other literary media, so that I could get paid. I began this blog almost 2 years ago, and now I have reached one of my goals: being published in magazines that have a wide readership. From my experience, beginning a blog, writing on it regularly, demanding that the writing is REAL writing, not just some bored annoying shit, going out and trying new things, experimenting with styles and genres of writing you are unfamiliar with, and consistently producing, will lead to bigger and better things. As long as you are producing, your product will find its way into other people's lives. So, in the words of SATAN: there is no hope, you will die alone beside yr ink. Wait--no, no... what I mean is this: even when you think no one is listening, somewhere, somehow, somebody is waiting to read yr piece.

Tattooing In The Land Of Antiquity

2007-10-18T10:42:00.000-07:00

It always makes me feel good to see tattooing unfold its inky wings across new parts of the globe, or in this case, return to parts where it's long been missed. In May, on the 30th anniversary of the first Athenian tattoo shop to legally open its doors to the public in 2000 years, the 1st International Athens Tattoo Convention commenced for three long, hot days of great artists, buzzing needles, and friendly competition at the Technopolis of the City of Athens; an industrial warehouse-type building whose giant brick smoke stacks blinked their red lights in the night. A metal and grunge show took place next door and only a chain link fence stood between the world recognized tattoo artists and loud head banging musicians. With an unprecedented heat wave hitting Greece (foreshadowing the recent fires that have swept two-thirds of the country), the 1st International Athens Tattoo Convention looked intelligently designed to be a sweaty, bloody ride.

In 2002, the Athens Summer Olympics caused a city-wide restoration, boosting the city’s pride and inculcating the belief that a new dawn is coming. Since two-thirds of Greece’s entire population reside in Athens, this zeitgeist is paramount. The emerging respect for personal freedom and acceptance of tattooing is certainly a big step forward. For me, the extraordinary age of the city compared with the seemingly “new” emergence of tattoo art seemed stunning. I was excited see my Athenian friend, an apprentice at local tattoo shop AMAZ-ink, and discuss the situation. But first I had to find her.

When first entering the packed convention, I was greeted by Greek shops Tommy Tattoo, Takis-Tsan, and Spartan Tattoos, offering a taste of home town pride. The organizer of the convention was Mike aka The Athens, appropriately. His stand was swamped from beginning to end of the convention. I found him side by side with Neil Ahern and Jondix, both of Spain and all good friends. These three might be said to be sharing a path. Inspired by the relationship of tattoos and spirituality, their work is a tradition of evolution, using Native American symbols, Hindu and Zen figures, and beautifully subtle color. They turn up the volume so that their tattoos scream what the Dalai Lama only whispered: Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.

Mike’s affinity for tradition was shared by most of the artists at the convention. Two shops over I met Pili Mo’o, a master of the Pelonesian art of tattooing and self-described “last of the kind in Europe”. He uses a round stick about a foot long with a needles on the end to create his tattoos. On the second day of the convention, the spectacle of his art drew a crowd so large I could barely get a glimpse. When asked where he is from, he answered, “the world”, and his demeanor agreed with him. He treated everyone as family. The philosophy behind Pelonesian tattooing is that the tattoo must represent social standing within a community. It is determined and designed by the tattoo artist, not the tattooed, and more is added as the recipient’s social status grows, whether by gaining prestige, wealth, a good job, or a family and kids.

I met a little known Greek artist, Payloy Mela, who, tattooing “on a mountain outside of Sparta”, likewise prefers traditional tattooing methods. He uses just a single needle. “My tattoos look like they just came off an unearthed vase,” he remarked. They are also prototypes of the uniquely Greek designs found all over the world, such as the Greek key and the Spartan Warrior. It was very interesting to listen to his ancient philosophies while hardcore-techno blasted from a Red Bull sponsored all-terrain vehicle just a few feet away.

Finally, I found my friend Jenny Skalkos toward the back of the convention with AMAZ-ink shop head, Marios. She’d arrived that morning at nine o’clock, three hours before opening to the public, and before anyone else. With the convention running until midnight each day, it was a long weekend to be an apprentice. “But the inspiration is priceless,” she said, “so many great artists in one place, there is no better way to learn.” When I asked her about Greek tattooing in the past she lay out a complicated picture for me that I could only partially grasp. What I understood was that originally, tattooing had been practice by nomadic Scythian warriors who once inhabited Greece prior to even Socrates and Aristotle. As proof that the long arm of the law cannot reach everywhere, living examples of that tradition can still be found in the northern Píndhos Mountains in Greece. Fittingly, tattoos were later used to brand criminals, and then fell into religious disdain as the Romans, and Christianity, spread across the globe. But the story is much more complicated than that, and no one book has fully pieced it together.

As each day came and passed several different contests took place to display the best ink at the convention, whether completely healed or still bleeding. On Saturday, the tattoo work of Paolo Acuna, owner of Divinity Tattoo & Body Piercing, out of Scottsdale, Arizona, won the Best Color Tattoo Contest for a stunning sleeve of pink and orange roses. The winning piece was on his wife. “I’ve only been touched by him”, Annette said. Things were going well for the couple, Paolo was tattooing Ganesha, the Hindu elephant-god, on the hand of a man who’d waited three years for him to come to Athens. “We visited Skiathos before arriving here,” Annette said, “it was amazingly beautiful.” Most everyone from abroad arrived a couple days early or left a few days late, the draw of the lush and hedonistic Greek islands too strong to resist. Since then, Skiathos has been completely evacuated due to the fires.

On Sunday, the last day of the convention, I spoke with Eiland Hogan, of Forever Tattoo in Sacramento, and organizer of All American Tattoo Festival that took place in June. I asked him about his stay in Athens. “We’ve had a wild time. The place next to our hotel was on fire and a shooting took place just around the corner.” I guess he stayed in a section of Athens still awaiting gentrification. “But the people are great here, and food is awesome.” Pili Mo’o came over and they talked like old friends. Soon everyone, the artists and the attendees, were chillin’ and enjoying the last moments of the convention. The talk then shifted to meeting in Spain, meeting in Milan - and eventually came around to more pressing matters, where to hold that night’s party.

A Swift Kick In The Bells

2007-09-14T12:16:00.000-07:00

How often will San Francisco bear witness to a line up like this year’s Rock The Bells? Think: EPMD, Public Enemy, all eight remaining members of Wu-Tang, and seven-year-retired Rage Against the Machine. Bands that we thought we’d never see perform again. On top of that, add veterans Cypress Hill, Mos Def, The Roots, MF Doom, and Pharoah Monch--the 40,000 tickets were sold out long in advance.

Arriving at noon, the ticket line extended along the shore almost to the Bay Bridge. The water-side venue (without a view of the water) was the parking lot for AT&T Park. Newly emerging and viscously political lyricist Immortal Technique was scheduled for 12:50pm, but there was no way most ticket holders were going to get a chance to see him. The day was unusually hot and there was no shade, just pavement. The fans who’d made it inside looked confused by the lack of seating and ate deep fried hot dogs to ground themselves. From the distance, the Main Stage hurled its thunderous beats. Near the entrance the Paid Dues Stage, the smaller of the two stages, greeted the audience. Billed as an “independent rap” festival, the Paid Dues tour originated in 2006 and already boasted some of the best lyricists out to date, before teaming up with Rock The Bells this year. Now artists like Murs 3:16, Sage Francis, The Coup, and reclusive MF Doom were greeting eight times larger audiences. At 1:30, Immortal Technique left the stage, his lyrics trailing behind him like smoke behind a Scud.

At the Main Stage the crowd was thick, and left-wing politics were flying. A man stepped up after Mos Def and Talib Kweli’s set and yelled the names of men awaiting state execution, after which the crowd yelled “free them!”. Then the mic cut out and was not turned on again until Razhel’s awesome solo beat-boxing came through, followed by The Roots, who kicked into swing with an impressively complicated rhythm scheme. Captain Kirk on guitar and the dancin’ man with the sousaphone gave a great performance. Next up were Public Enemy’s Chuck D and Flava Flave, who burst on stage with an energy that unfortunately soon subsided. Even the brilliant red beard of Anthrax’s Scott Ian couldn’t maintain, since his road-beaten guitar was inaudible. However, it was Public Enemy.

As the sun began to sink, Cypress Hill lit up the night. Their set was incredible. A couple songs in, Sen Dog asked B-Real if it might be time for a chronic break. Getting the appropriate response from the crowd, B-Real lit a huge joint, all the more massive for being displayed on the giant video screens on both sides of the stage, while DJ Muggs fashioned some beats to inhale by. Behind the group bobbed an inflatable gold Buddha with a green pot leaf on its belly. Cypress Hill covered all the old hits and ended with an aggressive version of Rock (Superstar) that got everyone on their feet, properly setting up the next group: Wu-Tang.

Wu-Tang came onto the stage like an army. The eight members stood in front with special guest Redman while their crew filled in the back. Method Man was soon crowd surfing over 36 Chambers while Ghostface Killah, the RZA, the GZA, Raekwon, U-God, Inspectah Deck, and Masta Killa held it down. At times the excessive amount of talent on the stage left one or two of the Wu dynasty standing idly, waiting their turn, but the sound was flawless and amped. A hardcore performance of Wu-Tang Clan Ain’t Nuthing Ta Fuck With began completely a cappella. They took a break in honor of Ghostface’s birthday and took the opportunity to announce a new album coming out this spring. The only other break in the music was a moment of silence for Wu-Tang member Ol’ Dirty Bastard, who passed away in 2004.

Finally, it was time for Rage Against the Machine. The minutes passed like hours in anticipation as the whole audience pushed to the front. Then Zach de la Rocha, Tom Morello, Tim Commerford, and Brad Wilk appeared through the red synthetic smoke and launched into Testify. Immediately, three massive mosh pits erupted in the middle of the crowd. The performance was so high-energy that Zach accidentally fell over the monitors at one point. Morello's guitar sounded better live than the studio recordings and Commerford’s bass filled up every spot in the parking lot. Rage ended the show with Killing In The Name and Zach made a slight but poignant change in the lyrics: "some of those that hold office, are the same that burn crosses." Then the immense assembly exited on foot, taking over 3rd Street and backing up traffic for 45 minutes, until the riot police got out of their vans and the sirens began.

And Now For Something Completely Different: The Pink Palace, Part 2 of 2

2007-08-09T18:25:00.001-07:00

After sleeping all day we hit the six-hour-long happy-hour, then went to dinner. The dining complex is a huge, windowless, pink, disco-ball hangin', sixty-foot bar totin', dance-floor cafeteria. Upon taking a seat, one of the guys at our table said, "Are you Canadian, too?" We shocked everyone by informing them that no, in fact, we were not. Despite our outsider status, the people we sat with were friendly, and the food was great, beginning with a re-hydrating, salty soup, a Greek salad, and a deliciously spiced meat sauce over pasta. With beers costing 1.50 euro, it's a great deal. Next, we headed for the bar and chatted with some of the Canadians from our bus, one of whom, when he wasn't unsuccessfully hitting on short-skirted women, kept telling us that it's better to be single at the Pink Palace, and another of whom, upon learning where we'd traveled from, said, "San Francisco…yeah…aren't there a lot of fags there?" Which kind of killed the mood. We finally escaped to our room and found a party raging next door. Drinking heavily was the blonde who'd informed us that alcohol wasn't allowed inside the rooms. I swung across the balconies a few times looking down three stories, then two hundred sloping feet onto the moonlit shoreline.

The next day we rented kayaks and, rather than join the kayak-safari trip, opted to do our own thing. We'd heard from others that the quad-safari was too slow. The kayaks, described as sea-kayaks, had open cockpits and were very bulky, but they did the trick. We explored up the coast and out to a huge pinnacle of rock sticking out of the waves a hundred feet off shore. Looking up it towered straight to the sun with sea-birds nesting and cackling above. The sheer immensity of it was awesome. We almost unloaded, then noticed the thousands of sea-urchins with two inch needles sticking out. The waves of the Mediterranean grew a bit big around the next peninsula so we stopped on a beach that could only be reached by water. Later we found a sea-cave and paddled inside and found streaks of light coming from two-hundred feet above us. We were underneath a massive cliff, alone, with nothing but the sound of waves rolling in and gently breaking farther inside the cave's recesses.

That night, the party in the room next to ours was raging again. We met a chill couple and enjoyed too many sugar-filled drinks (decidedly, the bartenders were trying to kill us via glucose). There was an orgy taking place a few doors down that included a very unsure stray dog; when it managed to escape we gave it refuge on our balcony, wary of any strange fluids. The day before, The Pink Palace's cleaning ladies had brutally beaten the dog with brooms – cruelty to animals is not uncommon in Greece – until a couple of lodgers saved it.

It crossed my mind, that in many ways the dog's life mirrored the experience of the travelers passing through The Palace: caught in something unpredictable, uncertain of where the next hour will take you, never mind the next day; hedonism takes you in, pulls you along until your hangover, like a broom-wielding cleaning lady, pounds you over the head.

We stayed one final day, working hard to avoid machismo and left on the morning of the weekly toga-party. I don't think we missed anything we hadn't seen before.

Some suggestions:

* Check out the town! It's like five minutes away and has tons of food and drink at cheap-ass prices.
* Note that yr fifth night is free and plan ahead.
* Be wary of the end of happy-hour, yr care-free buzz-bill might surprise you.
* Concerning guided vs. unguided trips around the island, we had a great time on our own but later heard that the kayak safari went cliff jumping and hiked up to an abandoned Buddhist monestary, which sounded kinda fun. It's yr call.
* Do not rely on The Pink Palace staff for information concerning ferries and make sure they check to see whether anyone else is leaving when you are, thereby avoiding a 25 euro cab ride with a very unfriendly local.

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

2007-08-05T18:10:00.001-07:00

The man from Langenau writes a letter, deep in thought. Slowly, he paints with large, earnest, erect letters:
“My good mother,
be full of pride: I bear the flag,
do not hold sorrow: I bear the flag,
hold love for me: I bear the flag--”

Then he puts the letter inside his wool coat, in the secret place, next to the rose petal. And he thinks: before long it will take on the fragrance. And he thinks: maybe, in some time, another will find it…. And he thinks: …; therefore the enemy is near.

And Now For Something Completely Different: The Pink Palace, Part 1 of 2

2007-07-27T14:56:00.001-07:00

THE PINK PALACE

The Greek Island of Corfu is known for its amenities, luxurious beaches, hotels, restaurants, and particularly effective public transportation system, but far away from the major towns, in a little cove, the laws of hedonism take over, and at an affordable price.

We arrived at The Pink Palace at eight o'clock in the morning. The ten-hour bus and ferry ride regurgitated fifteen sleep-deprived Canadians on the doorstep of a giant pink complex, where a blond woman with a Texan accent hollered, "Throw yr bags in the luggage room and join us at the bar." Check-in involved shots of pink Ouzo, a psych-up speech, and a buffet breakfast; it felt like a camp orientation on mushrooms. My girlfriend and I snagged a second Ouzo from the Canadian newbies at our table and waited.

We were shown to our room by a woman who'd stepped straight out of a dumb blonde joke: balloon-breasted, breathy-voiced, dressed in pink. She'd come to the Pink Palace from Canada on vacation and ended up taking a job there in order to keep partying. She told us we weren't allowed booze in our rooms but added that she didn't really care. We'd made reservations in advance and this turned out to be vital: the rooms are a good size but semi-hostel style, with three beds in each room. Without the reservation, we would’ve probably had to deflect some creepy sexual advances in the middle of the night. The rooms have private bathrooms and cost 25 euros (like 35 bucks) per person with breakfast and a three-course dinner included. And the view… the view is pure Greek island with a long beach wrapping around to cliffs that jut straight out of the waves, as you can see.

Our choice of activities was extensive: kayaking, guided quad safari, booze-cruise, mopeds, a pool-sized hot tub, pool, or foosball, but we opted for naps on complimentary lounge chairs at the beach. All the traveling and Ouzo had knocked us out; in the three days prior we'd seen the Irish grunge band Therapy?, went to the 1st International Athens Tattoo Convention, and drank Ouzo and smoked weed on the slippery marble rocks beneath Acropolis Hill until sun-rise. Our minds were at least three days behind our bodies and our souls were still missing.

To be continued...

Review - Show - Poison Idea @ Thee Parkside, July 20th

2007-07-26T10:57:00.000-07:00

The night started with a friend asking me: Do you ever look at a five dollar bill and picture a beer? I said, No, I see it as two. I had about ten beers in my wallet then, and by the time I reached Thee Parkside there were only two left. The bar was already packed with an impressive display of punk fashion; seriously, the sum of silver spikes must have been in the millions. It was a phenominal showing of old school punkers. I’d just learned of Poison Idea and I guess that’s pretty fucked up since they originated in 1980, two years before I was born. The band’s line up:

Vocals-Jerry A
Drums-Chris Cuthbert
Guitar-Jimmy Taylor
Guitar-Matt Brainard
Bass-Rawbo

The original guitarist, Pig Champion, died in 2006 and his presence has been missed ever since. But that didn’t stop Poison Idea from rockin’ hard as fuck. But wait a second, who played first… oh yeah, the Texas Thieves! It’s great to see an opening band that lists the headlining band as an influence on their myspace page (and they‘re from SF people). These guys have a sound that almost rivaled their stage performance. Lead singer Fozzy began the show by slapping hands with everyone in the front row and calling them by name. Then they launched into superfuckingfast punk. I really liked them. The guitarist Johnny Bouldt was asked to tell the girls in the audience what he did to play the show, to which he responded, “I had to suck all yr dad’s dicks to play this show!” Later, Fozzy screamed to the crowd, “What’s it gonna take to get you to run around and hit each other?” It made me laugh really hard (while getting hit).

The Midnight Bombers were up next and the lead singer kinda ruined it for me, too self-obsessed. Also, they wore stupid matching outfits. But the music was alright and the drummer was a huge motherfucker. When he hit things it felt like Armageddon. He really should be in Nile or Napalm Death or something. Hey, dude, if you want to play with my death metal band email me!

I’m not going to say much about Poison Idea’s sound besides that it was tight, had a sense of humor, and hard. Earlier in the night it had begun to dawn on me that they were really big. I’d gone out to the patio and saw a neverending line set up in front of the Sold Out ticket booth. Quite impressive for 17th and Winsconsin or whatever. My bro said he was standing on the bar because the mosh pit was everywhere. At one point all the tables in the bar were even taken outside to make more room. That might explain why all my pictures suck. Anyway, here they are. Props to the bouncer (pictured below right), you earned yr pay that night. Poison Idea fucking rules!

The Pen May Be Mightier Than The Sword, But Does Beer Trump Them Both?

2007-07-23T14:19:00.000-07:00

Do you like death as much as I do? Do you find it funny to stare at a human skull and later, in the mirror, try to imagine yr own, beginning with yr teeth, then peeling on past the lips while exclaiming: Alas, Poor Yorick? Well, death and literature have finally been combined in the SF literary scene to form the Literary Death Match, hosted by local litmag, Opium. The match took place last Tuesday (7/17) and ended with judge Howard Junker, editor of ZYZYYVA literary journal, and writer Stephen Elliot, of McSweeney's Quarterly Concern, flinging insults, then beer. Since I have volunteered/interned for both ZYZZYVA and McSweeney's (both are linked to this blog), I find myself caught in the delicious middle of this battle of beer turned to blood on the page. Read the stories for yrself, as present by Leah Garchik of the San Francisco Chronicle or by ZYZYYVA editor Howard Junker. I personally find the latter more interesting, as Junker and Elliot have just today begun a dialogue through that medium.

*View McSweeney's via The Believer Magazine

TRUCKERMYTHOLOGY

2007-07-20T19:05:00.001-07:00

2007-07-20T11:57:00.000-07:00

the car door slams.
she rolls down the window quickly
cigarette stench exudes
like a stream
at the first crack
then firehoses out her nostrils
into the green world
and farts through her mouth like wind
through a bakery.
she says something then drives off
I think it was ‘fuck you’.

4/20/07
10:39am

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

2007-06-29T10:19:00.000-07:00

The company is situation across from Raab, the greatest city in the northwest of Hungary. The man from Langenau rides out alone. Lowlands. Evening. The mist upon the saddle glistens through the dust. And then the moon comes up.
He sees it on his hands.
He dreams.
But out there, something screams to him.
Screams, screams,
tears him from the dream.
That is no owl. Mercy:
the only tree on the horizon
screams out to him:
You!
And he looks harder: it raises itself onto two legs. It raises a body alongside the tree, and a young woman,
bloody and naked,
lunges at him: Release me!

And he jumps off onto in the shadowy grass
and hacks through the thick knit
and he sees her image glow
and her teeth clench.

Is she laughing?

The horror.
And he sits back onto his horse
and races into the night. Bloody
laces tight in his fist.

* The second half of the first sentence I added for context. The military commander of Raab, Kristóf Lambert, thought the city indefensible against the advancing Turks, and chose to burn it down to nothing. To this day, the Turkish call it Gyor, Yanik kale ("burnt city"). Cornets Christoph Rilke must have seen it just before its demise.

Meningitis Stranglehold

2007-06-14T16:16:00.000-07:00

no, its tooo cooldl jshe wasys
just seconds after suggesting
I remove all her clothing because
its too uncomfortable
to be worn.
spiked military mustaches have
waded through blood with less
of a shiver.
but I know nothing
and ask again
noooo, the beauty is
that you woon’t
get to look --
my god, if there’s any beauty then
I’ll have to be out of the loop
I think.
the hard crome machine stares
from the kitchen counter looking like
some medevil snow removal device.
her hands do in fact
look
cold, blue,
almost frost-bitten because
the sun’s behind her like a moon
doused in kerosene, then lit.
but my machine can’t quite lift
the newly fallen silence from her
barren parking lot eyes.
so we sip luke warm coffee,
a dove or something flies by
and I cut into the spine of a Tolstoy
almost forcing poor Ms. Karenina
into a meningitis stranglehold
so that she lets out a coo- coo
then I drop the whole thing
do you
really believe
we’re descended from apes?

4/12/07

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

2007-04-20T02:45:00.000-07:00

At last, contact with his commander. Next to his horse the great man towers. His long hair has the sheen of iron. The man from Langenau asks nothing. He recognizes the General, swings himself down from his horse into a cloud of dust, and bows. The General has with him a letter, it must be orders from the lords. He spits: “Read that crap to me,” without moving his lips. He adds nothing; the cursing, enough. Anything more would be superfluous, authority states. That is the point. And one regards it. The young man reads and it is a long time until he reaches the bottom. Once there, he does not know any more where he is. These orders are for everyone. The sky is gone away. As the orders say, so the looming General:
“Cornet.”
And that is plenty.

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

2007-04-05T05:41:00.000-07:00

A day through the baggage-train. Cursing, sun-burned, laughing--: product of the dazzling, blinding land. The motley crew of boys comes strutting. Fighting and yelling. Prostitutes board, crimson hats over their long flowing hair . Beckoning. They are servants, their black eyes like wandering night. Seizing the prostitutes with lust, the boys tear clothing. They push and squeeze to the beat of a drum. And when they sense their poaching hands feebly resisted, the drum quickens, like they are playing in a dream, rumbling, crashing… And when they finish and light their lanterns in the night, a fantastic sight: wine, shining in the whores’ bonnets. Wine? Or is it blood? --Who can really say?

Review - Book - secret city - by Jennifer Barone

2007-02-22T20:12:00.000-08:00

Enter The Word Kitchen of Jennifer Barone

I remember the first time I felt that I really got her. Jennifer was the featured poet at the Dalva Poetry Reading. Instead of her usual repertoire of reading two or three poems before introducing the first poetry set at Club Deluxe, Jennifer read at length. Her sensational descriptions of “plump tomatoes, bread,/ and mushrooms”, “grilled Cuban corn/ with cayenne pepper” filled my mouth, then expanded my mind. Her food-language seemed an entire world-language.

Her new book, secret city, puts the food on the plate. It is a collection of 18 poems by Jennifer accompanied by 21 visual artworks by Edward Barone, the poet’s father. Nine poems were written in New York City, Jennifer’s home town, and nine were written in San Francisco since she moved there in fall, 2005. With this form, the book mirrors the poet’s life. The poems spread across horizontal pages in three columns; none of the jaded vertical for Jen. She would prefer that you roll gently through this book. It is not a problem. To get from east to west.

A saxophone plays sadly. Food smells drift through the air from hot cucine as you walk through the streets of endless midnight doorways, each inviting you in for a taste of something exotic.

i’ve told you my dreams
somehow you’ve slipped
under my guard
and will know where to find me
- we must never have a fight

Once you’ve entered the intimacy of her dialogue, you realize that her words will never be said aloud in conversation, and yet, all of these thoughts and feelings will be present.

i look at you across the table
and everything disappears
except for pigeons flocking
into our conversation
seeing your eyes
full of love and smiling
shaking your head at me
- leave it to you

Stepping away from her love poems written to the saxophone man, Jennifer puts the two cities on display as she sees them. One of the coolest poems is moving underground; an image of the hundreds of thousands that take the daily trip of public transport: subway, muni, metro, whatever. She gets down to “i am the fingerprints on poles”, she is “the heaviness that/ weighs our chests down”, she is “the child’s wild eyes/ smiling from his stroller”, she imagines “i am the window/ my head is against”.

In San Francisco the poems become more descriptive. I “see” the last poem as a visionary demand that the reader see what she sees.

those who pray for heaven
who seek the promised land
as if it were forever unattainable
i don’t envy you

looking over the bay
you’d see us
on the balcony
sharing wine on a Monday
- saving heaven for later

All of a sudden, the previous poems are not quiet descriptions - they are demands: stop, forget, look around. Forget time, forget where you’re going, and internalize this; there is a lot to see. Yr senses will thank you.

About this book:

Format: 44 pages, paperback
Size: 8½ X 5½
Run: 200
Price: ten bucks
My Favorite WordPlay: lusty burlesque girls/ wearing too much make-up/ frilly panties and fishnets full of tears -- coney island
Get It, GET IT: thewordparty.com

Review - Amiri Baraka - City Lights Bookstore at 7:pm 2/19/07

2007-02-19T20:50:00.001-08:00

When I was twelve and recorded a Sonic the Hedgehog cartoon over the only existent video of my grandfather, I learned that 15 minutes can eliminate hours of work. Today, I made 3 hours of tiresome transportation fruitless by arriving 15 minutes later than I had initially planned for the Amiri Baraka reading at City Lights.

(Above: Some of the multitude turned away)

I told myself, arrive half an hour early at least, I told myself, I told myself. But no, I arrive at 6:46 and there I am already, a million of me, I’m seated inside, I’m crowded around the door, I’m arguing ridiculous things like that I’m a student and that I’m here for a class - I’m kicking myself for drinking at a nearby bar - I‘m asking if there‘s space left in the basement - I’m laughing alone in helpless frustration on the curb… And who would have guessed Poet Baraka would draw such a crowd? Me. When I read the announcement at citylights three weeks ago. And who’s that getting back on the bus? Oh.

But this is not what I do on this blog. I do not indulge the superfluous undulating of my life. I try to create something.

What does it mean when a poet has grown so great that he sells out? literally? not literarily. The Great Man’s 9/11 poem got him attacks from all sides as well as required the complete elimination of the position of Poet Laureate in the state of New Jersey. New Jersey State writes that “Baraka refused New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey's call for him to resign. When McGreevey attempted to fire Baraka, he found no provision in the law for removing a state poet laureate. Subsequently, on October 17, 2002, a bill was introduced to the New Jersey Senate that would eliminate the position of state poet laureate; it passed and became effective July 2, 2003.” Poet Baraka’s actual words were “NO, I WILL NOT APOLOGIZE, I WILL NOT RESIGN. In fact I will continue to do what I have appointed to do but still have not been paid to do." And get this, "Publicize and Popularize poetry and poets throughout this state." He should have said country. He achieved it. Perhaps this man is a loud dissident. But through the glass windows of the bookstore, he looked like Walt Whitman, he looked peaceful and proud. And, at 72, this man made me feel like I was at a Beatles’s concert - alright, a James Brown concert.

And, as far as the aforementioned question, I think the answer is, well, learn it again: The Early Bird Catches The Worm.

Book Release and Reading - Jennifer Barone - Bird and Beckett Books @ 2788 Diamond St., Glen Park

2007-01-17T14:24:00.000-08:00

Props GIRL!

If you don't know who this pleasant and ambitious young lady is - from her creation of thewordparty.com (linked on this blog), or from co-hosting Club Deluxe's Tuesday night Poetry & Jazz on Haight/Ashbury, or from her eastcoast counterpart thewordparty in Brooklyn - well, you should. And buy her fucking book titled: secret city!!! Ten dollars!

Buy it at: thewordparty.com

"i demand softer voices to counter
the piercing screech of breaks"

"you are a used world
your clowns are drunk and lazy
like wafting air of hot dog grease
and french-fried meat"

"letting crumbs fall on your chest
the pigeons eat them
and are uplifted"

Reading - Cafe Prague @ 485 Pacific Ave. (where it meets Columbus) @ 4 pm every Sunday

2007-01-17T14:02:00.000-08:00

Cafe Prague has been kicking for a long time thanks to Mark Schwartz. But last Sunday was a real bummer. The poets were all ready to read but the host couldn't keep quiet during the performances. Overall, the distraction made for a poor time and I know for a fact that it intimidated new readers enough that they did not read. Poetry isn't about egos, it's about grabbing tiny bits of terror and beauty as they flow through and around us and grabbing hold of them. The shadows that we ink on paper are proof of such electrical currents or muses and are, perhaps, the only way two seperate people can share such things. But such delicate substances need a safe environment in which they can be developed and then released again, back into the wild. That is what makes a poetry reading a space of clarity.

Reading - Dalva @ 3121 16th St. - Featuring Monique Marquisa de Magdalena - WARNING: NUDITY

2007-01-14T15:08:00.000-08:00

The Dalva poetry reading (7-9:00 every 2nd and 4th Thursday of the month) has been one of my favorites; the tiny wooden room with a low ceiling is tucked in back, past the bar, and the space feels like an illegal gambling room or a meeting place for anarchists, or even, scatological poets. Thursday the 11th: stepping through the unmarked door into the suffocating air we barely found standing room in the antearior. Every seat was taken and the staircase in the corner was filled all the way up to the second floor. The 1st poet was followed by a gush of applause. The room was crowded for a reason.

Up came Ozzy with a poem that veered toward madness; and yet, it was about searching for books at the public library . He pronounced words with a brutal Rhode Island accent where "R"'s are "ahh"'s while referencing old Bezerker mythology as well as the giants from Beauwolf in a way that made the room shake. Somehow we were in a tangle with all of written history while searching the card catalogue. At one point he says: "KEYWORD / spelt B / E / R (AHH) / S / E / R (AHH) / K / I am not crazy!" Include lunge toward audience and wide unseeing stare. Always a pleasure.

The featured poet, Monique Marquisa de Magdalena, I'd seen at many readings but I'd never see her do anything like she did this evening. I'm not certain of the particulars but she was channeling Anita Berber, an intriguing German exotic dancer in the 1920's who is "probably the first person to dance naked" and who pioneered modern dance itself. She lived wild and died at the age of 29 after 3 marriages and many drug and orgy filled nights. She wrote a book of poetry with a husband titled: Die Tänze des Lasters, des Grauens und der Ekstase (Dances of Vice, Horror, and Ecstasy).

Monique Marquisa de Magdalena turned down the lights and put in a CD - two drummers and guitarist began playing Natural Born Killers-style country - then she began a gothic reading about stripping, drugs, and touring the world: "they called me / the ice queen / the little devil goddess! / I was banned from Berlin / I played Baghdad / I played Beruit / in all the dirtiest clubs / I was banned from Europe". Everything felt punk rock and her music and dancing was hypnotizing. She passed out a bottle filled with Cognac and "pretened" to blow cocaine. Soon her clothes began to come off and a Anita Berber-mantra began. You never know what you'll find at Dalva.

(Pictures Top to Bottom: Hosts Adam Wolf and Elz Cuya, Ozzy, 3 pictures of Monique Marquisa de Magdalena, Jesse reading, myself with Cognac)

Christmas Bloody Christmas

2007-01-08T12:19:00.000-08:00

finger queen
sounds enough like
fingering
the noose tightens
around her throat
and an orgasm bangs against
the universe’s outer walls
hmmm…
how was that, babe?
a potter knows pottery
and tea. some cocktails
make themselves before
the garnish even begins to
get questioned, sorta like
“fast wars” and premature
ejaculations of media versions
but I’m not a political poet
in any way shape or form. Female
form, then. Two breasts and
a machine gun fire blasts through
sexual moans in Cambodia, a
taste of sea creatures, the measure
of salt and constant coverings:
panties, undies, kelp, or other
seaweeds - today I’m reading and
the writing is the same
sort of Beckman
only without all his
“fucks” and “tennis socks” or
“white tennis socks” or whatever
I don’t really need to quote him
for the whole poem, do I?
Her chest, then. Sex best bent
over something, don’t care what
but her head banging something too,
her hair in a fist and drilling like
Alaskan oil fields from behind - that is
not a
metaphor. A blue, red, and white
flag covers a pile of half-burned bodies while
you open up each one of your Christmas
presents.
Or are you Jewish? Fucking happy
holidays. Did you receive money or a money shot
in the head this year? If violence weren’t
so easy, then she wouldn’t be pregnant would
she? I’d really like to stay out of
this poem but now it’s too late, let’s
send more troops (poets)!
Blah-betty blah-betty blah ha ha -
The bonanza returns to it’s origin of
man: finger-queen, goddess of the
morning’s coffee and blue pajamas or
maybe my parents have just entered this
holiday poem through the living
room door
exploding mortar
I lay dripping cold blood
between her legs.
(what a copout)

12/24/06
Christmas Eve
10:43am

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

2006-12-08T13:22:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-04T11:22:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-02T14:49:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-02T13:11:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-02T12:55:00.000-08:00

"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)

2006-10-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

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)

2006-09-18T22:46:00.000-07:00

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)

2006-09-15T12:16:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-14T16:21:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-14T15:03:00.000-07:00

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)

2006-09-06T11:38:00.000-07:00

#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

2006-08-26T19:19:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-17T11:45:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-09T03:07:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-17T19:06:00.000-07:00

(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

2006-07-14T16:20:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-21T10:05:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-10T16:10:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-10T14:03:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-09T13:53:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-21T13:05:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

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. . .

2006-04-12T19:52:00.001-07:00

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

2006-04-12T14:14:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-12T13:38:00.000-07:00

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.